Murder Trail

CHAPTER XII ON THE WALL

HENRY ARNAUD was back in his room at the Dexter Hotel. Seated calmly at his writing desk, he seemed a placid, lethargic individual. No one would have supposed that this man had just returned from a quick expedition in which he had overpowered a gang of desperate mobsmen.

Not only had Henry Arnaud — otherwise The Shadow — accomplished that superhuman feat, he had also managed to leave the hotel and return without exciting the suspicion of the men whom Bumps Jaffrey had stationed to watch him.

The point of observation which interested Henry Arnaud was the room on the adjacent side of the court, where Victor Venturi resided. Slight murmurs could be heard from the hall outside of Arnaud’s room; but they were not disturbing. His main problem was that of paying another visit to Venturi’s room, and Arnaud had purposely delayed the action, awaiting the psychological moment.

The battle in which Cliff Marsland had been wounded was the indication that important events lay just ahead. There was no time to be lost. Bumps Jaffrey had started on the expedition with a picked crew of gangsters. Cliff Marsland had failed to learn the destination. Clews might be obtainable at the spot where Bumps had started; but the same destination could be learned more effectively if Victor Venturi received the message that he expected.

Henry Arnaud arose from the desk and extinguished the light. In the darkness beside the bed, he performed the transformation of the night before, garbing himself in the somber raiment of The Shadow. His silent, gliding form emerged through the window, and made its hazardous way along the wall. The danger of a twelve-story fall was no deterrent to this phantomlike creeper.

The window sash raised at Venturi’s room. Tonight, the shade was more closely drawn; but a black-gloved hand lifted it with consummate care until there was space for the peering eyes. The scene within showed Venturi seated in a chair beside the table, nervously drumming with his fist. Angelo, sober and impassive, was watching his master.

The Shadow had arrived too soon. The expected cablegram had not arrived. To Venturi, these dragging minutes were endless. To The Shadow, who knew that danger was already in the making, they must have been even more trying; yet the black-garbed watcher waited with the utmost patience.

ALMOST as though it had been a signal, a rap occurred at the outside door of Venturi’s room. The Italian sprang to his feet; then sent Angelo in his place.

The servant returned with an envelope. Venturi’s fingers faltered as they tore open the envelope. Out came the message and Venturi, in his excitement, read it aloud in a low, tense voice.

“Ah! The name!” Venturi read slowly and carefully. “Sturgis Bosworth in Montclair, New Jersey. We must go there at once, Angelo! Ah! We are fortunate. Montclair is not far from New York. But time is short, Angelo. It is tonight — that meeting. Come! Summon a taxicab. We are leaving immediately.”

The window sash descended. The Shadow was on his return journey. There was method in the action. A new danger had arisen, and only by promptitude could The Shadow ward it off. When Victor Venturi and Angelo left their room in haste, they would be well covered by watching mobsters, unless -

There was one solution. Those same mobsmen were concerned with Henry Arnaud. They could not perform a double duty. If unexpected developments occurred in Arnaud’s room before Venturi and Angelo departed, the Italians could go their way unmolested!

The task that lay before The Shadow was a most critical one. By suddenly creating a disturbance, he could draw the mob in his direction and, by a swift escape, head for the destination in Montclair in time to reach there before Venturi and his servant!

The Shadow’s hands were gripping the window ledge of Henry Arnaud’s room. A minute more, and the excitement would begin. Suddenly, those hands became motionless. Something had happened to block The Shadow’s plan. A man was standing beside the window, peering into the darkness of the court.

As The Shadow waited, the man spoke in a low, gruff whisper, addressing other persons in the room. His voice revealed that he was one of the ruffians whose purpose at the hotel was to keep tabs on Henry Arnaud as well as Victor Venturi.

“I can’t see nothin’ out here,” the observer growled. “They’s a light over in Venturi’s room; but I can’t figure where this guy Arnaud went—”

As he spoke, the man stared downward. The gangster’s gaze encountered the only spots of light that lay below him — the burning eyes of The Shadow!

In the space of less than a second, the staring gangster recognized the form below. He knew that he was face to face with The Shadow, the archenemy of crime.

To the most daring minions of the underworld, the name of The Shadow meant reality. The sight of a figure suspended on a sheer wall told this mobsman that he had met the one menace dreaded by all gangdom.

Hosts of gangsters had quailed when faced by The Shadow. This mobster was different. Not only one of Bumps Jaffrey’s toughest gorillas, he was shrewd and quick of wits. He realized that he had gained the greatest advantage that any one could possibly hold in a meeting with The Shadow. Backed by others, all was in his favor. With a cry of triumph, the mobster broke the news and acted as he raised the shout.

“The Shadow!”

The mobster was leaning forward as he spoke, and a heavy revolver gleamed in his hand. With a ferocious swing, he brought the weapon straight downward, aiming a vicious blow at the head below him.

He was striking for the eyes — striking with all the venom that lay in his evil heart. His swing was made with fell purpose. When it landed, The Shadow would lose his hold and plunge to death below!

BUT as the gangster’s arm descended, the hand of The Shadow shot upward. While one fist clutched the ledge of the window, the other caught the gangster’s wrist and diverted the powerful stroke.

Despite the fury of the gangster’s swing, The Shadow’s clutch did not fail. The gloved hand gripped the wrist in viselike fashion, and the gangster, half through the window, found his bulging eyes staring squarely into the blazing optics that lay beneath the black slouch hat.

The Shadow’s wrist moved in a powerful twist. The gangster clutched the window ledge with his free hand; then, as his grasp failed, he uttered an agonized cry as he felt his body turning.

His right hand lost its strength. The revolver dropped from nerveless fingers. The weapon shot downward into the court; and a half second later, the mobsman, making a last vicious effort to grapple with The Shadow, toppled in the same direction.

An agonized shriek sounded just as the revolver clattered on the paving. The shriek died like the passing whistle of a locomotive as the mobster plunged head foremost into the depths. He had fought The Shadow from a place of safety; the tables had turned, and he was crashing to his doom!

Oaths came from the room. The other gangsters had heard the cry of recognition; they had seen the brief, dramatic struggle at the window; they knew that their crony had been conquered by a superman.

With one accord, they leaped forward with drawn weapons, hoping, by a rain of bullets, to accomplish the deed which their companion had failed to execute. Before a single gangster could find a target at which to aim, the free hand of The Shadow moved beneath the folds of the shrouding cloak. It appeared upon the ledge, and simultaneously the black-hatted head came into view. The eyes of The Shadow, piercing the darkness of the room, seemed to focus themselves upon the approaching gangsters.

One gunman fired. His haste destroyed his aim. A second, less hurried, laid finger upon trigger. A cannonlike shot resounded at the window. The aiming gangster fell. The Shadow’s sweeping hand turned to the man who had fired first.

The Shadow’s head dropped as his hand was aiming. Two shots seemed to leap at each other, one from the gangster’s revolver, the other from The Shadow’s automatic. The revolver bullet whistled through the top of the black slouch hat. The automatic’s missile found its destination in the mobsman’s evil heart.

“The Shadow!”

The cry was uttered at the door of the room. It was another shout of recognition from a gangster, and the answer to it left no doubt regarding the identity of the powerful adversary. That reply was a peal of mocking laughter: the sinister laugh of The Shadow. A strident, gibing burst of merriment, the pealing tones reechoed through the courtyard, a pean of victory that brought awe to those who heard it.

The conquering cry quelled the men at the door. The Shadow’s laugh was as effective as a revolver shot. Hardened mobsmen who had invaded Henry Arnaud’s room now scattered to the safety of the hall. There, in the outer light, they rallied as other men came running to their aid.

“The Shadow!”

With confidence in numbers, the gangsters burst into the room. Revolvers flashed and shots reechoed as the first of the invaders fired toward the window. A gangster switched on the light by the door.

A peal of laughter seemed to come from the wall itself. Standing midway in the room, his sinister form towering like the embodiment of doom, The Shadow was in the midst of his enemies!

THE black-gloved hands were speedy and systematic. Their fingers pressed the triggers of the death-dealing weapons. The powerful .45s moved in a sweeping course, and before their wrath the mobsmen crumpled.

Only those who dived for safety, not daring to fire in return, managed to escape the leaden hail. Those of the dozen odd mobsmen who tried to shoot The Shadow were balked by stern disaster.

Gun arms fell. Writhing bodies toppled to the floor. Answering shots were futile. One gunman, falling, pressed the trigger of his revolver before it slipped from his grasp. The bullet shattered a picture two feet from The Shadow’s head.

Others met with the same barren result. Timing his shots split seconds ahead of his opponents, The Shadow rendered them helpless before they could do him harm.

The brief battle left half of the mob within the room. The others had dashed to the hall. There, they were fortifying themselves in doorways, still bold enough to remain, too frightened to attack. The last of the waiting mob had come to this spot. The six who remained were determined that The Shadow should not leave this room alive.

A low laugh came from the beleaguered room as the light went out. The Shadow had pressed the switch. His tall form was beside the window. Across the courtyard he could see that Venturi’s room was dark. The two Italians had left just as the fight was beginning. The shots had drawn the entire mob in this direction, as The Shadow had intended.

Yet The Shadow’s laugh was grim. Although his might had prevailed over that of the attacking mobsmen, the disadvantage at the beginning had rendered his original plan impossible. He had intended to carry the fight to the gangsters; not to await their attack. He had fought from the defensive. To step into that hallway would mean uncertainty. The Shadow must risk it; but he had met with serious delay.

Like a creature of invisibility, The Shadow moved across the room with feline stealth. His tall form stood beside the door. Out there, six gunmen were ready. Only a clever ruse could best them. The Shadow had faced situations like this before; but invariably, he tricked his adversaries by making them bide their time. Tonight, time was short.

The eyes of The Shadow looked upward. They gleamed as they spied the transom above the door. Another second; the tall form was perched atop the head of the bed. The transom, guided by a cautious hand, was slowly opening.

An eye peered through the crevice. The muzzle of an automatic appeared beneath it. The waiting mobsters had not noticed this occurrence. The Shadow spied one gangster edged behind a corner of the hall.

The automatic roared. A cry came from the gangster’s lips. The Shadow had clipped him. Again, the automatic blazed, and its reports brought hands into view.

The mobsters had seen the source of the shot. With one accord, they flourished their revolvers in reply. All had the same objective — the transom. As the revolvers barked, shattering bullets smashed the barrier above the door.

These were killing bullets, had they reached their mark. But again, The Shadow was working on split-second schedule. With his first shots delivered, he had dropped to the floor before the rain of lead commenced.

An instant later, his eye and hand appeared at the door, through a narrow crack. Low, almost to the floor, The Shadow opened fire. Gunmen had come into view. With wild eyes upward, they were still hurling their barrage at the transom. The new shots, delivered from a spot six feet beneath, caught them totally unaware.

Cursing mobsmen fell before they could change their aim. Of the six, only two managed to elude The Shadow’s wrath. They saw their comrades fall before they knew where the shots were coming from; instead of firing, they headed for a convenient stairway, just before The Shadow turned his gun in their direction.

The way was clear for the black-clad avenger. The Shadow stepped into the hallway. Shouts stopped him from further progress. A fusillade of shots came from the stairway. The fleeing mobsters had been met by new invaders. A second later, uniformed policemen entered the hallway from the stairs.

HERE was a new and unexpected barrier to The Shadow. The delay had turned against him with a vengeance. The Shadow, avenger of crime, had no quarrel with the law. His purpose was to frustrate men of evil. Still, time was precious. He must gain his way unmolested.

Only one course offered. Back into the room. The door of 1108 slammed shut, and elated cries of the police bore witness to the fact that they had seen the action. The officers believed that they had encountered the ending of a fight between two mobs. They were determined to capture all the participants.

The key turned in the lock. The police stormed the door. The Shadow swiftly crossed the room and gained the window. Over the ledge went the black-clad shape. Again, the rubber cups squdged against the brick wall that surrounded the court.

Above the spot where one mobsman had fallen to his doom; back over the course which he had so hazardously traced before, The Shadow made his even way toward Victor Venturi’s room.

The situation was serious now. Police were crashing at the door of 1108. The sound of the yielding barrier was plain. The door had broken with a splintering crescendo.

The police were within the captured room. Amid the shambles of dead and wounded mobsmen, they were searching for a living man. They found none.

The light was glowing in 1108. The head of an officer appeared at the window. The policeman’s eyes scanned the walls of the court. They did not see the clinging form that had reached Venturi’s window. Motion, then, would have meant betrayal. The Shadow rested, waiting through long, tense moments. At last came the cry that he had expected.

The policeman, glancing downward, had distinguished the body of the mobster who had plunged to destruction. He called out his discovery. Other heads appeared at the window.

“There he is!” was the shout. “Tried to get somewhere along the wall. Dropped to the bottom of the court—”

All eyes were in the one direction. The Shadow, beside Venturi’s window, raised the sash. The shade wavered as the black-garbed phantom entered the room. A few moments later, The Shadow stood safely in the darkness.

The path was open now. From Venturi’s room, around the corner from 1108, The Shadow could make a getaway. A stairway on the other side of the hotel — a powerful car in a garage near by — a swift drive into New Jersey -

These were the steps that lay ahead. Yet, with all the speed that he might command, The Shadow faced an arduous task. Bumps Jaffrey and his men had started long ago. Victor Venturi had followed considerably later. The Shadow would be the last to make the trip. The delay had consumed the most precious minutes at his disposal.

These factors were the disappointments in the triumph of The Shadow. To him they meant more than the glory of victory over fiends. But in actuality, The Shadow had accomplished unbelievable feats since his return to the Dexter Hotel.

On the wall he had learned Victor Venturi’s destination — the home of Sturgis Bosworth. On the wall, he had encountered and defeated the man who had tried to slay him. On the wall, he had opened the terrific attack that had downed an entire mob of hardened fighters.

On the wall, again, The Shadow had made his escape. The police back in the other room believed that they had accounted for all contenders in the gang war. They had not accounted for The Shadow.

A phantom of mystery, The Shadow had vanished from their very midst. Now, unscathed after two quick battles with men of the underworld, he was on his way to a new adventure!