The Black Falcon

CHAPTER XI AT THE APARTMENT

SILENCE rested over the Garman Apartments. A large building, away from heavy traffic, it formed a huge mass in the darkness, with lighted windows far apart.

Crouched in the gloom of the fire tower was Terry Rukes. The mob leader’s henchmen formed a group close by him. Tensely, they were waiting the signal that would bring them through the corridor to the apartment on the left.

Terry, peering through the door to the corridor, returned to offer growled advice which his gorillas accepted. The gang leader’s nervousness was no longer apparent.

“Leave it to The Falcon,” he said. “He’ll get in there and cover the guy. The door will be open for us when he gives the signal. This is a pipe.”

Grunted assent came from the listeners. One mobster stared down the dark stairway up which the group had come. He saw nothing in the gloom, nor did he hear a sound.

The gorilla’s alertness was justified. His gaze, however, was directed to the wrong spot. Watching eyes were close at hand; listening ears were near. But the being who could overhear the mumbled conversation of his mobsters was not within the confines of the fire tower.

A bat-like shape was clinging to a wall which projected at an angle from the set-in fire tower. Invisible in the darkness, this hidden creature seemed other than a human form. Above a shrouded head was a darkened, open window of Rowland Ransdale’s apartment.

Something squdged upon the wall. The mobster who had turned back to his fellows paused to listen. The sound was so elusive that he gave it no second thought. He did not hear another similar noise that followed.

The bat-like shape was moving away from the fire tower. Past the angle, it crept with sidewise, crab-like motion along the extended wall. The glow of city lights revealed the figure dimly. Like a huge vampire, The Shadow was sidling across a vertical surface!

Hands and feet were pressing against the wall. Each was equipped with a large concave disk of rubber. Each pressure of a suction cup gave its wearer purchase upon the wall. Each twist released one of the supports.

THE SHADOW had become a human fly. So familiar was he with this method of progress that his motions were timed to perfect precision. Terry Rukes and his followers might choose the corridor as the way to gain access to Ransdale’s apartment; The Shadow preferred the outer wall.

One light glowed as a beacon. The Shadow knew that the room which it indicated was probably the one in which Ransdale would be found. It was The Shadow’s goal. With remarkable ease, the creeping master reached his objective. His eyes peered through the space between a lowered shade and the window sill.

The room within was empty. Furnished with comfortable chairs, a long lounge and ornate tables, it constituted Rowland Ransdale’s den. Every window of the apartment opened on this wall; there were no other lights in view. Hence The Shadow knew that Ransdale must, for some reason, be waiting in darkness.

Had The Black Falcon already arrived? If so, action was essential at once. A gloved hand released itself from a suction cup. A long, thin strip of metal was thrust between the portions of the window sash. The lock turned noiselessly.

Up came the sash. Like a ghost from the beyond, The Shadow gained the window sill. His tall form cast a long black silhouette upon the floor. The door of the den was ajar. Wisely, The Shadow kept away from the opening. He made a circuitous tour of the lighted room and reached an alcove near the opening of the door. There, The Shadow listened.

Soft voices sounded suddenly. The Shadow caught the words that were uttered. A man was speaking in well-chosen accents. The Shadow, his keen eyes watching toward the door, sensed that Rowland Ransdale must be the speaker.

“Are they still waiting, Hazzlett?”

“Yes, sir,” came a voice that was less refined. “I just heard them talking. They seem to be a bit impatient, sir.”

“It’s time to be ready for them, then.” Ransdale’s voice broke with a slight chuckle, that showed a note of nervousness. “The police commissioner promised that a cordon would surround the place before the officers entered.”

“He was sure about The Black Falcon when you called him?”

“Absolutely. That means prompt action. I told him I would leave the den lighted, as a lure. Wait here, Hazzlett. I’m going through to listen a moment by the window toward the fire tower.”

Then silence followed. The Shadow waited. Long, tense moments; then, from somewhere came the soft note of a hissed whistle. Black gloves emerged from The Shadow’s cloak. Each fist held an automatic.

More moments of silence. A cautious whisper told that Ransdale was back with his servant, Hazzlett. Ransdale’s words concerned the sound that had reached The Shadow’s ears.

“You heard it, Hazzlett?”

“The whistle? Yes, sir.”

“Steady. Be ready for an attack. I’ll be at the door opposite.”

Footsteps creaked. Ransdale was crossing his living room. Even though he could not see beyond the door of the den, The Shadow knew how the arrangements stood. Ransdale and Hazzlett were waiting, armed, each on a different side of the living room. They expected an invasion; they knew that the den would be the objective of the invaders.

The whistle was the signal of The Black Falcon!

THE supercrook must be lurking somewhere, perhaps in the outer corridor. In this attack, it seemed, he was sending in his henchmen, under the command of Terry Rukes. Even yet, The Black Falcon might precede them. Perhaps, because of the broad layout of the apartment, he felt it best to invade with a squad in order to gain quick coverage.

So far as Ransdale and Hazzlett were concerned, the mine owner and his valet held the advantage, even against a squad of ruffians, provided only that their nerve did not fail them in the test. The Black Falcon, however, held the key to the situation. The Shadow knew the ability of this adversary.

If Ransdale and Hazzlett should let the invaders reach the lighted den, The Shadow would bear the brunt of this attack. If, however, the beleaguered men should fire too soon, it would be The Shadow’s part to stand in readiness. Peering from the opening of the den door, The Shadow kept his keen eyes fixed upon the dim spot which he knew must be the door from the corridor.

As The Shadow watched, the door moved slowly inward. A bulky form appeared against the light of the corridor.

It was Terry Rukes, at the head of his small mob.

The Shadow glided back into the den. Either The Black Falcon had sent the men ahead, or he was waiting elsewhere. The apartment was a large one; the supercrook could have hidden in some well chosen spot.

Terry’s form was near the den. The big mob leader was coming cautiously, as though expecting another signal. His men were behind him, all within the living room. Suddenly, Terry made a forward plunge. The den door shot inward as he pushed it.

Two revolvers barked. Ransdale and Hazzlett had opened fire. A bullet whistled past Terry’s shoulder and flattened itself against the doorway. Momentarily paused upon the threshold, the gang leader uttered a wild cry.

It was the sight of the being before him that gave Terry Rukes such consternation. The gang leader was staring squarely at the dreaded form of The Shadow. Blazing eyes — a looming automatic — these were the silent sights that brought his frenzied utterance.

“The Shadow!”

As Terry screamed the warning, shots came in quick rapidity from the sides of the living room. A second bullet dropped the gang leader in his tracks. The other mobsters were in confusion. They were turning in the gloom, to aim at flashes of flame that came from partly opened doorways.

Ransdale and Hazzlett were in the dark. The men whom they were shooting were midway between the streak of light that came from the den and the outer shaft of illumination from the corridor.

Terry Rukes had collapsed. Down went a second mobster. A third, cursing, staggered and gripped a wounded arm. Of the two who remained, one leaped for the den, forgetful of Terry’s warning scream. With outstretched revolver, he was ready to fire. The Shadow’s finger rested on the trigger of an automatic.

Then came a spurt from Hazzlett’s gun. The mobster, as he spied The Shadow, sprawled headlong at the feet of the dread being whom all evildoers feared. The Shadow had not been forced to fire his shot.

The last mobsman was hurtling toward the outer door. It was Ransdale, this time, who applied good marksmanship. The mine owner’s revolver barked twice. The second shot picked off his quarry. The last of Terry’s gorillas rolled in agony.

Whistles were sounding from without. Shouts came from the fire tower. The police were arriving. Still, The Shadow waited. One menace still remained: The Black Falcon.

A click sounded as Rowland Ransdale turned on the light in the living room. The Shadow, peering from his alcove, saw the mine owner, in a smoking jacket, heading toward the corridor with a revolver in his grasp. Hazzlett, plainly attired, was hurrying to join his master.

A shrill whistle burst through the corridor. The police had entered. Ransdale and Hazzlett had met them. Where was The Black Falcon? Swiftly, The Shadow cut into the living room. He could hear the sound of feet and excited voices in the hallway. With a swift motion, the black-garbed visitor swept into the darkness of an adjoining room.

Loud talk sounded in the living room as The Shadow reached the little window that opened near the fire tower. He could hear the voice of Commissioner Weston. The official had arrived with Joe Cardona. He was ordering a prompt search of the place.

The Shadow could not remain. The window by the fire tower was open. Swiftly, the black-clad protector swung over the sill. Remaining there, he adjusted the rubber suction cups that had served him so well. Then, with faultless action, he began his descent along this blackened section of the wall.

The police cordon had closed in. Men were pounding up the steps of the fire tower as The Shadow descended alongside. The Shadow, at the second floor, swung inward to the rail. He removed the suction cups and descended the steps to the ground. But as his tall form appeared within a patch of light that glistened on the paving, a shrill whistle sounded.

Swiftly, The Shadow merged with the darkness of an opposite wall. He found an opening which his keen eyes had spotted from above. He chose this way between two walls to find a quick exit from the scene. Again that whistle. As The Shadow neared the end of the narrow area, a policeman came pounding straight against him.

The officer did not see the crouching shape that dropped instantly to the paving. The first inkling that he gained of a living presence was when powerful arms blocked his path and a heaving form of hidden muscle lifted him towering in the air. Dizzily, the policeman plunged headlong. He seemed to dive at an angle from a pair of shoulders. For a moment, the gripping clutch restrained him. As he fell, the officer had time to thrust out his arms and break the force of the drop. His revolver clattered on the cement.

By the time the policeman had gripped his gun and risen dazedly to his feet, no living presence remained. The Shadow, fleeting through the last short space of darkness, had gained the street beyond. He had passed the encircling cordon.

THE Garman Apartments were in full possession of Weston’s forces. Policemen and detectives were everywhere. The commissioner and Detective Joe Cardona were with Rowland Ransdale and his servant, Hazzlett.

Ransdale, a keen-faced man of medium height, was giving the details of the raid. Hazzlett, taller and more powerful than his employer, was standing by with a grim expression on his firm, hard-visaged face.

“This is Terry Rukes,” announced Cardona, pointing out the dead gang leader. “Now we know who was working for The Black Falcon.”

Commissioner Weston surveyed the other mobsters. He turned to Rowland Ransdale.

“These men were the only ones who entered?” he questioned.

“Yes,” assured the mine owner. “Fortunately, Hazzlett and I are good shots. We handle revolvers well out West. But there was another — some one who gave a whistle signal—”

“Where from?” queried Weston eagerly.

“I don’t know,” admitted Ransdale. “It came just before the attack. I heard it while I was listening at the window to the fire tower. I couldn’t trace it from—”

“I think it was from the corridor,” broke in Hazzlett. “I heard it, too — and I was waiting here in the living room.”

“That explains it!” asserted Weston, in a disappointed tone. “The Black Falcon reversed his game tonight. He must have sent his mobsters in first. He was wise enough to hurry away when he heard the firing.”

“He may have had time to get through the cordon,” added Joe Cardona. “Our men were all ready, though, when the shots were fired—”

A gray-haired man appeared at that moment. Cardona stopped speaking as he recognized Inspector Timothy Klein entering from the corridor. With the inspector was a uniformed policeman.

“Officer Dellin,” announced Klein. “He has a report to make on some one who escaped.”

“Bumped into me down below,” declared the policeman, sheepishly. “I was comin’ through a little alley — just wide enough for one man. Answerin’ a whistle, commissioner. This fellow tackles me in the dark an’ throws me head foremost. Out at the far end of the alley — he got to the street before I could follow him.”

“Another officer caught a glimpse of the man,” added Klein. “He had come from the fire tower. They are searching for him now, but apparently he has made a get-away.”

“The Black Falcon,” declared Joe Cardona.

Commissioner Weston nodded.

“He has eluded us again,” declared the official. “This time, however, we have thwarted him. His mobsmen are dead. He cannot afford to defy the law again. My congratulations, Mr. Ransdale, to you and your man Hazzlett, for the work that you have done tonight.”

Joe Cardona was grim. Though he did not voice his thoughts, the detective could not agree with the commissioner. To Cardona, the escape of The Black Falcon was new proof of the master crook’s amazing ability.

The elusiveness with which The Black Falcon had passed through the police cordon; the quick ability which he had shown in dealing with Officer Dellin — these were things of which Cardona believed only The Shadow could be capable.

Greater would have been Cardona’s wonder had the detective known that it was actually The Shadow who had broken through the narrow alleyway! The Black Falcon, in his own evanishment, had gone The Shadow one better.

For The Black Falcon had disappeared without a trace, while The Shadow, master of the darkness, had been forced to physical encounter in order to leave this scene where crime had failed!