The Black Falcon

CHAPTER II THE SHADOW SPEAKS

THE SHADOW!

Every one of the five racketeers trembled at the sound of the visitant’s laugh. Though four knew that the sinister sound was directed toward one — Rowdy Kirshing — there was no comfort for them.

These men were crooks. To them, crime had become a science. Payers for protection, they had found ways to offset the efforts of the police. But, like all denizens of gang land, they held a common fear.

They knew that all participants in crime were threatened by a common menace. They knew that a mysterious fighter was ever ready to battle with those who fought the law. They had heard tales of a being clad in black, a lone wolf whom none could balk; and they knew that he was called The Shadow.

Swift death came to those who sought to thwart The Shadow. Often had this phantom being arrived in spots where gangsters lurked, to deal vengeance upon fiends who plotted crime. But of all spots in Manhattan where security from The Shadow could have been expected, this guarded gaming room within the steel-domed club had promised greatest security.

The Shadow’s presence was incredible. The trapped men stared as though viewing a ghost. There was an unreality about the black-clad shape; but it was brought to grim actuality by the tokens of The Shadow’s power.

The blazing eyes; the looming automatic; the weirdly whispered laugh — these were signs of The Shadow’s wrath. The men who saw and heard were quivering. Not a hand stirred as horrified minds hoped only that The Shadow would concentrate upon the man who first had seen him — Rowdy Kirshing.

A moment of chilling silence. Then came The Shadow’s voice. A sneering whisper formed words that hissed with terrible threat.

“Rowdy Kirshing!” The Shadow’s tones seemed to mock the name that they uttered. “I have found you with ill-gotten spoils. Before I depart, you will tell me of their source. You will betray the part that you have played in evil crime!”

The tall form was moving inward from the door. There was weirdness in The Shadow’s approach. As his dreaded figure neared the table, the seated men crouched away; but all held their hands above their heads as token of surrender.

ROWDY KIRSHING’S face still wore its sullen fear. His hands, however, were trembling. The crisp bills crinkled between them. The big shot was cowed.

“Speak!” The Shadow’s voice was commanding. “Tell me the name of the underling who has served you!”

Rowdy’s lips were rigid. Then, like the big shot’s hands, they began to tremble. The menace of The Shadow’s automatic seemed imminent.

“Speak!” came The Shadow’s harrowing tone.

“Terry,” gasped Rowdy Kirshing. “Terry — Terry Rukes. He’s the fellow — who’s working for me. But I’m not in it—”

The Shadow’s laugh came as a chilling interruption. Rowdy Kirshing’s scarred face showed pallor.

“You are the go-between,” sneered The Shadow. “The money in your hands is payment for your services. You have purchased men for crime.”

Rowdy Kirshing’s protest ended. There was accusation in The Shadow’s sinister utterance. The big shot could not meet it.

“Name the man,” came The Shadow’s order, “who has provided the funds for crime.”

It was a moment before Rowdy Kirshing gained his voice. His words, when uttered, were hoarse, with a plaintive quaver that seemed incongruous from his roughened lips.

“I–I don’t know” — Rowdy was gasping — “don’t know — don’t know who—”

The Shadow’s blazing eyes were fierce. A soft, menacing taunt came from the lips that Rowdy could not see. A black finger pressed slowly against the trigger of the automatic.

“I’ll tell” — blurted were Rowdy’s words — “tell all I know! All I know! It was Velvet Laffrey! He — he started the game!”

A pause; Rowdy’s voice became a pleading moan.

“I–I haven’t seen Velvet.” The big shot was insistent. “He — he told me I wouldn’t see him. The dough comes in — I get it to pay Terry Rukes. I keep my cut—”

The racketeer was trembling from head to foot. He knew the menace of The Shadow; knew that in betraying others, he was confessing his own guilt. That was the explanation of his terror.

Rowdy Kirshing, here in gang land’s most formidable stronghold, was a big shot no longer. He had become a pitiful crook, squealing on others and blabbing his own story while cowering racketeers crouched as listeners.

“I keep my cut!” Rowdy’s voice rose to a tremolo. “It isn’t my game, though. Honest — it was Velvet. It wasn’t my game to start—”

The racketeer’s eyes were bulging; his hands were faltering as they clutched the bills. His lips, however, had momentarily lost their quivering. The odd beginning of a smile had come instinctively upon Rowdy’s face.

The big shot could keep an unflinching face in a poker game. In this situation, however, he was unable to keep from betraying the fact that luck had come his way. Rowdy’s rising voice had been well timed. His eyes had sighted a motion of the door beyond The Shadow’s form.

But the lips, with their unwarranted smile, explained the reason for Rowdy’s louder words. The Shadow, although he could not hear the slight sound behind him, knew that danger lay in the direction toward which Rowdy stared.

THE black cloak swished. Its whirling folds revealed a crimson lining as The Shadow pirouetted toward the door. The barrier had opened. A hard-faced man, gun in hand, was peering into the room. There were others behind him. They had heard the sound of Rowdy Kirshing’s voice.

The man with the gun caught his first view of the room just as The Shadow whirled. Responding quickly, the hard-faced fellow thrust his hand forward, with his finger against the revolver trigger.

Had The Shadow paused a split second, the rescuer would have gained the drop. But The Shadow, in his swift about-face, had taken it for granted that an enemy was at the door. The big automatic roared as The Shadow’s rigid fist stayed with his line of vision.

The bullet found its mark. The man at the door sank back. His companions flung themselves away from the doorway.

The Shadow could have beaded one or more of them, but The Shadow had more important game. His swift whirl did not stop. It continued with a definite design; back to the spot which The Shadow had left.

The Shadow had foreseen Rowdy Kirshing’s action. The instant that The Shadow had begun his whirl, Rowdy had shot his right hand to the table. There he had grabbed the gleaming revolver which he had taken from his pocket.

Rowdy was quick with the weapon. His finger found the trigger as his hand gained the gun. While The Shadow’s automatic sounded its terrific roar, Rowdy, his eyes gleaming, came up to fire.

The big shot’s eyes bulged as his finger drew against the trigger. A second roar came from the automatic. With listless finger quivering weakly, Rowdy slumped to the table. His dying gaze caught the glare of The Shadow’s eyes.

The big shot had sealed his own doom. Acting rapidly, he had expected to shoot The Shadow in the back. Instead, the completion of The Shadow’s whirl had ended in the second burst of flame from the deadly automatic.

Rowdy’s hands, sprawling straight across the table, dropped two objects. One, the revolver, fell with a clatter. The other, the stack of bills, plopped softly. The side that the racketeer had sought to hide was downward. The Black feather did not show.

With one outward sweep of his free left hand, The Shadow sent the revolver flying from the table. It clanked against the wall beyond Rowdy Kirshing’s crumpled body.

With the return sweep, The Shadow grasped the pile of bound bills. The packet went beneath the folds of the black cloak. With a quick, sidewise whirl, The Shadow glanced toward the door; then ended back against the wall, his automatic covering the four men who still cowered in their chairs.

A laugh resounded through the room. With the taunt, The Shadow pressed the light switch. His automatic barked two warning shots. In the gloom, the four racketeers dived for the shelter beneath the table.

The same swift shots stopped the men outside the gaming room. They dropped to the walls of the outer room. Drawing guns, they were preparing for an attack. Before they could acquire leadership, their opportunity was ended.

OUT from the gaming room swept The Shadow. His arrival was both swift and unexpected. With a long, springing leap, he shot from the blackness of the little room, and in three swift strides gained a spot well clear from the doorway.

The patrons of the club had chosen the corners near the gaming room. The Shadow, whirling as he came from cover, was beyond them.

Each gloved fist now held an automatic. Both weapons thundered as The Shadow, with the door to the gaming room as a center, began to spread his arms.

Screaming men flung themselves prone upon the floor to escape the spraying fire. The Shadow, as he increased the angle, was taking in every spot along the end walls; as his form moved swiftly backward toward the outer door, he covered the entire room.

Peering men ducked back into the barroom. At the steel door, The Shadow flung one hand against a switch. With this action, he extinguished the side lights about the lounging room. Only the slight glow from the barroom remained; the shape of The Shadow dimmed against the steel barrier.

In his spraying fire, The Shadow had used remarkable strategy. Of a dozen men, three had tried to shoot in response. The Shadow’s bullets, aimed a few feet above the wall, had clipped these ruffians while they aimed and had dropped them wounded.

The others had flung themselves upon the floor. They were unscathed; but they had lost the opportunity to deliver a quick response. After the lights went out, they rose to fire at the steel door.

Bullets zimmed against the barrier. The four racketeers in the cardroom joined in the shooting. Men surged forward through the gloom. A cry came to end the fire. A man pressed the switch by the steel door.

Where every eye expected to see the crumpled form of a black-cloaked figure, there was no one in view! The Shadow had pressed the switch that opened the steel door. He had left as the volley of shots had begun. All had been foiled, for there had been no light from the anteroom to show that the door had opened.

The answer was discovered when some one slid away the barrier. The lights in the anteroom were out. Steve and Mac, the guards, were lying gagged upon the floor. They were released; Steve pointed to the outer door of steel.

“I heard the ring,” he explained. “I looked through the peephole. There wasn’t no one there. I opened the sliding door; then he got me.”

“Same here,” grunted Mac. “I heard a rap. I thought it was Steve. Then I was yanked out as soon as I opened the door. The lights were out.”

“It was The Shadow,” gasped Steve, in an awed tone. “I seen him, but Mac didn’t. He grabbed both of us. But he put the lights out here before he knocked for Mac.”

Foiled crooks stood disgruntled. Pursuit was too late. To seek The Shadow was the last deed that any one intended. None cared to risk a new encounter with that fierce fighter of the night who had invaded this stronghold alone to deliver deserved death to Rowdy Kirshing.

WHILE the baffled men of crime lingered in their stronghold, a trim coupe rolled to a stop on a side street near Times Square. Black-gloved hands came from darkness. They showed in the dim glow from the sidewalk.

Keen eyes surveyed a packet that rested between those hands. It was the stack of crinkly bills that The Shadow had taken from Rowdy Kirshing. The eyes now saw the strange marking that adorned the paper strip about the packet.

A black feather! This was the only symbol of the person who had paid Rowdy Kirshing, big shot racketeer, a price for service. That marking, as yet, was the single clew to the man behind some insidious game of crime.

A soft, echoing laugh came from hidden lips as the eyes of The Shadow identified the species of the plume. That bit of evidence denoted a bird of prey.

It was the feather of a falcon — dyed black!