The Ghost Makers

Chapter XV — The Hand of the Shadow

As the door of the inner room clattered to the floor, the attacking mobsmen dropped away to cover. Their first step gained, they waited for the moment. The way was clear, but they knew that in the room an armed man waited them.

A short, powerful ruffian stood in the center of the large, outer room. This was Barney Gleason, leader of the gorillas.

He stared coolly about him, and saw that his forces numbered nearly twenty men. Four were waiting by the door of the inner room. The others were scattered about at tables.

There were a few faces that Barney Gleason did not recognize, but they did not matter. All here were mobsmen, and the few outsiders who were present by chance would follow the law of gangdom. They would join with the attacking mob, if required. But Gleason knew that they would not be needed. He noticed one man — a grimy, sweater-clad individual — seated at a far table. The fellow's ugly face bore a long, livid scar. He was a man whom Gleason did not know, but that did not matter. A single glance convinced the gang leader that the scar-faced man was a fighter of the underworld. Like a general reviewing his troops, Barney Gleason finished his calm inspection of his forces. Standing boldly in the center of the room, he faced the door of the inner compartment and waved his automatic in that direction.

"Go get him!" he ordered.

All eyes turned toward the door of the beleaguered room. The four men crouching beside it would be the shock troops. With one sustained rush they would enter and overpower the doomed man. Perhaps one or more of them might fall. What of it? That was the chance that went with membership in Barney Gleason's mob.

Dick Terry's only hope of escaping the four gorillas would be to break through their attack. That might not be difficult.

If he chose to flee, they would, in all probability, let him go— out into the room where more than a dozen revolvers sparkled in readiness.

It was at that moment that Dick Terry sprang the unexpected. He appeared suddenly at the door of the inner room. He spotted the form of Barney Gleason.

He shot at the gang leader, but Gleason had seen him coming. A series of shots rang out as Gleason dived for cover. Dick Terry dropped back out of sight.

Gleason was on his feet again, making silent signals that all understood. He was giving the cue: Wait for a few minutes.

If Dick appeared again, the crouching shock troops could fling themselves upon him, following him back into the inner room. The other gats must wait.

Like a music maestro, Gleason was lulling with a downward movement of his hands. The meaning was plain.

Moments passed. Barney Gleason, in the center of the room, was snarling meaningless orders to mislead the beleaguered victim. His watchful eye was on the door of the little room, however. Dick Terry acted as Barney Gleason had hoped. He appeared again at the door, armed with the revolver of the gangster whom he had shot in the little room. He spotted Barney Gleason, but the gang leader was already dodging for the protection of a thick post, and Dick's shots were of no avail. This time there was no fusillade from the gangsters scattered about the room. Instead, the four gorillas by the door leaped to their feet and threw themselves in a mass toward Dick Terry. Their attack was totally unexpected. But for a remarkable intervention, they would have fallen upon their startled prey before Dick could fire another shot to save himself. Death was planned as quick and certain.

But the intervention arrived. Automatics barked from close beside the outer door of the big room. Like toy figures, the four attackers went down in quick succession, one toppling — two sprawling — the last slumping slowly to the floor!

It formed a most amazing picture — four fiends of gangland rising silently to the attack, then dropping helplessly at the sound of that protecting gunfire — dropping before they had discharged a solitary bullet!

Barney Gleason whirled toward the spot from which the destructive shots had come. He saw the smoking automatics in the hands of the scarred, unknown gangster. Barney's quick shout, that rose above the echoes of the dying gunfire, was the signal for a free-for-all attack. Gangsters, on their feet, were aiming for that unexpected enemy, while others were shooting toward Dick Terry at the doorway of the inner room.

Only Barney Gleason was inactive. He was heading for a spot where he would be momentarily protected from the gunfire of the stranger.

The sharp crack of the stranger's automatics began a split second before the general attack. It was that momentary start that gave him a remarkable advantage. His rising automatics clipped his nearest foemen. Crouching one instant, he fired straight at a hand that held a leveled revolver. A moment later, he was towering beside the wall, his other hand performing deadly work in a new direction. There were shots in reply — many of them; but somehow, this mysterious man had the faculty of picking off the most dangerous mobsters first.

Guns which would have loosed fatal bullets dropped harmlessly to the floor. Those which were in excited hands were the one's which he ignored. Bullets whistled by and dug into the walls. But always, when the shots came high, the scarred gangster was crouching. When revolvers turned to cover his huddled form, he was sweeping away to a new vantage point, his form tall and elusive. Only Barney Gleason was not firing. He was holding his shots, for his position behind an overturned table made it difficult for him to draw a steady aim toward that weaving figure. His automatic could spell its message later on — if needed.

Watching with beady eyes, the gang leader was tense. He was following the motions of a long shadow that stretched across the floor — a mysterious, flickering shadow that came from that fighting form. The Shadow!

Barney Gleason knew the identity of this antagonist. He realized that only The Shadow could fight as this man was fighting. He knew that The Shadow was a conqueror of odds.

The right-hand automatic ceased to function. The Shadow flung it swiftly toward a gangster who was reaching toward the floor, striving to regain a revolver. The heavy missile crashed against the gangster's head. The left-hand gun barked, and a second gunman sprawled, weaponless.

The right hand of The Shadow, sweeping beneath the grimy sweater, appeared with a new automatic. It was just in time to clip an enemy who had fired once and missed. All these events were happening with lightning like rapidity.

Into the midst of the fray came a sudden interruption. Dick Terry, who had ducked for the safety of the inner room, had reappeared at the open doorway.

Seeing his lone protector engaged in single-handed conflict, Terry joined in the fire. He knew that all but this one were his enemies.

An excellent shot, Dick, by his timely action, assured the outcome of the fray. The Shadow, superman though he was, stood in constant danger of a single chance shot from among the rattle of decreasing gunfire.

Now, with Dick working from another angle, Barney Gleason saw that his few remaining gorillas bore no chance. Rising, he aimed his automatic toward Dick Terry.

Protected from The Shadow's gunfire, Barney's single shot reached its mark. Dick Terry crumpled, wounded. Barney did not fire again. One was out.

The Shadow was his quarry now!

Whirling across the room, The Shadow was on his way to protect his fallen ally. Two shots barked from his right-hand automatic. They were the last. Not another replied.

All but Barney Gleason had fallen. A few badly wounded gangsters were stumbling toward the outer door, which their enemy had left. The rest were silent where they lay.

Now was Barney Gleason's chance. He sprang from his table, a wild gleam in his eyes. He leaped straight for The Shadow, leveling his gun as he hurled himself forward.

He had settled with the enemy in the inner room. Now he would get the other!

It was Barney's mad desire that proved his undoing. He caught a glimpse of a scarred face turned in his direction. Like a flash, The Shadow was coming toward him. A side move by the sweatered gangster enabled him to escape Barney Gleason's first shot.

Before Barney could fire again, a long arm swung upward and crashed against his wrist. Barney's finger pressed the trigger. The bullet ended in the ceiling.

The Shadow's two automatics were empty! But now he was contending with a single enemy. Hardened mob leader that he was, Barney Gleason had encountered his match.

Powerful arms gripped his body and flung him, sprawling, across the room, to the wall, more than twenty feet away. But Gleason was tough. He came up fighting, his automatic still clutched by his right fist.

Again, The Shadow was upon him, struggling to wrest away the gun. Barney's left fist struck at the scarred face. He heard a sinister laugh from grimy lips as the blow passed futilely beside The Shadow's jaw.

His opponent seemed to slump, and Barney, with a triumphant cry, clutched at the face below him. His right wrist, held high by a powerful hand, tried to wrest itself free.

Up went the form of Barney Gleason, heaved by an irresistible force. Up it went and backward!

Barney's left hand swung away as he sought to protect himself from a fall. The automatic dropped from his helpless clutch as he made a wild, sweeping gesture to catch the sides of the broad window.

His effort was too late. His floundering form was flung furiously backward. Head foremost, Barney Gleason smashed into the window sash.

The frame gave way, and the gang leader's body shot backward, turning head downward as it plunged toward the paving of the alley, twenty feet below the window.

All was silent as The Shadow leaned over the form of Dick Terry. He was examining the wound that Barney Gleason's bullet had indicted.

Long minutes went by, amid unabated silence. There was a noise at the corner of the room behind the bar.

A door opened, and the frightened face of "Black Pete" peered into the room. Formidable as Black Pete appeared, he was a coward at heart. He kept this dive only because Barney Gleason demanded it. Black Pete moved cautiously into the room. He saw the bodies of the dead gangsters the remnants of Barney Gleason's mob.

Then he caught a glimpse of the man who stood by the door of the inner room. Cringing, Black Pete held up his arm.

The Shadow laughed.

Silence still reigned in that room of death, when a stumbling step sounded on the stairway twenty minutes later. Black Pete was alone, now, standing behind the bar. He looked up to see the bloodstained countenance of Gleason.

The gang leader spied Black Pete amidst the chaos, and stumbled into the room. He looked about suspiciously; then, seeing no sign of a scar-faced gangster, he limped over to the bar and leaned upon it. His bleary eyes noted that the form of Dick Terry no longer lay by the door of the inner room.

"Where — where are the guys that made all the trouble?" he questioned, in a faltering voice.

"One of 'em scrammed," replied Black Pete.

"What — what about the other?" was Barney's inquiry. "I plugged one over there by the door."

"You got him, all right," declared Black Pete. "A couple of gorillas came in here after the other fellow scrammed. I told 'em to get rid of the body. That guy wasn't no gunman. I didn't want his corpse around here."

"They took it away?"

"Yeah. They were a couple of regular guys. Don't know their names, though. Told 'em to see you later, but they said it didn't mean nothin' to 'em, helpin' me out of a jam." Barney Gleason nodded. He knew the ways of gangdom. He was satisfied that Dick Terry was dead. That had been accomplished, even though it had meant the mopping up of his mob.

"I'd have got both of them," growled Barney Gleason, "but I slipped while I was fighting the big bozo by the window. Went backward, right through the sash.

"If it hadn't been for that little roof down below, it would have been my finish I couldn't hold on, but it broke my fall. Even at that, I was knocked cold when I landed in the alley." Barney swept his arm weakly about the room to indicate the dead members of his mob.

"Sit tight, Pete," he said. "I'm going out to round up the rest of the mob. We'll get back here and cart the bodies out. Keep mum if the cops should come in. Maybe we'll run into that tough guy yet." Barney Gleason left Black Pete's place. When the loud falls of his stumbling footsteps had ended on the stairway, the door opened beside the bar, and the scar-faced gangster stepped into view.

"You played it the way I told you," he said to Black Pete. "You're not one of the mob. You're not even a crook. I know all about you, Black Pete. You'd be out of this racket to-morrow, if you could get out.

"You're afraid of Barney Gleason. He's got you where he wants you. Well" — a short laugh came from the speaker's lips — "you'll have your chance to get clear. Keep mum. That's all. Stick to the story you just told. Understand?"

The eyes that gleamed threateningly at Black Pete were cold and merciless. The stocky, black-haired man understood. He knew what this strange personage could accomplish. The bodies on the floor were mute testimony.

Black Pete nodded.

"That fellow is all right, now," declared the scar-faced gangster. "I'm taking him out with me. Remember, Pete. Keep mum."

The man disappeared and returned from the other room, carrying the form of Dick Terry over his shoulder. The heavy Texan's body was no burden for this man who had mopped up Barney Gleason's mob.

As the carrier and his load crossed the room, Black Pete began to shudder at the sound of a sinister laugh that suddenly pervaded the room.

It was a mirthless, mocking tone. It was a laugh that Black Pete knew, although he had never before heard it.

The laugh of The Shadow!

It told the identity of that strange fighter who had won his amazing conflict. The gangster who had just left — taking a helpless man with him — was The Shadow!

As much as Black Pete feared the wrath of Barney Gleason, he feared the very name of The Shadow more. Now, after the demonstration he had witnessed, Black Pete realized that a single word of betrayal on his part would spell his instant doom.

A half hour later, when Barney Gleason returned with some mobsmen, Black Pete maintained a discreet silence. He did not mention his belief that the unknown fighter was The Shadow. Barney Gleason had the same idea, but he said nothing to Black Pete. He intended to mention the fact to no one.

He smiled in a satisfied manner. He had done the work which Martin Slade required.

Dick Terry was dead, despite The Shadow. That was sufficient.

Thus had the hand of The Shadow thwarted the death of Dick Terry. At the same time, The Shadow had lulled Barney Gleason into the belief that Dick Terry had been slain!

Dick Terry was still among the living — but only The Shadow knew!