The Shadow Laughs

CHAPTER XV THE RAID AT MIDNIGHT

The disguised Shadow gazed curiously about the cellar. Then he again turned his attention to the box, removed the papers, and took out several counterfeit bills. He studied these under the light. He pocketed them; then rearranged the box exactly as Doc Birch had left it.

Although the pawnshop proprietor had stated to Spotter that he would soon return to the cellar, the roughly dressed visitor seemed entirely indifferent to the fact. He went from one part of the basement to another; and finally stopped by the coal pile.

Taking a long stick that lay against the wall, he probed the depths of the coal pile.

Although he performed this operation with very little noise, the sound of the shifting coal was sufficient to drown other noises. Hence The Shadow paused in his work occasionally, and listened for any sound that might come from the stairs that led to the floor above.

A click sounded from the coal pile. Probing, The Shadow found a flat sheet of metal. He examined it under the light. It was a plate used in the manufacture of counterfeit bills.

After a close examination, The Shadow compared the plate with the sample bills that he had taken. His disguised face was impassive for a moment; then a slight smile appeared upon the thick lips.

The Shadow had detected almost imperceptible differences between the plate and the bills. He replaced the plate in the coal bin, upon others that formed a stack. He swept lumps of coal over the plates. Suddenly he stopped in his work.

He stood in an attitude of attention for a moment. He wheeled with amazing quickness just as a man appeared from the far end of the cellar.

“Hands up!” snapped the newcomer, in a low, commanding voice. The automatic which he carried gave emphasis to the order.

The hands of the pretended hoodlum were buried in the fold at the bottom of his sweater. For an instant his fingers hesitated; then he raised his hands with feigned sullenness.

“Guess you got me, all right,” he said, in a gruff, sulky voice. “But I ain’t doin’ nothin’ here.”

The new arrival sauntered into the light. He was a square-jawed individual, clad in dark blue, with a black hat. He pulled back his coat with his left hand, revealing a badge.

“Not doing anything, eh?” he commented. “We’ll find out about that, later on. In the meantime, just keep your hands up.

“I’m a Federal agent, in case you don’t know it. That coal pile is just as interesting to me as it was to you.”

The Shadow did not reply. Still playing a part, he glowered wickedly at the man who had captured him. He stood there, with puffed lips and twisted nose, his shadow forming a huge blot on the floor before him.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the Federal agent. “You aren’t in on the game. I know that. Trying to steal something?”

“Why should I tell you?” came the sullen reply.

The Federal agent shrugged his shoulders.

“You’ll talk later on,” he said. “For your information, I’m not alone on this job. My pals are getting in upstairs. We’re going to grab everybody in the place.”

The prisoner remained silent. There were footsteps on the stairs.

“Here they are now,” added the secret-service man.

He turned his head to stare into the barrel of a revolver carried by Doc Birch. The pawnbroker’s face was distorted with anger.

“Drop that gun!” he snarled. “I’ll shoot you clear out of the place!”

The Federal agent’s automatic clattered on the cellar floor. Doc Birch studied him with keen eyes; then his gaze shifted to the rough gangster standing by the coal pile.

“This fellow isn’t with you,” observed Birch. “That’s sure enough. Well, I’ll find out the whole lay before I’m through with you. Government man, eh? Looking for some sort of evidence?”

The pawnbroker went to the box which held the counterfeit bills. Using his left hand he pulled the bundles out one by one and tossed them into the furnace near by.

“Always keep a fire going during warm weather,” he said. “It’s a good place to burn rubbish.”

The secret-service man stared grimly while Doc Birch completed the destruction of the counterfeit bills.

“Sorry you came in so soon,” said the pawnbroker calmly. He looked in the furnace and closed the door. “Wait about five minutes. Then you can look around all you like and pick up anything you can find.”

He stared toward The Shadow.

“You’re out of luck, fellow,” he said. “I’ve got a right to plug you. You’re a burglar. Well, keep your mouth shut. Savvy?”

The secret-service man interrupted.

“You might as well give up, Birch,” he said in his firm voice. “You’re in for enough already, without using that gun of yours. My men are coming in your house now.”

“That so?” sneered Birch. “Let them come. They won’t find anything. You don’t know what I burned, and you never will know.”

“You can’t get rid of the plates,” replied the Federal agent. “So put your gun away. The jig is up.”

“What plates?” Doc Birch’s voice was filled with apprehension.

“The plates this fellow just uncovered in the coal pile,” replied the officer.

Birch’s face was livid with rage.

“So that’s your game!” he exclaimed. “Sending a fake burglar in to plant some plates! You birds are worse than a gang of crooks. Well I’ll chance it, just for that. It’s curtains for both of you!”

His finger was on the trigger of the revolver as it covered the secret-service man. But before he could fire the threatened shot, the roughly dressed hoodlum sprang forward.

Seeing the sudden menace, Birch changed his aim. But the sweatered attacker had anticipated the move. He made a dive to the floor, just as the shots rang out. In another instant he caught the astonished pawnbroker by the ankle and jerked him to the floor.

Birch lost his hold on the gun. It clattered against the furnace.

The secret-service man took advantage of the opportunity. He owed his life to the timely intervention of the pretended rowdy; but he thought the fellow had acted merely to save himself.

Seizing his own automatic from the floor, where it had lain since he dropped it at Birch’s command, the Federal agent swung it back and forth, covering both Doc Birch and The Shadow, who was now kneeling beside the box near the furnace.

“Hands up!” cried the Federal agent. “Hands up, or I’ll fire!”

Doc Birch obeyed as he rose to a sitting position. But The Shadow did not follow the order.

In a single second he had changed his identity. He had covered himself with the cloak and hat which lay beside the box. Like a flash he was behind a post; next he was on the stairs, moving toward the floor above.

The Federal agent’s shots were wide. But as the fleeing form in black reached the head of the stairs, it encountered two men who were hurrying to the cellar. They were the expected reenforcements.

The new arrivals were ready for the situation. Their automatics were in their hands; but the closeness of the being in black did not allow them time to use them. Instead, they leaped as one upon the tall figure as it encountered them.

The result was surprising.

One of the agents crumpled beneath a terrific blow that struck him. His nerveless fingers lost their hold upon the automatic, and he sank helpless to the floor.

The other grappled with his antagonist; but the wiry figure in black broke his hold, and the man went tumbling down the cellar stairs.

A cry escaped his lips. It was heard by others. An entire detail of secret-service men were entering the side door, which had been opened for them.

Their guns barked, but their hasty aim was too late for the escaping figure. The Shadow sped up the stairs to the second floor, his form virtually invisible in the semidarkness.

“I’ve got him!” shouted one of the agents, as he leveled his automatic and fired into the darkness.

But before the echo of his shots had died away, he heard a mocking sound from the floor above. It was a long, raucous laugh; a laugh that taunted; a laugh that meant much more than mere words.

It was the laugh of The Shadow!