The Shadow Laughs

CHAPTER XVI SPOTTER SEES THE SHADOW

Scarcely had the sound of The Shadow’s laugh died away before half a dozen of the Federal agents were up the stairs in pursuit. They were fearless men, accustomed to fierce raids. They had been baffled for the moment. Nothing could stop them now. They had no thoughts of danger as they took up their mad pursuit.

Nor did they have an inkling that their quarry was a friend. The Shadow had chosen to play a part, during his present quest — one that would bring Doc Birch’s undoing. He had regained his enshrouding garb in hope of passing from the picture. He had ended all chance for explanations. Departure was his only course.

The government men occupied the second floor with amazing quickness. There were only four rooms there and their flashlights spread to every corner. The closed windows were sufficient proof that their quarry had not escaped.

The men had separated in their search. Two of them entered a room at the back of the house. They were ready with their automatics. A harsh laugh came from the corner by the window. One that was different from The Shadow’s own mirth.

Both men fired at the spot. Their lights were focused upon the place where they believed the man in black was standing. But the deceptive voice of The Shadow had fooled them. They heard the laugh again, coming from the blank wall where their lights gleamed.

Before they had realized the deception of ventriloquism which had been practiced, The Shadow was upon them.

Sweeping from behind the opened door of the room, he seized their necks with iron hands, and drove one against the other.

Then he was gone, down the hall. He side-stepped two new antagonists, and dodged into the door of a room. Before they could stop their rush, the door had slammed in their faces, and they heard the key turn in the lock.

Crash!

One of the Federal agents, a powerful man, hurled himself against the barrier. Another joined him; and after several terrific blows, the door gave way and the men were precipitated into the room.

The others were behind them. Their flashlights gleamed; but the room was empty. One man flung the window sash upward.

There was an alley below, and a heavy-set policeman was standing by a lamp-post, staring upward. He held a revolver in one hand.

“Don’t shoot!” warned the man at the window.

“Who are you?”

“Federal agents. On a raid.”

The man leaned out of the window and drew back his coat to show his badge.

“Need any help?” asked the officer.

“No. We’re after a man who escaped out this window. Did you see him?”

“Not here. I just came along a minute ago. Come down here and we’ll look for him.”

The Federal agent dropped from the window. He inspected one portion of the area beneath while the policeman searched in the other direction.

Their efforts were without success. The policeman looked up at the house with a quizzical stare.

“What’s going on in there?” he demanded.

“We’ve raided the place for counterfeit money,” explained the secret-service man. “We’ve caught Birch, who owns the place. He’s down the cellar.”

“I’d better look in on it,” said the policeman. “That’s more important than hunting for this fellow who got away from you. He’s gone.”

The Federal agent reluctantly agreed. The two men circled the house and entered the side door. They went to the cellar to find Birch, still protesting to his captors.

“I tell you I never saw them before,” shouted the pawnbroker, referring to the plates, which now lay on the floor. “You planted them there. That coal hasn’t been touched for two months.”

“Yeah?” came the reply from one of the government men. “Stick to your story, fellow. See how much good it will do you.”

The policeman stepped into the light. His face was dull, but hardened. He looked at the agents and their captive. The inspection satisfied him.

“Taking him along, are you?” he asked.

“That’s what we’re doing,” replied one of the men.

“Nobody else here?”

“Only the fellow who got away.”

“What did he look like?”

“A thug,” volunteered the square-jawed secret-service man who had led the raiders. “Tough egg. Medium height, thick lips, twisted nose, dark complexion. Wore old trousers and a dirty gray sweater. Better turn in a report on him, officer. I’d recognize him.

“Couldn’t see him in the dark,” put in one of the men who had been upstairs. “He was wearing a black coat.”

“He picked that up down here,” explained the first agent.

“Who was he?” demanded one of the government men, turning to Doc Birch. “A friend of yours?”

“Boloney,” snarled the pawnbroker. “You fellows let him get away. He was in with you. Planted the plates; that’s what he did. You’re framing me.”

His protests were ignored. The policeman made a few notations on a pad. He left the building, and the secret-service men followed with their captive.

Reaching the street, they took Doc Birch to a car. Two of them remained after the others had gone.

“Let’s take a look back of the house, Jim,” said one. “Maybe that tough guy’s hiding there.”

“All right. Where’s the cop?”

“He went around that direction. I told him to look.”

The two men entered the alley. They came to a space behind the house, and one of them, probing in an obscure corner, uttered a loud exclamation of surprise.

“Here’s a fellow tied up, Jim!”

The other man joined him. Under their flashlights they saw the form of a policeman, his coat draped over his shoulders; his cap lying on the ground.

“Looks like somebody knocked him cold! It isn’t the cop that was with us. Wonder where he came from?”

The officer came to life as they propped him against the wall. He looked at both men in a daze.

“Where’s the guy?” he questioned.

“Who do you mean?”

The policeman rubbed his head as he looked upward at the second floor of Doc Birch’s house. He pointed as he spoke.

“Heard a racket up there,” he explained. “Fellow was coming out the window when I got here. Landed on my neck before I could pull my gun. Took my coat and my gun while I was woozy. Then I took a swing at him. Boy, what a wallop he handed me!”

His hand went to his jaw.

“Right here,” he added.

The two secret service men looked at one another. Their looks registered amazement; then changed to anger.

“It was him!” exclaimed one. “Rigged up like a cop! Grabbed this fellow’s coat and hat. He fooled us!”

“You’re right. He helped me look through the alley. But he was over in this part while I was hunting in the other direction.”

Suddenly the two men stopped, attentive to a sound that they heard.

“What’s that?”

Both men listened. They had heard the sound before. It seemed as though a faint laugh had reached their ears; but they could not tell the direction from which it came.

They hunted through the spaces by the alley, their flashlights searching every cranny. Time and again they uncovered black spots which turned out to be unoccupied shadows.

Then they gave up the search, and went to the street, fuming with chagrin. The policeman accompanied them, still feeling his aching jaw.

“He can’t be here,” said one of the agents.

“It seemed like we heard him,” replied the other. “But he must be gone. Got to give him credit for a clever getaway. Wonder who he was?”

They walked down the street. It never occurred to them to search on the other side, among a group of boxes and ash cans.

Had they done so, they might have found a man who was hiding there. But it was not the man they sought.

It was Spotter. The shrewd hawk-eye of the under world had been in concealment almost immediately after leaving Doc Birch. He had scented trouble the moment he had left the house, and he had taken refuge in the improvised hiding place just as the Federal agents had arrived.

He had seen the first man enter through a cellar window. He had heard the shots. He had seen the lights in the windows over the pawnshop.

Moreover, he had seen a policeman enter the alley. He had seen the officer come out accompanied by a secret-service man. He had seen the policeman reenter the alley. While Spotter had still waited, he had seen two agents go in to join the policeman.

Now all three had departed, and Spotter was ready to leave.

He was somewhat worried about Doc Birch. The side door that went upstairs above the pawnshop was out of view. He had not seen the removal of the prisoner.

Yet Spotter was ever cautious. He resolved to wait a few minutes longer. His eyes were glued to the alley that led behind the house. While he stared, he saw a movement in the shadows. He gazed into the blackness, almost unbelieving.

Then, beneath a light across the street, a figure came momentarily into view. It was a figure cloaked in black; a shape that merged with inky darkness and vanished with amazing suddenness.

Spotter’s blinking eyes followed the form down the street. They saw nothing for a moment; then they observed a shadow on the pavement. It swept by a light, then disappeared. It showed again, farther away. Then it was gone entirely.

Spotter trembled as he crouched behind the boxes. He gulped and repressed a terrified gasp.

He had watched the raid with indifference. Not even the presence of so many secret-service men had frightened him. But now he was awed by a shadowy phantom of the past — a flitting form that seemed part of the night.

Stark fear ruled the cunning-faced gangster. His eyes had seen something which they had seen before; yet which he had believed they would never see again.

It was half an hour before the terrorized crook dared to crawl from his hiding place. Then he fled wildly in the direction opposite that in which the vague specter of the night had gone.

Spotter had believed that The Shadow was dead.

It was largely because of that fact that The Shadow had chosen his sweatered disguise. He had known that Spotter might be about. He had wanted to keep the crafty crook under the delusion that gangland’s scourge was no more.

The Shadow had succeeded in that effort, during the fray in Doc Birch’s cellar. But his need for speedy departure had given Spotter a chance to learn the truth. Spotter knew now that The Shadow was not dead.

Tonight, he had seen The Shadow!