The Silent Death

CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW DEPARTS

THE three witnesses to the rare spectacle of The Shadow at work were totally unacquainted with the methods of the blackclad rescuer. Even Larry Ricordo, hardened denizen of the underworld, knew but little of The Shadow’s ways. Hence the rising motion of the black-cloaked form, the passage of the gloved hands toward the garment that shrouded the shoulders beneath; even the quick pirouette of the figure itself — were all accepted by the viewers as token of The Shadow’s unpreparedness.

But, within the studio where doom had failed to strike, The Shadow was acting with instinctive practice.

Although unaware that hidden eyes were observing him, The Shadow, master of desperate situations, had not allowed his interest in Alfred Sartain’s recovery to reduce his normal vigilance.

When he had suddenly stepped away from the reviving millionaire, it had been because his keen ears had heard a slight sound at the doorway of the studio. The momentary pause had enabled him to detect the turning of the knob. The motion of his hands toward his body was the beginning of the swift method whereby The Shadow encountered foes who sought to catch him off guard.

As the black form whirled to face the door, those gloved hands swept free from the folds of the cloak.

As The Shadow’s eyes stared directly at the portal, the firm fists beneath them were gripping the powerful automatics with which The Shadow warred against fiends of crime.

The action was a timely one. Simultaneously with The Shadow’s swing, the door came inward, and a pair of villainous gangsters plunged into the room. Each of Slips Harbeck’s gorillas held a leveled revolver.

The gunmen held the first advantage. They were actually in the room before The Shadow faced them. But they did not know the exact spot where they must attack, so precipitous had their entrance been. They were forced to swing their gleaming weapons in order to cover their foe.

The Shadow, on the contrary, had a definite objective — the doorway. His rapid turn ended in a deadly aim, whereas the gunmen acted with haste. It was this factor that turned the tide in The Shadow’s favor.

Two shots burst from the doorway — each from a gorilla’s revolver. One bullet missed The Shadow by a foot. The other burned through a waving fold of the black cloak — less than an inch from its mark.

A DOUBLE answer came a split second later. As both gunmen sought to deliver a second shot, The Shadow’s automatics roared together. The forward plunging mobsters hurtled to the floor. One sprawled crazily in a sidewise swing; the other somersaulted almost to The Shadow’s feet.

A bursting cry of mirth sounded from The Shadow’s unseen lips. No longer concerned with the enemies whom he had dropped, The Shadow advanced toward the door. His method was slow but constant — a scheme with definite purpose. From the first instant of the attack, The Shadow had kept himself as a shield for Alfred Sartain, helpless in the chair behind the desk.

Now, seeking to meet new invaders, The Shadow held to the same purpose. Blocking the path from the doorway, he gave no hidden enemy an opportunity to complete the job which had failed — the murder of the hapless millionaire.

Keen eyes glistened. The Shadow’s right-hand automatic roared another greeting. A scream came from beyond the doorway. A third gangster, more cautious than his fellows, had thrust forth a hand with a revolver. The Shadow’s prompt response clipped the trigger finger from the hand!

The maimed mobster fled. After him tumbled another who had also kept to cover. The Shadow’s guns barked a stern pursuit.

The fleeing men were heading across the living room, The Shadow following. Only one mark offered — an uncovered shoulder at the farther doorway. The Shadow found it; the man staggered, but kept on.

Beyond the outer door of the penthouse, the fleeing gorillas encountered their chief, Slips Harbeck. He had sent them into the attack, intending to follow after the first onslaught. For Slips, alone, had heard the identity of the enemy whom they must meet.

The leader of the gorillas was thrown back by his fleeing henchmen. He could not stop them now. They had met the menace of The Shadow. They had seen their companions sprawl within the first two seconds of the battle.

The flight would have proven futile, had The Shadow followed his advantage. But a new duty lay before the master in black.

Across the room, Duster Brooks was struggling with Hunnefield, the secretary. The false butler was holding a revolver in his hand; Hunnefield was gripping the wrist below that hand.

Brooks put forth a desperate effort just as The Shadow appeared. He wrested his wrist free, and struck a fierce blow at Hunnefield’s head. Fortunately for the secretary, it was a glancing stroke that failed in its murderous intent. But as the weapon thudded above his ear, Hunnefield collapsed. He would have fallen, but for the butler’s grasp.

BROOKS was facing the doorway toward the studio. He saw The Shadow. He recognized the menace.

With Hunnefield’s body as a shield, he thrust his revolver forth and fired. The swaying of the secretary’s form destroyed the aim. The bullet from the butler’s gun whisked the brim of The Shadow’s hat and lodged in the redecorated wall beyond.

Still keeping covered, Brooks thrust the barrel of his revolver under Hunnefield’s armpit. Again he sought to shoot The Shadow.

All the while, the black clad fighter was weaving his way across the room, his burning eyes looking for an opportunity to clip Brooks without harming Hunnefield. Constantly, The Shadow’s gaze roved toward the outer door.

A revolver muzzle gleamed at that spot. It was handled by Slips Harbeck, who had remained despite the flight of his crippled minions. One of The Shadow’s automatics spoke — once — twice — thrice.

The first bullet splintered the woodwork; the second struck the revolver barrel and sent the weapon spinning from Slips Harbeck’s grasp. The third was delivered to catch any portion of the gangster’s body that might have revealed itself.

But Slips, by amazing good fortune, had managed to stagger back. Fearing that The Shadow was coming his way, he took the last shot as a sign of sure doom, should he remain. Staggering from dread, the leader of the defeated gorillas dashed madly toward the stairs.

Another shot sounded in the living room. Duster Brooks, nerviest of the evil crew, had hoped to get The Shadow this time. His second shot, like the first, went wide. With the burden of Hunnefield’s protecting form, the false butler could not gain certain aim toward that elusive form of black.

Even now, The Shadow was circling to deliver a return shot. Brooks, dropping toward the floor with Hunnefield’s body, again tried to fire through the perfect loophole formed by the secretary’s arm and body.

The Shadow’s task seemed impossible. Brooks showed the revolver muzzle as the only target. To shoot that tiny spot would surely cause injury to the one brave man who had tried to foil the invaders.

Hunnefield, still unconscious, was under The Shadow’s protection.

The revolver muzzle turned. As it spat flame, The Shadow’s tall form hurtled to the floor. Brooks cried out in exultation. In his excitement, the false butler did not realize that The Shadow’s drop had begun before the shot was fired. It was a ruse — not a sign of good aim by Brooks.

As the butler instinctively shifted, believing that he had wounded his opponent, The Shadow’s right band fired from the floor. The bullet from the .45 struck the first portion of the butler’s body that was uncovered — his left shoulder.

Brooks, anxious to put a sure end to The Shadow, was aiming his revolver just as the bullet from the automatic clipped his shoulder. With a frenzied cry, the man toppled sidewise and struck upon his right elbow. Hunnefield’s body flattened in front of him.

Though wounded, Brooks was not through. Had he desisted then, the false butler might have received no further token of The Shadow’s power. But Brooks was determined to fight to the end.

Flopping forward upon Hunnefield’s form, he dropped his right fist upon the secretary’s chest and, with glowering eyes directly above the sights of his revolver, aimed to kill the one who menaced him from the floor.

Glowering, Duster Brooks was staring straight into the burning eyes that shone from beneath the hat brim.

Like The Shadow, he was facing a gun muzzle, for the menacing automatic had turned to cover him.

Brooks had a life-sized target — the entire figure of the black-garbed fighter.

The Shadow, in opposition, had only one mark at which to aim. The butler’s revolver muzzle was the center point, with the human face behind it. It was a race for the first shot.

If Brooks won, woe to The Shadow! If The Shadow won, his aim would have to be perfect, for if he missed the slender opportunity, Brooks would fire a shot that would wound, even though it failed to kill.

Fingers pressed upon triggers. The shots barked almost with simultaneous sound.

But The Shadow’s missile was delivered a split second before Brooks sent his shot. No time watch could have calculated that fractional difference. It could be measured only by the space of time required for the bullet to leave The Shadow’s automatic and reach its mark. The leaden messenger struck just as Brooks was firing. Planted squarely between the false butler’s eyes, its powerful impact swung the gangster’s head backward with jarring force. The revolver hand moved upward with the jar. The bullet from the butler’s gun swished the top of The Shadow’s slouch hat and crashed into the wall beyond.

THE SHADOW rose from the floor. The duel of death was ended. By a margin so narrow that it seemed incredible, the black-garbed rescuer had gained the victory over his stubborn foeman. Duster Brooks, hardened fighter from the bad lands, had fired his last shot.

The Shadow glided noiselessly across the room. He paused by the door that led to the veranda. His sharp eyes saw a man coming from the doorway of the studio.

It was Alfred Sartain. Recovered, but still a trifle groggy, the millionaire had been attracted by the shots.

In his hand he held a revolver that he had taken from his desk drawer.

The Shadow slipped into the outer darkness. Sartain did not catch even a glimpse of his disappearing form. The millionaire hurried to the spot where two men lay. He found Brooks dead; Hunnefield recovering from the stunning blow that he had received.

While Sartain was attempting to revive the secretary, The Shadow reappeared. Unseen, unheard, he glided toward the outer door that led to the stairway. Bulging beneath his cloak was the brief case that contained the hat and coat which he had worn here.

Outside, The Shadow paused. He stood, like a protecting phantom, watching Sartain at work. A noise came from the elevator shaft. Quickly, The Shadow swished to the head of the stairs.

The elevator door slid back. Three men with revolvers sallied forth. They were detectives, and the keen eyes of The Shadow recognized their leader as Joe Cardona, ace of Manhattan sleuths.

All danger was ended now. The police had arrived. Alfred Sartain would be protected against further attack. The tall figure in black glided down the stairway, a few seconds before one of the detectives— at Cardona’s order— went to investigate that quarter.

In the penthouse living room, Alfred Sartain looked up toward the ace detective. Hunnefield’s eyes, now opened, were staring in wonderment. Both millionaire and secretary were ready to give their version of the affray; but their stories would be incomplete.

Sartain, at the point of death when rescued, had gained no more than a blurred impression of the personage who had rescued him. Hunnefield, struck down by the gun which Brooks had wielded, had not seen The Shadow.

Mystery shrouded this strange rescue. Two dead gunmen in the studio; the slain butler in the living room — these men could not tell what they had seen.

The plot of death had failed. The Shadow had departed, leaving no proof of his weird identity!

But the watchers in the little office high up in the Brinton Building had seen the whole strange occurrence.

Their well-laid plans had been destroyed by the weird personage in black. Their start in crime was thwarted. They would try again!