To Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley, the intervention of the police was opportunity. Raiding bluecoats had fired at the light. They had failed to clip The Shadow - had failed, even, to recognize the elusive personage whom they had mistaken for an enemy.
The Shadow had been forced to meet the emergency; his swing toward the wall had carried him straight through the door that led to the stairway. Wisely, The Shadow had posted himself at that strategic spot.
With the raid directed toward the door, Hurley and Tweezers dropped toward the floor in front of the safe, drawing their revolvers as they sought this protection.
A policeman saw them and opened fire. Crouching and sidling hastily toward the door that led to the rear of the building, the crooks returned the shots with gusto.
A policeman fell, wounded. Others dropped behind odd articles of furniture that were in this back room. A filing cabinet was cover for one; another entrenched himself behind a large chair. Two officers jumped behind the opened door through which The Shadow had gone.
The man with the lantern was crouched by the front door of the room. The police had entered through the pawnshop itself. This fellow kept the light in action; for the odds lay with the police. But Hurley Brewster was a tough customer with the gat.
“Clear a path through the back door,” he growled to Tweezers. “I’ll take care of these bimboes.”
The dock-walloper opened fire as he spoke. He had drawn a second revolver, and his huge smoke wagons sent whizzing bullets toward the barricaded raiders.
He had but one purpose; to keep the officers under cover. He succeeded. Then, with a malicious snarl. Hurley aimed point-blank toward the wounded policeman on the floor.
Tweezers was shouting from the door, crying that the way was clear. Hurley ignored the call for the moment. He was set to deliver death to a helpless victim. The other policemen recognized their comrade’s desperate position. but they were too late as they sprang from their places of safety. Hurley’s finger was already on the trigger.
Then came a shot from the blackened doorway across the room - the exit through which The Shadow had departed! Unerring aim found its human target. As Hurley Brewster’s lips mouthed a curse, the dock-walloper’s arm dropped, and his body sagged. Both revolvers dropped from numbed fingers.
The Shadow had winged a leaden messenger straight from the muzzle of his automatic into the crook’s black heart!
POLICEMEN were raising their guns. They were firing now - adding bullets to Hurley’s toppled body. Each thought that one of his companions had fired the first good shot. Only one man knew what actually had happened.
Tweezers Darley, just beyond the rear door of the room, had seen the blaze of The Shadow’s automatic. He knew who had dropped Hurley Brewster; and with eager frenzy, he made a quick effort to gain revenge. Behind the doorway, he thrust out his revolver and aimed straight toward that blackened area where he knew The Shadow must be.
The automatic roared again. This time its target was not a body; it was a hand - the fist of Tweezers Darley. A cry followed The Shadow’s second shot. Tweezers’s gun fell. Grasping his mutilated fingers, the safe cracker staggered away, rendered powerless by The Shadow’s skillful stroke.
Bluecoats were surging through the room. Some were helping their wounded comrade. Others were on the trail of Tweezers, firing after the fleeing safe cracker. More were piling through the doorway from which The Shadow had fired those telling shots, seeking vainly for one who had vanished in that direction.
A tall, powerful man in plain clothes strode into the room. He came from the front doorway; and he pressed a wall switch which brought lights and made the bulls-eye lantern unnecessary. He was joined by another plain- clothes man - the one who had handled the lantern.
At the same time, a stoop-shouldered old fellow came into the room through the door from the stairway. With faltering step, Timothy Baruch hastened to the open safe, and emitted a cry of anguish when he saw that it was empty. He turned to face the big man who appeared to be the leader of the raiding crew.
“Baruch?” questioned the big fellow.
The old man nodded.
“I’m Detective Hembroke,” returned the other, “from headquarters. Got a tip-off there was something going on here tonight. Came in through your front door. Don’t you ever lock it?”
“The front door?” queried Baruch, in a dazed tone. “Sure, it was locked - on the inside -“
“Not tonight,” returned Hembroke shortly. “Unless these birds came in that way, or opened it after they were in here.”
Timothy Baruch held his head in his hands. He stared at the dead form of Hurley Brewster.
“You got that fellow?” he queried. “Are there any more?”
“Two,” said Hembroke. “One went out the back way; the other headed upstairs. We’ll get them. My men are after them.”
The sleuth’s assurance was gratifying to Baruch. The old man had heard of Merton Hembroke, the New York detective whose swift and effective action had won high commendation. It was noised about that this new crime trailer was gaining precedence over Detective Joe Cardona, hitherto regarded as the ace of Manhattan sleuths.
Policemen were coming in to report to their leader. One brought the information that the man who had run from the back door had been plugged; that he could not be far away. Officers were scouring the neighborhood for traces of him.
The others, however, had a barren report. They had been upstairs and down cellar; yet had found no trace of the man who had dived through the side door of the room.
WITH men close beside him, Hembroke strode to the rifled safe. He noted the sheet of paper lying upon the floor. He picked it up and held it to the light. A stern expression appeared upon the detective’s face.
“The Red Blot!” exclaimed Hembroke. “So that guy’s in again, eh? Well” - Hembroke laughed gruffly - “we did better than Cardona’s ever done. We nabbed one of The Red Blot’s workers. I know that mug!”
Still holding the paper, Hembroke was staring at Hurley Brewster’s body. The detective pondered a moment, then laughed again as he gave the dock-walloper’s identity.
“Hurley Brewster,” stated Hembroke. “But who were the birds with him?”
As if in answer to the sleuth’s question, two policemen appeared at the rear door, carrying the inert form of Tweezers Darley. They deposited their burden on the floor. Tweezers, like Hurley, was dead.
“So that’s the guy,” snorted Hembroke. “Tweezers Darley. I’ve got the lay now.
“Good work, men - I’m glad you plugged him. Tweezers Darley, the only safe cracker in New York who could have opened this box. Working for The Red Blot - he and Hurley Brewster.”
Turning, the detective put a savage question to the officers who had searched the house.
“What about the other man?” he demanded. “He’s the one that must have grabbed the swag! Where is he?”
“He couldn’t have got out of the house,” returned a policeman. “But he isn’t in here, either.”
“That’s no answer!” growled Hembroke. “He’s either here, or he isn’t here. Which is it?”
“He’s not in the house,” insisted another searcher.
“All right,” declared Hembroke gloomily, “then he must have made a getaway. That’s tough, men. Sorry, Baruch.” The detective turned toward the old man, who was seated pitifully in a large chair. “We did the best we could. The tip-off didn’t arrive in time for us to prevent the robbery. Nevertheless, we’ve landed two of the crooks and maybe we’ll get the third.”
The old man made no response. Hembroke noted the tired look upon his drawn face. Half clad, in trousers and shirt, Timothy Baruch had evidently arisen hastily after hearing the commotion.
“Help him up to his room,” ordered the detective. “He’s all in.”
Two policemen responded. They conducted the old man up the stairs. When they returned, a few minutes later, they completed the entire raiding squad, for all others had assembled for new orders.
Hembroke was studying the bodies of Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley. He made no comment. The others waited for his decision.
