very entrance of the space between the buildings. Simultaneously with the roar of The Shadow’s automatic, the gangster on the hood took a long, sprawling dive to the street.
Four officers were out of the car. Two were running for the side of the bank. They passed the very spot where Spider had seen the automatic flash. The other pair of officers were chasing Socks Mallory and his fleeing men.
Then, by a mere chance, Spider saw the sight that chilled his blood. In the midst of the momentary quiet that reigned about the abandoned police car, a tall, mysterious figure came into the fringe of the light which the head lamps cast.
Spider saw that shape and recognized its identity. The Shadow, garbed in black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat. He was the being who had delivered that counterstroke to rout Socks Mallory and his crowd of mobsmen!
The Shadow! Spider Carew crouched in fright as his trembling lips formed the name of the dread avenger. Sickening terror gripped the cowering crook who had served as The Red Blot’s spy. Spider realized that his own plan was blocked. He could not join Socks Mallory now!
The dread figure of The Shadow disappeared with amazing swiftness. Spider knew where it had gone. The Shadow was doubling back through that passage to the other street, to again deter the mobsmen in their flight!
SPIDER could see four motionless forms; these men had fallen from The Shadow’s fire. Others had been wounded, but were keeping on with Socks Mallory. Spider could offer no aid. His own skin was his only thought.
Stumbling through darkness, Spider reached a back window of the old house, He tumbled through and landed heavily on cement. He did not mind the bruising fall. He saw an opening between two houses at the rear, and scurried through. He had only one design - to reach his hideout before The Shadow could take up his trail.
Meanwhile, The Shadow was still in action. The black-clad fighter had doubled back through the passage. Reaching the street behind the bank, his keen vision caught the sight of fleeing gangsters at the next corner. The automatic roared in time to clip one of the running men.
Revolver shots sounded in the street. The Shadow dropped back out of sight. New police were in the game. Had they not arrived, The Shadow could have carried on; now, with the officers taking up the chase, his presence was not needed.
The noise of pursuit died in the distance. Revolver shots echoed from near-by blocks. Socks Mallory and his men were in a jam. Their crime had been frustrated; their escape had been delayed.
Policemen, entering the space by the front of the bank building, stopped as they heard a strange cry which reverberated through the narrow passage. The tones of a triumphant, mocking laugh - a weird burst of mirth that seemed to come from another sphere!
The laugh of The Shadow!
The policemen did not recognize it, but the cry filled them with alarm. Hesitating, they turned strong flashlight beams down the open space. The glare revealed nothing. The only token of a living presence was the persistent throb of sobbing echoes that had not yet died away.
The Shadow was gone. He had met the hordes of The Red Blot, and had routed them in their grim game. They had fled, like rats, for cover, behind their desperate leader, Socks Mallory.
Thwarted crime! That had been The Shadow’s accomplishment tonight. A police cordon was closing about the area which surrounded the East Side Bank. It might suffice to trap Socks Mallory and his men; it would never snare The Shadow.
Like a phantom of darkness, the invisible warrior had departed.
CHAPTER VII
OVER THE WIRE
RALPH WESTON, police commissioner, was seated in a small office which was located in his luxurious apartment. Here, twenty-four hours after the battle near the East Side Bank, he was studying the reports of thwarted crime.
Weston was a dynamic sort of man. He had been a success as police commissioner because of his persistent efforts to get at the roots of crime. To him, the menace of The Red Blot had been quite as real and as horrifying as the newspapers had chosen to make it.
Weston was grim this evening. On two successive nights, the police had encountered unusual crime. Weston was apprehensive about tonight. He knew that the law had gained success; yet victory had been barren.
Two nights ago, Detective Merton Hembroke had made an effective raid. With a squad of police, he had entered the pawnshop of Timothy Baruch. Two criminals - Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley - had been surprised at an opened safe. Both had been slain.
That was good; the unfortunate part was that Baruch’s safe had been rifled, and the crimson splotch upon a sheet of white paper had signified the evil hand of the unknown master mind called The Red Blot.
Last night, a squad of mobsters had attacked the East Side Bank. Police, responding to the alarm, had driven them off. Five gangsters had fallen; others, wounded, had kept on. Two dead men; three who had died from their wounds - of the latter not one had spoken. Sullenly, they had kept sealed lips regarding The Red Blot.
No crimson splotch had appeared last night; yet Weston was sure that The Red Blot was in back of it. All five of the dead mobsters had been men of crime whom the police had believed were out of New Yolk.
Commissioner Weston picked up an afternoon newspaper. His own picture appeared upon the front page, together with his statement that The Red Blot must be found. Weston, in fact, had issued words which savored of immunity to anyone who would put the police on the direct trail to the master crook.
WESTON began to pace his little office. He had talked with Inspector Timothy Klein not long before, the subject being the proper handling of these new crimes.
Detective Joe Cardona, dubbed the ace of the New York force, was still investigating the first cases in which The Red Blot had appeared. In the meantime, another sleuth had sprung into active prominence. Merton Hembroke, whose surprise raid at Baruch’s had marked the first success against The Red Blot, was working on the affair at the East Side Bank.
Commissioner Weston had a marked respect for Joe Cardona’s ability. At the same time, he was disappointed at the ace’s lack of results. On certain occasions, in the past, Weston had been harsh with Cardona. Every time, Joe had come through in the end.
Tonight, Weston had the same problem, but there was chance for a few solution. Instead of relying upon Cardona, he could depend on Hembroke. No doubt about it: Hembroke was a comer. Klein had just reported that Hembroke was at headquarters, sticking there, hoping for some break that would lead him closer to The Red Blot.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted Ralph Weston’s soliloquy. The police commissioner picked up the instrument and grumbled a short “Hello.” A pause; then came a response in a whining tone that Weston did not recognize.
“Hello!” demanded the commissioner. “Who is it?”
“Are you Commissioner Weston?” came the query.
“The commissioner speaking,” said Weston.
“Say” - the voice was nervous - “is that straight dope you was givin’ tonight in the paper? If there’s a guy that’s got somethin’ on The Red Blot - you’ll treat him square if he squawks?”
“Do you know something?” challenged Weston.
“Yeah,” said the voice. “But I ain’t goin’ to talk unless I can see you. I don’t trust the bulls. I ain’t -“
“Is this a hoax?” demanded Weston.
“I ain’t kiddin’, commissioner,” persisted the voice, in a new, plaintive tone.
“Say - I’ll give you some dope over the phone - right now - if you’ll give me a chance to come up to your place. You can have the bulls there. I’ll tell you who I am before I come, if only you’ll promise to give me the chance.”
