Flayed by bullets, the sallow man jolted; twisting, he stumbled across the curb and sprawled in the gutter, to the tune of triumphant howls from the outspread firing squad.
Smarley's car was in motion; the master crook had dropped below the window. Maybe others still thought of him as Smarley, the fugitive, but The Shadow had him classed as a criminal of a fiendish caliber. Though others had fired the shots that killed Kelson, the real murderer was Smarley. He was the man that The Shadow wanted.
Springing from the fire tower, The Shadow reached the moving car. He was on its running board before the outspread snipers spied him. At sight of their archfoe, thugs wheeled to aim. The Shadow gave them no attention; he knew that,
by this time, the stings were gone from that crew of murderers.
The Shadow was right. Other guns were talking as he boarded Smarley's car.
The police had spotted the killers who put the blast on Kelson. Aiming thugs were hitting the asphalt and the sidewalks before they could tug their gun triggers.
Cardona and his amplified squad were performing double service: avenging Kelson's death and giving The Shadow a clear path to Smarley.
Yanking open the car door, The Shadow lunged for Smarley. In the front seat, a cowering mobster clung to the wheel, trying to get the car around the corner.
Smarley, in his turn, yanked open the door on the other side. When he saw The Shadow's big gun loom for him, he hurled the metal cash box at the weapon's
muzzle.
The Shadow's bullet plunked the dented box and dropped it to the floor of the car. Leaping for Smarley, who was diving to the street, The Shadow hooked the box with his foot and brought it along. It clattered the curb and lay there. Ignoring Smarley's lost trophy, The Shadow continued his pursuit.
Smarley was just past the corner when The Shadow fired. This time, a slug nicked chunks of brick from a building edge. Again, Smarley had managed to keep
a mere jump ahead of The Shadow, and the crook's luck held up.
Reaching the corner, The Shadow was greeted with shots from across the street; he dropped back to cover before foemen could find the range.
Those shots came from two cars: Grease commanded one, and Banker the other. There was a third car, even closer, with Clip in charge. As Smarley reached that car, all three vehicles sped away. They had doubled their tracks, escaping the police cars, and were off again before The Shadow could halt them.
A few unwise snipers were still about, which was why The Shadow could not follow. Arriving police spied the crooks shooting at an imaginary target.
Somehow, somewhere, The Shadow had whisked to cover like a wraith of evaporating smoke.
There were shots from somewhere in the darkness; yells, as ugly-faced gunners came tumbling into sight from doorways where they lurked.
Then a strange, mocking laugh - a promise of vengeance upon other men of crime, who had escaped along with Smarley. Listening police heard the trail of The Shadow's eerie taunt; it seemed to blend with the distant sirens of patrol cars that were hunting for a trail.
INSPECTOR CARDONA reached the corner. He was a stocky, swarthy man, his expression a poker face. He listened while the private detectives told him about Smarley's raid, The Shadow's intervention, and Kelson's death.
By then, an officer was approaching with the much-battered cash box. The private detectives promptly identified it as the box containing Melbrun's hundred thousand dollars.
'The money is safe, anyway,' decided Cardona. 'It doesn't make up for losing Kelson; he was a game guy. Still, he wanted us to get this box back, and
we did, thanks to The Shadow.'
Eyeing the lid of the cash box, Cardona saw that it was loose on its hinges. As a mere matter of routine, to certify before witnesses that the money
had been saved for Melbrun, Cardona inserted a revolver muzzle under the lid and
gave a wrench.
Then Cardona's poker-faced expression was gone. He was staring with eyes as wide in amazement as those of the men about him. If ever Cardona had seen proof that crime did not pay, this was it. Crime couldn't have paid Smarley, even if he had taken the cash box along with him.
Instead of crisp green currency, the box was stuffed with blank checks and
old receipts. Tilting the box, Cardona let the worthless paper flutter to the sidewalk.
Except for the valueless contents, the box was entirely empty. Robbery had
been forestalled even before it was perpetrated, producing a mystery that the ace police inspector could not fathom!
From somewhere - perhaps in his own fancy - Cardona thought that he heard the whispered laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER V
CRIME'S RIDDLES
THE exclusive Cobalt Club, to which Lamont Cranston belonged, was noted as
a gathering place for limousines.
Sometimes the fancy line-up was jarred by the presence of a big official car which belonged to Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, who was also a member.
However, the commissioner's car was tolerated. It looked enough like a limousine to pass muster.
This evening, when Cranston arrived at the club, the commissioner's car was present. However, the doorman had a pained look on his face and was glowering at the commissioner's car. The Shadow understood the reason when he glanced across the street.
Parked on the other side, between two limousines, was an armored truck that had evidently come here at the commissioner's order.
In Cranston's strolling style, The Shadow entered the club. He knew that he would learn the reason for the armored truck as soon as he met Commissioner Weston.
Not only did Weston esteem Cranston's acquaintance, the commissioner was constantly trying to interest his wealthy friend in facts concerning crime.
Such matters seldom intrigued Cranston, which was why Weston pressed them all the more. By playing the indifferent role of Cranston, The Shadow therewith
received much information concerning police investigations.
Commissioner Weston, long impressed by The Shadow's uncanny knowledge, would have been amazed to learn that he made personal contributions to it.
Though he had not expected to see the armored truck, The Shadow had struck
upon a simple explanation for its presence by the time he reached the grillroom,
where the commissioner held important conferences.
Commissioner Weston was at his usual table. Seated opposite him was a dignified gentleman, whose keen, broad face and strong chin marked him as a man
of action. Though he had never met the visitor, The Shadow could have named him.
Weston's companion was Arnold Melbrun.
As The Shadow joined the pair at the table, Weston hastened to introduce Melbrun to his friend Cranston. Melbrun gave a smile as he shook hands, but his
face immediately saddened. His hand, too, lacked the strong grip that should have come from a man of such commanding presence.
Melbrun's sorrowful expression was explainable. He had just heard the details of Kelson's death and was taking it as a severe blow.
'Poor Kelson!' he said sadly. 'If I could only have foreseen the fate to which his loyalty would bring him -'
'You are not to blame,' interrupted Weston. 'You did the best thing under the circumstances, Melbrun. Thanks to your foresight, Smarley not only showed his hand but was doomed to failure. If others had only done their part -'
