The snuffing out of a mobsman who knew as much as Dobie knew was sufficient to make all associates of such a dead man wonder.
Who had killed Dobie Wentz? Zipper wanted to know.
Why had the killer slain him? That was another question that Zipper felt should be answered.
Did the killing have anything to do with to-night's work? That was the most important item of all.
Every successful specialist in crime has qualms regarding those who may some day muscle in upon his chosen field. Zipper possessed an enviable reputation as a crib-cracker. Time and again he had refused offers of partnership, believing that he was better off working by himself.
Were some of those rejected offers to become demands? Or were they the beginnings of plans of vengeance on the part of hidden enemies?
These thoughts crowded Zipper's mind as he continued at the safe. They did not retard his operations, however. Only one thought did that - a thought that came at the very moment when Zipper's job was on the border of completion.
Was The Shadow mixed in the death of Dobie Wentz?
ZIPPER had often heard mention of The Shadow. Well did he know the threat that the master of the night swung over the denizens of the underworld.
The Shadow!
Zipper had been informed that The Shadow could do anything. The Shadow was even reputed to be a master at opening safes.
Was The Shadow a crook, himself—a lone wolf of crime? Zipper had heard that supposition. If it were true Zipper must regard The Shadow as a rival. As the king of all New York safe-crackers, Zipper could expect trouble from The Shadow.
A coarse laugh came from Zipper's lips as he placed his fingers against the dial before him. The Shadow!
Why fear him? The Shadow fought the greatest of mobsmen, not skulking rats like Dobie Wentz.
When the small fry suffered doom at The Shadow's hands it was when they tried to protect the big shots; not when they were out to double-cross. Dobie Wentz was a double-crosser—too pitiful a figure to gain more than The Shadow's scorn.
Zipper resumed his work; then paused as he heard a foreign sound. He recognized it in an instant—the chime of a clock telling the half hour. He had consumed thirty minutes in his work of opening the safe, for it was now half past two.
Zipper turned to his job with new ardor, forgetful of all else. He was anxious to make this a half-hour proposition. He succeeded.
Within a minute, the door of the safe loosened at his touch. Zipper opened the steel barrier. It moved silently on its heavy pivot hinges. The light of the table lamp showed the interior. Zipper reached forward and began a thorough inspection.
Jewels! Here they were, packed in special boxes. Zipper laughed as he saw the sparkling gems. He laid the boxes, intact, upon the carpeted floor beside him.
Now came documents. These appeared to be negotiable securities. Any items that seemed to have value were of intrinsic interest to Zipper Marsh.
In the safe, Zipper discovered an empty metal box. He removed it, and padded it with a stack of bonds.
Upon these he dumped the contents of the jewel boxes.
He added more paper. He bent forward to continue the rifling of the big safe, but his shrewd glance showed him that the work was now complete.
A good haul, thought Zipper, as he carefully wiped the jewel boxes and replaced them, empty, in the safe. He closed the heavy door, and the lamplight glistened upon it once again.
With his silk handkerchief, Zipper polished off the surface of the door and the knob. No telltale finger prints would remain as evidence of to-night's operations.
WHILE Zipper was engaged in this last bit of precaution, the metal box that contained the spoils was lying within three inches of his right knee. Finishing the shining touches on the safe, Zipper used his left hand and let his right drop to his side. His fingers grazed the cold top of the metal box.
The gangster raised his right hand as though about to take the silken rag. Then he changed his mind and let his hand fall.
Where it had rested upon the metal box a moment before, it now touched nothing!
It was only a flash of sudden warning—one of those rare, untraceable impulses that made Zipper note the fact his hand had encountered emptiness where it should have met solidity. Acting upon quick thought, Zipper turned and stared directly at the spot where the box had been.
A startled cry came from Zipper's lips. Scarcely more than a fierce gasp, that sound reflected the consternation that had struck the cracksman's brain.
The metal box was no longer where Zipper had laid it! Instead, it was several feet away, rising slowly in the air, within the grasp of a black-gloved hand!
Beyond that hand and its attached arm, just out of range of the lamplight's circled glow, was a solid patch of blackness that loomed above the floor. Raising his gaze upward, Zipper saw the flash of two sharp eyes that peered toward him like creatures of the outer darkness.
There was no time for action. Zipper was helpless. In one brief instant, he knew all. He had planned this job, he had opened the safe, he had taken the spoils—only to be thwarted by a ghostly hand that had come from nowhere!
Zipper Marsh sank back, snarling, his body quivering with fear. For in that flash of enlightenment, he had automatically guessed the identity of the strange being who had emerged to clutch the ill-gotten gains.
He realized now that when he had entered this room, to carefully arrange the table lamp before employing it, he had overlooked the important detail of making a thorough inspection of the premises.
Some one had guessed his game. Some one had come here before him. Some one had lain beyond the fringe of light. Some one had been watching!
A master hand had foiled Zipper Marsh to-night; had outguessed him; had used him, and now held him within its power. It was the hand of some one whom Zipper feared.
That some one was The Shadow!
CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW FIGHTS
BEFORE Zipper Marsh could make a single move, before he had been able to do more than discern the bulking shape that stood before him, The Shadow acted in a manner that left no doubt regarding his identity.
The rays of a powerful, narrow-circled flashlight sprang from the spot where The Shadow stood.
Cowering before that glare, Zipper Marsh was helpless. The glow of the lamp on the floor seemed insignificant when compared with the sharp rays that were directed toward the gangster.
Zipper made no attempt to act. Well did he know that behind that light a hand was covering him with a deadly weapon. He was at The Shadow's mercy, and a single miscue would mean his death.
Zipper trembled. He knew well The Shadow's repute. Never had The Shadow compromised. Never had he asked quarter of the underworld; and the underworld asked none of him. Those who had faced The Shadow were many; those who had remained to tell their story were strangely lacking.
Now came a whispered voice that cleaved the gloom. The sinister tones of The Shadow were commanding. Zipper understood them perfectly.
'Stand up!' The Shadow ordered. 'Back into the corner. Hands above your head.'
Zipper obeyed. Fuming, despite his fear, he was the portrayal of a cornered rat as he moved in response to The Shadow's bidding. Facing the glaring torch of The Shadow, Zipper realized full well the futility of his carefully adopted precautions.
It was only as seconds dragged slowly by that the shrewd cracksman suddenly realized that he had unwittingly managed to interfere with The Shadow's plans. The invisible being had obviously entered here beforehand, with the intention of secretly taking the spoils that Zipper might remove from the safe.
Had The Shadow gained a few minutes' leeway before Zipper noted that the metal box was gone, those minutes would have proven vitally precious. In them, The Shadow could have attempted the difficult task of passing the guards outside the room before Zipper discovered the absence of the box.
