body as a target to a man who was awaiting him.
There was a sharp clang. Gats knew its meaning. The Shadow had broken through the opposite gate. All his enemies were downed. His agents would be freed. With The Shadow, they would come this way.
Gats was alone—with no one to aid him in the defensive struggle!
Governed by mad fear, Gats Hackett turned and dashed away to safety. He found a small flight of stone steps that led to another exit. He stumbled upward.
Terror had gripped his fiendish spirit. Behind him came a new sound - a weird mockery that chilled the gang leader's veins.
The laugh of The Shadow!
Loud, eerie, and taunting, that laugh resounded through the stone-walled rooms like a ghoulish cry of doom. It was the laugh that meant death to those who heard it—a long, gibing burst of merriment that awoke invisible echoes and rolled on with maddening tones that seemed to grip the fleeing gang leader in a spectral grasp.
Gats Hackett hurtled through a door and staggered against a gangster who was coming below. This was a watcher who had heard the muffled blasts of the terrible fray. He recognized his leader; then he heard the wild tones of The Shadow's mirth.
The sound was pursuing Gats!
'Scram!' cried the gang leader, totally bereft of his former bravery. 'Scram! It's The Shadow!'
The second gate was clanging. Other gangsters were coming up from outside. Hearing the laughter no longer, they piled down the steps to meet the enemy. As they surged into the gloom of the stone-walled hideout, they were met by long bursts of fierce-tongued flame.
Nothing could have stopped The Shadow then. Conqueror of one baffled horde, he was on the way to further victory. The last of the gangsters fired wildly in return. They were dropping one by one. Their shots were useless. In the semidarkness of the new battleground, The Shadow was everywhere and nowhere.
Two men alone remained. They scrambled back toward safety. One fell; the other reached the steps and leaped upward. A final bullet clipped him as he sprang. He landed headlong on soft earth, and moved no more.
Victory belonged to The Shadow. Not one man of those who had sought to thwart him now, remained unscathed. Wounded were among the dying; dying were among the dead.
One alone had escaped; for one alone had given way and trusted only to flight. That one was Gats Hackett. Scurrying like a terrorized rat, the two-gun gang leader was running for his life.
His evil mob wiped out, Gats thought only of his own safety. He had heard the triumphant laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX. NEW STRATEGY
IN his battle underground, The Shadow had scored a mighty victory. The results of his triumph became apparent during the days that followed. In one fierce thrust, The Shadow had dealt a heart blow to the forces that sought to conquer him.
No one recognized this more fully than did Felix Zubian. He, the master schemer who had dubbed himself The Shadow's shadow, knew well that measures of violence would not suffice to overpower this unconquerable foe.
Gats Hackett's mob was wiped out. That ended the gang leader's value for the present. Gats, after a conference with Squint Freston, had promised to obtain new recruits. The process would not take long; already a few gunmen had come into the fold. But until a mob as formidable as the other had been assembled, it would be futile to incite The Shadow to new combat.
Where was The Shadow?
Zubian did not know. Moreover, The Shadow had followed victory with strategy. His agents—the two whom he had rescued—were gone, and no clew to their whereabouts remained. Harry Vincent was not at the Metrolite Hotel. He had left no forwarding address. Rutledge Mann's office was closed. From now on, The Shadow was working single-handed, ready to strike from the dark. His hand was more sinister than ever before.
Douglas Carleton was frantic. He saw The Shadow as a greater menace than he had previously supposed him to be. His only comfort was the knowledge that he and Zubian had managed to remain under cover. The Shadow's war had been with Gats Hackett.
Nevertheless, Carleton held the fear that The Shadow might learn his connection with Gats Hackett. That fear was disturbing. Douglas Carleton had come to dread The Shadow.
Only Felix Zubian retained his composure. Suave and serene in the seclusion of the Cobalt Club, he planned new strategy; for by strategy alone could The Shadow's power be offset.
Summarizing the past, Zubian knew too well that open attack would fail. Subtlety was the only course.
Somehow, he must trap The Shadow in a snare that would be above suspicion. To do this, Zubian decided that he must resume his former role; that he must become The Shadow's shadow once more.
In his observations of the pretended Lamont Cranston, Zubian had performed some excellent spy work.
He had ascertained facts pertaining to Lamont Cranston. He had divulged only one; namely, that Cranston had made it a practice to drive home every night via the Holland Tunnel. That fact had been utilized to no avail. Now, Zubian intended to use others.
DURING the days that Zubian had shadowed him, Lamont Cranston had paid occasional visits to a little office in a building on a side street, near Times Square. This office was occupied by a curio dealer named Hawthorne Crayle, an old recluse who was something of a curio himself.
Zubian had not determined Cranston's connection with Crayle. He was convinced, however, that it did not involve the work of The Shadow. Zubian had visited Crayle's office himself, and felt positive that Cranston went there merely to inspect some of the rare objects that Crayle offered for sale.
It was obvious now that The Shadow had done more than merely subordinate the identity of Lamont Cranston. Considering the situation, Zubian decided that the phantom of the night must have adopted a completely new identity. After all, the personality of Lamont Cranston had been an assumed one.
Probably The Shadow had new characters that he could take on!
If so, he might be anywhere even here at the Cobalt Club. It would be possible, Zubian knew, to begin a new investigation that would lead to a discovery of this new identity. But such a course might lead to disaster. The Shadow was wary now. He would soon suspect any efforts that might be made to trace him.
Thus reasoning, Zubian's mind reverted to the subject of Hawthorne Crayle. It was probable that the new man who had replaced Lamont Cranston would still pay visits to the curio dealer's office. There, at least, he would suspect no followers.
So, in keeping with his policy of striking at the weakest point in an opponent's armor, Zubian decided to concentrate his efforts on watching what happened at Crayle's.
The little office was located on the fifth floor of an old building, and it was the only occupied office on that floor. The building had been condemned, and no new tenants were taking the vacant offices.
Zubian had no difficulty whatever in stationing himself out of sight across the hall from Crayle's. He used an empty office as his hiding place, and scratched a peephole in the white-painted glass panel that filled the upper portion of the door.
Watching from this vantage point, he could see every one who entered and left the curio dealer's place.
Beginning at nine o'clock in the morning, he maintained a constant vigil throughout the day.
On the first day of observation, Zubian noted that when Crayle left the office, he posted a little note in the corner of his door. Zubian stepped from his hiding place to observe the notice. It bore the statement: Will return at 2:30.
Upon his return, Hawthorne Crayle removed the notice from the doorway.
Crayle was an old, stoop-shouldered man, whose parchment face was expressive only because of the thick- rimmed spectacles which adorned it. Through these spectacles, Crayle peered with owllike eyes and methodically tore up the paper that had announced the time of his return.
The same procedure took place on the second day that Zubian watched. When the old man returned, Zubian continued his patient vigil, and was rewarded half an hour afterward.
For the first time in these two days, an interesting visitor came to the curio office. Zubian was elated as he recognized the features of a man whom he had seen at the Cobalt Club—Henry Arnaud.
It seemed incredible that this could be the same person who had formerly assumed the features of Lamont
