the arbiter of Chinatown. Yat Soon, since he had listened through hidden slits in the prison panel, had washed his hands of Gray Fist. The Chinaman knew the fiend's perfidy. He had left this encounter to The Shadow and Gray Fist. It was of The Shadow's choosing. No obligations remained.
Perhaps Yat Soon thought that The Shadow was guided by folly. On the contrary, the wise old Chinaman may have had faith in The Shadow's prowess. But Yat Soon, in his judgment, was not one who interfered with quarrels that concerned no one but those involved. He had seen that a struggle lay between The Shadow and Gray Fist. He had decided to let the battle break.
Nevertheless, Yat Soon, in fulfilling his promise to The Shadow, had performed a passive service that fitted well into The Shadow's plan. The amazement of the mobsters; the turning of attention; the final moment of revelation which came with the weird laugh—all these were factors upon which The Shadow had counted.
He was a being who lived in split seconds. In action, The Shadow had a swiftness that exceeded the speed of normal thought. Here, in Yat Soon's reception room, with a squad of dangerous men before him, The Shadow had no fear!
The opening roars of The Shadow's automatics formed a stern accompaniment to the crescendo of his terrifying laugh. While eerie mockery still echoed, The Shadow's mighty weapons blazed. Back to a paneled wall, The Shadow beat the first of his enemies to the shots.
Two gangsters tottered as leaden bullets found their human targets. These were the two nearest The Shadow. As the mobsters sprawled, The Shadow, still wearing the masklike visage of Yat Soon, swung along the wall. His move was a well contrived one.
Ruff Shefflin had aimed to kill. His bullet, discharged as The Shadow moved, missed the tall form in maroon. It flattened against the paneled wall, close beside the yellowed face of the false Yat Soon.
Another mobster was aiming. The Shadow's bullet picked him in the side. The gangster screamed as he fell. His wild arms clutched and grasped Ruff Shefflin. The gang leader lost his aim that he was seeking.
His second shot went wide.
Others were firing at The Shadow. As bullets whizzed, the being in red dropped almost to the floor.
Shots timed for the robed form again missed the target. A yell of triumph came from a gangster's throat.
The man had thought that he had dropped The Shadow. The mobster's cry ended as an automatic barked. Shefflin's henchman sprawled gurgling to the floor.
A huge splotch of deep red, crouched beside a panel, The Shadow was a menace that had proven its power. His rapid fire had thinned out the mobsters. Scattered bullets, fired wildly in return, had proven futile.
Behind a cordon of dropping gangsters stood two men. Gray Fist, a revolver in his clutch, was letting the others fight while he kept watch. Snakes Blakey, too, was standing waiting. He was ready to fight with his chief when occasion called for it. Both, however, thought The Shadow doomed.
Ruff Shefflin, breaking free from the grasp of the falling mobster, pounced forward, aiming as he came. A violent fighter, Ruff was ready to sound The Shadow's doom. The maroon-clad form, glistening with its golden dragons, rose to meet the fierce attack. Up came an automatic.
The Shadow's finger pressed while Ruff's was trembling. The automatic barked. Ruff Shefflin never released his bullet. His body swayed. A bulging look came in his eyes. He toppled forward toward The Shadow.
To those in back, Ruff's body seemed to poise as though an invisible force had held it. Then, from between the gang leader's arms and body, came two long hands projecting from red sleeves. The Shadow had gripped the gang leader's form. Ruff Shefflin, dying, had become The Shadow's shield!
IT was a master stroke of strategy: one for which The Shadow had played. Behind his human bulwark, The Shadow, backing toward the wall, sprayed leaden hail into the remaining mobsmen. Ruff Shefflin seemed to be moving mechanically forward as The Shadow drew him along.
Furiously, the mobsters sprang en masse. They wanted to seize their dying leader's form, to tear it away that they might slay The Shadow. Instead, they found themselves plunging into death. Each shot from The Shadow's automatics was timed to drop a mobster.
One man gained his goal. Leaping, he threw his arms around Ruff Shefflin's body. A blazing automatic dropped this last attacker. With a death grip, the last mobster sprawled carrying Ruff Shefflin's form down with him.
Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland had been groggy while they watched the fray. Joe Cardona, however, had dizzily responded to the tattoo of guns. Rising from the floor, the detective grappled with a wounded mobster and snatched the man's revolver from his grasp.
Snakes Blakey saw the action. For an instant, the sneak's eyes turned to Cardona. Then, at a warning hiss from Gray Fist, Snakes saw Ruff Shefflin's barricading body fall. Before the sneak could fire, The Shadow sent a dooming bullet. Snakes wavered. His arm fell.
It was Gray Fist, alone save for a few helpless, wounded minions, who employed The Shadow's own strategy. The monster caught Snakes Blakey's body. Thrusting his revolver under the sneak's arm, Gray Fist fired.
The Shadow's left arm fell. His right, dropping a spent automatic, swept a new weapon from beneath the maroon robe. The Shadow's form was weaving sidewise; Gray Fist's next bullet missed its mark. The Shadow's laugh resounded.
While a crimson splotch began to form an odd tint on the left shoulder of the maroon robe, The Shadow, wounded, loosed his automatic's fire at the only target which was before him: the body of Snakes Blakey.
Riddling bullets crumpled the shield that Gray Fist had taken. As Snakes Blakey's form collapsed, a rending scream came from behind it. Sprawling, Gray Fist dropped to the floor. His revolver jounced from his grasp. His form lay half beneath the corpse of Snakes Blakey.
Joe Cardona, dizzily confused, stood leaning against the wall. The sudden sound of muffled shots from without the square-walled room had no effect upon the detective. To The Shadow, however, they meant new battle.
Oblivious to his wound, disregarding the helplessness of his left arm, The Shadow sprang across the floor and pressed a hidden switch. The front panel rose. The Shadow leaped through it. Gangsters were in view.
Ruff Shefflin's reserve raiders had entered. Cowering Chinamen were resisting from the darkness of passages. They saw The Shadow. They heard his piping words in the Chinese language. They took him for their leader, Yat Soon.
THE automatic burst its thunderous shots straight into the ranks of the advancing gangsters. As mobsmen dropped, the Mongols, inspired by the action of the man they took for their leader, sprang forward to fire.
Mobsters broke and fled before the advancing Chinese. The brass barrier was dropping behind the false Yat Soon. Joe Cardona stared blankly at the closed panel. He could hear gunfire fading in the distance.
He knew that reenforcing gunmen had been stemmed.
Even yet, Cardona was in a daze. The fight had broken loose so suddenly that the detective had been unable to gather his wits. Joe had heard the laugh of The Shadow. It was a cry that he remembered from the past; from times when a being garbed in black had done yeoman service for the law.
But the only fighter that Joe had seen had been a maroon-robed Chinaman—the one who had gone forth from this room to repel a new attack. Joe knew that the sortie must have been successful.
Gun in hand, Cardona thought of his fellow prisoners. He looked toward Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, still propped against the wall. He motioned them to rise. Wearily, they obeyed. As the rescued trio formed, Cardona was prepared to leave this place.
Then, to the detective's startled ears came an unexpected sound. Cardona turned his gaze across the room. His eyes became fixed. He stood motionless at sight of the menace which had risen from the dead.
Chuckling hoarsely, Landis Glascomb was standing above the prostrate body of Snakes Blakey. The fiendish financier was gory with blood, but it had come from his henchman's body, not his own.
With leveled revolver, Glascomb was covering Cardona. The detective did not have a chance to raise the gun that he had wrested from a dying mobsmen. Cliff and Harry, too, were helpless.
Gray Fist still lived; his prisoners had not escaped his fiendish power!
CHAPTER XXV. THE TRIUMPH
'FOOLS.'
Gray Fist chortled as he spat the word. The old fiend's face was livid. His looming hand, with the revolver in
