'Yeah?' he quizzed. 'Send 'em, so there'll be less here, giving you a chance for a break! If you're The Shadow -'
'Still figurin' I'm The Shadow.' The interruption came in a harsh chuckle.
'So you're going to croak me - and then find out you're wrong. What's the use? You'll only have to rub out that other guy, later. He's phony!'
It was Pike who gave retort.
'Me, phony?' he demanded. 'With a slug in my shoulder, where you put it?'
Gingerly, Pike tapped the point of his left shoulder. The action brought a guffaw from The Shadow.
'He's queered his story, Quill!' The Shadow's harsh tone showed elation. 'He don't even know where The Shadow winged me! He ain't The Shadow - he's too dumb - but he ain't me either! He's some guy working for The Shadow. He knows I was clipped in the shoulder; but it was the right one, not the left!
Look!'
THE SHADOW thrust his right shoulder toward Quill. The mob-leader saw something that he hadn't noticed before: the bulge of a bandage beneath the brown-striped jersey.
Remembering that Quill had seen him shoot at Pike, The Shadow had bandaged that shoulder as part of his make-up. But he had purposely bandaged his right arm, to make it more effective. Actually, The Shadow had picked Pike's left side, because Bosco had partly blocked the line of fire. All that would have been too much to explain to Quill.
As luck had it, The Shadow's touch of added realism had become a vital issue. It not only enabled him to dispute Pike's claim; it gave The Shadow the stronger case.
'You shoulda knowed it would be my gun arm,' scoffed The Shadow. 'That's the one The Shadow always shoots for, ain't it? Maybe I'd have dropped him, if he hadn't winged me the way he did. You want to see how bad he got me? Take a gander!'
Hauling down his jersey with his left hand, The Shadow showed the red-dyed bandage on his right shoulder. That was another faked proof that caught all eyes. Quill and his craning mobbies, even Pike, scarcely saw The Shadow's left hand continue its down-sweep to the belt that encircled his khaki pants.
Though gunners still prodded him with revolvers, their fingers were lax on triggers. Knowing it, The Shadow risked everything on one surprise move. Before the startled mobsters knew it was coming, he took a long twisting leap from their very midst.
As he twirled, The Shadow whipped an automatic from beneath his belt. His spin was leftward; the sweep of his left hand seemed to carry his weight around, thanks to the heavy gun. He had started for the center of the room, but his swift whirl took him past the flank of the mobster group. He was halfway to the door when his automatic covered them.
Revolvers were barking, late in their aim. Instinctively, the gunners leaped toward the inner wall, where Quill and Pike were coming into action. Their game was to wither The Shadow before he could reach the exit.
Had he been clad in black, The Shadow might have made a fade, to put up a shifting battle from the gloomy fringes of the room. His present attire didn't allow him that chance. Not counting the first shots, which were wild, The Shadow was in position to beat any crook at accurate aim.
He might even have clipped a pair before they could drop him; but these odds were impossible. The Shadow was one against six, all spread apart, and the battle was scheduled for close range.
Crooks didn't know the measure upon which The Shadow had decided.
His .45 spoke without a human target in its path. Not once but in rapid fire, keeping on a certain mark, while he suddenly reversed his shift. There were clangs that answered those drilling bullets. Those sounds came from a bulky target that was a more useful mark than any of The Shadow's foemen.
A fierce sizzle issued from beside the wall. The Shadow had punctured the tank that held the sleep-inducing gas!
HIGHLY compressed, that vapor spat forth enveloping fumes - a yellow cloud that came between The Shadow and his foemen. Thugs saw the menace; with one accord, they hurled themselves for the doorway, forgetting The Shadow as they dashed.
Past the fringe of the gas, driving like a human arrow, The Shadow came to intercept them. He was locked with the first of those enemies, smashing their faces with his bare right hand, as he pounded hard with the gun in his left.
Crooks went down, some plunging through the doorway. Others paused, hoping to riddle The Shadow from their path. His shots were speedier. Men caved away. Pike was lunging in the rear of the throng; The Shadow caught him, hurled him back into the spreading gas.
Stumbling about, Pike came head-on against another fighter. That man was Quill; the mob-leader was desperate. Thinking Pike to be The Shadow, Quill jabbed his gun against the fellow's stomach, fired shots until the revolver was empty.
The Shadow, meanwhile, had settled the last opposition near the doorway. In that chaos, crooks had lost their heads. They hadn't realized that the spreading gas could not immediately overpower them. It was Quill, alone, who learned that fact.
Quill was choking only slightly, when he came through the doorway. He steadied there, looked back at the sprawled form of Pike. With a sneer, Quill triggered his revolver, to enjoy another shot at the man he had mistaken for The Shadow.
The hammer clicked on a dead cartridge. Quill realized that his gun was empty. So did The Shadow, standing just beyond the door.
Shivers of a mocking laugh toned close to Quill's ear. Wheeling savagely, Quill again saw the face of Pike; he realized his mistake. Starting to tug at the trigger again, he remembered that the gun was empty and made a sideward swing instead.
That savage blow was parried the instant it started. Plucking Quill's arm, The Shadow used his other hand to get a throttling grip on the racketeer's throat. He shoved Quill back into the room. Bulge-eyed, Quill could hear the hissing gas behind him.
Handling Quill like the rat he was, The Shadow gave him a terrific sideward shake. Half strangled, Quill sagged; his eyes were dazed. The Shadow gave him a spinning fling that landed Quill close beside the gas tank.
The heavy vapor was settling on that portion of the floor. Quill's flattened figure disappeared in the yellow haze. From the doorway, The Shadow watched, ignoring the moans of thugs who lay close by him.
There were other sounds, too, to which The Shadow paid no heed: the muffled shrills of police whistles; the rattles of a nightstick from the sidewalk in front of the house. All that concerned The Shadow was the subsiding of the gas. It required less than one more minute.
As Quill's figure came to sight, like a derelict motionless in settling fog, The Shadow strode over and hoisted the senseless racketeer across his shoulders. Lighter than Bosco, Quill made an easy burden.
Rapidly, The Shadow reached the hall.
ALTHOUGH the boarded front door was bursting under the attack of the police, the rear route still was clear. Descending the short stairway, The Shadow reached the back door, that he had left unbolted when he returned from carting Remingwood down. He was in the blackness of the alley, when he heard the faint crash that told the front door had gone.
The Shadow had added to the ranks of the Dead Who Lived; but the victims upon whom he had forced the sleep gas were the sort who deserved its clutch. When found by the police, their part in crime would be recognized, for the punctured gas tank stood as evidence.
No longer would mystery enshroud the Dead Who Lived. The condition attributed to a malady would be properly classed as a man-made state, produced through criminal deeds. But there was still a task that concerned The Shadow. It was the rescue of the other Dead Who Lived - innocent persons, among whose number were Harry Vincent and Arlene Delton.
To save them, The Shadow needed an interview with Professor Lawsham. His only course would be to outwit the schemer who held the precious antidote. After a return to life was assured the Dead Who Lived, The Shadow could take up the matter of Lawsham's crimes.
So far, only one murder could be checked against the crafty professor - the death of Doctor Broyce. But other
