'What makes you think that?'
'I thought you were in on a deal, where you had to put up twenty grand, tonight.'
'That money is in a bank,' laughed Mandor. 'My checks are usually accepted -'
Mandor paused suddenly, then looked sharply at Quill. The sportsman's expression changed as he demanded:
'Who told you I was promoting something new?'
'Never mind,' grunted Quill. 'Forget it! Only, I'm going to look through these papers of yours, just so's to make sure you're on the level.'
IGNORING bundles of currency, Quill searched through other packets while Mandor watched.
Suddenly, Quill pulled out a small packet with a rubber band around it. His tone took a sudden change.
'This is what I want,' he snarled. He twisted his face past his shoulder. 'All right, boys. Give it!'
There was a frenzied gasp from Mandor. Wild-eyed, the sportsman grabbed for the packet in Quill's hand. His lips phrased the words:
'Not those papers! Not those -'
Two huskies were springing forward. They grabbed Mandor, clamped hands over his mouth. As they twisted him toward the center of the room, Mandor saw the last member of the group.
The fellow was shoving forward a device that looked like an oxygen tank. It had a hose attached to it that resembled an ether inhalator. Before Mandor could break free, the last man was shoving the inhalator over his face.
There was a hand spread before Mandor's eyes; oddly, he observed its details. That hand lacked a second finger. Across the back of the hand, zigzagging toward the wrist, was a long, livid scar.
Lack of one finger didn't cramp the man who applied the inhalator. He held it tightly above Mandor's nose and mouth. There was a hiss of gas, as Quill stepped over and turned the nozzle of the tank. With it came Quill's voice.
'We don't have to worry about you, Mandor,' chuckled Quill. 'You're in good physical shape. We read about that polo match you entered, out in Frisco. Too bad you don't read the newspapers yourself.
'I mean the New York papers. The ones that came out today. And maybe you ought to have asked about Adolph, before you came up here. You'd have found out he didn't get the telegram you sent him.
That's why he isn't back from his vacation.'
Mandor heard only part of what Quill said. The gas had done its work. When the hissing ceased, Mandor was curled on the floor. His breath came heavily when the inhalator was removed. It had the steady, monotonous effort that had characterized the breathing of Thurnig and Brellick.
Carefully, Quill closed the doors of the safe, using a handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints. All that he had removed was that one packet with the rubber band. He now made a search of Mandor's desk.
There were a few papers there that interested Quill. He took them, then went through the filing cabinet.
His last search, though, was swift enough to show he had hunted there before. Quill gave a nod. His masked followers went out to the living room, taking the gas apparatus with them.
WHETHER it was through foresight, or merely habit, Quill drew his mask upward so that it covered his eyes. He stepped into the living room. There, he noted that the three-fingered man was crouched at the outer door in listening attitude.
Another crook had opened a front window, to let in fresh air. Quill nodded approval, although the precaution was scarcely necessary, for Mandor had absorbed most of the gas that had come through the hose. The final thug was at the side window, ready to open it. Quill gave another nod.
The window slid upward. Quill scarcely heard it, for he was looking into the study, to note Mandor's sprawled form. Quill gave a grin, beneath his mask, at sight of the helpless sportsman. This job was the sort that Quill liked. It had gone smoothly, without delay.
Quill's grin faded as suddenly as it had begun.
He heard a gurgle from the window of the living room. He swung in that direction, in time to see his own man coil upon the floor. Blackness blocked the side window, cutting off the view of the outer balcony.
From that shapeless darkness came the quiver of a low, sinister laugh.
Quill's eyes bulged through the slits of the mask that covered them. His gaze made out the shoulders of a cloaked form. The dim lights of the living room caught the glint of burning eyes. Those same lights revealed the muzzle of an automatic.
What Quill saw, others saw. Those others were his two followers: the man who crouched at the outer door; the one who had just closed the front window. Like Quill, they were goggle-eyed. Their guns were pocketed. They let their empty hands come upward.
The trap had turned. These mobsters who had so neatly disposed of James Mandor, were themselves at the mercy of a formidable foe. They recognized the being who held them helpless.
The Shadow!
Strange and sinister was The Shadow's laugh; a prophecy of disaster. Once again, The Shadow had swung the situation to the side of justice. His mockery was well-timed.
There were occasions, though, when the pendulum could take a double swing. Such an event was due, but The Shadow had not yet foreseen it.
That foreboding mirth was the forerunner of trouble; not for those The Shadow held at bay, but for himself!
CHAPTER VI. DEATH DEFERRED
THE ways of The Shadow bewildered men of crime. In their bewilderment, they could find no answer to his methods. Such was the case with Quill Baxton and the two who stood with him.
They grasped the answer to The Shadow's arrival. The outside balcony extended to the next apartment -
an empty one. That was the route that The Shadow had chosen to reach Mandor's premises. But with his arrival, he had made a prompt thrust.
With strangling grip, The Shadow had stifled one of the crew, reducing the number to three, Quill included. Hard upon that first conquest, The Shadow had covered the rest. Though scattered, none dared make a break.
By the time their minds were gathering the possibility of separate moves, The Shadow had a new surprise. His cloaked form moved outward to the balcony. Blended with darkness, The Shadow held a new advantage.
Each of the three crooks knew where he was; all realized that they were within The Shadow's range of fire. But none knew which was covered. Each thought himself to be the first man that The Shadow would choose for doom, in case of trouble.
A sinister voice spoke from that darkness:
'Step forward!' toned The Shadow. 'All of you! Remember - one false step' - the utterance was a sibilant whisper - 'will be the last!'
They were moving forward, clustering together but not closely. Like prisoners approaching a judgment throne, Quill and his two pals showed quivers. Nervy enough when they held the upper hand, they were yellow in the pinch. The nerve that Mandor had shown was far superior to theirs.
A taunting laugh came from the darkness. Chills crept along the spines of the three offenders. So far, their masks had preserved their identities; but that couldn't last long. They could picture what might happen when they neared The Shadow. He could lash in from darkness, whip those masks away.
They didn't plead, like Cobber had. It was useless. Their crime lay where The Shadow could find it, once he investigated. Knowing the power of The Shadow, Quill Baxton felt that he had signed his own death warrant, through his attack on James Mandor.
Neither Quill nor either of his pals knew what would happen when they reached the window.
Nor did The Shadow.
The moment came. The mobsters lined up, helpless and shaky, their only hope the fact that they were still unidentified. They had given up counting on the unexpected, when it came.
Something swashed downward from above the balcony. The Shadow's low-throbbed laugh took a sudden finish. In through the window tumbled a black-cloaked figure that sprawled senseless upon the floor beside the thug
