'Don't you think I know it?' drawled the big-shot. 'Take the first westbound street before you get to Lody's, then swing around to the place.'
As he finished, Five-face threw a glance to the rear. He could see The Shadow's cab and hear the sirens of the police cars behind it. Nevertheless, he
laughed and leaned forward to the front seat.
'Remember that gat I showed you?' he inquired. 'Here it is again, where you'll remember it. Take it easy, jockey, in case I want to jump out in a hurry.'
The cabby quivered as he felt the cold ring of steel that pressed against the back of his neck. The gun had worried him enough; the pressure of a muzzle completely cowed him. Still, he found strength enough to follow orders. He idled the cab the moment that he swung the corner, reducing it almost to a crawl.
By the time the cab had turned the next corner, The Shadow's taxi swung the first one. The next block was very short, along an avenue; the cab navigated it and took the turn that brought it in front of Lody's. By then, Moe
had overtaken it, and sirens could be heard from the avenue.
Hurling a door open, The Shadow reached the other cab just as it stopped.
He saw the driver sitting stiff, his hands upraised. Hearing his own door clatter open, the fellow pleaded:
'Don't start nothing! He's got me covered; he'll croak me! He's poking my neck with a gun -'
The Shadow's laugh intervened; it came as a reassuring whisper. Glancing in the mirror, the cabby saw to his amazement that his recent passenger was gone. In place of Flush Tygert was a black-clad rescuer, who was calmly telling
the cabby to pull ahead.
As he spoke, The Shadow placed his gloved fingers against the back of the driver's neck and plucked away an object that was stuck there.
It was a dime that Five-face had pressed against the cabby's neck, instead
of a gun muzzle. Pushed slightly upward, it had adhered to the fellow's perspiring skin. The cabby felt it each time his neck tilted back against his collar.
By so placing the coin, Five-face had kept the driver on his way after the
master crook had found a chance drop off from the cab.
WHILE the cabby was staring at the dime that The Shadow dropped into his hand, the police cars swerved into the side street. Springing to the curb, The Shadow waved arms to flag them.
He didn't want them to open fire on the empty cab, which no longer contained the crook they wanted. The wanted man must be somewhere in the vicinity, the bag of diamonds with him. The next step was to block his escape from the neighborhood.
Five-face had foreseen that prospect.
As the white-topped police cars were halting at sight of The Shadow, a hard-faced waiter in Lody's was answering a telephone call. Hanging up, the fellow stepped to a table where three men were dining. Their Tuxedos did not disguise the fact that they were mobsters of the first water.
These three did not belong to Five-face nor any of his lieutenants. They were ex-racketeers, still living on ill- gotten cash, like most of the patrons in Lody's.
'Just got a tip-off, gents,' informed the waiter. 'The Shadow is outside.
Thought you'd like to know it.'
They did like to know it. Nowhere was the name of The Shadow voiced more venomously than at Lody's. These has-beens of crime belonged to the same ilk as
Grease, Banker, and Clip. They happened to be dining at Lody's because they still were prosperous. With each day, they had been looking forward to the time
when someone would settle The Shadow once for all.
They didn't regard the waiter's tip-off as a hoax. It wasn't healthy to play practical jokes on the crowd that dined at Lody's. These crooks deluxe saw
their opportunity to deal with The Shadow personally. Instead of mobbies, they could depend upon a score more of their own kind, who were also in the restaurant.
The word passed instantly from table to table; with one accord, Tuxedoed rats came to their feet and started out to the street. Undaunted by the arriving police, they whipped revolvers from their pockets the instant that they saw the cloaked figure outlined in the lights of the patrol cars.
The first member of the throng gave the cry to which all responded:
'The Shadow!'
With the cry, the cloaked figure wheeled. The Shadow knew instantly that Flush Tygert had phoned the word to Lody's after dropping off from his cab. He recognized, too, that these attackers were not part of the big-shot's horde.
Again, the touch of the master hand; he was playing it safe, turning a crowd of
volunteers upon The Shadow.
The shout gave the attack away, but not well enough to save The Shadow.
Too many guns were on the draw for him to remain as a target. As for blackness,
there wasn't any close enough for The Shadow to make a quick fade. His only system was to provide darkness by beating the crooks to the shot, and he did.
Whipping both guns from his cloak, The Shadow blasted the lights of the nearest police car, producing a swath of blackness into which he dived. The instant that the gloom swallowed him, he reversed his course. He was speeding out again, into the light, as the Tuxedoed marksmen dented the hood of the car into junk.
Another shout; the crooks wheeled; too late. The Shadow reached the cover that he needed - the cab that Flush had used. Its driver was gone, running along the street. Springing into the cab, The Shadow turned it into an improvised pillbox.
It had a slide-back top, which enabled the cloaked sharpshooter to fire as
if from a turret. When crooks blazed bullets for the cab top, The Shadow's hands
jabbed from one window, then the other, poking quick shots from ever-ready guns.
By then, the police were in it. At first, they thought that shots were meant for them. They had mistaken The Shadow's strategy for an attack. But when
the cloaked fighter had diverted the fire, the officers knew how matters stood.
They were out of their cars, charging the frenzied men in Tuxedos exactly as they had gone after the pretended bums in the arcade.
Crooks surged for the cab, hoping to get The Shadow at any cost, while others were fighting off the police. When they reached the cab, The Shadow was gone again. He had chosen the moment of the police surge to spring to the sidewalk and take a new vantage point in a narrow alleyway. He was sniping off his foemen in a fashion that promised them sure defeat.
Then came a quick end to the battle, through aid from a unique and unexpected source.
NEXT door to Lody's was an upstairs gymnasium, rather well known in the vicinity. It was a boxing stable managed by a fight promoter named Barney Kelm,
a familiar figure on Broadway, whenever he was in New York. Barney happened to be on hand tonight, and shooting didn't bother him any more than the boos of a prize-fight audience.
Portly, wide-shouldered, with a broad, bluff face beneath his derby hat, Barney Kelm stepped to a little balcony that fronted the gym. He scanned the street and saw what was going on - a frenzied, slugging battle between uniformed police and men that he knew as hoodlums.
There was no sign of The Shadow. From his balcony, Barney could not observe the telling shots that the hidden marksman delivered. Turning back to the gymnasium, Barney gave an ardent bellow, along with graphic gestures. A dozen boxers quit skipping rope and punching away at bags. With Barney among them, they dashed downstairs to the street.
They were pulling off their gloves, to get in punches that would hurt.
Grabbing men in Tuxedos, the pugs gave them expert treatment. Hard uppercuts counted more than the wide swings of police guns. With Barney cheering them and
waving his own pudgy fists, the boxers made short work of the mob from Lody's.
