The Shadow - Serpents Of Siva Part 6

CHAPTER X.

MURDERER'S THRUST.

THE Riverbank Apartments, while not on the sh.o.r.es of the Hudson, were close enough to allow for the name. A squatly warehouse flanked the western courtyard of the apartment building.

The top of that warehouse came on a level with the fifth floor of the Riverbank Apartments. To the rear was a row of old houses that fronted on another street. A medley of other buildings chopped the block into a maze of nooks and alleyways.

Morton Mayland was not concerned with the outside scene, when he stopped at the fifth floor door that bore the number "5 B." Raising a scrawny hand, Mayland knocked. A rumbled voice ordered him to enter.

Mayland stepped into a living room where floor lamps formed the only illumination. He closed the door behind him, looked across the room to see a figure seated near the opened windows. A head raised from an easy-chair; hands laid a book aside.

An instant later, two men were glaring in mutual recognition. Mayland was the first to cough the other's name: "Louis Bolingbroke!"

The man in the chair was middle-aged, dark-haired, dark-eyed. His blunt face was a stubborn one; his lips, when they turned downward, showed as sour an expression as Mayland's. Bolingbroke was prompt in his response.

"So it's Morton Mayland!" His rumbly voice carried contempt. "Hounding me again! What brings you here, Mayland? I thought our disputes were settled in the law courts."

Mayland advanced. His fists were clenched; his wrinkled face was tigerish.

Those tiny eyes had narrowed; they flashed hate toward Bolingbroke.

"You brought me here," croaked Mayland. "You were not content with your spoils. This hoax was your idea, to gloat over your undeserved victory!"

"Come, Mayland!" rasped Bolingbroke. "This is preposterous!"

Bolingbroke tried to rise. His back gave him a twinge. He was half crippled with lumbago; but Mayland seemed to consider his pain a pretense. As Bolingbroke sagged deep into his chair, Mayland crouched above him.

"Have you forgotten what I promised?" The old man's words came in a hiss.

"I warned you, Bolingbroke, that if occasion offered, I would treat you like the rat you are! I told you that these hands of mine" - Mayland extended his scraggly claws - "were itching for your throat!" Bolingbroke forced himself up from his chair. Fear made him forget pain.

"You didn't really mean that, Mayland -"

"No?" Mayland was disdainful. "You will find out what I really meant, Bolingbroke. I have given you a chance to leave me alone. I have sworn, time and again, that I would not harm you if you stayed from my path. The fault is yours. You have brought this on yourself -"

Mayland completed the words with a quick swoop of his hands. They went for Bolingbroke's throat; the dark-haired man made a clutch to prevent the throttling move. The pair locked in battle.

BOTH fighters were handicapped. Mayland's hate could not make up for his age. Bolingbroke's greater strength was offset by his crippled muscles.

Mayland's clutching hands were seeking their mark. To avoid their grip, Bolingbroke rolled from the chair.

The battlers struck a floor lamp; it wobbled, almost fell. There was the clatter of an ash stand. With it, every light in the room was obliterated.

In the darkness, neither Mayland nor Bolingbroke cared about the matter.

They were too busy to wonder why the lights had been extinguished. The floor plug that controlled all the lamps was beside an inner doorway, far from the fighters. Yet each thought that the other had caused the darkness.

Other sounds were lost as the strugglers lashed about. Mayland was cackling gleefully at Bolingbroke's shouts for help. The old man was clawing anew for his enemy's throat, when the cries reached a sharp finish.

There was a gurgle from the floor. It was Bolingbroke who gave it.

Mayland's laughter shrilled.

Those sounds drowned the sudden clatter of the door. Light from the hallway showed the floor, but did not reach the strugglers. The glow that swept them was the cleaving beam of a tiny flashlight, that spotted an astounding tableau.

Bolingbroke was crumpled on the floor, clutching hopelessly at his neck.

Mayland was astride him; but it was not the old man who was responsible for Bolingbroke's torture. The cause lay with another creature, who had secretly entered the room.

Behind Bolingbroke's side-turned head was a Hindu dacoit, whose brown fingers were tightening a strangle cord flung about the invalid's neck!

The dacoit saw the flashlight's beam. A hiss came from his toothy mouth, as he stared toward the opened door. The hiss was answered by a weird laugh: the mockery that only The Shadow could produce.

With a snakelike twist, the dacoit sprang away, whipping the strangle cord from Bolingbroke's neck.

The murderous Hindu hoped for a more important victim; namely, The Shadow.

After that, he could return to Bolingbroke.

THE living room was ample for slippery tactics. With amazing speed, the dacoit avoided the flashlight's path. Like a whippet, he lashed through the darkness, driving for The Shadow. The flashlight blinked out as the strangle cord slacked through the air.

The murderer's noose missed The Shadow's neck. Before the dacoit could whisk away, The Shadow gripped him. The twisty Hindu squirmed toward the window, but he could not elude The Shadow's clutch.

Mayland's cackles, Bolingbroke's groans formed an accompaniment to that battle. Wriggling half through the window, the dacoit grabbed the slatted platform of a steel fire escape, gave a jerk that hauled his body through. The Shadow was upon him before he could slip away again. There, by the rail, The Shadow's gun descended. The dacoit's quick arm movement broke the blow; with the same sweep, it lashed the cord around The Shadow's neck. Before The Shadow's eyes came the apish face. A hiss, more venomous than any serpent's, forced itself between the dacoit's teeth.

The strangler had tricked The Shadow!

The black-cloaked form was sagging, like others that the dacoit had handled. A few more twists of the noose, The Shadow's strength would be gone.

The Hindu's fingers were eager with their ugly work; he heard the gurgle from The Shadow's throat.

Then came the counter movement.

Cloaked shoulder hoisted upward; gloved hands lifted the dacoit's knees.

With every ounce of his remaining effort, The Shadow fought off his foeman's final move. That heave caught the dacoit unawares. Fingers lost the strangle cord; arms went wide. Grabbing for the fire escape rail, the dacoit shifted in the wrong direction.

Before The Shadow could stay the Hindu, the snakish man was gone across the rail!

There was a crash, three stories below, as the dacoit hit the roof of an extension behind the apartment building. The Shadow took long puffs of air, as he placed the dacoit's strangle cord beneath his cloak.

It had been a close pinch, that fight; and The Shadow needed time to recuperate. He wasn't worried about matters in the living room. Bolingbroke's groans were still audible, and Mayland's chuckles had lost their insane fury.

The old man was apparently satisfied, once he had rendered Bolingbroke helpless.

Darkness was utter in the courtyard below, but The Shadow could hear the occasional hisses of the dacoit. Lightframed as a monkey, the defeated killer had survived his thirty-foot fall; but he was too crippled to make a prompt getaway.

There was still a chance to capture the dacoit. The Shadow arose beside the rail.

AT that instant, the lights in the living room came on again. Turned toward the window, The Shadow had an inward view that showed him the entire scene.

Bolingbroke, flat on the floor; Mayland, crouched beside him; they were not all.

A man had reached in from the next room, to press the floor plug back in place. He was no Hindu, that intruder; he had the look of a thug whose cap was drawn well over his eyes. His move was the forerunner of the sort that The Shadow had expected - a battle from a cover-up crew, after a dacoit's deed was finished.

The fellow was gone, into that other room, while The Shadow's hands were drawing forth their guns. But The Shadow did not halt his motion. He knew exactly what those lights could mean. Upon quick action with those automatics would depend The Shadow's salvation.

As he whipped the guns into play, The Shadow wheeled about to face across the fire platform's rail. Simultaneously, he was greeted with raucous shouts from the darkness opposite. The edge of the warehouse roof was lined with thuggish marksmen, who could not resist the joy of voicing challenge.

Their pal in the apartment had provided the very chance they wanted. The Shadow was their target, against a background of light.

If ever crooks had gained a full advantage in battle with The Shadow, this crew had found it.

Their cries were a promise of annihilation.

Death to The Shadow!

CHAPTER XI

THE TRIPLE TRAIL.

HIS big guns spoke as The Shadow wheeled. Each .45 was aimed at random, although The Shadow chose the roof line as the stretch where bullets could count. He wanted to loose the first shots; he knew they would hurry the enemy's fire.

Revolvers answered. They were hasty. Bullets spattered the wall of the apartment house. The cooler marksmen were aiming for the lighted windows, fingers still on triggers, but they were few. The Shadow evaded them.

His spin did not stop at the full turn. The Shadow was sidestepping as he fired. His swerve carried him along the platform, away from the telltale windows. Two guns barked from the roof just as The Shadow moved. One bullet whistled past The Shadow's shoulder, the other skimmed his ribs.

The wound was stabbing, painful; at the moment, The Shadow did not realize that it was a light one. He flattened in the darkness, determined to continue his plan as long as he proved able. His guns spat again; this time, with results.

The Shadow had an uncanny way of picking gunbursts as his targets. His shots were accurate; howls came from the roof. They were drowned by a new rattle of revolvers. Crooks were shooting for The Shadow, knowing that he could not have traveled far, for the platform of the fire escape provided very little s.p.a.ce.

Given a few seconds more, the outnumbering gunmen would have riddled The Shadow with well-placed bullets. It happened that The Shadow had strategy with which they did not reckon. Purposely, The Shadow had chosen what seemed a trap.

He had taken to the end of the platform opposite from that of the ladder. The sharpshooters never expected that he would try to reach a spot below.

That was why The Shadow took that course. The moment that he had delivered those shots from p.r.o.ne position, he rolled beneath the rail. Clutching both guns in one hand, he clamped the platform with his other fist and let his body sweep downward. That very motion gave him a sway; as he swung inward, The Shadow relaxed his grip, to plop upon the fourth floor platform.

Bullets pounded the metalwork above. The Shadow let that barrage subside.

As sequel, he provided a chilling, mocking laugh. Before the crooks could guess the location of the mirth, The Shadow announced it with bullets.

Shifting back and forth along the rail, The Shadow forgot his wounded side, as he pumped devastation with his guns. Shooting upward, he was picking off the enemy like pigeons on a shooting-gallery rack.

Some were fools enough to fire back. They regretted it. The Shadow always chose as targets the last to shoot at him, as evidenced by his revolver shots.

He reached the end of the platform that had a ladder; there were no lighted windows here to betray him. Giving the gunmen a respite, The Shadow descended another story.

THE battle ended more rapidly than The Shadow had expected. There were mobsters in the courtyard below; they began to fire upward, even though The Shadow was protected by the steel platform. They stopped promptly, when police whistles shrilled in the distance. Other guns began to speak. Crooks were in flight, shouting that the bulls had arrived. Only The Shadow knew the real ident.i.ty of the new attackers. His agents had arrived. Easing downward, The Shadow continued toward the courtyard.

Almost at the bottom of the fire escape, The Shadow sensed a m.u.f.fled clatter above him. For the moment, he forgot the dacoit that he wanted to find.

This was the man from that other room: the trouble-maker who had switched on the lights!

Though ordinary hoodlums had shown ignorance when quizzed by the police, The Shadow knew that every mob required a leader. There were brains among those cover-up squads; and any man smart enough to invade Bolingbroke's apartment, would certainly have intelligence.

That man who followed The Shadow was one who could tell facts regarding recent murders, as readily as any dacoit.

The Shadow waited. His quarry arrived. With a swish, the cloaked fighter was upon the fellow, smothering him in the darkness of that lower platform.

The thug had supposed that The Shadow was gone; nevertheless, he was alert - enough so to put up a frenzied struggle, as he hit the platform. Ordinarily, such resistance would have been short-lived. Once The Shadow had the edge in a combat of this sort, an opponent seldom rallied. Tonight, the case was different.

Shifting to gain a complete clutch, The Shadow let his adversary writhe leftward. The Shadow swung in the same direction, jolting hard against the rail. The jounce came squarely on those ribs that had deflected a marksman's bullet.

The hard shock brought immediate agony; instinctively, The Shadow pressed his hand against his side.

The crook caught the rail, came upward. He felt The Shadow's slump, took advantage of it. The conflict underwent a swift reversal; the mobster had the superior position. It was his own luck that made him overeager, plus his ignorance of The Shadow's wounded condition.

Figuring that his advantage was temporary, the crook tried to end matters in a hurry. They were a single flight above the ground, battling close to the hinged steps that hung from the fire escape. The crook shoved The Shadow for the s.p.a.ce below.

In those split-seconds, The Shadow showed quick strategy. Instead of fighting back, he let himself go. Flung backward to the ladder, he twisted to the right, to land on his unwounded side. He struck the ladder arm first; grabbed hard for a metal step.

It worked as The Shadow calculated. His sudden drop made the crook's forward motion a long one. The fellow couldn't halt himself; he came plunging for The Shadow. But The Shadow wasn't there when the thug landed. The ladder was swinging downward with the cloaked fighter's weight. The crook found emptiness.

Head first, the fellow pitched clear over The Shadow, clutching the air as he went. He hit the lower steps, but his momentum was too powerful for him to catch a hold. He finished his plunge with a series of bounces that flattened him in the courtyard.

THE SHADOW changed position slowly, painfully. He was hanging head downward on the steps; he favored his wounded side as he eased around.

Whistles were shrilling closer when he reached the ground; the sirens of patrol cars hadjoined the bedlam. There was not much time to lose.

The Shadow stooped above the silent mobster. Playing his flashlight on a flattish, tough-jawed face, he recognized his a.s.sailant. The fellow was "Lucky"

Belther, long a lieutenant of notorious racketeers. Lucky had a double reputation. He could frame victims, or put them on the spot - whichever the big-shots chose.

Lucky was senseless; that made his removal a problem for The Shadow. But the solution to the difficulty had approached. Someone was close by in the courtyard; a man spoke cautiously, when he saw The Shadow's flashlight blink.

The arrival was Cliff Marsland, one of The Shadow's agents The Shadow's tone came promptly: "Report!"

Cliff gave brief word. He had another agent with him, in the person of "Hawkeye," a crafty little prowler who roamed the underworld gleaning information for The Shadow. Hawkeye had spotted the crippled dacoit crawling into an alleyway that opened from the next block.

Cliff, in turn, had picked a way out from the courtyard. It was the path by which he had entered, alongside a garage. As yet, the police had not closed it. They were busy chasing thugs who had fled.