A LONG-LIMBED man who looked like a house detective was standing by the cigar counter, playing a bagatelle game. He watched Harry buy a newspaper and stroll to a chair to read. There was tension in the lobby; the camouflaged crooks who worked for Malfort were at a hair-trigger pitch. Though they had been told to let Furbish pass, any slight incident might prove sufficient to make them show their true characters.
Foreseeing that, The Shadow had left nothing to chance. He had ordered Harry Vincent to convoy George Furbish to the penthouse; and Harry had put the job across. It was likely, however, that any new move on Harry’s part would bring trouble in the hotel.
A clock above the lobby desk was clicking off the minutes, its large hand jolting forward at every sixty seconds. Although certain watchers gave glances toward the clock, Barthow did not. The clerk was Malfort’s key-man here. He was covering his part to perfection. Barthow had a watch beneath his counter. He was noting the time while he attended to regular duties.
A dozen minutes had gone since Furbish’s arrival. Soon Spark Ganza and his full crew would be closing in about the Maribar.
A buzz sounded from an opened elevator. The operator stopped a chat with the bell captain in order to answer the call. The indicator board in the elevator showed that the ring had come from the penthouse floor.
Another man other than the operator had noticed the light on the indicator. That observer was Cliff Marsland. He had chosen a chair from which he could watch the indicators in all the elevators. Cliff had come into the lobby alone, no watchers had taken him to be a friend of Harry’s. The call from the penthouse centered all attention upon Harry; no one noticed Cliff as he sauntered toward the elevator.
The operator – a different man than the one with whom Harry had ridden – was the first of Malfort’s tools to recognize that Cliff was in the game. The operator learned the fact too late. The elevator was already riding upward when Cliff spoke.
“Hurry this trip up,” he told the operator, in an impatient tone. “Get up to the top and down again. I left a package in the lobby. I want to get it.”
The operator evidently had instructions to stall Furbish’s departure. He eyed Cliff and made a suggestion.
“Get off at your floor, sir,” said the operator. “I can have one of the bell boys bring the package up to your room.”
“I’m getting the package myself,” returned Cliff. “You heard what I said. Show some speed.”
Cliff’s hand had gone to his coat pocket. It was slowly emerging. The operator took the hint. He increased the car’s speed to the penthouse and banged the doors open. Furbish stepped aboard the car, carrying the same satchel. His satisfied smile told Cliff that the transaction had been completed. Furbish had delivered a quarter of a million dollars in currency of high denomination. He was carrying out the equivalent in jewels.
THE operator closed the doors and darted a sidelong glance toward Cliff. That one look convinced him that The Shadow’s agent would stand for no delay. The operator let the car ride downward, ignoring signals that called for stops at different floors. The elevator reached the lobby in record time.
When Furbish strode from the elevator, Cliff followed, his hand still ready for a quick draw of a gun. At the same moment, Harry Vincent popped from his chair and took up the trail. He, too, was prepared. Closing in behind Furbish, both agents of The Shadow were ready to wheel about and open fight with any of Malfort’s men.
If Barthow had been ready to risk commotion in the lobby, he would have desisted when he saw this threat. Barthow, however, was nonchalant. The time limit was almost ended. He preferred to leave Furbish to men outside. Barthow, however, had underestimated the quick trip that the elevator had made with Cliff aboard. He had also failed to realize how quick a departure Furbish would make when he reached the street.
The Shadow’s taxi was actually in motion when Furbish stepped aboard. Its driver was the swiftest hackie in Manhattan, The cab whined forward in high-speed second gear. It was clearing traffic, roaring eastward with its passenger when Harry and Cliff reached the street.
One block away, the cab wheeled right beneath an elevated structure. As it did, a rakish touring car came roaring down the avenue, to take up the taxi’s trail. The first of Spark Ganza’s crew had arrived; they had seen the taxi’s speed and were suspicious of it. One of several cars, this crook-manned machine had happened upon a lucky chase.
As the touring car neared the corner, a coupe drifted from the side street, following in the taxi’s wake. For the last few minutes, this coupe had been parked near the Maribar Hotel. It had moved from the curb just as the taxi passed.
A long arm thrust itself from beside the coupe’s steering wheel. A steady hand aimed an automatic for the touring car. A big.45 spoke its opening shot. A bullet shattered the windshield of the thug-manned automobile. The driver veered the car, to swing inside an elevated pillar.
A pair of men shouted vicious challenge as they turned a machine gun toward the coupe. They were answered by a fierce, strident laugh, accompanied by three staccato reports from the automatic that had fired the first shot. Bullets found the machine gunners. One man sagged; the other half dived from the car. As the crook at the wheel swung wildly toward the side street, the leaning machine gunner was precipitated to the paving stones.
THE SHADOW had intercepted the first of Spark Ganza’s death cars. A wild-eyed hoodlum had resorted to flight. Bouncing over a curb, the touring car sped eastward, away from the direction of the Maribar Hotel; off to a course far different from the one that the taxicab had taken.
Those gunshots, however, were a token that would draw men of crime. The Shadow knew it as he wheeled his coupe to the curb. Swinging from the car, he formed a long, tall figure by the running board. Though hatless, cloakless, his dark clothing served him. Between his car and the gloom beneath the elevated he was in a position where no glare revealed his waiting form.
Two cars were thundering toward the focal point. One, a sedan, was coming down the avenue. The other, a touring car, had taken the street in front of the Maribar Hotel and was riding east to join the attack. The double odds failed before the two cars reached The Shadow.
Shots echoed from a doorway on the side street. The Shadow’s agents had taken cover; they were ready with a barrage as the touring car passed. Their shots winged the driver. The touring car hurtled toward the corner, mounted the curb and smashed through a plate-glass window that marked an empty store front. Crooks sprawled to the sidewalk, their machine gun still in the car. They rolled for cover, dazed.
At that moment, the sedan neared The Shadow. It was coming on guesswork only. The thugs at the windows knew that The Shadow was somewhere about. They were not expecting him when he appeared. Mounting the running board of his coupe, The Shadow opened a two-gun bombardment as the sedan hit the crossing.
Crooks ducked as a withering fire hailed through the windows of the sedan. The man at the wheel crouched low; jabbing the accelerator, he weaved between the “el” pillars, making full speed down the avenue. The Shadow let him take his course, for the machine gunners were opening wild shots. Directed high by crouching men, the rattling gun sprayed the second-story fronts of buildings.
The sedan had passed, its menace temporarily gone. The Shadow, however, was determined to halt it, whether its driver sought flight or not. Aiming quickly, he boomed both guns for the rear of the car. One bullet punctured the gasoline tank. Another burst a rear tire. The sedan skidded, jolted, cracked an elevated pillar. Doors opened; scattering thugs dived everywhere for cover.