Four men had fallen. Four of nearly a dozen. The others on the pier, realizing the fact, surged forward in a mass. The first of the attackers reached the hood of the car. Like a soldier going over the top, he flung himself across the hood, his gun arm forward, aiming for the hidden foe. The Shadow, twisted on his back, his left arm by the hood, his right against his body, saw the gleaming revolver as it shot above him. He heard the brutal curse from the gangster's lips as the man tried to stop his plunge and bring his weapon downward.
The Shadow's gun spat upward. The gangster's efforts failed as the bullet cleaved his chest. His body hurtled forward into the water beyond.
In that well-timed, precise action, The Shadow had lost a precious second. Another foe had profited by the delay. Sneaking by the rear of the car, this man was clinging to the back fender, on the very edge of the pier.
He could see the spatter of The Shadow's gun. Hanging backward, holding by his left hand, this gangster thrust his right arm across his body and fired.
He lost his aim in the effort. From his cramped position, his shot was high. Another chance was all he needed; but he did not get it.
The Shadow, serenely resting between the fender and the hood, deliberately leveled his right hand. His finger pressed the trigger of the automatic. His shot was toward the one portion of the gangster's body that could not move — the white left hand that gripped the fender of the car.
The Shadow's aim did not fail.
With a hideous cry, the man's hold broke as the bullet crunched his gripping hand. His arms flung up above his head as he seemed to leap backward. His body smacked against the water with a resounding splash.
A new enemy menaced. He was more cautious than the others. Prowling forward, he had opened the door of the coupe. He was reaching through the window, by the wheel — for he had found it open. He was stumbling over the form of Glade Tremont. The Shadow swung up to meet this gunman. A hand and a head came into view. A pointing revolver shimmered. Before it was The Shadow's rising figure, with its blackened automatic.
It was a split second race between hair triggers, and The Shadow won. His shot echoed like a cannon's roar. The gangster's head disappeared. His hand lay limply on the opening of the window, the trigger guard of the revolver dangling from a nerveless finger.