Somehow, every gat wielder knew, word must have gone to the mysterious man in black, whose eyes and ears were everywhere. But this snare had been timed. Word had been withheld until the proper moment.
The Shadow, it was known, went to his objectives as soon as he had learned of their location.
The knowledge that Moose Glutz’s old pawnshop was where he could find the cringing Homer Briggs was something The Shadow would never ignore.
Even though he might exercise caution, it was conceded that he would prowl in that neighborhood soon after Briggs had returned to the hideout.
The scheme had come from Hank Farley — one of the craftiest of all gangsters, a man whose games were so big that his activities were invariably few and far between.
Homer Briggs, picayune crook, was not waiting there alone. Hank Farley would be with him!
Even should The Shadow reach his objective, Hank would be sure to put up a fight. Gangsters galore were assembling, working as though in unison, stationing themselves at intervals.
If they missed The Shadow going in — they would get him coming out!
Every alleyway hid snipers. Every parked car concealed sinister mobsmen. Every obscure doorway held its guntoter.
The area surrounding the abandoned pawnshop was like a huge net. No man could have walked through that mesh and lived.