THE electric torch was shattered. Marty’s left hand fell, numbed and helpless. That stopped his shooting for the moment. Then he began to pepper away, his bullets ricocheting from the cement below.
Where was The Shadow? It seemed incredible that the man could have arisen and fled from the spot in so few seconds!
Marty was leaning forward, firing another shot when a revolver answered from below. The Shadow had rolled beneath the touring car. The final flash of Marty’s automatic had shown the position of the gangster’s body.
Again, The Shadow’s aim was true. The bullet shattered Marty’s shoulder. He lost his balance and hung from the side of the car. The Shadow’s gloved hand wrested his gun away. The man in black arose and flung the crippled gangster from the car.
The motor started. The car shot forward; then backward. It headed forward again, and made a wide swerve toward the narrow alley. Its headlights illuminated the scene.
Marty Jennings was groaning on the ground. Lance Bolero, raised to his elbow, was scrambling to escape the oncoming headlights. The car shot by the disarmed gangsters. Harry Vincent, still bound in the rear of the automobile, could see none of this.
But he knew that he had been rescued by The Shadow. He knew that his release was close at hand. For, as the car roared its way toward the street, he heard a sound that he had heard before — a chilling sound that he dreaded even though he had no cause to fear it.
It was the mocking laugh of The Shadow — the weird, sardonic laugh that brought terror to all creatures of the underworld.
The Shadow, carrying Harry to freedom, was jeering the men whom he had conquered — jeering them with triumphant merriment!