He himself would fire the fatal shot.
“Move,” said Warwick, and pressed the gun more firmly between The Shadow’s shoulders.
The detective did not want to kill his prisoner openly; he required a pretext to explain the killing to his men. Now the moment was at hand. Warwick expected The Shadow to duck and dive for the door.
Instead, the prisoner turned suddenly. As he turned, he extended his shoulder blade. The unexpected twist knocked the muzzle of Warwick’s automatic to one side. The detective fired, the barest fraction of a second too late.
Leaping back, he pointed his gun toward the handcuffed prisoner. As Warwick’s finger again pressed the trigger, The Shadow swung his manacled wrists downward. He hit the gun with the handcuffs. The bullet was diverted to the floor; the automatic fell from Warwick’s clutch.
Upward came those steel-joined wrists. The body of the handcuffs met Stanley Warwick’s square chin.
The detective’s head went back as he fell.
Wheeling toward the doorway, The Shadow kicked the half-opened door. It swung shut in the faces of the plainclothes men. The Shadow sprang to the door and locked it.
There was pandemonium outside. The man in sable black appeared not to notice it.
The keys to the handcuffs were in the possession of the unconscious detective; but The Shadow chose a quicker way to release himself.