The telephone table had an old-fashioned marble top. The Shadow swung his hands downward, striking the cuffs against the projecting edge of the table top. The marble cracked from the forceful blow. One arm of the handcuffs sprang open.
Another heavy stroke and The Shadow’s other hand was free. Silently, swiftly, the tall man removed his black cloak and hat.
The detectives were crashing at the door. The barrier began to break beneath their blows. Above the uproar came a sharp cry from within the room.
The men stopped as they recognized the voice of their chief, punctuated by a pistol shot.
“Hold it,” came Warwick’s voice. “I’ve finished him. Stand by. I’m opening the door.”
The key turned in the lock. The door opened inward. A gray-clad arm indicated a huddled figure in black that lay on the floor, face downward, with the broad-brimmed hat beside it.
“I shot him,” Warwick’s tones same from beside the door. The soft gray hat obscured the speaker’s face.
“Pick him up and carry him out.”
The detectives surged forward. Two of them lifted the limp body. The face came into view.
“It’s the chief!” cried one of the men.