“Help!” cried Palermo.
The Shadow saw the purpose of his opponent’s shout.
When Palermo had tipped the table, he had knocked a telephone from its place. The instrument, of French pattern, had fallen to the floor, with the receiver off the hook.
The revolver shots, the cry for help — all had been heard at the desk downstairs.
It was now a fight against time. Unless The Shadow could quickly overpower his antagonist, help would be at hand.
The odds seemed greatly in Palermo’s favor, but the criminal knew too well that he could not expect immediate aid. He, himself, had made it impossible for the elevator to rise above the thirty-ninth floor. He could only rely on Warwick’s keenness.
The detective might take the emergency measure of sending a man up the shaft on top of the elevator.
Even then it would take time to batter down the heavy door of the apartment.
Realizing this, Palermo displayed a sudden attack. He managed to wrest the automatic from his opponent’s grasp. Then the barrel eluded his fingers, and the gun fell to the floor.
Backward went The Shadow, while Hassan watched from the torture chair, his teeth clenched in hatred.