It was the stroke that decided the struggle.
Palermo’s hands slipped from the rail. For an instant he was balanced on a fulcrum; then the leverage of The Shadow’s grasp toppled him outward.
Palermo’s hands struck the edge of the roof. They found no purchase there. Head foremost, the master of villainy shot forward into space.
He uttered a long, shrill cry of terror as he fell. It seemed to die away in the distance as he sped to his doom.
The Shadow watched as he clung feebly to the post beneath the parapet. He saw Palermo’s body grow smaller and smaller. He saw it turn twice as its speed increased. Then its downward course stopped with breath-taking suddenness.
From that point, high above the city, all that remained of Albert Palermo was a tiny, pitiful blotch of whiteness upon the sidewalk far below.
CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
A BLACK-CLAD figure slowly entered the penthouse. Hassan recognized the form that seemed weary beneath its frayed cloak and shapeless hat. He knew that the distant cry he had heard had been the death shout of his master. The Shadow picked up the automatic. He looked at the dead form of Chong. Then he went to the chair in the corner and slowly unlocked the fetters that bound the Arab.
Hassan stepped free, as The Shadow walked away. Too well did the Arab know the threat of that automatic. He made no effort to attack The Shadow. He stood silently, awaiting orders. None came.
The Arab walked to the roof. The Shadow watched his white-clad form as it went to the parapet and looked over to the edge, seeking a view of the man who had gone.