“The Shadow!”
Warwick’s cry was one of triumph as he leaped forward, with his companion close behind him. The detective was drawing an automatic as he sought to capture the man who had previously eluded him.
He was met by a taunting laugh. It rose in mockery as the detective’s hand came from his pocket.
The black-coated fingers of The Shadow pressed the arms of the throne. A burst of smoke obscured his figure. From the midst of the cloud came another peal of uncanny, frenzied laughter, as of a demon leaping into an inferno.
The detective staggered back as the smoke cleared away. The throne was empty; yet the laugh still echoed from the tapestried walls of that bizarre room.
Like Palermo, The Shadow had disappeared, leaving no trace of his departure. The master mind of the villain had created the illusion; the avenger had used it for his dramatic and sensational exit!
WHILE the two detectives still stood in amazement, The Shadow appeared in the apartment beneath. He walked slowly through to the anteroom, where he found the heavy door smashed to bits.
He picked up the suitcase that lay inside the door — the only remaining evidence of unknown visitors. He dropped in the cut straps with which Harry Vincent had bound Hassan, the Arab.
The door of the elevator shaft was open, but no car was there. The Shadow peered down the shaft. He saw the top of the elevator at the floor below.
Warwick and the other man had ridden up on top. Armed with axes, they had smashed their way into Palermo’s Gibraltar. The Shadow inclined his head and whispered: