Cliff’s leg pained him. His shoulder was helpless. He was weak and fainting. The episodes that had just passed were becoming hazy.
Cliff’s head dropped backward. It bumped above the cushion of the rear seat. He opened his eyes and fancied that he saw a black form looming above him, with two shining spots that glowed like the piercing eyes of The Shadow.
Then his own eyes closed, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER IV
“KILLER” DURGAN
IT was the next evening when Ernie Shires entered the lobby of Larchmont Court, one of Manhattan’s newest hotel apartments. The tough-faced gangster was gaudily dressed for the occasion.
He looked about him with an approving grin as he mentally contrasted the elegant surroundings of this apartment with the decadent lobby of the Hotel Spartan. He whistled softly to himself as he entered a smooth-running elevator and called for the twenty-first floor.
“Whew!” murmured Ernie, as the elevator sped upward. “This is some joint! This guy Durgan must be a big shot. Tim Waldron couldn’t touch this!”
The elevator stopped, and Shires stepped into a thickly carpeted hallway. He looked in both directions; then, noting the numbers on the doors, he walked to the right and stopped at the entrance to a suite in the corner. He knocked, and was admitted.
Again, Ernie Shires was amazed by his surroundings. He stood in a lavishly furnished room. He seemed to feel the thickness of the rug that was beneath his feet.