At that precise moment, a shot sounded from the open doorway. Motkin and the others were amazed as they saw Kolsoff’s body twist. The downcoming arm fell short in its driving stroke.
Some one, from the darkness at the top of the stairs, had drilled the brute’s shoulder with a perfect shot, saving the intended victim!
Motkin was the first to realize who had performed the deed. That bullet had struck the only spot of Kolsoff’s body that could possibly have ended the thrust of the knife.
A shot through the head would have killed, but might not have stopped the sweeping blade. With Kolsoff’s arm obscured beyond his body, the bullet in the shoulder was the only way. Now, Motkin, staring toward the door, saw and recognized the marksman.
There, at the entrance to the room, stood a figure in black. A rip in the surface of his somber cloak revealed a flash of crimson lining. His face was hidden beneath the brim of a bullet-riddled hat.
Motkin recognized both man and garments. This was that amazing personage whom he had seen at the upper window of the old house on the Gostinny Ulitza! This was the one whom his aids had carried from the car! This was the mysterious person who called himself Henry Arnaud, the one whom Motkin believed had perished at the hand of Prensky!
The Shadow, flying in pursuit of the Red agent, had reached Paris just in time to forestall the last tragic act of Motkin and his men!
Motkin saw the flash of The Shadow’s eyes as the figure in black still watched the writhing form of Kolsoff. Then others, responding to the situation, also turned toward the door. It needed no word from Motkin to start the attack.
With one accord, the Bolshevist forces threw themselves at The Shadow in the doorway. They leaped without their leader. Motkin, instinctively wary, dropped to the floor behind the table in the corner of the room.
Shots blazed from the darkened hall. The Reds were firing in return. They were six against one, but the odds did not suffice them. The Shadow’s weaving body seemed to fall away into the darkness as futile bullets whistled past his black-clad form. His barking automatics delivered metal messengers of death.