Limping away hurriedly from the danger zone, Motkin shot words of explanation to the men who accompanied him. They passed an order hastily. In a trice, guards were watching the windows, while Motkin summoned cohorts to attack the door.
Six stalwarts raced up the stairs in an effort to trap the figure in black. The Shadow appeared before them. He held two revolvers, which he had snatched from wounded men to replace his emptied automatics.
One shot came from the onrushing men. Motkin, below, saw The Shadow’s form drop to the floor at the head of the stairs. He shouted in triumph as the men dashed onward.
Then came consternation. The Shadow was unscathed. He had fallen purposely. Prone upon the floor of the passage above, he was protected by the angle of the steps — protected behind a perfect bulwark.
Two leading raiders were side by side. Flashes of flame burst from the topmost step. With arms extended, The Shadow blazed from close range, his guns finding their targets.
The first men flung their arms high and toppled backward like dummy figures. They plunged squarely into the arms of those who followed them. Others slipped and fell. More shots resounded from above.
Down the steps came staggering men, falling men, rolling men. Wild fugitives, sprawling cripples, dead forms — all plunged in a mass, accompanied by a fusillade of revolver fire.
As Motkin leaped away to avoid this terrible stampede, he heard a strange, uncanny sound that rippled after the routed hordes.
It was the laugh of The Shadow! In the stillness that followed the last echoes of his deadly shots, the figure in black was uttering his triumph cry!
THOSE sinister, mocking tones made Motkin tremble. He knew that the strident laugh was meant for him to fear. Cowering, the man from Moscow clung against the wall of the little cafe. Fierce Ivan Motkin, slayer of Michael Senov, was trembling with fear!