“The steamship Gasconne!”
The Red agents had been scouring the premises where Senov had been slain. They had found nothing.
Where was the stolen pelf? On the Gasconne?
Despite the slaughter that had taken place here, there were many Red agents still available. The principal undercover men in Paris had not entered this fray. It was their task to locate the Romanoff gems if Paris was the hiding place. Motkin’s course lay elsewhere.
He uttered brief commands to the men about him. Quietly, the little band began a retreat. Soon they were away from the embattled district.
Motkin, hurrying onward with his men, pictured that scourging figure in black, his back to the wall as the police attacked.
IN this impression, Motkin was not far wrong. Police and gendarmes were surrounding the house. Some had attempted to ascend the stairs, but had been stopped by warning shots. The Shadow was in the passage at the head of the stairs.
In the room where men lay dead and wounded, Cliff Marsland was leaning against the wall, completely restrained by his tight bonds. He knew, from the whistles that he had heard, that the police were here. He wondered what the outcome would be.
The tall form of The Shadow suddenly appeared, and Cliff stared upward with inquiring eye. He saw the gleaming eyes of his chief, and listened as he heard low, whispered words.
“Stay here,” warned The Shadow. “Do not struggle with the ropes. You will be safe with the police. You are an American, brutally waylaid in the Montmartre. A battle among your captors prevented your death.”