The glowering Muscovite could not see the face before him. Two eyes alone gleamed from uncanny depths.
For an instant, the Russian’s power slackened. That was the sign that The Shadow had been awaiting.
Muscles bulged beneath the black, gripping gloves. With superhuman strength, The Shadow rose slowly and steadily from the floor, raising his massive foeman straight up in the air.
In wild fury, the Russian clawed the air. He wrested his right wrist free, and swung a savage thrust with the knife. The blow came too late. As his hand began its swing, Froman’s henchman was hurled upward and forward. His body somersaulted backward.
The knife-wielding hand was too late to break the terrific fall. The big Russian landed squarely on his skull. His body sprawled upon the floor, and his neck twisted crazily. His back rested flat on the stone base of the room. His face was turned almost directly downward.
The mania to kill had been the man’s undoing. Anxious to drive home the knife thrust, the would-be slayer had paved the road to his own death. His neck was broken. The fatal plunge had ended in instant destruction for the man who sought to oppose The Shadow.
THE SHADOW turned to Marcus Holtmann. The prisoner had reached the last throes of agony.
Froman’s inhuman scheme had accomplished its work. With glassy eyes, Holtmann stared toward the phantom who had arrived too late to save his life.
Death was clutching Marcus Holtmann; but in those last feverish moments of misery he realized clearly that the figure in black could be no friend of Frederick Froman. A hideous smile appeared upon Holtmann’s foam-flecked lips. With dying coughs he spat forth disjointed words.
“Moscow — Gostinny Ulitza — Prospekt—”