bulge inward under the impact of a mighty smash. Hawk threw his arms before his
face. The Shadow's left hand struck them down. His burning eyes were close to
Hawk's hideous, distorted countenance.
"Who is after Antrim?"
"I'll tell you!" cried Hawk. "A guy I used to know - long ago. He's given
me the lay. He's comin' here - to New York - to get -"
Before the miserable man could continue, the door was lifted bodily from
its hinges, and hurled into the room. It had yielded unexpectedly. As it fell,
two men sprawled headlong upon it.
THE SHADOW, never forgetting his purpose here, moved swiftly and silently.
In three long, rapid strides, he was by the window. There, he turned for one
quick, parting glance.
Hawk Forster was pouncing forward. The Shadow saw the reason. In front of
one of the men who was clambering from the flattened door lay a gleaming
revolver.
The rising man was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force. His
gun had shot from his grasp when he plunged in with the door.
That revolver meant salvation for Hawk Forster. The inrush of the police
had ended The Shadow's opportunity to hear what Hawk knew. Now the menacing
figure had departed, and Hawk saw his chance to thwart the men who sought to
capture him.
Hawk's clawing fingers closed upon the revolver. Up came the weapon,
before Cardona could reach it with a futile clutch. The second detective was
raising his gun, too late. Hawk's finger was on the trigger of the revolver.
The gangster's puffy lips were snarling their triumph.
As Hawk's finger moved, a shot resounded. It did not come from the gun
that the murderer had grabbed. Instead, the report issued from the balcony
outside the window.
The Shadow's automatic had spoken! Hawk's last chance was gone! The
revolver dropped from his hand as The Shadow's bullet shattered his wrist. For
a split second, the men on the floor formed an unmoving tableau.
Hawk Forster was staring at his useless hand. Joe Cardona was sprawled
forward, at the end of a hopeless effort to seize the gangster's arm. The
second detective was stupefied as he rested on one knee. None noticed the curl
of smoke that weaved inward from the opened window.
Hawk was the first to act, despite his bewilderment. He shot out his left
hand to seize the gun. Cardona was wriggling sidewise to gain the weapon. The
other detective had his opportunity, and used it. He fired twice over Cardona's
back.
Hawk's mad spring ended in a twisting slump. The rat-faced gangster fell
sidelong, and rolled upon his back. His bulging eyes must have fancied that
they again saw the black clad figure of The Shadow, for terror came over Hawk's
face as he coughed out inarticulate words.
Cardona heard the utterances, but could not understand them. He did not
know that the dying man was trying to complete an interrupted statement; that
Hawk Forster, on the rim of the beyond, was squealing. Then the eyes closed.
The rat-faced gunman was dead.
Joe Cardona, his revolver regained, scrambled to his feet and looked about
