Guns volleyed with a thunder that rattled the windows, blasting straight
toward the weaving target that the killers saw. Blackness swayed, but remained.
Again, The Shadow laughed!
The phenomenon produced a panic. Crooks were springing about, madly
seeking the door, prepared to bowl Murk Wessel from their path. The Shadow
could have picked them off with rapid shots, right then, if the two police
officers hadn't flung themselves into the tide.
Durez and his comrades, revolutionists by choice, were flinging themselves
forward, too. Yet The Shadow could have overcome those handicaps. The real
trouble came from another source.
A door slashed open, throwing a flood of light into the room. It was a
connecting door, and the man who flung it wide was Colin Nayre, the only person
absent from the conference.
THAT path of glow across the room showed the target that Murk's crew had
riddled, but hadn't hurt. The thing was a hanging curtain at the balcony door.
In entering, The Shadow had drawn it out so that the wind could stir it. He had
been moving from the doorway when he laughed.
At present, The Shadow lacked his former advantage. Nayre's opening of the
connecting door caught the cloaked fighter in the worst possible position. The
Shadow was dodging across the room, hoping to outflank crooks before they
reached the hallway.
Murk's harsh shout was scarcely necessary, for the rest saw The Shadow,
too. Madly, they aimed for him as he wheeled back from the light.
The Shadow was gone, but guns were ripping, cutting a wide swath through
the only area where he could be, shots aimed from three to six feet from the
floor, sure to catch a whirling target, wherever he might be.
The throats of guns had shouted crimedom's cry, with bullets to back it:
Death to The Shadow!
CHAPTER IV
WAYS OF FLIGHT
THIS time, there was no responding laugh as the echoes of the volley
faded. Instead, the bursts of guns were everywhere.
The two policemen, relieved of the traitors who threatened them, were
springing upon the crooks, shooting as they came. They were yelling for others
to get clear, and the bankers were heeding their advice.
Durez and his compatriots were not. They were thinking of their gold, and
forgetting something else: namely, that Murk had given the order for their
death. Grabbing for guns, the Centralbans were getting them from the muzzle
end, with bullets as stingers.
An odd thing was happening deep in the room. The two private-detective
traitors had turned and were looking at a figure on the floor. It should have
been dead, but it wasn't. The Shadow was coming up, alive, and they knew why.
He hadn't whirled away; he had taken a headlong dive, ahead of the barrage!
Rolling on the floor, The Shadow had been below the range of bullets. He'd
