THE COBRA
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 1, 1934.

The famed might of The Shadow seemed to be on the wane, giving way to a
new and more destructive warrior - The Cobra!

CHAPTER I

THE CRIME TRAIL

FOGGY darkness swirled beneath the superstructure of the East Side
elevated. Dim lights, glowing through the murk, showed the dingy fronts of
dilapidated buildings. Shifty, skulking figures shambled along the street. A
bluecoat, twirling his club, watched them idly from the corner; then resumed
his beat.
This was a bad spot on the fringe of the underworld. The officers who
patrolled this section of Manhattan were chosen members of the force. Always on
the lookout for the paths of crooks, they kept a wary check of sullen faces and
sly, stoop-shouldered prowlers.
Less than one minute after the patrolman had continued on his beat, a man
stepped forward from the cover of the elevated steps. Well-dressed, but
inconspicuous in his dark suit, he was of better appearance than the usual
denizens of this district. Like the bluecoat, he watched with wary eye.
A taxicab rolled slowly by. The man by the steps noted it with a sidelong
glance. He saw a gray-haired man of middle age peering keenly from the window,
as though engaged in study of the district. The cab rolled on. The man by the
steps lighted a cigarette.
The flicker of the match revealed his face. It was a hardened countenance,
with curling, ugly lips. A long scar showed from chin to cheek. That scar was
buried by the hand that held the match.
As he flicked the match away, the man by the elevated steps used his other
hand to draw the collar of his coat across the telltale scar. His action showed
further effort to hide the mark.
With head hunched slightly to the side, the man squinted up and down the
street, then moved along by the curb with an easy, swinging gait.
There was method in his wariness. This man was known in the underworld.
"Deek" Hundell, leader of the toughest hold-up crew in Manhattan, was a person
whom any lurker in the badlands could have spotted instantly by his familiar
scar.

THE strolling patrolman had missed an opportunity tonight. Standing openly
at the corner, he had been spotted by Deek Hundell. The hold-up expert had
waited for the policeman to depart; and there had been method in his waiting.
Deek Hundell was wanted for murder.
A disdainful smile showed on Deek's ugly lips as the crook passed the
front of a lighted shop. Deek had dodged flatfeet before. Cops did not worry
him. His caution now was for the benefit of chance passers.
Among the slouchers on this gloomy street, Deek knew that he might
encounter enemies who would betray him. These were the stool pigeons, the spies
of the police.
Deek Hundell turned to peer at a display of cheap suitcases in a pawn shop
window. His hand, rising to pluck the cigarette from his lips, remained there,
adding its hiding palm to cover the scar.
A ragged, stoop-shouldered prowler was shambling from the fog. Moving
close to the window, Deek caught the reflection of a pasty face. The passing
man was going straight ahead. Deek waited.
More footsteps. Two foreigners, jabbering in their own tongue, moved past
the standing crook. Then came an old woman, carrying a basket on her arm.
Footsteps died along the sidewalk. Deek turned and resumed his course.
Twenty paces brought the gang leader to the entrance of an alleyway. Here,
with head still hunched, Deek gazed in both directions and flicked his cigarette
to the gutter. Satisfied that no one was watching, he moved into the darkness. A
muttered laugh came from his lips.
Deek Hundell had passed the crossroads of the underworld. From now on, his
course would be untraceable. On this visit to the badlands, the notorious crook
had taken no chances. His laugh was one of surety.
Silence dominated the street by the elevated. The swirling, chilly fog
seemed to creep about the iron pillars like a living monster. A thickened spot
of darkish mist spread slowly away from the shelter of a pillar directly
opposite the alleyway that Deek Hundell had taken.

BLACKNESS remained, but in the blackness glowed two spots that shone like
coals of fire. Metamorphosing from the mist, they showed as living eyes, poised
in an inky background.
Then blackness moved; a tall, uncanny shape stepped forward from the
elevated post. The owner of those glistening eyes had manifested himself.
A spectral being clad entirely in black - a form shrouded by the folds of
a sable-hued cloak; above the eyes, the brim of a dark slouch hat.
The strange figure paused momentarily, while the piercing eyes studied the
course that Deek Hundell had taken. Then, with a quick swish of the cloak, this
watcher crossed the sidewalk and merged with the darkness of the alleyway.
Deek Hundell had congratulated himself too soon. Convinced that he had
reached the alleyway unnoticed, the crook was continuing his course with no
fear of pursuit. He did not know that his trail had been taken by the most
vigilant tracker who had ever entered the badlands - The Shadow!
A creature of the darkness, a phantom being whose guise of black rendered
him invisible to the sharpest eyes, The Shadow was on the trail of impending
crime. He had picked up the course of Deek Hundell and he was following it to a
certain objective.
There could be but one reason for Deek's appearance in the underworld.
Wanted for murder, the gang leader had chosen other spots until tonight. His
arrival here was a sure indication of a rendezvous between Deek Hundell and his
gangster henchmen.
Motion in darkness; such was the only indication of The Shadow's presence.
The swish of the black cloak sounded faintly as the master trailer moved through
the alleyway and took a turn into a passage between two houses. He could not see
his quarry up ahead, for Deek was moving cautiously through the gloom; yet The
Shadow followed the slight sounds of the gang leader's footsteps.
When the mobster trailer reached the end of the passage between the
houses, his keen eyes peered across a narrow, gloomy street. They spied Deek
Hundell entering the battered doorway of an old brick house, where only
darkened windows showed.
A weird specter, The Shadow crossed the narrow street and reached the
darkened doorway. The opening of the barrier seemed imperceptible. The black
figure entered. The Shadow stood in a narrow, gloomy hallway which terminated
in a fight of rickety stairs. A gas jet, its flame turned low, furnished the
only illumination.
Slowly, The Shadow advanced. His gliding progress ended at a door on the
right of the hall. A creeping hand, gloved in black came from the folds of The
Shadow's cloak. It turned the knob of the door. Keen eyes peered through the
narrow crevice.

BEYOND was a small flight of stairs; then a stone-walled room where a few
dozen men were seated about at tables; bottles and glasses were set before them.
The Shadow knew this place; it was a sordid dive of the underworld where
lesser mobsters were wont to meet. The entrance was opposite the door through
which The Shadow peered. It opened on a side alley that led from the front
street.
Deek Hundell was not in the underground den. The door closed silently. A
soft, whispered laugh sounded in the gloomy hall. Its echoes clung there as The
Shadow turned to the stairs and ascended. The steps terminated in the center of
a second-story hall.
Like the one below, this hall was lighted by a flickering gas jet. At the
rear was another flight of stairs that led down to the back of the building.
The front of the hall terminated in a door.
The Shadow turned in that direction. He passed two doors on the right;
just beyond the second one, he paused to listen. A muffled, growling voice was
sounding from the room beyond the barrier.
Swiftly, The Shadow continued to the end of the hallway. His hand turned
the knob of the door at the end. The door was locked. Muffled clicks sounded as
The Shadow applied an instrument of steel. The lock gave. The door opened and
The Shadow entered the front room.
Dark, deserted and illy furnished, this room extended to the right - a
fact which The Shadow had anticipated by his study of the building itself. To
the right was a connecting doorway that led to the room where the voice had
sounded.
The Shadow reached the intervening barrier and applied the pick. This
time, there was not the slightest sound of the yielding lock. The knob turned
noiselessly; the door opened inch by inch until a narrow slit was formed.
Silent and motionless, his hand still on the knob, The Shadow gazed into the
room beyond.
Five men were seated about a broken-down table. Their evil, sordid faces
marked them as desperadoes of the badlands. Their eyes were turned upon an
individual who sat facing the doorway to the hall. In the illumination of the
gas-lit room, that man's features were plain.
Deek Hundell.
Glinting eyes and snarling lips; a scar that ran an ugly, jagged line from
chin to cheek - this was the quarry that The Shadow sought. Deek Hundell,
murderer, had reached his destination in the underworld. Joined by his squad of
killers, he was building new schemes for crime.
The eyes of minions were on the gang leader. Attentive ears were drinking
in Deek's growled words. Gloating faces showed eagerness for evil deeds that
lay ahead. Little did these crooks realize that another listener was present;
that eyes keener than their own were watching the sordid countenance of Deek
Hundell.
The Shadow, master fighter against crime, was listening in on Deek
Hundell's plans. With those schemes learned, The Shadow would be prepared to
strike from darkness. Criminals, confident in their security, were doomed to
failure before their plans were formed.

CHAPTER II

THE NEW AVENGER

"WE'RE pulling the job tomorrow night." Deek Hundell's growl had an
emphasis that held his henchmen. "Out on the Boston Post Road is a swell place
where there'll be lots of palookas with dough. I've picked the spot - I'll lead
you to it when we go."
"OK, Deek," came a response from one mobster. The others joined with nods.
"Maybe," resumed Deek, leering, "some of you guys are wondering why I'm
taking places outside of the city. I'll tell you why. It's because these spots
are outside. Don't get the idea that these New York bulls have me worried."
Laughs from the mobsters indicated that they, as well as Deek, were
contemptuous of the Manhattan police.
"I've been living here in New York," continued Deek, "in an uptown hotel
and there ain't a bull that's had an eye on me. Wanted for murder - that's rich
- and that dumb dick, Joe Cardona, thinks he's going to grab me.
"Him? For two bits, I'd poke a gat in Cardona's ribs and take his badge
from him. That's what I think of Joe Cardona!
"Why are they hollering about me? Because I bumped off a flatfoot two
weeks ago. That's not the only bird I've plugged, but they're hollering because
a dumb cop got his. Let 'em holler! When I feel like it, I'll go downtown
shooting for the whole force!"
A pause. Gloating smiles showed that Deek's confidence was impressing his
followers. The very fact that Deek was here in the badlands showed his
disregard for the police who sought his trail.
Eying his companions in crime, the gang leader saw that he had gained his
point. It was now possible for him to proceed with cautious remarks without
damaging the authority that he held over his band.
"The trouble here in New York," declared Deek, "is too many cops. They
pile up on you before the job is pulled. They'll never get me - but I'm
thinking about you guys.
"That ain't all. There's too many stools here in town. They know me - and
they can spot this scratch I've got on my jaw. It's O.K. for you fellows to lay
around here until I want you - but it's best for me to be out of the district."
Nods. One of the mobsters tapped the table with his knuckles; then
ventured a chance remark.
"You got the right idea, Deek," he declared. "Between the cops and the
stools, a guy's got to keep his mug shut. Then there's The Shadow -"
"The Shadow!" Deek snarled the name with contempt. "Listen to that, you
fellows! Bulker, here, is talking about The Shadow! Say - we ain't had no
trouble with The Shadow, have we?"

HEADS shook as Deek looked about the circle. The gang leader grunted new
contempt. Before he could make another statement, there was a rap at the door.
A new mobster entered as Deek growled.
"Hello, Gringo," greeted Deek. "Sit down here - and listen to the pipe
that Bulker just made. He's talking about The Shadow!
"Say - who is The Shadow? I'll tell you - a guy that goes around in a
black shirt and mooches in on jobs. He ain't never given us no trouble and he
never will. Say - have any of you bimbos ever seen The Shadow?"
"The guys that have seen him," protested "Bulker" weakly, "ain't around to
tell it."
"Yeah?" Deek laughed, "Well, if The Shadow ever tries to cross me, he'll
get his! What say, Gringo?"
The newcomer raised his hands for silence. There was something in his
manner that betokened tenseness.
All sat silently - Deek included - as "Gringo" approached the table and
leaned forward. A hard-faced rowdy, the toughest of Deek's henchmen, Gringo's
manner of unfeigned alarm commanded interest.
"Listen, Deek." Gringo was serious. "You've been out of sight for a while.
You don't know what's been going on - and neither does the rest of the mob -
because they ain't in the know. What I'm going to give you now is something to
think about."
"Are you figuring that The Shadow is in it?"
Gringo shook his head emphatically. "The Shadow is out - he's a has-been
compared to the guy that's in the picture now. Say - you know how The Shadow
works. Lays back and watches - then hits some big shot or cleans up his mob.
"The Shadow's tough all right, but while he's on one trail, the others are
running wild. That's because The Shadow waits until he's got a fellow with the
goods. Savvy?"
"I know that," growled Deek. "He'll never get me -"
"I'm not talking about The Shadow," interrupted Gringo. "Listen, Deek -
what would you say to a guy that began knocking off big birds while they were
laying quiet? Picking them before they had a chance to move?"
"Who's doing that?"
"A fellow that calls himself The Cobra." Gringo's tone was an awed
whisper. "He spots his man when the guy has a crowd about him. He walks in and
bags the guy he wants. You know what happened to Hunky Fitzler, don't you!"
"The guy with the apartment-house racket? Sure - somebody gave him the
works up in that swell joint of his -"
"That's right. And I'll tell you who put Hunky on the spot. It was The
Cobra. What's more, he bumped Cass Rogan, the guy that had the gambling racket
sewed up. There were fellows that saw him do it!"
"They ain't shouting about it."
"You're right they ain't! I'll tell you why. When you see a big shot get
his - and know that that guy who did it could have plugged you just as easy,
you're going to keep mum, ain't you?"
Deek considered. At last he nodded; his face was sober. Gringo added a
pointed remark.
"I'm telling you this, Deek," he warned, "because you're big enough to
have The Cobra on your trail. I'm telling you - The Cobra is lopping them off.
They say The Shadow listens in - well, The Cobra walks in -

DEEK HUNDELL thumped his powerful fist on the table. His snarling growl
broke off Gringo's discourse. The wide flame of the gas jet wavered beside the
door. Deek's sullen face gleamed viciously in the light.
"Forget this hokum!" he rasped. "We ain't got time for pipe dreams. The
Shadow ain't never tackled this mob of mine. The Cobra ain't going to take a
chance on me alone.
"I'm going to give you fellows the dope on tomorrow night. I'm only
waiting for Corky Gurk to show up, so he'll be in on it, Then I'm sliding out
that hall to the street - and you birds can ease into the joint down in the
cellar. One-by-one - get me? There's nobody ever wised up this meeting place
yet - and there ain't nobody going to -"
Deek stopped as a rap sounded at the door. Mobsters started. Deek laughed;
then scowled as he saw them shift uneasily.
"That's Corky," he scoffed. "Time he was here. Who did you think it was?
The Cobra?"
The mobsters joined in the laugh as Deek, half rising from his chair had
his hands upon the edge of the table as he rasped the order:
"Come in Corky."
The door opened. It seemed to swing inward of its own accord. Each
mobster, showing indifference, was glancing toward the barrier.
Suddenly wild gasps came from bloated lips. Deek Hundell alone gave no
outcry. His scarred face was frozen.

IN the doorway was a grotesque figure that looked like nothing human,
although it had the stature of a man. Clad from head to foot in a
close-fitting, dark brown jersey, this individual was entirely masked.
The single garment formed thick wrinkles on the limbs and body. About the
narrow jersey, it terminated in a broad hood, which was topped by a small,
tapering knob.
There was something snakelike in the costume; but the feature that gave it
weird realism was the hood which hid the entrant's face.
It was the hood of a cobra!
Two white spots appeared like eyes, about them, broad white circles that
terminated in downward pointing lines. The effect was that of a terrifying face
which seemed to survey the startled mob with expressionless gaze.
There was no mummery about The Cobra's painted visage. The gangsters who
saw it cringed as though it had been a living countenance. It was a sign; an
identity that brought instant recognition. Men of crime were face-to-face with
the new avenger!
To each gazer, the eyes of The Cobra's hood seemed fixed in his direction.
Then came The Cobra's warning - a hiss that sizzled from lips beneath the hood -
the perfect mimicry of a snake about to strike!
Like a flash, a hand swung from the central fold of the pleated brown
jersey. A revolver glistened beneath the gaslight. Deek Hundell, an answering
snarl coming from his own lips, yanked a gun from a pocket to meet The Cobra's
aim.
The new avenger had hissed his warning. His swift revolver was the coming
stroke. Deek Hundell, murderous gang leader, was forced to a fight for life!
Gangster eyes were bulging. Hands were trembling. The witnesses of the
duel were powerless. Beyond the door to the front room, other eyes were on the
scene. Another hand was acting. The Shadow, sensing grim events, was drawing an
automatic from beneath the cloak.
Stern avenger who roamed the underworld, The Shadow had become the witness
to the power of a new figure of mystery who was there to deal death to a
startled murderer!

CHAPTER III

THE COBRA WINS

THE sound of The Cobra's venomous hiss ended with the bark of the
revolver. Deek Hundell, rising, stopped short. The gun which he had whipped
from his pocket dropped from loosening fingers. The gang leader clapped his
hand to his stomach; his snarling lips twisted in agony as Deek collapsed face
forward on the table.
Deek's henchmen were stunned. Then came another hiss. Wild eyes stared at
the smoking gun barrel in The Cobra's hand. They saw a brown arm sweep upward
to the gas jet; a twist - the room was plunged in darkness, save for a slight
flicker of illumination from the hall.
The Cobra's form was blurred, except for its hood. There, against a
darkened background, glowed the painted eyes and their surrounding lines.
Weirdly luminous, The Cobra's false face was peering toward the gangsters whose
chief had died.
Then came a sweeping barrier - the closing door. A fierce hiss dwindled as
The Cobra swung the portal behind him.
An oath came from Gringo's lips. A flashlight glimmered in the mobster's
hand. It was followed by others, as Deek Hundell's cohorts suddenly sprang to
avenge the death of their murderous chief.
Gringo was the first to reach the gloomy hall. The action required a leap
across the room; then the opening of the door. The hall was empty. Gringo
stared in both directions.
"I'll take the back stairs," he rasped. "You're with me, Bulker. The rest
of you pile into that front room - maybe he ducked that way."
There was a call from below. Gangsters in the underground dive had heard
the muffled sound of The Cobra's shot. They were coming to find out what had
happened. Gringo shouted down as he headed towards the back.
The body of Deek Hundell lay sprawled upon the table where it had
collapsed. The mobsters had piled from the room; now the door that adjoined
from the front was open. The Shadow, standing in the dim gloom, was surveying
the victim The Cobra had slain.

SWIFT had been The Cobra's work. The killing - the departure - both had
been timed with precision. The Shadow had come here to forestall Deek Hundell's
plans for crime. The Cobra had gone The Shadow one better. He had slain Deek in
cold blood.
The Shadow held no grief for Deek Hundell. The man was a self-admitted
murderer. He had deserved to die. The ringleader of a dangerous mob, his death
meant the end of that gang's crimes; for Deek Hundell had held the whip hand
over the crew.
For once, The Shadow had been forced to stand by as a mere watcher while
another hand of vengeance had delivered doom.
The Cobra!
Gringo, the gangster, had spoken well when he had described this new
avenger as a rising menace to the underworld. The Cobra had struck in the
presence of a crowd of witnesses. His deed was one that would reverberate
through all gangdom.
A whispered laugh came from The Shadow's lips. It was a tense, foreboding
laugh - one that told of impending trouble.
The Cobra had made a perfect getaway. Maddened gangsters, augmented by
those below, were turning this hovel into a hornet's nest. The Shadow, silent
witness of The Cobra's might, was left in the thick of it!
Mobsters were coming now - back into the room where Deek's body lay. They
were lighting the gas while others were trying to open the door to the front
room, from the hall.
The Shadow had locked that door behind him. Swiftly, he was regaining the
front room through the connecting door. He closed the barrier as the gas came
on. He turned the lock and stood silently in darkness.
Mobsters were working at the connecting door. They had hopes that The
Cobra might be here.
The Shadow was faced by a dilemma. His choice lay between a quick
departure or a futile struggle.
The Shadow was a fighter who did not deal in flight, save when it formed a
portion of his strategy. Tonight, he was faced by a situation which was unique
even in his long experience.
He could gain nothing by remaining. Mobsters would fight The Shadow as
quickly as they would The Cobra; and the hordes of gangland would know that The
Shadow had stood idly by while his new rival had delivered death!
Picks had failed on the door from the hall. Mobsters were battering the
barrier as The Shadow swept to the front window of the upstairs room. Up came
the sash. The Shadow's tall form swung over the sill, just as the door from the
hall was flattened by a surge of mobsters.
Two gangsters tumbled as the door gave. Behind them was a third, holding a
bull's-eye lantern; beside him, two gorillas with ready guns.
As chance had it, the rays of the lantern shone straight upon the open
window. A cry came from the mobster as he saw the blackened form swinging from
the sill.

REVOLVERS barked wild shots as the gunmen responded to their companion's
shout. Had The Shadow continued his swing from the window, the next shots would
have beaded him. Instead, The Shadow delivered his response.
Clinging to the sill, he swung his right hand inward and pressed the
trigger of a mammoth automatic. His target was the bull's-eye lantern.
Darkness, crashing glass, and the howl of the wounded lantern-holder was proof
of The Shadow's perfect aim.
Again, the automatic spurted flame. Tongues of fire; driving bullets that
smashed hot against the walls of the hallway sent mobsters ducking for cover.
Amid the echoes of the gunshots came the strident tones of The Shadow's laugh.
Time was precious. More than twenty mobsters were close by; should The
Shadow remain, this room would become the focal spot for hastening fighters
from all parts of the underworld.
With a sweep through the window, The Shadow poised with one hand clutching
the sill; then dropped catlike, a dozen feet to the sidewalk below.
The plunge was timely. Mobsters had reached the street. They had heard the
bark of guns from above. With The Shadow's poise, flashlights glimmered upon the
window - just in time to reveal the huddled shape in black as it dropped to the
street.
Down came the glimmers. Focused lights played on The Shadow's shape as it
showed, half-sprawled upon the sidewalk. Cries of recognition; shouts of
triumph! These came as the men with the flashlights aimed revolvers toward what
appeared to be their helpless prey.
They had reckoned wrong. The Shadow, as he took the plunge, knew that
split seconds would be precious. The fall had neither stunned nor crippled him.
He had chosen to use his guns instead of rising.
Automatics blazed. They were held by hands that were less than two feet
above the sidewalk. Crouching with back against the brick wall of the old
house, The Shadow delivered an enfilading fire along the street.
Gangsters staggered or dived for cover. The Shadow, rising as he pressed
the triggers, sent shots that ricocheted from walls and paving. The street was
cleared except for a trio of crippled mobsters who had failed in their dive for
safety.
The Shadow's laugh came in ringing challenge. His emptied automatics
dropped beneath the folds of his cloak. Another pair of .45s - fully loaded -
appeared instead of the exhausted weapons.

LEAPING from the wall, like a black projectile, The Shadow gained the
center of the street in two quick bounds; there, still moving toward the
opposite side, he whirled and brought his automatics into play.
The Shadow did not choose men as his targets. Instead, he picked the spots
where men must be. The doorway through which he had trailed Deek Hundell; the
entrance of an alleyway, thirty feet along the street; the front windows of the
old house - one on the ground floor; the other on the second - the very window
through which The Shadow had escaped.
These were the points upon which The Shadow rained his leaden hail. As The
Shadow fired, shots came from those strategic spots. The Shadow, in his lone
game, held a strange advantage.
His retreating figure, weaving toward the gloom of the opposite side of
the street, was a hopeless target even for skilled marksmen.
Bullets sizzed past that phantom shape in black. Metal messengers
flattened against old walls beyond the further sidewalk. A single shot that
seared The Shadow's shoulder with a trivial flesh wound was the closest of the
mobster bullets.
Doorways and windows - these were the targets which The Shadow had chosen.
It was purely through superiority of numbers that the mobsters had gained their
chance to open fire. The Shadow's shots, blazing back, stilled those nests from
which frenzied sharpshooters were sniping.
Quick shots sent mobsters scurrying back along the alleyway. Timely
bullets picked two gangsters at the door; one crumpled within the doorway, the
other staggered back. Shots to the downstairs window dropped a sniper there.
Then came the upturned blaze of an automatic.
A gangster, leaning from the second-story window, was aiming for the last
spot where he had seen an automatic spurt. He never found his target. The
Shadow's bullet clipped the mobster's shoulder. His revolver dropped from his
hand and clattered to the sidewalk. Then, with a wild scream, the mobster lost
his hold and hurtled forward to the street below.
As this final enemy landed head first upon the paving. The Shadow's laugh
came as a mocking peal.
The mobster's rolling form lay still. It was the last motion in the
street. The Shadow had gained the passage between the buildings opposite.
Stanch warrior of the night, he had returned to darkness.

POLICE whistles were sounding in the distance. Cries rose from afar.
Excitement was arising in this section of the badlands. Ringing gunfire had
been heard for blocks around.
The Shadow no longer remained in the vicinity where confusion reigned. His
was a fleeting figure, traveling unfrequented byways. The swish of a cloak; the
soft whisper of a laugh; these alone marked The Shadow's escaping course.
The Shadow had fought well tonight, yet he had been forced to a struggle
which he had not sought. Battling for his own protection, he had borne the
brunt of a conflict which another had precipitated.
Hollow victory had been The Shadow's gain. It was The Cobra who had won
tonight. The new avenger who had risen to strike down fiends of crime had not
only gained the end which he had sought; he had left The Shadow - his rival -
in a desperate predicament.
What Gringo had told Deek was true. The famed might of The Shadow was on
the wane. One whom the underworld had feared was giving way to a new and more
destructive warrior - The Cobra.
Terror - swiftness - action - these were the weapons with which The Shadow
had kept the hordes of gangdom at bay. Another had adopted those very methods;
The Cobra was using them with repeated strength that eclipsed The Shadow's
tactics.
What was the meaning of this rivalry? Only The Shadow knew; and his
whispered, fleeting laugh was the only token of what the future might hide.
Tonight, The Shadow's power had been no more than an anticlimax.
It was The Cobra who had won. He had delivered vengeance while The Shadow
tarried!

CHAPTER IV

THE COMMISSIONER HEARS

DEATH in the underworld!
The headlines of Manhattan dailies screamed this legend. The killing of
Deek Hundell, added to the deaths of other notorious crooks, had made The
Cobra's work sensational.
Yet rumors - not facts were all upon which the reporters could draw. Men
of gangdom, though they might mutter among themselves, were loath to talk
freely of the new scourge that had arrived within their midst: The Cobra.
Of all the readers of crime news, none could have displayed more interest
than a dignified, gray-haired man who was seated at the table in a large,
well-furnished study. This individual wore a quiet smile as he read the wild
accounts in the newspapers that were spread out before him. He seemed to be
amused by the manner in which rumors had been padded into column stories.
A telephone rang. Still reading a newspaper, the gray-haired man reached
for the instrument and spoke quietly into the receiver:
"This is Caleb Myland speaking... Yes... Hello, Townsend... No, I don't
expect to be in town on Thursday... Sorry, old man... Tonight? No, I'm staying
here on Long Island. An important appointment..."
Caleb Myland hung up the receiver and continued his perusal of the
newspapers. He looked up as the door opened. A long-faced servant was standing
there.
"What is it, Babson?" questioned Myland.
"Commissioner Weston is here, sir," replied the servant.
"Ah!" exclaimed Myland, warmly. "Usher him in at once, Babson."
The servant left. A minute later the visitor entered. Caleb Myland arose
to shake hands with Ralph Weston, police commissioner of New York City.

RALPH WESTON was a heavily built man of military bearing. His face was a
firm one; a pointed mustache added to its commanding appearance. A man of
middle age, Weston had the vigor of youth and a dynamic personality that
befitted his official position.
At the same time, his expression was a troubled one, and his eyebrows
narrowed as he noted the newspaper spread on Caleb Myland's table. Weston's
first action, after seating himself, was to indicate the journals with his hand.
"You've been reading that stuff, Myland?" he questioned.
"Yes," returned the gray-haired host. "From what you told me over the
telephone, Weston, I assumed that the news reports would have some bearing on
your visit here. I was looking for information, I found very little."
Weston helped himself to a cigar from a box which Myland placed beside
him. The gray-haired man had taken his chair beyond the table. There was
something in his manner that gave him the appearance of a counselor. Weston
noted it. The commissioner's troubled look faded to some degree.
"Myland," said Weston, seriously, "you have given me excellent advice on
occasions in the past. I need your help at present."
"Regarding this?" Myland indicated the newspapers.
"Yes," admitted Weston. "Something is going on in the underworld -
something more baffling than any phase of crime we have ever known. You,
Myland, are a criminologist of international repute. Your books on crime have
formed a foundation for the study of the criminal mind. I want your opinions -
and your advice."
"You shall receive it."
"Good. I want to ask you a question to begin with. Did you ever hear of a
person called The Shadow?"
Caleb Myland stared solemnly. He made no reply for a moment; then nodded
slowly.
"Who is he?" demanded Weston.
"I do not know," declared Myland. "In a sense, The Shadow is a myth. He is
supposed to be a master who battles crime, yet no one has ever traced him -"
"Exactly!" interposed Weston. "That is why, Myland, I officially labeled
The Shadow as a non-existent factor. His name - or title - was to be kept out
of all police reports."
"Until you could establish the identity of someone who passed as The
Shadow!"
"Yes, I had a lot of trouble with my best detective - Joe Cardona. He
insisted upon working The Shadow into his reports. He finally dropped that
policy until now. Cardona is working on these mysterious deaths that have
occurred in the underworld. Yesterday, he came to me with the astounding
statement that he could not proceed unless allowed to consider an unknown
person as a definite entity."
"You mean The Shadow?"
"Yes - and more. I put that very question to Cardona and he came back with
a most astounding answer. He wants it to be conceded that The Shadow is a figure
who enters the affairs of the underworld; more than that, he wants me to accept
the fact that there is another crime fighter of equal mystery - a new fighter
who calls himself The Cobra."
"The Cobra?" questioned Myland. "I have heard talk of The Shadow - but
never of The Cobra. This is indeed amazing."
"Either amazing or insane," corrected Weston. "Cardona had his nerve to
bring up the matter of The Shadow. When he added to that by introducing The
Cobra, his boldness passed all belief."
"What did you tell him?"
"I asked for his resignation."
"And he gave it?"
"No. He requested a chance to convince me. He said that all the underworld
is talking of The Cobra; that Deek Hundell was killed by The Cobra in the
presence of half a dozen mobsmen. He added that The Shadow was seen in the same
vicinity; that the sanguinary fray which followed Hundell's death was a fight
between the mobsters and The Shadow."
"And he has proof -"
"He is bringing a man to testify in his behalf. For several years, Myland,
we have used the services of undercover investigators who represent a higher
group than stool pigeons. One of these is a man called Crawler Gorgan."
"Gorgan." Myland was thoughtful. "Ah, yes - he used to run a small pawn
shop. He sold out his business after he became a dope addict. He deals in petty
crime, spends all his money on dope, and is regarded with pity even by those in
the underworld."
"How do you know all this?" quizzed Weston.
"From my files," returned the criminologist, with a smile. "In studying
crooks, I have gained sketches of many characters in the underworld. Crawler
Gorgan is one; I happened to remember his story as it looked like an unusual
case. It is news to me, however, to learn that Gorgan has served as a police
agent. I suppose that his reputation as a dope addict is a false one."
"It is," assured Weston. "Gorgan has played an excellent part. Always
undercover, he forms contact only with certain men from headquarters. Joe
Cardona is one. Gorgan has given us some excellent reports, which I've
commended.
"Hence when Cardona told me that Gorgan could substantiate his statements
concerning The Shadow and The Cobra, I told him to bring Gorgan to me in
person. That is why I arranged for them to come here tonight."
"Here?" Caleb Myland raised his brushy gray eyebrows in anticipation.
"Here," repeated Weston. "Myland" - the commissioner leaned forward and
brought his heavy fist emphatically to the table - "I want to settle this
matter. No detective - not even Joe Cardona - has the real insight into
gangland. They all go by what stool pigeons tell them; by what they force out
of small-fry crooks. If Gorgan can amplify Cardona's statements, I can count on
them. If not - well - Cardona can turn in his resignation."
"A valuable man, Cardona," observed Caleb Myland. "I have heard much about
his work. But why, Weston" - Myland was smiling dryly - "did you arrange to have
the interview here? You told me merely that you wished to call and to discuss
crime activities."
"I'm not sure of anything, Myland," returned Weston, soberly. "I've fought
against these rumors concerning The Shadow, but I must admit that things have
happened which made me believe that such a personage might exist.
"So long as the efforts of this being - mythical or otherwise - were a
retarding influence to crime, I felt that the matter could pass. Imagine it,
Myland! A weird creature crook-hunting in the underworld, terrifying wolves of
crime! It passed belief; that was why I tried to reject it.
"Now there are two! The Shadow and The Cobra! Crooks have been put on the
spot. The underworld is in a furor. Can I, as the highest police official in
New York, stand by and view this turmoil as a mystery?"
"No," returned Myland, quietly. "You cannot afford to do so, Weston. You
are wise to have arranged this meeting here. I take it that you want my
opinions on what Cardona and Gorgan have to say?"
"Precisely."
"Very well. I shall aid you. I can promise you that my analysis will prove
of value. If -"
Myland paused to look toward the door. Babson was standing there. At
Myland's wave, the servant entered, and handed his master an envelope.
"For Commissioner Weston, sir," said Babson, "Two gentlemen are here to
see him."
Weston opened the envelope and read words scrawled on a card within. He
nodded as he turned to Myland.
"They are here," he remarked.
"Babson," ordered Myland, "usher the gentlemen in at once."
As Babson left, Commissioner Weston settled back in his chair. Caleb
Myland copied the motion. Their faces showed intense interest as they waited
the entry of Joe Cardona and "Crawler" Gorgan.

CHAPTER V

MYLAND ADVISES

THE two men who next entered Caleb Myland's study presented a marked
contrast. To a criminologist such as Caleb Myland, they represented definite
types.
One was a swarthy, dark-haired fellow of short, stocky build. His face,
firm-jawed and stern, showed his bulldog characteristics. Myland needed no
introduction to learn the man's name. This was Detective Joe Cardona.
With the sleuth was a tall, stoop-shouldered individual, whose pasty face
and nervous twitch were suggestive of the dope addict. The man's eyes were
blinking in the light. In his scrawny hands, he held an old felt hat that
fitted with his ragged attire. This was Crawler Gorgan.
Cardona made the introduction in gruff manner. He pointed to his companion
as he spoke to the commissioner.
"This is Gorgan, commissioner," he said.
Rising, Weston proffered his hand. Gorgan accepted it awkwardly. He showed
a trace of firmness in his grasp. Weston, turning, introduced both men to Caleb
Myland. The criminologist merely bowed and pointed to chairs. Cardona seated
himself and Crawler Gorgan followed.
"Cardona," announced Weston, "I have told Mr. Myland substantially what
you told me. I said that you were bringing Gorgan here to add his statements to
your own. Mr. Myland is a criminologist of high repute. I want him to hear
Gorgan's testimony. After that, Cardona, you will be free to add further
remarks of your own."
Cardona nodded as the commissioner ceased speaking. Weston and Myland sat
silent. Cardona took this as his cue. Turning to Gorgan, he said:
"Tell them about it."
Gorgan licked his puffy lips. His blinking ceased momentarily as he turned
his eyes back and forth from Weston to Myland. The man seemed to be steadying
himself to talk. When his voice came, it delivered direct words.
"I look like a hop-head," declared Crawler Gorgan. "I ain't one, though.
Joe here told you that, commissioner. I used to run a hockshop; and when I saw
I was likely to get listed as a fence, I made a deal with the police. That was
seven years ago, commissioner.
"I knowed the joints and I knowed the crooks. I wasn't one of them, but it
didn't take much to make them think I was. They all knowed Crawler Gorgan -
yeah, they thought they did, the scum!
"I wouldn't play no stoolie - why should I? I'd never done nothing against
the law. But when I got the chance to work undercover, I took it. Down in the
Tenderloin, they figured poor Crawler Gorgan had gone blooie."
Crawler paused to grin. He raised his right hand and rubbed it along his
nose in the manner of a cocaine sniffer. The gesture was a perfect pantomime.
"That's what they think I am," resumed Crawler. "A dope. The hockshop sold
out; I hang around the joints; and they figure I pull some small jobs every now
and then. All the time I'm listening - and what I get goes to Joe Cardona."

"I AM aware of that, Gorgan," stated Weston. "You have an inside knowledge
of affairs in the underworld. Therefore, I want you to answer this question.
Have you ever seen a mysterious personage called The Shadow?"
"The Shadow!" Crawler blinked as he uttered the name. "Say, commissioner,
it didn't use to be healthy to see The Shadow. The guys that lamped him didn't
stay around to talk about it.
"But there's some that have seen The Shadow - and I've heard what they've
had to say. They were birds who didn't get too close - like them that was
battling with The Shadow the other night, after Deek Hundell got bumped."
"Did The Shadow kill Deek Hundell?"
"No. I'll tell you who got Deek. It was another guy that's beating The
Shadow at his own game. Listen, commissioner. The Shadow don't pick the open.
He stays in the dark and when he comes out of it, he's ready for business.
That's why he's a mystery. All in black - with eyes that glitter like fire.
That's The Shadow! When he opens up with those big automatics of his, there's
no stopping him. When he's through, he slides back into the dark."
"So I have heard," interposed Weston. "But what about The Cobra?"
"He's different." Crawler's tone was emphatic. "The Cobra is out for the
big shots, commissioner. He picks the guy he wants; then walks in and gets him.
He don't wait, like The Shadow does, until there's some crime being done. He
lops off the big boys right when they don't expect it - and he likes to have
witnesses on deck."
"You have seen The Cobra?"
"Me? Not yet. But I've met a dozen guys that have seen him. When he bumped
Deek Hundell, there was a whole crew there. The Cobra comes in on them" -
Crawler paused to make his description graphic - "right through a doorway. He
was dressed in a sort of sweater - all brown - with a hood over his head.
Painted eyes - like one of those cobra snakes - and he hissed, like a warning.
"They say Deek Hundell didn't have a chance. The Cobra plugs him and
douses the light. Bang goes the door and there's a bunch of scared guys sitting
around with Deek laying dead. That's the way The Cobra worked."
"Cardona tells me," observed Weston, "that The Shadow figured on that
occasion."
"Yeah," asserted Crawler Gorgan. "That was the part that came after. The
Cobra made his get-away; and the crew didn't have no chance to stop him. They
were looking for The Cobra and they found The Shadow."
"How did he happen to be there?"
"Nobody knows. Some guys have figured it out that he was checking up on
Deek Hundell. Maybe he was out to get Deek, too. Anyway, the Cobra got in ahead
of him and left The Shadow holding the bag. The Shadow had to fight his way out
of it."

COMMISSIONER WESTON pondered. Crawler Gorgan's story was convincing.
Despite the fact that the undercover man had seen neither The Shadow nor The
Cobra, it was evident that he was telling accepted facts.
"Cardona," Weston addressed the detective, "I find myself forced to accept
your theories. I have doubted the existence of The Shadow. I doubt it no longer.
As for The Cobra - well, I can supply a statement of my own."
Weston paused to puff reflectively upon his cigar. When he spoke again, he
addressed Crawler Gorgan.
"You have told me something, Gorgan," he said, "that Cardona did not
mention. You have spoken of The Cobra's hiss. That was the one point that I
required. I have heard that hiss."
The listeners stared at the commissioner in surprise. Weston nodded
seriously.
"Two nights ago," resumed Weston, "I received a mysterious phone call. I
heard a hiss over the wire - for all the world like the hiss of a snake - and
then a voice. It said: 'I am The Cobra. Tonight, I shall strike.' That was all.
"I took it for a hoax. I hung up the receiver. That night, Deek Hundell
was killed. The next day, Cardona came in with his story about The Cobra."
"You didn't tell me about the phone call, commissioner," observed
Detective Cardona.
"There was no use," returned Weston. "I wanted to know more before I
mentioned the fact. I am convinced now that The Cobra is a figure in the
affairs of the underworld; and I have every reason to expect that I shall hear
from him again. I made a mistake to hang up without engaging in conversation
with this mysterious caller."
Weston threw his cigar in an ash stand. His reflective tone turned to one
of challenge. He pounded the table with his fist and issued a demand.
"What is the game?" he questioned. "Who is The Shadow? Why has he been
mixing in the underworld? Who is The Cobra? Why has he entered? Who can answer
it?"
"I can tell you plenty about The Shadow," declared Joe Cardona. "I've seen
him - even if Crawler here hasn't. He's pulled me out of jams - and you, too,
commissioner. You didn't know it, but I did; and if I'd tried to put you wise,
you wouldn't have believed me.
"Crooks are scared of The Shadow. He nails them when they're working. Some
of the biggest crimes have been solved and ended by The Shadow."
"And The Cobra?" questioned Weston.
"I'll tell you about him." It was Crawler Gorgan who volunteered. "He's
muscled in on The Shadow's game; and he's pulling stuff The Shadow never did.
He's knocking off the big shots, commissioner. They haven't got a chance to
stop him!"

WESTON wheeled toward Caleb Myland. The criminologist had been a close
listener to all that had been said. It was evident that Weston was seeking his
opinion as that of a judge.
"What do you think of all this, Myland?" was Weston's question. "What is
the game behind it? The Shadow and The Cobra - what are they after?"
"The Shadow," observed Myland, "has long made it his business to offset
crime. His work has been notable in that direction. He has played a crafty
game, from all that I have heard.
"It is apparent that The Cobra has chosen a similar purpose. He is
outdoing The Shadow. From Gorgan's statements, it seems obvious that The
Shadow's fame will wane while that of The Cobra rises."
"Granted," agreed Weston, "but what should I do about it? So long as The
Shadow seemed a myth, I took it for granted that if he did exist, his purposes
were to be commended. Now matters are different. Can I afford to keep hands off
while two unknown individuals take the law into their own grasp?"
"So long as men such as Deek Hundell are the victims," declared Myland,
"it is to your advantage to let The Shadow and The Cobra alone."
"To accumulate power," added Weston. "Then, if they wish, to turn crooked.
I want evidence, Myland - evidence that these fellows are on the level. Why
should they fight crime to no gain? Answer that!"
Caleb Myland laughed. He leaned forward on the table and began to speak in
the tone of a lecturer.
"There," he said, pointing to Joe Cardona, "is a man who could head the
detective force of a good-sized city, with twice the pay that he receives in
New York. He prefers to retain his present job. Why? Because he likes to fight
crime - the biggest that he can find.
"There is another." Myland indicated Crawler Gorgan. "He has chosen to
live in the underworld, posing as a dope addict, risking his life should his
true status as undercover man be discovered. Why does he keep up that work?
Because he, too, has felt the lure of fighting crime.
"You, Weston, are a man of high social standing. You could head a huge
corporation. Instead, you retain the office of police commissioner. Why?
Because you have felt the challenge that crime offers.
"Let me speak for myself. I have wealth. Look at this home. Behind that
paneled wall, I keep thousands of dollars in my safe. I have fifteen bank
accounts; and a private yacht that could take me anywhere.
"Instead, I stay here in New York, or visit other large cities; I go to
prisons and view their conditions; I stroll through districts where crime is
fostered; and I complete the chain by writing books on criminology. Why?
Because I like to battle crime. Not for money - not for glory - but for the
fascination that such work offers."

WESTON was nodding. He was getting the point to which Myland was working.
"Four of us," testified the criminologist, "are here in this room. We are
all inspired by the same motive. We like to meet crime and defeat it. We can
say the same for The Shadow; and for The Cobra. They are crime fighters. We
must accept them as such - for the present."
"You mean -"
"I mean that too close contact with crime may cause an individual to
embrace it. There is always the chance of a crime fighter turning crook. For
that reason, Weston, I always considered The Shadow as a danger. I feel now
that the danger has been removed."
"Why?"
"Because of The Cobra. There are two in the field. Should one of them turn
crook, the other will combat him."
"Ah!" Weston exclaimed in satisfied fashion. "You have struck it, Myland!
Your statement is an excellent one. But how can we tell about their motives?"
"Easily. Two nights ago, The Cobra struck against crime. We know,
therefore, that his motive was a good one. The Shadow was also present. We are
in doubt concerning his motive."
"That's right."
"We must, therefore, analyze each episode in which either or both of these
strange characters figure. Should conflict arise between them, we can then tell
which one has turned to crime. The law can side with the one who is in the
right."
"Excellent, Myland!" exclaimed Weston, rising. "Such shall be our course.
There is your duty, Cardona; and yours, Gorgan. Learn all that you can
regarding The Shadow and The Cobra. We must be ready for the climax"
"All right, commissioner," said Cardona, grimly. "You can count on me.
I'll let Gorgan duck back where he belongs; and he'll keep me posted right
along."
"You will bring him here again," ordered Weston. "We are going to follow
Mr. Myland's advice throughout this new campaign. However, you must avoid all
risk in bringing Gorgan."
"That's all right, commissioner," interposed Crawler Gorgan. "I've got my
own hide-out; and when I duck out of sight, nobody knows where I'm at. They
didn't hand me my moniker for nothing. When I want to see Joe Cardona, I call
him; and nobody sees him meet me. I'll keep him posted, commissioner."
The detective and the undercover man made their departure. Ralph Weston
remained a short while, to talk with Caleb Myland. Then the commissioner left
also.
Caleb Myland, criminologist, remained alone behind his big table. A smile
showed on his keen face. Myland chuckled in anticipation.
Brilliant student of crime, Caleb Myland scented the approach of a strange
combat which would develop from the rivalry between the two unknowns: The Shadow
and The Cobra!

CHAPTER VI

THE SHADOW MOVES

A CLICK sounded in a darkened room. A bluish light appeared in a corner;
its downward shaded rays were focused upon the surface of a polished table.
Into that sphere of light came two long-fingered hands. Upon the left
gleamed a sparkling gem that showed ever-changing hues. The Shadow was in his
sanctum.
This was the hidden room which The Shadow had long used as his
headquarters. Once men of crime had penetrated here; they had not lived to tell
the location of The Shadow's sanctum.
Somewhere in Manhattan - there lay the sanctum. The bluish light told the
place; the sparkling gem, a matchless girasol, proclaimed the identity of its
wearer - The Shadow.
Long fingers opened envelopes. Clippings dropped upon the polished table.
These were the accounts which Caleb Myland had been reading in his study; they
were amplified by later items. A day had passed since Myland had received
Commissioner Weston at his home.
The Shadow studied news reports. They spoke of confusion in the
underworld. Events were impending in the badlands. Big shots were in fear of
their lives. The clippings failed to give the reason, but The Shadow knew the
answer.
The Cobra!
Into the realm of gangdom had come a fantastic figure whose quick strokes
had raised him to the summit. For years, The Shadow had been the unseen factor
who had held the balance between justice and evil. His stern hand had always
been ready to swing the scales to the side of right.
The Shadow's course had been a wise one. Well did he know the value of
keeping crime at bay. The Shadow's strokes were body thrusts to the undying
monster called crime. A being of retribution, The Shadow used tactics that had
proven their worth over a prolonged period.
The Cobra, apparently, was attempting the impossible. He was out to lop
off heads. Hydra-like, new ones would form where the old had been. To The
Shadow, The Cobra's course seemed futile.
That was not all. The Cobra, through his sudden rise as a terrorist, had
become a problem to The Shadow. The menace of The Cobra had eclipsed that of
The Shadow. The episode that had marked the death of Deek Hundell had been the
turning point.

IN all his battles against men of evil, The Shadow had taken advantage of
the one phobia that lurks in every human brain - fear. Crooks noted for their
steady trigger fingers had faltered when they faced The Shadow.
The scene had changed. The Cobra was the new terror of the underworld. He
had struck down Deek Hundell amid a squad of protecting henchmen. Those men who
had sat stupefied had later risen to do battle with The Shadow.
True, The Shadow had won a fight against great odds; but he had waged a
futile conflict. He had been forced to retreat under fire. Skulking mobsters
who had feared the very name of The Shadow were now boasting of what they would
do should they meet him. The prestige of The Shadow was at stake.
Another envelope came between The Shadow's hands. It held a message,
written in code. The Shadow perused the blue-inked lines; then the writing
faded, word by word.
A report from Cliff Marsland, The Shadow's agent in the underworld. A low,
weird laugh whispered from the darkness on the near side of the shaded lamp.
In his report, Cliff had emphasized the very pointers that The Shadow had
realized. The underworld was speaking in awed tones of The Cobra; and boastful
threats against The Shadow were being uttered in the same breath.
A pen appeared in The Shadow's hand. The fingers wrote brief comments that
showed the trend of The Shadow's thoughts. The master sleuth was analyzing the
situation which confronted him.
How had The Cobra learned Deek Hundell's meeting place? The Shadow had
picked up Deek's trail through Harry Vincent, who had long been one of The
Shadow's trusted agents. Harry had watched Deek at the uptown hotel where the
gang leader had been staying.
But The Cobra had used no watcher. Somehow, the new crime fighter had
learned of the meeting spot without tracing Deek at all.
What was the answer? The Shadow's whispered laugh showed that his keen
brain had found an inkling.
A tiny bulb glimmered on the wall beyond the table. A hand moved forward
and plucked a pair of earphones from the wall. The Shadow spoke in whispered
tones. A quiet voice came over the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report."
The Shadow's whispered order seemed to cling with weird echoes. Burbank's
statement came:
"Report from Marsland. At the Black Ship. Members of Heater Darkin's mob
waiting for orders from their leader."
"Instructions to Marsland," responded The Shadow. "Remain on duty. Side
door code message."
"Instructions received."
The earphones went back to the wall.
The Shadow's laugh sounded as a sinister whisper. Through Burbank, his
hidden contact man, The Shadow had received this special word from Cliff
Marsland. It was the very type of information for which The Shadow had hoped.

CLIFF MARSLAND, when stationed in the underworld, had frequent
opportunities to gain advance notice of impending crimes. Accepted as a gunman
of importance, Cliff had the run of various hangouts, including the Black Ship.
During the past few days, Cliff had been roaming the badlands at The
Shadow's order. His present information, concerning "Heater" Darkin, a
notorious gang leader, was exactly what The Shadow wanted.
Here was opportunity. The Shadow specialized in swift strokes dealt while
crime was taking place. Heater Darkin was recognized as a big shot who dealt in
merciless tactics. It was time that his evil career should be broken.
Gangdom was talking of The Cobra. It was time that such talk should end.
The trend of gangland's fears must return to the master whose prestige The
Cobra had usurped. The Shadow! His fame would benefit through a meeting with
Heater Darkin, while the big shot was engaged in crime.
A sibilant laugh crept through the confines of the sanctum. Black gloves
appeared upon the table. Thin, smooth fitting cloth, they slipped over the
long-fingered hands. Clippings and envelopes were pushed aside. A black hand
rose; the light disappeared with a click.
The swish of The Shadow's cloak sounded in the pitch-black gloom. Then
came a repetition of The Shadow's laugh; the whispered mockery took tone as it
rose to an eerie crescendo.
The gibing mirth came to a sudden ending. In its place were echoes that
reverberated from jet-black walls, as though uttered by a myriad of ghoulish
tongues. The creepy echoes died. Complete silence followed.
The sanctum was empty. The Shadow had departed. Faring forth on a new
mission, the master fighter was out to combat crime. Two purposes lay before
The Shadow on this night.
One was the cause of right: The Shadow's unceasing desire to bring
disaster to crooks whom the law could not forestall. The other was a vital
point that concerned The Shadow's future dealing with affairs of the underworld.
Upon his success in frustrating Heater Darkin's culminating crime, The
Shadow was staking his reputation as the greatest of all menaces to evil.
This would be The Shadow's counter challenge to the rising fame of The
Cobra!

CHAPTER VII

THE COBRA'S LAIR

SOMEWHERE in Manhattan. Such was the location of The Shadow's sanctum. The
same phrase alone could be used to mark the position of another strange abode -
the lair of The Cobra!
A stone-walled room, its musty, cobwebbed crevices gaping where plaster
had fallen; a low ceiling from which glowed a single frosted incandescent -
this was the spot which The Cobra had chosen for his headquarters.
The furnishings of this room consisted of a table, a cot and two chairs. A
rounded wicker basket of Oriental design rested in one corner. At one side was a
battered door, raised above a single stone step. Opposite, another door that
evidently led to an adjoining compartment.
One chair faced the wall. Directly in front of it was a projecting box
that looked like a radio cabinet. This was fitted with numbered holes, from one
to thirty-six. Hanging in front were wired plugs. Wires ran from the big
plug-box to the wall behind.
Muffled footsteps clicked outside the room. The door opened above the
step. The Cobra, clad in wrinkled garb of brown, stepped into his lair. Behind
him showed a dim stone stairway which he had used to reach this underground den.
The Cobra closed the door behind him. He moved toward the basket in the
corner. He raised the lid and uttered his strange hiss. An answer came from the
basket; the hood of a snake rose into view.
The reptile was a cobra; its brown skin made it appear like a miniature of
its master. A forked tongue darted from the head above the hood. Again, The
Cobra uttered his fierce hiss as he leaned toward the basket.
The venomous snake lowered its hood. The Cobra clapped the cover on the
basket. His hiss had cowed the serpent.

THE COBRA seemed to enjoy this bit of by-play. His hiss became a chuckle
as he approached the chair in front of the plug-box.
Seating himself, The Cobra waited. His weird hood with its painted front
gave him a fierce appearance in the dull light of the underground lair. A low
buzz sounded from the box. The Cobra inserted a plug in an unnumbered hole
below the thirty-six.
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s!"
The Cobra's hiss was the signal that connection had been formed. A voice
came from the box on the wall; its distant tone increased as The Cobra turned a
dial.
"Fang Eleven," announced the voice. "The time is set at ten o'clock."
"You will guard the passage?"
"Yes."
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s!"
As he concluded the conversation with the hiss, The Cobra pulled the plug
from the hole. He then moved the plug along the line above and pressed it into
a hole numbered eight. There was a short pause; then a voice:
"Fang Eight."
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s! You are ready?"
"Yes."
"Wait fifteen minutes. Proceed if I do not call again. Ss-s-s-s-s!"
The Cobra moved the plug to another hole. This time a voice reported as
Fang Four. The speaker received the same instructions as Fang Eight. Again, The
Cobra plugged and gave the identical word to Fang Eighteen; his final action was
a telephone call to Fang Nine.
Fangs of The Cobra! These were agents reached in some mysterious fashion
through the telephone connection of The Cobra's plug-box. In touch with workers
in the underworld, The Cobra was utilizing a system which neither The Shadow nor
the police had recognized.
Tonight, The Cobra was on the move. From his lair, this new power in the
underworld was planning another stroke. His men had been posted; the statement
from Fang Eleven had caused The Cobra to order action by the others who were
waiting.
The Cobra remained in his chair. He opened the bottom of the plug-box and
drew forth an instrument. It was the dial of a telephone, connected by wires to
the plug-box.
A brown-coated finger turned the dial. The sound of a busy signal came
from the plug-box. The Cobra pressed a switch. The clicking ended.
This dial represented a portion of regular telephone equipment. By using
it, The Cobra was connecting his own apparatus with the regular telephone line.
The person whom The Cobra had sought to call was evidently busy on the wire.

AFTER a short wait, The Cobra again dialed the number. This time the
connection formed. The sound of ringing came from the plug box. Then a click; a
brisk voice came from the cabinet.
"Police Commissioner Weston speaking."
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s!"
The Cobra's prolonged hiss brought a startled gasp over the wire. There
was a pause. Then, in a low voice, The Cobra spoke:
"I am The Cobra. Tonight I shall strike!"
Another pause; then came the commissioner's voice in an easy questioning
tone:
"Good. Where is your objective?"
"Follow instructions," hissed The Cobra, "and you shall be there. One
false step - your chance shall end. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Weston's voice sounded agreeable. "Tell me what you want me to do."
"Forty-seventh Street west of Seventh Avenue," hissed The Cobra.
"Nine-thirty o'clock. Enter the gray sedan that you will find waiting there.
Bring one companion. That is all. Ss-s-s-s-s!"
The Cobra pressed the switch. The call was ended. The brown-clad figure
arose. The snakelike hiss sounded in gloating fashion as The Cobra stalked
across his den.
He opened the door on the opposite side of the room. A large closet was
revealed; hanging from hooks were various garments, among them two other
costumes that were identical with the one which The Cobra wore.
Pushing these aside, The Cobra reached to a shelf and obtained two
articles: one a large revolver, the other a small flashlight, which The Cobra
tested to make sure it was in working order.
The Cobra left the closet and closed the door. He went back to the
switchboard and inserted a plug. A voice was prompt in its response:
"Fang Two."
"Ready!" warned The Cobra. "I shall want the coupe in fifteen minutes. At
spot three."
"I am ready."
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s!"
The Cobra removed the plug. He strode to the door at the steps. The door
closed behind him as he ascended from the lair. Clicking footsteps came muffled
from the stone stairs. The light in the lair went out.

LIKE The Shadow, The Cobra was moving to strike crime. Bold in the past,
he had evidenced a new disregard of hazard. The Cobra had extended an
invitation to the police commissioner to witness the stroke that would be dealt
tonight!
With the aid of those workers whom he had termed his fangs, The Cobra had
prepared for this event. More than before, his power was to be known in the
underworld.
This night was destined to produce a new and startling chapter in the
strange rivalry that had arisen between two fighters of crime in New York: The
Cobra and The Shadow.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TRAIL

"AT nine-thirty, Cardona."
Detective Joe Cardona nodded as heard the police commissioner's statement.
Cardona was seated in the little office of Weston's apartment. He had just heard
the commissioner's account of the call from The Cobra.
"It was eight-thirty when the call came in," continued Weston. "Just after
I had hung up from my talk with you. I knew that you were on the way here, so I
didn't call back to headquarters. Instead, I telephoned to Caleb Myland."
"What did he have to say, commissioner?" questioned Cardona.
"He was not at home," declared Weston. "Out of town, his servant said. I
wanted to get Myland's advice. However, I feel sure that he would recommend the
course that I intend to follow."
"To keep this appointment with The Cobra?"
"Exactly. Taking one man along with me. You, Cardona, are the man that I
have chosen."
"You're running a risk, commissioner," declared Cardona, gravely. "This
looks like a phony game to me. Let me take a squad out on this job."
"And ruin it?" The commissioner laughed. "No, Cardona, that would be
futile. I have made arrangements for our protection. I called Inspector Klein
at headquarters, just before you arrived. He is sending men to act as our
reserve."
"You mean they'll follow us?"
"Yes. I am in charge tonight, Cardona. I have made my plans. Come. We are
going to Forty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue."
As the two men rode in the commissioner's car, Weston recalled a question
which he had intended to ask Cardona. He put it eagerly, realizing that it
might have a bearing on tonight's expedition.
"You have seen Gorgan?"
"Yes, commissioner. About an hour before I called you. He hasn't learned
anything new as yet. They're still talking of The Cobra - but it's all been
rumor."
"This is no rumor, Cardona." Weston spoke with assurance. "That voice over
the wire tonight was the same one that spoke to me the evening that Deek Hundell
was slain by The Cobra. Ah - here we are. Come on; we'll look for the gray
sedan."

WESTON and Cardona alighted near the spot appointed by The Cobra. There
was no sign of the gray sedan. Cardona noted two men standing a short distance
from the curb. One was Detective Sergeant Markham; the other, Detective Logan,
both from headquarters. They had evidently been dispatched here by Inspector
Klein.
It was exactly half past nine, by the big clock on the Paramount Building.
Cardona turned to the commissioner.
"We'll learn quick enough," began the detective. "If this is a stall -"
Weston stopped Cardona with a wave of his hand. Joe turned in the
direction of the commissioner's gaze. A gray sedan had pulled up by the curb.
Weston stepped forward and accosted the driver; at the same time, he made a
beckoning motion which brought Markham and Logan from their spot of obscurity.
"You're waiting for me?" questioned Weston.
"Came here to get two passengers," returned the driver. "I guess you're
the ones who are waiting."
"Who sent you?"
"New Era Garage, over on Tenth Avenue. Fellow came in there tonight and
hired this car."
"Do you work for the garage?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where have you been instructed to take us?"
"Down Sixth Avenue. The fellow that hired this car said a cab would pass
us on the avenue. I'm to follow the cab that blows its horn."
Weston turned toward Markham. The detective sergeant nodded. He and Logan
hurried away. Weston motioned Cardona into the sedan. The car started.
"Clever," mused Weston. "This driver knows nothing. Paid to take us down
Sixth Avenue. Hm-m. Wait until the cab appears. We may find out something then."
The sedan had reached Sixth. It was rolling beneath the superstructure of
the elevated. Past Thirty-fourth Street, a cab swung by on the left. The taxi
driver blew his horn; then slowed speed. Weston leaned to the rear window of
the sedan and drew a flashlight from his pocket. He flicked the light twice.
A black sedan swept past the gray. Cardona grinned. In the black car were
Markham, Logan and other detectives. Weston and Cardona watched the police
sedan overtake the cab and order it to the curb.
"Pull up in back of the taxi," ordered Weston. The driver of the gray car
complied.
Markham was quizzing the cab driver when Weston alighted on the sidewalk.
The detective sergeant shrugged his shoulders.
"He don't know anything, commissioner," said Markham.
The cab driver looked startled. The word "commissioner" had given him the
identity of this big man with the pointed mustache. Fearing arrest, the taxi
driver became voluble.
"I haven't been doin' nothin', commissioner," he said, "A bloke give me a
ten spot an' told me to stick here on Sixth Avenue until I seen a gray sedan. I
was to go by an' blow my horn."
"Where were you to told to lead us?" demanded Weston.
"Down Fourth Avenue, commissioner," responded the cab driver. "Another cab
is supposed to be waitin' down there. When he blows his horn, that means for me
to quit."

WESTON turned to Markham. He motioned to the detective sergeant and drew
him aside. He called Cardona into the conference.
"A clever game," asserted the commissioner. "There may be one cab after
another. These chaps know nothing about The Cobra. Here is our plan.
"Follow us, Markham, until we reach our destination. Keep in the offing.
Form a cordon and be ready for a whistle. If it looks safe, Cardona and I shall
go ahead alone. Do not approach unless you see my light; if we get out of sight,
wait for the whistle."
"Yes, sir," affirmed Markham.
"Go ahead," said Weston, as he approached the cab driver. "We are
following."
The cab headed for Fourth Avenue. The gray sedan, with Weston and Cardona
as occupants, took up the trail.
On Fourth Avenue, near Fourteenth Street, another cab rolled by and
honked. The first cab pulled to the curb. The driver of the gray sedan took up
the trail of the second cab.
This vehicle headed eastward. The driver seemed to be following a charted
course as he turned from street to avenue. Suddenly another cab passed. Its
horn blew. The second cab pulled to the curb; the third took up the lead.
The course led to a dingy district. They had reached the fringe of the
badlands when the cab came to a stop. The sedan rolled up behind it. Weston
bounded to the curb and spoke to the taxi driver.
"Is this where you were supposed to lead us?" he questioned. "How did you
know where to stop?"
"I didn't know until just now," returned the cab driver. "I was told to
come along this street until I saw a cab parked the wrong way, with only one
light on. There it is."
"Quiz the other driver," ordered Weston, to Cardona.
Joe hurried ahead. He flashed his badge as he reached the cab. The driver
growled.
"I figured it," he said. "Parked the wrong way, I knew somebody would land
on me. I thought it would be a copper though. I didn't know the dicks were on
traffic duty."
"Forget it," rejoined Cardona. "What I want to know is how you came to be
here."
"Don't think I'm cuckoo," said the driver. "A guy gave me ten bucks to
pull up here and park with only one light. He said if anybody asked me any
questions, to tell them to go in that house over there."
The driver pointed to a dilapidated building on the other side of the
street. Its windows were unlighted.
"What then?" questioned the sleuth.
"I'm through," returned the cabman. "That's all I'm supposed to do."
Cardona went back to where Weston was standing. He told the commissioner
what he had learned. Weston shrugged his shoulders.
"These men know nothing," he again affirmed. "Check on their cab cards and
order them to report to headquarters in the morning."
While Cardona was doing this, Weston returned to the gray sedan and told
the driver that he could go back to the Tenth Avenue garage. The driver
protested:
"I was hired to wait here, sir," he said, "I guess they figured you would
be going back. I'm to take you wherever you want to go."
"Wait here, then."

THE cabs were pulling away. Weston beckoned to Cardona. The commissioner
and the detective crossed the street. They ascended the steps of the
dilapidated building.
"Ring the bell," ordered the commissioner. "We're going in here. We can
summon Markham and his men if we need them. There's a second police car with
them; they'll surround the place after we enter."
The bell button failed to push. Cardona struck a match and examined it. He
whistled softly.
"Say, commissioner!" he exclaimed. "I ought to have known this place. That
bell's out of order, but there's a name card over it. Eliaphas Growdy."
"Eliaphas Growdy?"
"Yes, Old Growdy. This is where he lives. Worth a million dollars, they
say. Owns a lot of real estate down in this district. Has his office in his
home - lives here like a recluse."
"Try the door."
Cardona obeyed. The door was locked. Cardona produced a flashlight and
examined the fastenings. He turned to the commissioner.
"I can open this," declared Cardona. "It's an old lock - I always carry a
bunch of keys."
"Do it."
Cardona turned locksmith. He drew a ring of keys from his pocket and
worked on the lock. He was successful. The door opened inward on rusty hinges,
to show a darkened hallway.
"Leave the door open," ordered the commissioner. "Come inside, Cardona.
We'll wait here for five minutes, to let the cordon form. Then we'll
investigate the place."
The commissioner drew back his cuff to show the dial of his wristwatch. It
showed the time as exactly ten o'clock.
"Five minutes," repeated Weston.
Standing in the darkened hallway, the police commissioner and the star
detective tarried before keeping the appointment that The Cobra had arranged.

CHAPTER IX

THE SHADOW ENTERS

WHILE Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona were following
The Cobra's lead to the dilapidated abode of Old Growdy, Cliff Marsland was on
the job at the Black Ship.
The Shadow's agent had picked a hot tip. When Heater Darkin and his crew
forged forth on crime, the underworld invariably found much to talk about.
Buzzing rumors usually preceded Heater's expeditions; and it was one of these
that had caused Cliff to report to The Shadow.
Heater Darkin, himself, avoided the Back Ship, but the notorious dive was
a rendezvous for his henchmen. Cliff Marsland, seated near the side door, had
spotted four gangsters whom he knew were with Heater Darkin. Nevertheless, as
ten o'clock approached, the men remained idle.
This perplexed Cliff. It began to worry him. This quartet of mobsters
represented less than half of Heater Darkin's contingent. None of the others
had appeared. Cliff wondered where they could be; and he decided to find out.
There was something in Cliff Marsland's bearing that marked him apart from
the crowd seen in the Black Ship. Cliff was as firm-jawed as any gangster; but
there was an intelligence in his expression that placed him out of the gorilla
class.
This had its effect upon the mobsmen whom Cliff Marsland met. They
recognized him as a superior.
Hence when Cliff arose from the table where he was sitting and sauntered
across the room, the men whom he approached looked up in greeting. Puffing at a
cigarette, Cliff did not appear to notice any of them until a tough-faced rowdy
gripped his arm and leered a welcome.
"H'ar'ya, Cliff."
Cliff had anticipated this. Nevertheless, he turned with feigned surprise.
The man who had caught his arm was "Bullet" Conray, one of Heater Darkin's
lieutenants. He was the very man whose attention Cliff had sought to attract.
"Hello, Bullet." Cliff spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, "Didn't notice you
sitting here. How's everything?"
"O.K.," growled Bullet. "Sit down, Cliff. Have a drink. Wotcha been doin'?"
"Taking it easy," returned Cliff, seating himself at Bullet's table.
"Looks like you're doing the same."
Bullet laughed. The man showed the effect of liquor that he had been
drinking. Cliff's reminder caused him to push glass and bottle aside.
"I've had enough," he grunted. "So've the other boys sittin' around here.
I may get the word any minute now - an' it ain't good judgment to show up
crocked when you're workin' for Heater Darkin."

CLIFF made no comment. He was lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of
the old one. His silence seemed critical. Bullet Conray became apologetic.
"I lay off the grog," he said, "when I go out on a job. But tonight's
kinda different. Me an' these other guys - we're just waitin' here until we get
a call from Heater. He ain't usin' a full crew tonight."
Cliff nodded as though he understood. Bullet reached for glass and bottle;
then pushed the articles aside.
"Had enough," he insisted. "I don't want Heater to be sore. Maybe he's
goin' to call me - maybe he ain't. It all depends on how much swag he gets.
These gorillas here are waitin' for word from me. They don't know where
Heater's gone; but I do."
"Raiding a warehouse, eh?" prompted Cliff. "Say - when you've got to call
in a fellow to lug away the swag, it's a big job."
"Warehouse?" Bullet snorted. "Say, Cliff" - the tone was becoming
confidential - "you ought to know that Heater Darkin don't go in for rackets
like that. He's got somethin' big on tap. I'm tellin' you."
Bullet was reaching for the bottle. Cliff, in matter-of-fact fashion,
plucked it away to pour himself a drink. Bullet grinned. Cliff had saved him
the trouble of denying himself another drink. Impressed by Cliff's nonchalance,
Bullet resumed his confidential tone:
"You know who Old Growdy is, don't you?"
Cliff nodded in reply.
"Well, he's the guy that Heater's takin' tonight." Bullet's grin widened
as the gangster spoke. "Nobody ever thought of tappin' Old Growdy, did they?"
"Why should they?" Cliff seemed unimpressed. "The old geezer's got
nothing."
"Yeah?" Bullet laughed. "Well, that's where you've been fooled, Cliff.
Fooled like the rest of 'em. It took Heater to get wise. Old Growdy's got a
gold mine in that shack of his. Heater's goin' to get it."
A pause; then Bullet added:
"Gold hoardings, Cliff. A lot of silverware, that's real stuff. Heater's
wise to plenty. Old Growdy's got a regular mint in his cellar. When Heater
finds the storeroom, he's goin' to call here - over Old Growdy's own phone.
I'll bring the gang to help haul the swag."
Licking his lips, Bullet reached for bottle and glass. This time he poured
himself a drink. It steadied him for the moment. Bullet stared suspiciously at
Cliff.
"You're stickin' around here, ain't you?" he questioned.
"Sure thing," rejoined Cliff. "Why?"
"Well" - Bullet was speculative - "maybe it ain't wise to talk the way I
just done. That's all. I wouldn't have talked, maybe, to nobody but you, Cliff."
"Listen, Bullet." Cliff's tone was firm but low. "I didn't ask you to
talk. What you told me doesn't mean anything to me. I work on my own - and I
don't go after tinware. Get me?"
Bullet nodded.
"I'm here for the night," resumed Cliff. "If Heater's job goes blooie, it
won't be on my account. But I'm giving you some advice. If you're going out to
haul swag, you'd better be sobered up. Take a walk - you and the rest of your
crew."

WITH this statement, Cliff arose. He clapped Bullet on the shoulder and
laughed. Apparently, he and Bullet had been exchanging jests.
From the corner of his eye, Cliff noted the others who were members of
Heater Darkin's corps. Like Bullet, they were showing the effects of liquor.
Strolling across the room, Cliff neared the side door and sat down to chat
with a flat-nosed mobster whom he recognized. This fellow was not one of Heater
Darkin's men. While he talked, Cliff watched Bullet Conray.
The gang lieutenant had remembered Cliff's advice. He was on his feet.
Staggering slightly, he was approaching the men who formed his crew. The group
talked.
Bullet and two others arose and made for the side door. Cliff knew that
Bullet must have instructed the fourth member of the crowd to be on hand for
the phone call. Bullet and the other pair were going out for air.
Cliff's right hand was in his side pocket. His fingers gripped a short,
two-inch pencil and pressed its point against a tiny pad. Secretly, Cliff was
writing a brief, coded report. He released the pencil. He pulled the top sheet
from the pad and crumpled it into a pellet. Holding the tiny ball between his
fingers, he arose from the table.
Bullet and his companions had gone outside. The last man was staring
stolidly across the room. He was not noticing Cliff Marsland. Lighting a
cigarette, Cliff strolled to the side door and opened it. He stepped into the
darkness of an alleyway.
Bullet and his companions were forty feet away, Cliff could hear their
voices down the alley; by peering from the edge of the doorway, he could
glimpse the glowing ends of their cigarettes. To the right of the doorway was
the blackened niche of a boarded window. Glancing in that direction, Cliff saw
nothing but darkness.
Yet he sensed that a personage was waiting in that gloom. Cliff raised his
cigarette to his lips with his left hand and gave short, quick puffs as a
signal. In his right hand, he held the burnt match; with it the little paper
ball. Reaching into darkness, he released both objects.
Beneath his hand, Cliff felt a slight swish of air. It was the only token
of an unseen presence. Cliff knew that his coded message and the match had
dropped into the hand of an invisible watcher. In accord with Burbank's order,
Cliff had passed the word to The Shadow.
Cliff swung back into the Black Ship. He dropped at the lone table which
he had first occupied. He poured out half a glass from his bottle and held the
little tumbler in his hand. Slowly, his shoulders began to slouch.
A few minutes later, Bullet Conray entered. The sojourn in the fresh air
had steadied the gang lieutenant and his two gorillas. Glancing warily about
the room, Bullet spied Cliff.
The Shadow's agent was hunched in his chair. His left arm was stretched
across the table. On it lay Cliff's head, twisted sidewise. With outspread
fingers, Cliff's right was clutching its half-emptied glass.
Bullet Conray laughed.
"Look at that guy," he snorted. "He told me a walk would do me good. He
needs one himself - but he don't look like he'd be able to take it."
Ceasing his banter, Bullet drew his men to the table where the fourth
member of the crew was sitting.
"Outside, Curley," he ordered. "Time you sobered up, too. Lay off the
booze, you guys. I'm waitin' for a call - an' we're goin' to move when I get
it."
Another glance at Cliff. Bullet leered contemptuously. To all appearances,
Cliff was out. Bullet's suspicions were completely ended. He believed that Cliff
had probably forgotten all that he had heard; of a certainty, Cliff was in no
condition to repeat or make use of anything that Bullet had told him.
If Heater Darkin should encounter trouble tonight, it could not possibly
be of Cliff Marsland's making. So Bullet Conray reasoned, totally oblivious to
the fact that Cliff had already passed the word!

ONE block from the Black Ship, a fleeting patch of blackness passed
beneath a blinking street lamp. A cloak swished as a living form sought the
shelter of a doorway. A tiny flashlight gleamed upon a crumpled scrap of paper
that lay in a black-gloved hand.
The keen eyes of The Shadow were reading Cliff Marsland's coded message.
The flashlight went out. A whispered laugh sounded while gloved fingers tore
the slip into tiny bits.
Each lamp along that street showed a passing splotch of black. The Shadow,
informed of the spot where crime was due, was on his way to Old Growdy's.
It was a dozen minutes after ten o'clock when keen eyes peered toward a
block of old and dingy buildings. Between these dilapidated structures was a
passage of cracked cement. As The Shadow watched, he saw a square-set man pause
at the entrance to the alley, then pass on toward the other side of the block.
The Shadow knew the identity of this watcher. A detective from
headquarters. Some tip must have been received there that Old Growdy was in
danger. The Shadow was unperturbed. The forming of a police cordon did not
hamper his plans for the present.
Swiftly, the tall form glided across the street. It reached the cement
passage. The Shadow moved noiselessly through the dark. He reached the back of
a house which he knew to be Old Growdy's.
A squidgy sound came from the wall. The Shadow, equipped with suction cups
attached to hands and feet, was rising to the second floor. Crawling upward, The
Shadow reached his goal. His form showed like that of a mammoth bat, clinging to
the surface in the gloom.
Window fastenings yielded noiselessly. The Shadow's form moved over the
sill. From the second floor of Old Growdy's obscure home, The Shadow was ready
to begin his exploration in search of crime.
Somewhere in this house, Heater Darkin was at work. The Shadow was out to
find the spot. He was planning a new and daring counter-stroke against fiends
of crime.
Yet even The Shadow did not know the surprising events that were already
in the making!

CHAPTER X

AGAIN THE COBRA

THE SHADOW had chosen to enter Old Growdy's by the second floor because of
the presence of the loose police cordon. From Cliff Marsland's brief report, The
Shadow knew that any hiding place of wealth would doubtless be below ground.
Hence his cautious course - rendered so because police were in the offing - was
headed in that direction.
The cordon which caused The Shadow to exert caution had a directly
opposite effect upon two others who were already in the house. Commissioner
Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona had begun a rapid investigation.
While The Shadow was coming in the second-story window, Weston and Cardona
were descending a flight of steps that they found leading to the basement. They
had spent several minutes on the ground floor before discovering these stairs;
Weston was eager to proceed downward.
The commissioner's flashlight was blazing its path to the darkened cellar.
Cardona, close behind, was whispering a protest against Weston's speed: one that
the commissioner did not choose to heed.
"Come along, Cardona," ordered Weston, briskly. "I'll handle the light;
you be ready with the whistle. We can take care of ourselves if there's trouble
below."
Weston was handling a revolver as he spoke. Cardona also had a gun in
readiness. There was no arguing with the commissioner. Cardona kept pace with
him as they reached the cellar.
A passage stretched off to the right. It showed a door, opened inward.
Weston moved forward and reached the door. He turned off his flashlight and
gripped Cardona's arm.
A light showed dimly as the two peered past the doorway. It came from the
right. This doorway was the entrance to a second passage that led in that
direction. Beyond was an illuminated room. Weston and Cardona could hear
voices, but no one was in sight.
"Move up to the door," whispered Weston. "We'll cover them in there."
Cardona nodded.
Near the door, the commissioner paused. Then, with Cardona, he began to
edge forward. He whispered instructions; Cardona began to nod in reply.
Suddenly both men stopped short as a footstep clicked behind them. Nudging
muzzles of revolvers pressed into their ribs.
"I got 'em!" snarled a rough voice. "Drop them gats, youse mugs, before I
plug you!"

INSTINCTIVELY, Weston and Cardona let their revolvers fall. Their hands
came up in response to the menace from in back. At the same time, a grinning,
hard-faced man popped into view beyond the door.
Joe Cardona knew him. It was Heater Darkin.
The big shot held a revolver with which he covered Weston and Cardona from
in front. His grin turned to a fang-like laugh as he ordered the prisoners to
move into the room.
The scene that greeted commissioner and detective was a strange one. This
room, buried below the level of the street, was fitted like an office.
Quivering in a chair behind a battered, flat-topped desk, was an old man with
white whiskers, whose eyes showed fear.
It was Old Growdy.
Cornered by one wall was a trembling young man whose hands were upward. He
was covered by a gangster, who was also watching Old Growdy. This prisoner was
evidently Old Growdy's secretary.
As Cardona and Weston backed against the wall at Heater Darkin's order,
they saw the man who had covered them from the passage. He was a two-gun
mobster who flourished his gats in businesslike fashion.
"Cover them, Luke," ordered Darkin.
The two-gun gorilla obeyed. Heater Darkin chuckled. Pocketing his own
revolver, he strolled across the room and seated himself on the desk. He
laughed in contemptuous fashion.
"Visitors, eh?" he scoffed. "Joe Cardona - the smart dick - and say! Well,
if it ain't the police commissioner!"
Heater's eyes hardened.
"Come here to make trouble, eh?" he snarled. "Well, you'll see it - but
you won't make it. You know who I am. They call me Heater Darkin. I'm the boy
that gives the heat. I'll let you watch me hand it.
"Dumb clucks! Coming down those steps with a flashlight. Luke here saw the
flash. That's why I stuck him behind the door in the passage - just to trap you
guys. If there's any more of you, it'll be bad for them. I've got another guy
laying out there for any more smart mugs."
Heater laughed raucously. Then, continuing to relish this situation that
had brought the police commissioner and the ace detective into this
predicament, he again became loquacious.
"I guess Old Growdy suspected trouble," he scoffed. "Sent word out and you
came down here to see what was the matter. Well - there's one thing Old Whiskers
kept to himself. That was his own private entrance to this place.
"That door you just came through has a steel front. It was locked and Old
Growdy and this bird Tomkins, his secretary, were here in this room. Going over
accounts. Safe behind a steel door - and very safe because of that other way out
- over there."
Heater Darkin pointed to a panel at the side of the room. Weston and
Cardona could see that it might be the entrance to a secret passage.
"You guessed it," jeered Darkin. "An underground passage that leads a
block away. If you've got any smart cops waiting outside, it won't do them any
good.
"I learned about that passage. I brought my crew in from the other end. I
got a guy waiting back where we came in.
"Do you know what's coming off here? I'll tell you. I'm going take Old
Growdy's swag out through that passage.
"What's more, nobody's going to stay around to squawk. Old Growdy gets the
works - and so does Tomkins. Maybe you two get it, too. Maybe you'll go along
with me. But there's no shooting coming until Old Whiskers coughs up the
mazuma."

WHEELING, Heater turned to Eliaphas Growdy. The old man trembled as he saw
the viciousness of the crook's gaze.
"What about it?" demanded Heater, "Where do you keep the dough?"
"I have nothing," protested Growdy. "Nothing of value -"
"Listen." Heater's tone was hard. "Just because two mugs blew in here,
don't think you've got a chance. You saw what happened to them. That's why I
opened the steel door; just to nab any smart eggs who might come around. If any
more show up, I'll get them too. Come on! Squawk!"
"I shall tell you nothing," quavered Old Growdy. "If you intend to kill
me, why should I speak?"
"So that's it?" Heater laughed in ugly fashion. "No use to talk? We'll
see."
Striding past the desk, Heater reached to the floor. With one hand he
seized both of Growdy's legs. He gave a twist that sent the old man revolving
in his swivel chair. The turn ended as Heater plopped Growdy's feet squarely on
the desk.
"Look at those old shoes!" scoffed Heater. "Saving every penny, you old
miser. Well, Whisker Face, here go the boots."
Roughly, the crook tore the shoes from Growdy's feet. The old man's toes
showed through holes in the ends of his socks. Again, Heater laughed.
"That makes it simple," he asserted. "All set. Here's where I give the
heat. Ever have your toes singed, Old Whiskers?"
Bringing his left arm down on Growdy's ankles, Heater produced a matchbox.
He held it in his left hand. He extracted a match with his right. He lighted the
match. He brought the flame close to the old man's toes and held it there.
Old Growdy began to writhe as the match went out.
"Want more?" snarled Heater, as he struck another match. "Want more? Or
are you going to squawk?"
Old Growdy tried to squirm away. He was helpless. He shrieked as the
second match approached his toes. He was clasping his hands in agony, swaying
back and forth in the swivel chair, while Heater watched him gloatingly.

WESTON and Cardona stood helpless. The commissioner was wild with
repressed fury at sight of this preliminary torture. Cardona was grim. Yet
neither could make a move, in the face of the two revolvers that covered them.
Biting his lips, Commissioner Weston turned his head away as the second
match went out. He knew that this first torture was but a taste of what was to
come. Heater had not commenced to work. He was bringing out a third match,
ready to strike it.
Futilely, Weston stared toward the panel on the opposite side of the room,
as though expecting aid from that quarter. The commissioner, alone, was gazing
toward the secret exit. Hence he was the only person to witness the surprising
occurrence that took place there.
With a slight click, the panel slid open. Framed before a dim background
stood the most fantastically garbed man that Weston had ever seen. Clad from
head to foot in a wrinkled brown jersey, this tall arrival was masked by a hood
that covered his head.
Part of the brown garment, the hood was painted in fantastic fashion.
Circles of dull white; tapering lines below them - these gave the head the
exact appearance of a cobra's hood, with a topping bulge above it.
A gasp came from the lips of Commissioner Ralph Weston. Into this scene of
terror had come the man whose promise had brought Weston and Cardona to this
place.
The man at the panel was The Cobra!

CHAPTER XI

QUICK STROKES

EVEN as Commissioner Weston gasped, The Cobra took action. He had walked
into a set-up. All that he needed was promptitude and nerve. His revolver
spurted as he whipped it from his jersey.
The Cobra had picked Luke. His bullet found its mark in the gorilla's body
as Luke turned to learn the cause of the panel click.
The gangster who was guarding Tomkins swung also. He did not have a
chance. Before he could aim, The Cobra had swung the revolver in his direction.
Again the brown finger pressed the trigger. The second gangster fell.
Leaping up from the table where he was holding Old Growdy by the ankles.
Heater Darkin turned to face this foe. His plight was worse than that of his
henchmen. The Cobra had caught them unaware. He now had Heater Darkin unarmed.
The big shot fumbled in his pocket, seeking his revolver.
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s-s!"
The Cobra had reserved his warning hiss for the one man whom he had come
to get. He had shot the others only because they were armed.
The hiss ended while Heater was still striving to yank out his gun.
Deliberately, The Cobra fired. Heater Darkin slumped to the floor.
For one long moment, The Cobra stood watching the body of his victim.
Then, with a backward step, he went into the passage. The panel clicked shut.
The Cobra was gone.
"Look out, commissioner!"
Weston turned as he heard the cry from Joe Cardona. Luke, the big two-gun
gorilla, was swinging a revolver. The Cobra's shot had wounded his left arm;
his right was still ready with its gat.
Cardona was leaping for Luke as he cried his warning. The detective
delivered an upward swing that sent Luke's shot toward the ceiling.
With a snarl, the big gunman dived for the passage. Cardona snatched up
the gun that had dropped from Luke's left hand. Weston seized the revolver that
had been held by the gangster who had covered Tomkins. The secretary had rushed
to aid Old Growdy, who was now slumped helplessly in his swivel chair.
Cardona fired down the passage. His aim was wide. Bullets ricocheted past
Luke, who was fleeing to the other end. Cardona hurried after; Weston followed.
They reached the door where the passage turned.
Cardona was first. The detective stopped short. As he clicked a flashlight
toward the cellar stairs, he realized that he was trapped. Luke had turned; with
the big man was a second mobster. For the first time. Cardona remembered what
Heater Darkin had said about another gorilla stationed in the cellar.

SEEKING safety, Cardona dropped to the floor, firing wildly. He slipped as
he tried to dive back along the passage. He heard snarls; and caught the gleam
of turning revolvers.
Then came a roar from the cellar stairs. It was repeated with quick
precision. Cardona's flashlight, turning upward, showed the mobsters toppling.
For a brief instant, it revealed a form in black; but Cardona did not catch
that glimpse.
Weston was standing above Cardona. The commissioner was following
Cardona's wild shots with bullets of his own. His own flashlight gleamed as
Cardona's dropped. Weston ceased firing as he saw the two bodies of the dropped
gangsters.
"Good work, Cardona," he commended. "You bagged them."
The commissioner's words reached the darkened stairs. They brought a
faint, whispered murmur of a laugh from a being who stood shrouded there. It
was The Shadow.
The master fighter had reached the cellar stairs just as The Cobra was
making his departure from the room below. Before The Shadow had gained the
bottom of the steps, Luke had come dashing forth from the passage.
Waiting, The Shadow had seen the arrival of Joe Cardona. With timely
precision, he had saved the life of the detective; and probably that of
Commissioner Weston, for the latter had come blundering after Cardona.
As The Shadow lingered to make sure that all was well, the door swung open
at the top of the cellar steps. The Shadow pressed against the wall. A
flashlight glimmered past him. The voice of a detective came down the stairs.
"Hey! Cardona!"
It was Commissioner Weston who shouted in reply. His words were an order
to the man above.
"Search the house!" he cried. "There may be more of these crooks. Let no
one out! Close the cordon!"
The detective shouted the order to those on the ground floor. Then he
began to descend the stairs. He twisted his flashlight as he came downward. Its
rays flickered squarely on The Shadow. The detective let out a shout as he faced
a pair of burning eyes. He raised his revolver.
The sleuth failed to fire the shot that he intended. Like a flash, The
Shadow sprang forward and upward. His powerful hands caught the detective's
wrists. Flashlight and gun went bouncing down the steps as the startled sleuth
sprawled in The Shadow's grasp.
A twisting hold sent the detective sidewise. The man gripped the rail of
the cellar steps to save himself. Dazed by the swift attack, he clung there, as
The Shadow sprang upward to the door above.
Detectives were in the hallway as The Shadow appeared. They whipped out
revolvers, in accordance with Weston's instructions to let no one escape. The
Shadow was quicker; an automatic showed in his right hand. He delivered two
shots above the heads of the detectives.
The men jumped for shelter.
The Shadow made the stairs to the second floor. As he swept rapidly
upward, the balked detectives fired. Their shots were too late. They took up
the pursuit.
The Shadow reached the rear window on the second floor. As he raised the
sash, a flashlight gleamed from the alleyway beneath. The shout of a detective
came from behind the light. The Shadow hurried back to the hall.

THE inside detectives were at the top of the stairs. One shouted as he
spied The Shadow. He fired - again too late. The Shadow was on his way, still
moving upward; this time to the third floor of Old Growdy's home.
The Shadow reached the top of those steps as the detectives neared the
bottom. His flashlight glimmered. It showed an opening in the ceiling; a
trapdoor that led to the roof.
Out went the flashlight. Turning deliberately to the steps, The Shadow
fired two quick shots, aimed high. They served their purpose. The detectives
dived away from the bottom of the stairs. They shouted below for a
reinforcements. Their quarry was trapped. They wanted aid to take him.
A whispered laugh came from the dark. The Shadow's cloak swished as its
wearer swung himself upward upon the newel post at the top of the steps. Firm
hands pressed against the trapdoor in the ceiling.
The barrier was locked. A rusted bolt shrieked as The Shadow forced it
open. Pressing with amazing strength, The Shadow forced the trapdoor free from
its catches. A puff of fresh air entered as the trap toppled on the roof.
Cries from below. Other detectives had arrived. The voice of Detective
Sergeant Markham issued a command:
"Rush the steps! We'll get him!"
Detectives surged upward. Their course was unwise. They would have been
easy targets in the darkness.
But there were no shots to receive them. The Shadow had no quarrel with
the law. As the detectives rushed, The Shadow's strong arms gripped the edges
of the opening in the ceiling. His body swung upward. An instant later he had
gained the roof.
A flashlight from a detective's hand picked out the opening just as The
Shadow drove the trapdoor shut. The detective opened fire.
The Shadow was already on his way. By the time the detectives had raised
the trap and had reached the roof, he had reached the rear roof of a house four
doors away from Old Growdy's home.
The passage between Old Growdy's row and the string of houses in back was
more than a dozen feet in width. The Shadow, however, did not need to bridge
that chasm. His swiftly moving form leaped forward as it reached the rear of
the roof. With a perfect broad jump over a space thirty feet deep. The Shadow
reached the roof of another house. His course continued.
More than a block away from Old Growdy's, The Shadow picked a wall that
was to his liking. Its side, descending to a narrow street, was dark and
obscure. A short wait; then came the squidge of rubber suction cups. With
smooth precision, The Shadow descended the wall.
A police whistle sounded. The cordon was tightening. An officer, throwing
his light along the street, caught a momentary glimpse of a shadowy form that
was heading for a passage opposite. The policeman fired - too late to stop the
progress of the moving figure.

THE SHADOW had passed the cordon. Like The Cobra, he had departed from Old
Growdy's. But where The Cobra had gone in triumph, recognized as one who had
saved helpless victims of crime, The Shadow, trapped in a situation that could
not be explained, had been forced to flee in order to avoid a battle with the
law.
The Cobra - that night when he had slain Deek Hundell - had left The
Shadow to bear the brunt of surging mobsters. Tonight, he had again left The
Shadow in an embarrassing position.
Instead of regaining his lost prestige, The Shadow, tonight, had
discredited himself with the police. First with the underworld; now with the
law. For the second time, The Shadow had been belittled by the craft of The
Cobra!

CHAPTER XII

WESTON ORDERS

"WHAT have you learned, Gorgan?"
The speaker was Ralph Weston. The police commissioner was seated in Caleb
Myland's study. Before him were Joe Cardona and Crawler Gorgan. Behind the desk
sat Caleb Myland. The criminologist was listening intently to the commissioner's
quiz of the undercover man.
"Not much, commissioner," replied Crawler Gorgan. "I've been listening
down in the badlands. News travels fast down there. They're all talking about
The Cobra. But there ain't none that have spotted him."
"What about the affair at Old Growdy's?"
"They got the details of that, all right, commissioner. Say - everybody
knows that you and Joe were there. The Cobra plugged Heater Darkin - the
toughest crook in the business! That's what they're saying.
"And they're talking about The Shadow. How the cops went after him. I'm
telling you something, commissioner - if The Shadow shows up again, he's liable
to get his. There's plenty of tough birds that are ready to take a shot at him."
"The Shadow," decided the commissioner, "is a doubtful character. Cardona
still persists that he is fighting on the side of the law. I insist that his
behavior at Growdy's points to the contrary."
"Don't condemn The Shadow, commissioner," protested Joe Cardona. "He has
stepped in plenty of times to make trouble for the crooks. I think he was at
Growdy's in order to stop Heater Darkin. The only reason that he didn't was
because The Cobra got there first."
"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Weston. "The Shadow waged battle with our cordon."
"No one was shot by him -"
"Because they drove him away. He was in flight. The Shadow's bullets were
wide."
"Not down in the cellar, commissioner -"
Weston pounded the table in angered interruption. He glared at the
detective, then turned to Caleb Myland.
"Cardona has propounded a preposterous theory," explained Weston. "Down in
the cellar of Old Growdy's home, Cardona and I trapped two thugs. We riddled
them with bullets. Cardona, however, thinks that The Shadow, standing on the
cellar steps, fired shots to aid us.
"I saw no such shots. I believe that Cardona's imagination was at work. I
have told you all that occurred the night that The Cobra so valiantly came to
our rescue. What is your opinion, Myland?"

"I REGRET," declared the criminologist, "that I was not at home that
night. I should have liked very much to have been with you commissioner.
Unfortunately, I was delivering a lecture in Baltimore.
"It appears to me, however, that your analysis is correct and Cardona's is
wrong. I shall tell you why. We have two occasions on which both The Cobra and
The Shadow appeared.
"On one, The Cobra slew Deek Hundell. On the other, he disposed of Heater
Darkin. Both were murderous characters. Hundell was a self-admitted killer.
Darkin had stated that he intended to deal death. Therefore, we know that The
Cobra is opposed to crime."
Weston nodded in response to Myland's reasoning.
"On each occasion," resumed Myland, "The Shadow was also present. Why? To
deal with criminals also? Perhaps. But we may also consider the possibility
that The Shadow was there to offset The Cobra. He apparently had opportunity to
deal with the crooks, but failed to do so.
"Therefore, I am inclined to revert to my original opinion. Crime battlers
sometimes turn crook. The Cobra has not turned crook. The Shadow, in all
probability, has."
"But you can't prove that, Mr. Myland - "
The interjection came from Joe Cardona. Commissioner Weston stopped it
with a wave of his hand.
"You cannot prove otherwise, Cardona," he declared. "Therefore, you should
not interrupt Myland's theory. Go ahead, Myland. Excuse Cardona's interruption."
"Watch events in the underworld," advised Myland. "Do not molest The Cobra
in his excellent work. But at the same time, be on the lookout for The Shadow.
Should you gain proof that he has gone crooked, you can use every effort to
thwart him."
"Good advice," nodded Weston. "You are to follow it, Cardona. In the
meantime, Gorgan, do your best to get information on both The Cobra and The
Shadow. I am disappointed because you have learned so little."
"I've heard a lot, commissioner," protested Crawler. "The only trouble is
- what's phony and what isn't. I'll tell you what's been said about The Cobra.
They figure he's working a game that'll put crime on the fritz."
"You mean by eliminating criminals?"
"The big ones - yes. But not the little ones. The Cobra's got them scared.
He's making some of them work for him like stool pigeons - and they're afraid to
blab. That's what's been said."
"More power to him!" exclaimed Weston. "The Cobra is showing masterful
tactics. Undermining the structure of gang organization. Wonderful! Who are
these henchmen whom he has drafted?"
"That's what I can't get," replied Gorgan. "You ain't going to find any
guy admitting he's with The Cobra. That would be suicide, commissioner. You can
take it from me - The Cobra is wise enough to tell nobody much. He's got 'em all
scared."
"What about The Shadow?"
"Everybody thinks he's laying low. I told you that, commissioner. The
Cobra has made him look cheap. But I've got an idea - if you want it. It's just
an idea, commissioner -"
"Let's have it."
"I think The Shadow will try to stage a comeback. I heard what Mr. Myland
just said about The Shadow going crooked. I ain't ready to agree with that,
commissioner. Not just yet, anyway. The Cobra's got him licked though - beating
him at his own game. If The Shadow ain't on the job pretty soon, they'll all be
laughing at him. And any guy that gorillas get a laugh out of don't amount to
much - you can see that, I guess."
"Good theories, Gorgan," commended the commissioner, briskly. "However, I
should like facts. Return to your hide-out and learn all that you can
concerning both The Cobra and The Shadow.
"I promise you that you shall be rewarded for any tangible information
that you can produce. At the same time, you are too valuable a man to run
serious risks. Gain your information in your own manner."
This was the final comment. Cardona and Gorgan were dismissed. The
commissioner sat alone with the criminologist, Caleb Myland.

"CARDONA is efficient," commented Weston, "and Gorgan is useful. But,
after all, their abilities are limited. They cannot be pushed beyond their
capacities."
"Quite so," agreed Myland. "Nevertheless, Weston, I believe that these
problems in the underworld will solve themselves."
"How?"
"Through the actions of The Cobra. He has shown the fairness of his
purpose. His willingness to have you observe him combat crime is evidence of
his sincerity."
"But The Shadow?"
"There is the doubtful quality, Weston. I foresee a struggle between these
two factors who have made it their business to ravage the underworld."
"But who will cause it?"
"The Shadow. His prestige is at stake. He may reveal new traits - criminal
ones, perhaps - in his efforts to combat The Cobra's rising power."
"And the outcome?"
"We shall see. The time will come when you will find it necessary to side
with either The Shadow or The Cobra."
Caleb Myland said no more. Commissioner Weston, however, remembered the
criminologist's words when he was riding back to Manhattan in his official car.
A combat was impending. The Shadow and The Cobra - both could not follow
the parallel course indefinitely. As Myland had said, sooner or later, one
would be outlawed.
Myland had not specified which, but Weston had caught the criminologist's
innuendo - and the police commissioner agreed with it. With one of these
fighters beyond the pale, the other would deserve the protection of the law.
Which?
Commissioner Weston had his answer. It was induced by his own experience;
it was backed by the opinion which Caleb Myland had cautiously expressed.
Commissioner Weston was convinced that when the showdown came; when the
duel between The Shadow and The Cobra was actually in view, the one with whom
the law would find it best to side would be The Cobra.

CHAPTER XIII

THE SHADOW HEARS

DAYS had passed since The Cobra had ended the nefarious career of Heater
Darkin. Since then, The Cobra had struck again. His victim had been "Smokey"
Bragland, head of a big gambling racket. Smokey had been shot down in one of
his palatial gaming rooms, with a dozen witnesses present.
Although the public did not know it, Police Commissioner Weston had
received advance notice of The Cobra's deed. On this occasion, the hisser who
spoke over the wire had not invited Weston to be present.
But The Cobra's action had satisfied the commissioner. Smokey Bragland was
an unconvicted murderer. His warranted death had brought new consternation to
the underworld.
The Shadow had not appeared on this occasion. That had caused new comment
in the badlands. It produced the general opinion that The Shadow had admitted
his own inability to keep up with The Cobra's prowess.
Night had come to Manhattan, and among the hordes of scumland, The Cobra
was again the topic of awed conversations. At the Blue Crow - a hangout where
the most disreputable of rowdies met - uncouth mobsters were speculating on The
Cobra's next victim. While they were talking, a mobster entered. It was "Duff"
Berker, a member of Heater Darkin's disbanded crew.
"Hi, Duff!" called a sweatered gangster. "We was just wonderin' who The
Cobra was goin' to get next."
"Don't talk about that guy," growled Duff. "He's going to get the works
himself, someday."
"Yeah?" the first speaker was sarcastic. "Who from? Say - he knowed more
about what Heater Darkin was doin' than you did, I bet. Where was you that
night?"
"Outside," retorted Duff.
"I'll bet you was," grinned the gangster. "You oughta have been coverin'
up for Heater. Yeah - that's where you oughta have been. Then The Cobra mighta
handed you the bump, too."
Duff Berker made no reply. He shuffled from the joint. Buzzing comments
followed.
"He's the guy could handle Heater's old gang, Duff is."
"You bet he could, but he's wise enough to lay low. He ain't goin' to get
what Heater got."

OUTSIDE, Duff Berker was shuffling along the street. He come to an old
house and entered. He went through a hall to a little back room. He entered,
turned on a light and closed the door. A pay telephone was on the wall. It bore
a placard: "Out of order."
Duff picked up the receiver. He turned the mouthpiece with his other hand.
A hissing sound reached his ear through the receiver.
"Fang Eleven," reported Duff.
A hissing voice responded. Duff spoke in reply. His conversation ended,
Duff twisted the mouthpiece and hung up the receiver. He shambled from the room
and left the obscure house.
Duff Berker's action was a justification of Crawler Gorgan's theory that
The Cobra had gained the services of mobsters in the underworld. More than
that; it showed how The Cobra had been able to move more swiftly than The
Shadow.
The Cobra's agents were minions of the big shots whom The Cobra had
eliminated. Thus had The Cobra kept exact tabs on the movements of his
prospective victims!

BACK at the Blue Crow, mobsters were still talking of The Cobra. An hour
passed while gangsters sipped their grog and jested.
These lesser minions of crime felt themselves to be fish too small for The
Cobra's net. At the same time, they were visibly impressed by The Cobra's power;
more so than if he had been warring on such small fry as themselves.
A sweatered, dull-faced creature shambled into the dive. Questioning eyes
turned in his direction. No one recognized the newcomer, but his appearance was
sufficient to grant him entrance.
This arrival slouched into a chair by a table and threw a grimy dollar
bill into view. A hard-faced waiter took the money, and plunked bottle and
glass upon the table. With trembling hand and bulging eyes, the newcomer tried
to help himself to a drink. The effort was too much. He sprawled out on the
table.
"Booze or hop?" questioned a rowdy.
The waiter raised the man's head and stared at the grimy face with its
closed eyes. He let the man's head drop on his arm, where it rocked like a
pendulum and finally became motionless. The waiter picked up the bottle and set
an empty one in its place.
"Hop-head," he said. "When dose birds get looney, they start out for a
drink. When dis guy wakes up, he'll t'ink he's finished de bottle. Leave him
lay. I'll t'row him out when we close de joint."
Mobsters resumed their conversation. Another man appeared. This fellow was
recognized. It was Crawler Gorgan. A cigarette clung to Crawler's pasty lips.
Slouching to a table, Crawler called for a bottle. He received it. Staring
straight ahead, he poured one drink and finished it; then another.
Mobsters resumed their conversation. They paid no attention to Crawler
until he had swallowed a third drink. Then, when he arose with fixed stare and
moved dopily through the door, a gangster made comment:
"Looked like Crawler has been hittin' de pipe. He won't last long - dat
guy."
"You bet he won't," affirmed another. "He'll be like that bimbo over
there."
The speaker pointed to the sweatered man who still lay sprawled upon the
table. Listeners laughed. The denizens of this hangout had little regard for
hop-heads.

A SHORT while later, a new arrival appeared. This was a frail little
mobster, whose face showed a crafty look. His appearance brought greetings from
seated mobsters. Glasses of liquor were offered to the newcomer. He licked his
lips, sat down and took a drink.
"What's doin', Ears?" questioned a mobster.
"Yeah. Give us the lowdown," piped another.
"If anybody knows what's blowin'," declared a third, "it's Ears Findler.
Come on, Ears. Let's hear your spiel."
"Been talkin' about The Cobra?" questioned "Ears," with a wise look.
"Yeah," came the reply. "Who's he goin' to get next?"
"Why're you askin' me?" quizzed Ears. "Think I'm his pal?"
Mobsters grinned.
"Come on, Ears," asserted one tough character. We know you ain't wid de
Cobra. We was just figurin' maybe you had a hunch who he was after."
"I know who's dodgin' him," declared Ears, warily. "When a guy's dodging
The Cobra, it looks like he was on The Cobra's list. That's the way I figure
it."
"Who's de guy?"
"King Zobell."
Grunts of astonishment greeted this assertion. One mobster, a scar-faced
individual, voiced his disbelief.
"Say," he growled. "King Zobell is the real big shot. How's The Cobra
goin' to get at him?"
"Don't ask me," retorted Ears. "I'm only tellin' what I've heard - and I
don't go around listenin' to nothin'. Here's the lowdown.
"The Cobra knocked off Hunky Fitzler an' Cass Rogan, didn't he? All right
- who did he get next? Deek Hundell an' then Smokey Bragland. There's four big
shots for you. Who's next?"
"There's a couple of birds -"
"Yeah, but King Zobell is the best bet. I ain't givin' you just my own
idea - I'm talkin' what I've heard from guys that are in the know. I'm tellin'
you somethin' - the big shots are duckin' out of town. There's only one guy
willin' to stand the gaff. That's King Zobell."
"Say - he's got a half a dozen rackets, King has. He wouldn't duck. You're
right, though, Ears. King's the bird The Cobra oughta be out to get."
"An' King knows it." Ears grinned as he gave this information. "I'll tell
you why. This is the hot stuff. Somethin' I learned tonight. How many
bodyguards has King Zobell got?"
"Two," said a mobster. "He had Duster Corbin an' he's just taken on
Diamond Rigler -"
"Right," interrupted Ears, "an' he ain't satisfied yet. How does that hit
you?"
"You mean he ain't got enough bodies?"
"He needs another. Duster Corbin is out to find one. An' you can bet that
the guy Duster picks will be a tough egg."
"Whew!" One mobster drew his breath. "One grand a week - that's what King
Zobell pays for a body. Say - he must be scared if he's hiring a new one. Who
do you think he's going to get?"
"Whoever Duster Corbin picks," returned Ears. "An' I'm tellin' you this -
Duster ain't goin' to pick any guy that don't look tough enough to give The
Cobra a battle. Think that over!"
"Where's he lookin'?"
"When I seen him," informed Ears, "Duster was on his way down to the
Nugget Club. You know that joint - over the old garage. Say - there ain't any
guy gets in there that ain't known - an' he's got to have a roll on him, too.
"If Duster is lookin' for a bird that's in the money an' is worth one
grand a week, he'll find him there. I don't know who he's goin' to pick; but
I'll tell you this. King Zobell will have a new bodyguard by tomorrow night -
an' the reason he's gettin' one is because he's scared of The Cobra."

WITH this final reiteration of his former statements, Ears Findler
polished off another drink and slouched from the Blue Crow, leaving the
mobsters talking among themselves. It was a few minutes before the conversation
changed; then the result came as a chance interruption.
"Take a look at de hop-head," laughed a gangster. "He's comin' to."
Eyes turned toward the neighboring table. The sprawled figure was moving.
A shaky hand was reaching for the bottle. The sweatered man was staring with
wild eyes, while his fingers slipped against the smooth glass.
The bottle eluded the man's clutch. It toppled and rolled from the table.
As it broke on the stone floor, a hoarse, distorted scream came from the lips
of the wild-eyed man. The waiter approached and grabbed the fellow by the neck.
"Outside, bummer," he ordered. "We don't want no hop-heads here. Get
goin'."
The mobsters caught a glimpse of a drawn face with sharp-pointed features.
Dull eyes peering from each side of a beaked nose stared at the waiter. The man
staggered through the door and slouched off into the night as the waiter
slammed the barrier behind him.
Boisterous laughter followed.
Had any of those mobsters trailed the departing man, however, their mirth
would have changed to awe. Half a block away from the Blue Crow, the shambling
dope changed his gait. His figure straightened as he paused at the entrance of
an alleyway.
Beneath the fringe of a street-lamp's glow, his distorted face changed.
His hawklike visage took on a stern expression. His dull eyes seemed to
brighten until they glowed with the intensity of fire.
As the visitor who had left the Blue Crow turned to merge with darkness, a
sardonic laugh came from his firm, unyielding lips. That burst of repressed
merriment was a sign of identity. The pretended hop-head was The Shadow!
Into the underworld, The Shadow had come to listen for information that
concerned The Cobra. He had chosen the Blue Crow as a listening post. There he
had gained a clew.
Duff Berker, fang of The Cobra, had left too early to hear the utterances
of Ears Findler. Crawler Gorgan, undercover man for the police, had also
departed before the proper moment. But The Shadow had remained. He had learned
facts that only Ears Findler could have gained.
"King" Zobell feared The Cobra. That was sufficient. It gave The Shadow
the inkling that he required. He could foresee The Cobra's next stroke.
The eerie laugh trailed in the distance as The Shadow, still guised as a
chance prowler, moved rapidly through the dark.

CHAPTER XIV

CLIFF PLAYS HIS PART

ONE hour after The Shadow's departure from the Blue Crow, Cliff Marsland
entered an obscure cigar store and found a telephone booth in a deserted
corner. The night was yet young. Cliff, despite the fact that he had learned
nothing in the underworld, was putting in a routine call.
Cliff dialed a number. He heard the ringing over the wire. Then came a
click; after that, a quiet voice:
"Burbank speaking."
"Marsland," replied Cliff. "No report."
"Instructions." Burbank's tone was solemn. Cliff listened to the words
that followed.
Orders from The Shadow!
As Cliff heard them come in Burbank's quiet tones, he stared in amazement.
In all his career as an agent of The Shadow, he had never received instructions
such as these.
As Burbank continued, Cliff's eyes brightened. He began to see the purpose
behind it. His head was nodding instinctively. His jaw was set as Burbank
concluded.
"Instructions received," affirmed Cliff.
Walking from the cigar store, Cliff thrust his hand in his trousers pocket
and brought forth a roll of bills. He had a good supply of cash with him tonight
- sufficient to command respect at the Nugget Club, where only those with
bank-rolls were received.
With his other hand, Cliff reached to his hip, where he had an automatic
in readiness. Shoving the bank-roll back in his pocket, he strolled along to a
busy street on the fringe of the badlands. There he hailed a passing cab. The
driver blinked as Cliff gave an address.
The cab pulled up beside an old garage. Cliff entered. A watcher eyed him.
Cliff paid no attention to the fellow. He strolled to the rear of the garage and
reached a door. He pressed a push-button. A buzz sounded; the door opened to
show a flight of stairs.
Cliff went up. He reached a door where a little peephole opened. An eye
surveyed him. The door opened. Cliff entered to meet a stocky, sharp-eyed
fellow in tuxedo.
"You're Cliff Marsland," stated this man. "Been here before."
"Right," declared Cliff.
"Go on in," ordered the watcher.

CLIFF grinned as he entered a swanky, well-carpeted room with luxurious
furnishings and hanging curtains. Despite the precautions here, this place
could be easily entered if one used craft.
The Shadow, for instance, would have no trouble eluding the watcher in the
garage and picking the locks on the two inner doors. Cliff's smile denoted
anticipation.
Voices were coming from an archway on the right. Cliff entered to find a
dozen men assembled along a long mahogany bar. Some were attired in tuxedos;
others in street clothes.
Two men who recognized Cliff waved a greeting. Cliff responded. He
strolled to the far end of the bar and took his position there.
The Nugget Club was a gambling joint frequented only by mobsters of class.
No ordinary gorilla could wander into these preserves. The passport was money.
Cliff could see the barkeeper eying him. As Cliff pulled his bank-roll from his
pocket, the man turned away, satisfied.
Slot machines were in operation at the end of the room. Silver dollars
were in play. Cliff smiled to himself at the thought of these wise crooks
trying to beat a game as crooked as their own.
While he stood at the end of the bar, Cliff took in the layout of the
room. There was a door at the further end; that door was seldom used. It could
be reached from the big room, close by the spot where Cliff had entered the
door with the peephole.
After a brief study of the door, Cliff turned is attention to three men
who were standing near the center of the bar. One was "Duster" Corbin,
bodyguard and right bower of King Zobell, the big-shot racketeer. Despite the
low growls of the conversation, Cliff could make out what it was about.
The two men to whom Duster was talking were applicants for the job that
Duster wanted filled. King Zobell needed a new bodyguard. Duster was demanding
qualifications. He was getting boastful replies.
"Say" - one of the men raised his voice - "who do you think it was that
put away Crazy Louie? I was the guy that did it."
"Crazy Louie?" The other applicant snorted. "Say - he was bugs. Listen,
Duster. If you're looking for a guy that's worth a grand a week, you'd better
talk to me. I'm worth twice that dough, easy - but because it's you, I'll
listen."
"Ease up," ordered Duster. He was a stocky, heavy-browed fellow whose
scowl was a warning. "I'm not figuring on what you've done. What I'm after is a
guy that's not scared of anybody. Get me? That includes all."
"You mean The Shadow?" quizzed one of the applicants. "Say - that guy
would be my ticket. Show him to me and I'll -"
"Phooey," interposed the other job-seeker. "The Shadow is a has-been.
Nobody worries about him anymore. You mean The Cobra, don't you, Duster?"
"I mean anybody," asserted Duster, with a growl. "I want a guy that's got
nerve - like I've got. I passed a job to Diamond Rigler and I've got another
job just like it - for the right guy -"

DUSTER'S voice broke off. With it came a lull throughout the room. To the
ears of the dozen men assembled there came a chilling sound that broke with
sinister foreboding.
It was a weird utterance long feared in the underworld; one that had been
derided of late. But as that token of sardonic mirth manifested itself, Duster
Corbin, along with the two behind him, dropped away from the bar in sudden
terror.
The laugh of The Shadow!
Fierce mockery, delivered with a sneering whisper, it rose to a shuddering
crescendo. All eyes turned toward the spot from which the laugh had come. That
was the door at the end of the long barroom. With involuntary haste, these big
fellows of the underworld raised their arms.
Guns lay ungripped in ready pockets. Not one man tried to draw. A dozen
paling faces showed twitching lips while bulging eyes stared at the
black-cloaked figure that had entered.
With burning eyes that peered from beneath the brim of his low-turned
slouch hat, The Shadow was watching every man in the room. From his black
gloved-hands projected huge automatics. The very sight of those guns brought
fear.
The Shadow's laugh ended. Weird echoes seemed to linger. Then came a
sneering voice, in a tone that resembled a magnified whisper.
"You speak of The Shadow." The words were mocking. "I am The Shadow! I am
here to meet those who think they do not fear me."
With this statement, The Shadow moved slowly forward. Boastful mobsters
cowered. Braggarts were silent. Every man could see those gun muzzles looming
toward himself.
Every crook felt the burn of The Shadow's eyes.
"Who dares to meet me?" The Shadow's tone was scornful. "Now is his
opportunity. Let him speak for himself!"
As The Shadow paused, Cliff Marsland calmly edged one hand below the level
of the bar. He drew his automatic from his pocket. He hunched his body backward
as he rested the barrel on the woodwork. With steady, calculated aim, he
pressed the trigger.

WITH the unexpected roar, The Shadow staggered. His gloved hands dropped
as his tall figure broke toward the door. Rising to full height, Cliff Marsland
flashed his gun and fired a second shot that burst with a long flame.
The Shadow leaped headlong through the door, swinging the barrier as he
fled.
Cliff delivered two quick shots that splintered the woodwork of the door.
Then, with a ferocious leap he cleared the bar, thrust the barkeeper aside and
dashed in pursuit. He yanked open the door and emptied his gun down the passage
which The Shadow had taken.
The room was in a clamor. Every petrified mobster was leaping to action.
Revolvers were flashing. Men reached the spot where Cliff was on guard; others
dashed through the archway that led to the head of the stairs. There they found
the watcher groggy as he lay slouched against the wall.
Pursuit was too late. The Shadow, though obviously wounded by Cliff's
first shots, had made his escape. Would-be pursuers were returning to the
barroom. There they found Cliff Marsland reloading his automatic.
"The Shadow!" jeered a gang leader. "He was trying a comeback. Say -
here's the guy that showed him where he stands. Give me your mitt, there,
Marsland."
Others were offering their congratulations. Cliff received them in
indifferent fashion. Among those to shake his hand was Duster Corbin. King
Zobell's right bower turned his head toward the two men with whom he had been
talking.
"Scram, you punks," he ordered sourly. "Afraid of nobody, eh? Why didn't
one of you take a chance when The Shadow showed up?"
The rejected applicants sidled away. Duster gripped Cliff by the arm and
drew him away from the congratulating throng.
"I've heard of you, Marsland," declared the heavy-browed gun handler. "Now
I've seen what you can do. You had me beat. I was standing there like a dummy
while you took a plug at The Shadow!"
"I didn't drill him," commented Cliff, in a disappointed tone.
"You nicked him," asserted Duster, "and you're the first bimbo that ever
beat him to a shot. Put it there - and listen" - Duster's voice became a buzz -
"how would a job with one grand a week suit you?"
"I could use it," affirmed Cliff.
"It's yours," rejoined Duster. "You're on - new body for King Zobell.
You're going over to his place with me tonight."

FIFTEEN minutes later, Duster Corbin and Cliff Marsland sauntered from the
Nugget Club. Acclaim from the men remaining was still ringing in Cliff's ears.
The Shadow, jealous of The Cobra's rising power, had attempted a comeback.
Cliff Marsland had achieved the hitherto impossible. He had put The Shadow to
flight.
Cliff grinned grimly as he clambered into a cab with Duster Corbin. He had
reason. At The Shadow's bidding, he had aided in the duping of a dozen
witnesses. Cliff had played his part to perfection.
The carefully aimed shot that he had delivered was well calculated. Cliff
had sent it a full foot wide of The Shadow's body. The Shadow's stagger had
been a well-feigned pretense.
The second shot, delivered to the top of the door through which The Shadow
was passing was another token of Cliff's ability to miss the mark which others
thought that he had hit. Again, The Shadow had made a deliberated plunge.
Tonight, The Shadow had deliberately arranged to injure the fame which he
had gained. There had been method in his action. What The Shadow had lost,
Cliff Marsland had gained. Through his sudden fame, he had gained the berth as
King Zobell's new bodyguard.
King Zobell would be The Cobra's next prospective victim. Through some
crafty plan, The Cobra would manage to meet King Zobell on his own ground, in
the presence of his friends.
Two could play at that game. With Cliff Marsland working for King Zobell,
The Shadow could match The Cobra by appearing when he chose. Cliff, as inside
man, would pave the way.
What was The Shadow's purpose? Why did he desire a direct meeting with
this strange character whose purposes were apparently as just as The Shadow's
own?
Only The Shadow knew!

CHAPTER XV

AT KING ZOBELL'S

TWO nights had passed since Cliff Marsland had played his role. The
Shadow's agent, new hero of the underworld, was working at his new job of
bodyguard for King Zobell.
The big shot lived in an old-fashioned apartment house in a decadent
neighborhood. There was reason for this choice of residence. King Zobell,
controller of half a dozen rackets, had purchased the building outright. He had
fitted it like a stronghold.
Zobell's apartment was on the fourth floor. It could be reached only by a
private elevator which opened in a little anteroom near the rear of the
apartment. Crossing the anteroom, one reached Zobell's living room, the spot
where the big shot spent most of his time.
Barred windows - sheer walls four stories to the ground - these were the
protections which King Zobell demanded. The fourth floor - the top story of the
building - was above the level of the neighboring structures. Hence King Zobell
dwelt in apparent security.
King Zobell, himself, was a portly, fat-faced fellow who looked like a
cross between a politician and a corporation president. It was business
ability, a well as nerve, that had enabled him to merge some of the most active
rackets in New York.
Wary as well as enterprising, Zobell had learned to play his hand in
crafty fashion. Lesser racketeers did duty for the big shot. They were on the
firing line; King Zobell pulled the strings. It was seldom that the big shot
left his apartment. Most of his business was conducted by telephone. When
personal interviews were necessary, visitors were brought to his apartment.
Of late, however, King Zobell had not been at home to visitors. Duster
Corbin, his chief lieutenant and ranking bodyguard, fared forth to treat with
those who had business with the big shot.
This explained why King Zobell had chosen to have two lesser bodyguards.
He wanted one on constant duty; and he wanted Duster Corbin free to leave at
any time required.

CLIFF MARSLAND had quickly recognized the fact that King Zobell was a
nervous, troubled man. The big shot could have surrounded himself with a whole
corps of henchmen; instead, he preferred to trust to picked bodyguards. He was
afraid of traitors. He knew that his secluded abode, guarded by capable gun
wielders, would give him best security.
As for the cause of his fears, the big shot was prompt to make that known
immediately after Cliff Marsland entered his employ. The facts came out during
a conference between King Zobell and his bodyguards.
Duster Corbin - stocky, glaring and heavy-browed; "Diamond" Rigler, a
rangy, long-legged fellow with sharp, ever roving eyes; Cliff Marsland,
keen-faced and determined - these formed the trio that King Zobell took into
his confidence.
"I'm sticking it out," informed the big shot. "Staying here in town, while
others scram. The Cobra wants me for the spot - and I'm counting on you three to
nail him if he comes to get me.
"Don't kid yourselves, boys. The Cobra is tough. Those mugs that he picked
off were no softies. I thought that maybe it would be a while before he slated
me. But when other guys that he's due to gun for began their fade out, I
figured I'd be next.
"Duster Corbin, here, is an ace. He picked you, Diamond, or you talked him
into it - I don't know which. Anyway, you've got the goods. As for you,
Marsland, you showed your stuff when you took pot shots at The Shadow.
"But we're not dealing with The Shadow now. The Cobra has The Shadow
licked. The Cobra is after big shots. That's why I'm worried. The biggest boys
in New York now are the ones that are working for me.
"That's why they're safe. The Cobra goes to the top, every time. I'm the
one he'll pick - and I'm telling you, if he gets me, there won't be a big gun
left. Not one - and there won't be anybody with nerve enough to try to be big.
"But The Cobra isn't going to get me - not so long as I count on three
like you, and no more. This place of mine is as good as any castle. Keep your
rods ready and The Cobra won't have the chance he wants."
Cliff, when off duty, had reported these statements to The Shadow. Nor was
that all. At other times, King Zobell had chatted with Cliff alone; and the big
shot had shown a keen insight into the affairs of the underworld of New York.
It was Zobell's firm belief that The Cobra worked through traitors. In his
campaign against the big shots, he enlisted the services of small-fry
lieutenants who were close to their superiors. It was probable that he
dominated these men by fear; whatever his way, it was a fact that not one trail
had been gained to The Cobra himself.

CLIFF could feel the tenseness of the atmosphere at King Zobell's. Here,
on this second night that he had been stationed on duty, Cliff was beginning to
sense the strain. He had reasoned one fact to his own satisfaction.
If - as King Zobell feared - The Cobra intended to get the big shot, there
was only one place where the job could be accomplished. That was in this living
room, where King Zobell dwelt in confident security.
How would The Cobra manage it? Cliff could see no way.
A startling thought, however, occurred to him. The Cobra must certainly
know that he could reach King Zobell by cracking this stronghold. Was The Cobra
trying to figure out a way to do it - or was he biding his time with a plan
already formulated?
Cliff felt a strong inclination to the latter belief. Had he witnessed
anything like a manifestation of The Cobra's interest in King Zobell's abode,
he would not have gained his hunch. But the fact that The Cobra had made no
move was significant to Cliff.
Cliff was seated in Zobell's living room when the idea struck him. Duster
Corbin was also present. King Zobell was giving instructions to his chief
lieutenant. Duster was to visit racketeers tonight.
"You can go off duty, Marsland," declared Zobell, suddenly. "I'll keep
Duster here until Diamond Rigler shows up. Then Duster can go out. I'll count
on Diamond for tonight."
Cliff nodded. This was a change from the regular routine. According to
schedule, Cliff was to stay here until Diamond arrived. As bodyguards, Cliff
and Diamond took separate shifts. Rising, Cliff started toward the door; then
paused.
"Say, King," he said to the big shot. "It'll be O.K. if I stay here for
the night, won't it?"
"Right," acknowledged King. "You can stay here anytime you want, Cliff.
I've got no kick to having two men ready. At the same time, you're welcome to
the night off. You don't have to stick while Diamond's on the job."
"I've got nowhere to go," declared Cliff. "Might as well be around here.
I'll be back in a little while, King."
"Good idea," decided Duster Corbin, as Cliff headed for the elevator. "It
won't do any harm, King, to keep Marsland sleeping here at nights. He's got the
easy shift - the day one - and I'm here most all day. But at night - well,
that's the time to worry - and you've only got Diamond Rigler to depend on.
Diamond's good enough, though."
Cliff Marsland had reached the ground floor of the apartment house. He
stepped from the elevator and closed the door behind him. This lift, traveling
upward through a solidly walled shaft, was a specially designed device that
added strong protection.
Once the elevator had descended, it could not rise again unless a special
switch was pulled from above. Anyone could send the car down from upstairs, by
use of that switch.
When King Zobell's bodyguards reported, they gave a special signal by
ringing a bell beside the shaft. Each man had his own call. Thus a bodyguard on
duty could either send down the car or turn the switch so that the man below
could use the elevator.

CLIFF sauntered from the lobby of the old apartment house. He strolled
around the corner and followed a narrow street at the rear. Looking up, he
could see the lights of King Zobell's barred living room. The sheer wall ended
above those lights; it was topped by a projecting cornice.
Cliff reached a drug store a block from the apartment house. He entered a
phone booth and called a number.
In brief, steady phrases, Cliff reported his opinions. He told Burbank of
his apprehensions regarding The Cobra. Then, by way of a check-up, he described
the working of the elevator that went up to Zobell's abode.
"It's the only way of getting there," explained Cliff. "It would be easy
enough to get up to the roof of the apartment building through one of the
regular apartments - but that wouldn't help to get into Zobell's.
"The living-room windows are barred. Top floor, back, under a cornice.
Thick, heavy gratings. Zobell talked about putting in bullet-proof glass, but
it wasn't necessary. There's no building anywhere near that would give a line
on his window."
Cliff concluded with the statement that he was going back to King Zobell's.
He strolled from the drug store, reached the street in front of the
apartment building and sauntered along. He noticed a man in front of him. The
fellow turned into the apartment house. Cliff caught a glimpse of his face. It
was Diamond Rigler, reporting for duty.
As Cliff reached the entrance, he spied Diamond at the far end of the
lobby. Cliff stopped short. He saw Diamond throw a crafty glance back over his
shoulder.
Cliff was outside; Diamond did not see him. Then, still watching, Cliff
saw Diamond go past the elevator shaft toward stairs that led to a basement.
Quickly, Cliff bounded through the door. He had an immediate suspicion of
Diamond's action. Why was the man going downstairs? The basement had once held
a barber shop. That room was closed; its equipment was still there.
Cliff reached the stairs. He moved downward. He observed a light in the
old barber shop. He stole close to the open door. There he saw Diamond Rigler
lifting the receiver from the hook of a pay telephone.
That phone was out of order! It bore a placard to that effect.
Cliff stared as Diamond adjusted the mouthpiece. Then came a strange sound
from the receiver - a faint hiss that even Cliff could detect.
"Fang Nine." Diamond Rigler was speaking in a low voice. "All set to
report at Zobell's... Yes... When Marsland goes off duty... Yes... The
arrangement works if Duster Corbin is still there..."
Cliff edged back toward the stairs. The truth hit him with bewildering
force. There was merit in his hunch. The Cobra, indeed, was ready to strike.
Diamond Rigler, one of King Zobell's bodyguards, was a henchman of The Cobra!

DIAMOND had paused in his conversation. Cliff reached the steps just as he
heard the man's footsteps coming toward the door of the barber shop. Evidently
Diamond suspected a listener. Cliff managed to get out of sight. He heard the
door of the barber shop close.
There was no reason to wait here. Cliff knew that it would be unwise to
rouse Diamond's suspicions. At the same time, he realized that prompt action
was essential. The Cobra was planning a stroke - for tonight!
Moving up the stairs, Cliff quickly formulated a plan. He must get word to
The Shadow. At the same time, he could not afford the time that would be
required by a trip to the drug store a block distant. Cliff wanted to be in
Zobell's apartment when Diamond Rigler arrived.
Cliff saw the way. With a grim smile, he stopped at the door of the
elevator shaft. He rang the bell twice; then once - his call. Cliff tried the
door. It remained for a few moments, then yielded. Duster Corbin had pressed
the switch above.
Entering the lift, Cliff closed the door and pushed the button that drove
the car upward. He still retained his grim smile as he neared the top of the
shaft.
Tonight, The Cobra would strike again. This time, The Shadow would know
before The Cobra struck!

CHAPTER XVI

THE MEETING

CLIFF MARSLAND was no longer smiling when he entered King Zobell's living
room. The Shadow's agent seemed quite unconcerned. He plucked a cigarette from
a box on Zobell's table and lighted it with a match from the stand.
"Where am I parking, King?" he questioned. "Little room in the front?"
"Yeah," affirmed the big shot.
"All right," returned Cliff.
With no other explanation, Cliff strolled in nonchalant fashion through
the door at the front of the living room. Neither King Zobell or Duster Corbin
evidenced any suspicion of the action.
The front room to the left of Cliff's belonged to King Zobell. There was a
telephone in the room - an extension of the one which Zobell had in the living
room. Cliff felt sure that neither King Zobell nor Duster Corbin intended to
make a call. He chanced it.
Entering Zobell's room, Cliff raised the receiver and dialed Burbank's
number. The Shadow's contact man responded almost immediately:
"Burbank speaking."
"Marsland," declared Cliff, in a low tone. "Diamond Rigler is working for
The Cobra. Called him from downstairs. Reported as Fang Nine.
"Diamond is coming up to relieve me. I'm staying. Duster going out. The
Cobra is due to strike."
"Report received."
Cliff was about to give further details when a shaft of light appeared
upon the floor of the room between this bedroom and the living room. Evidently
King Zobell was coming in this direction.
Cliff hung up with promptitude. He made a quick dive through the door. As
Zobell appeared from the door of the living room, Cliff was apparently coming
out of the little room which the big shot had assigned to him.
"I'll give you those papers, Duster." Zobell, half turned toward the
living room, was speaking to his lieutenant. "They're in my room. I'll be with
you in a minute."
Cliff walked by King Zobell. He reached the living room, dropped in an
easy chair and picked up the cigarette which he had placed on an ash stand. As
he puffed in silence, Cliff began to analyze the situation.

HE was sure that he knew The Cobra's game. Cliff's reasoning was precise.
Since Diamond Rigler was The Cobra's minion, why had not Diamond opened the way
for The Cobra in the past - on some occasion when Diamond was here alone with
King Zobell?
Cliff saw the answer, The Cobra did not want it to be known that Diamond
was a traitor. Tonight's scheme would cover that fact.
First, Diamond would probably wait until Duster Corbin had departed. Then
Diamond would come in to relieve Cliff. The Cobra would follow. The purpose
would be to kill both King Zobell and Cliff.
Diamond would make his get-away with The Cobra. Duster Corbin, returning,
would find the bodies. Perhaps Diamond would stay instead of leaving! At any
rate, the scene would indicate that The Cobra had arrived before Diamond came
to relieve Cliff!
A perfect scheme - one that would keep Diamond as valuable to The Cobra as
before. Cliff settled back into his chair. All was well for the present -
particularly as long as Duster Corbin remained in the apartment.
King Zobell was returning with a stack of papers. Duster received them and
began to go through them. At that moment a buzzer sounded: once - then twice.
"It's Diamond," remarked King Zobell. "Let him in, Marsland."
Cliff went to the elevator shaft and pressed the switch. He could not
withhold a grin. To his way of thinking, Diamond had made a bull. Sauntering
back to the living room, Cliff took his seat and lighted a fresh cigarette.
Diamond Rigler had evidently tired of waiting and had taken it for granted that
Duster Corbin was already out.
A minute later, Diamond Rigler appeared from the anteroom. Cliff watched
his face, looking for signs of surprise.
There were none. Diamond had a poker player's countenance. Nevertheless,
Cliff figured that Diamond was probably annoyed at finding Duster Corbin here.
For if Duster went out leaving both Cliff and Diamond with King Zobell,
each of the secondary bodyguards would share in blame should The Cobra appear
and slay King Zobell. Cliff's feelings were those of mingled elation and
disappointment. He was pleased because a block had apparently stopped The
Cobra's plans; he was annoyed because the showdown would probably be postponed.
Ten minutes passed. Duster Corbin completed his examination of the papers.
He pocketed them. He arose to leave the apartment.
"I'll be back by midnight," he informed. "See you all later."
Cliff felt calm security as he puffed his cigarette. Duster passed the
door of the anteroom. Diamond seemed dejected as he slouched in a chair. Then,
with quick succession of events, came the unexpected.

CLIFF heard the sliding of the elevator door as Duster Corbin opened it. A
sharp, startled exclamation; then a revolver shot. Staggering with long,
convulsive bounds, Duster Corbin appeared from the anteroom. His hands were
clasped to his body. His lips voiced two hoarse words:
"The Cobra!"
Cliff was on his feet as Duster Corbin sprawled upon the floor and rolled
over dead. As Cliff reached for his gun, an order stopped him. Diamond Rigler
had risen; he had drawn a revolver. He was covering Cliff. The Shadow's agent
had acted too late.
"Up with 'em!"
Cliff's arms raised at Diamond's command. Cliff was staring toward the
doorway through which Duster Corbin had staggered. There he saw the author of
the shot that had felled King Zobell's chief lieutenant.
The Cobra!
Clad in wrinkled brown, his painted hood a monstrous sight, The Cobra
stood with smoking revolver in his hand. His painted eyes; the muzzle of the
gun which he held - both were directed toward King Zobell. The big shot sat
petrified. He was gripping the arms of his chair.
Cliff Marsland saw his own mistake. He had not calculated on this. He
remembered Diamond Rigler's words over the telephone:
"The arrangement works if Duster Corbin is still there..."
This was the arrangement! Diamond Rigler, upon leaving the elevator in the
anteroom, had pressed the switch so that the car would be ready for The Cobra!
The snakelike slayer had come up in the elevator. He had been waiting for
Duster Corbin!
Cliff saw death. He could picture himself slain with Duster and King
Zobell. The big shot and two dead bodyguards. That would be a perfect smoke
screen for Diamond Rigler's treachery!
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s!"
King Zobell cowered as he heard The Cobra's hiss. Trapped, the big shot
was a pitiful figure. His big, bluff face showed terror.
The Cobra showed no mercy. Upright at the door, he pressed the trigger.
The revolver barked. King Zobell uttered a hoarse gasp that ended sharply.
The big shot crumpled in his chair. His hands slipped from the sides and
dangled loosely. A red splotch began to form upon his white shirt front - the
life blood drawn by The Cobra's bullet!

THERE was no hiss as The Cobra turned toward Cliff Marsland. But those
painted eyes formed a merciless expression. Cliff was due to die. Fiercely, he
took the only course that offered life.
With a wild leap, Cliff flung himself on Diamond Rigler. He caught the man
off guard. He grabbed Diamond's right wrist with his left hand; with his right
arm he seized his foeman's body. Grappling, Cliff drew Diamond back across the
room, using the man's body as shield against The Cobra's fire.
Coldly, The Cobra watched the struggle. It could be no more than futile.
Sooner or later, the pair would break. Cliff's unprotected body would be an
easy target for The Cobra's aim. Cliff realized this as he fought. He made a
bold clutch for Diamond's gun and failed to grab it.
Diamond, lunging his left hand free, delivered a blow to Cliff's jaw.
Cliff staggered and sprawled against the door to the front of the apartment.
Half stunned, he lay there.
The Cobra was watching from the door. His revolver was idle in his hand.
Cliff saw why, as he turned to gaze at Diamond Rigler. With a vengeful snarl,
Diamond was raising his own gun to end Cliff Marsland's life.
Calmly, Cliff closed his eyes. He could not stop the shot. Murder was in
the making; Cliff was to be its victim. Surging thoughts swept through Cliff's
brain. They ended with a surprise that opened Cliff's eyes.
A crash came from beyond the spot where Diamond Rigler stood aiming.
Impelled by a terrific smash from without, the entire glass of the window frame
had been smashed inward.
Beyond the shivered pane were a pair of blazing eyes, peering from
blackness. A gloved hand gripped the bars beyond the window; from another fist
projected the muzzle of a mighty automatic.
The Shadow had arrived! He had come by the roof of the apartment house -
over the precarious cornice to the window below.
Though too late to witness the death of King Zobell, The Shadow had come
in time to fight for Cliff Marsland's life. Out of the night had The Shadow
come - for his meeting with The Cobra!

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHADOW'S SKILL

THE SHADOW'S turn had come. That looming automatic, thrust through a
shattered glass, was a weapon that could mean The Cobra's woe. The Shadow had
gained his opportunity to cover The Cobra and demand the strange rival to
reveal his purposes.
But the desired meeting held one flaw. To deal with The Cobra, The Shadow
would have had to disregard the safety of his agent, Cliff Marsland. Diamond
Rigler, vicious and frenzied, had finger on revolver trigger. He was about to
loose the shot that would mean Cliff Marsland's life.
The Shadow's automatic thundered in the confines of the room. The flash of
flame was not directed toward The Cobra. Its spurt was made toward Diamond
Rigler. There was not time to stop that pressing trigger; Shadow's bullet
accomplished its appointed end.
Diamond Rigler's body twisted as his hand fired. Sprawled by The Shadow's
shot, Diamond's aim went wide. A bullet splintered the door a foot above Cliff
Marsland's head.
Deliberately, The Shadow had given opportunity to The Cobra. The
black-clad arrival was risking his own life to save that of Cliff Marsland. As
The Shadow dropped Diamond Rigler, The Cobra wheeled. His warning hiss came as
he aimed point-blank and fired at The Shadow.
A fighter who worked in split seconds, The Shadow had foreseen this quick
reply. Even while he fired at Diamond Rigler, The Shadow was working to thwart
The Cobra's aim. His black form was dropping as the automatic spoke. Eyes and
right hand fell from view while the left hand slid down the vertical bar which
it gripped.
The Cobra's shot, aimed for The Shadow's eyes, whistled through the top of
the slouch hat and zimmed on into space.
The Cobra aimed a second shot. This one was for the hand that clutched the
bar. Again, The Cobra was a split second late. The Shadow had caught the window
ledge with his right hand. His left dropped as The Cobra pressed the trigger. A
bullet from The Cobra's revolver clanged the upright bar which The Shadow's hand
had left.
The roaring gunplay had brought Cliff Marsland to his senses. Leaning
against the wall, The Shadow's agent was pulling his automatic from his pocket.
As The Cobra's gun delivered another futile bark, Cliff aimed for the grotesque
figure in brown.

SOMEHOW, The Cobra sensed the menace. He wheeled. Cliff fired hastily; his
shot went wide. The Cobra did not fire in response. He had no time for aim, as
Cliff was steadying for a second shot. Still whirling, The Cobra gained the
anteroom, just in time.
With the bark of Cliff's gun, The Shadow had reappeared beyond the window.
His automatic, resting at the bottom of the bars, with his blazing eyes beside
the muzzle, loosed new fire just as The Cobra leaped from view. Only the
projecting edge of the doorway saved The Cobra in his flight.
Cliff, still a trifle dazed, missed a second shot; then clambered to his
feet. With automatic in hand, he dashed across the anteroom. The Cobra had
taken the elevator to the lobby below.
Cliff hurried back into the living room. The Shadow was gone from the
window. Cliff stood looking at the bodies on the floor. Duster Corbin - Diamond
Rigler - both were dead. The form of King Zobell lay slumped in its chair.
This was one of those emergencies in which The Shadow relied upon his
agents to use their own ability. The Shadow had saved Cliff's life. He had
balked The Cobra. The Shadow's rival was in flight.
The iron bars, set in the wall beyond the window, were a barrier that
would have taken too long to break. Cliff realized that The Shadow, forced to
depart by the precarious way up to the roof, would be delayed.
It was, furthermore, unwise for Cliff to remain. He saw how he could aid
The Shadow! There was still time to bring up the elevator and descend to the
street before The Shadow could arrive there. Cliff had a slender chance to
trail The Cobra.
Dashing back to the elevator shaft, Cliff pressed the button to raise the
car. He entered the lift and descended. He hurried through the lobby to the
street. As he paused there, he fancied that he heard the distant sound of a
police whistle, off in back of the apartment building.
A cab was standing by the curb, Cliff approached the driver. The man
reached to open the door.
"See anyone come out of the apartment house?" queried Cliff.
"Yeah," returned the driver, gruffly. "A funny looking guy -"
"Which way did he go?"
"Grabbed a cab that was down the street. Pulled out toward the avenue and
-"
"Get going. See if you can catch him."
Cliff bounded into the cab as he spoke. The driver slammed the door. As
Cliff leaned through the front window, the cab jerked away from the curb. It
shot toward the corner.
Something moved in the darkness of the cab. Cliff turned, startled, as he
heard a hiss beside him. He was staring squarely into the muzzle of a revolver;
behind it, luminous in the gloom, loomed the painted hood of The Cobra.

CLIFF rolled against the door as the cab whirled the corner. The form of
The Cobra fell upon him. A cloth was pressed over Cliff's face. The pungent
odor of chloroform was overpowering. Cliff slumped helpless.
The Cobra had tricked The Shadow's agent. The man at the wheel of this cab
was one of his trusted fangs. Lurking in the taxi, The Cobra had been ready to
trap Cliff should he arrive in pursuit.
Rescued by The Shadow, Cliff had thrown himself into the net. He was a
prisoner of The Cobra!
As the cab passed around the corner, a figure appeared at the door of the
apartment building. The Shadow had arrived. Up to the roof; across and down
through an apartment window, he had come in pursuit. He was too late to see the
fleeing cab. Yet his keen eyes seemed to sense what had occurred.
Another whistle - this time from the avenue. A reply - at the other end of
the street. A whistle from the back of the apartment house. Police had heard the
shots from high up in the building. They, too, had arrived.
The Shadow sprang from the doorway. His tall form swept forward like a
phantom figure as he headed for a passage beside a garage across the street.
Shots came from the corner. An officer raised a shout. Policemen dashed up to
the scene. They were too late. The Shadow had disappeared.
With swift strokes from the darkness, The Shadow had broken The Cobra's
power. Fighting from disadvantage, he had thwarted the killing of Cliff
Marsland and had driven The Cobra into flight.
But The Cobra, realizing his own advantage, had used cunning when he fled.
He had slain King Zobell as he had intended. He had left Duster Corbin dead. His
own man - Diamond Rigler - had been blotted; but in return, The Cobra had
captured the man whom he had sought to slay with the others: Cliff Marsland.
The underworld would never know of The Shadow's counter-stroke. New credit
would be The Cobra's. Defeated, The Cobra had turned events to his own
advantage. The Shadow, as at Old Growdy's, had been left to face the arrival of
the police.
Far from the apartment house where bluecoats now had charge, a grim laugh
sounded in the darkness of a silent street. It was not a laugh of defeat; it
was a laugh of determination. The laugh of The Shadow!
Whatever opinions might be formed, The Shadow knew the vital facts - and
The Cobra knew them also. Let the underworld gasp in awe about The Cobra's
prowess; let them deride The Shadow. Such did not alter the facts.
The Shadow's skill had prevailed. Only circumstances had aided The Cobra.
The serpent-hooded fighter had been forced to flee The Shadow's might. War had
broken between these two whom gangdom feared as grim avengers.
Once again, the advantage lay with The Cobra. The Shadow's task was
heightened. Yet through his skill, The Shadow had forced the issue.
Whatever The Cobra's plans might be, The Shadow remained to block them.
Until he could fully frustrate The Shadow, The Cobra would be forced to
inactivity.
Tonight had brought the two in definite conflict. Their trails -
supposedly parallel - were drawing closer. Another event such as this one would
bring them face-to-face.
That was the reason for The Shadow's laugh. It betokened safety for Cliff
Marsland. It presaged another meeting with The Cobra. It indicated secret
knowledge of the hooded fighter's ways and purposes.
The Shadow had good reason to wage combat with The Cobra. The Shadow had
divined the hidden goal which The Cobra was seeking through his warfare on
gangland's big shots!
The time would come soon when The Cobra would again be forced to match his
keen strategy against The Shadow's skill!

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DECISION

"LAST night, Myland" - Commissioner Ralph Weston was speaking - "I
received another call from The Cobra. It was as before - the hiss - the
statement that a stroke was to be delivered."
Myland nodded from behind his big table. "Here, then," he said, tapping a
newspaper that lay beside him, "is the result."
"Exactly," declared the commissioner. "To The Cobra we owe our thanks for
the elimination of King Zobell, the biggest of all Manhattan racketeers."
Caleb Myland pondered.
"One might call it crime," he stated, "when three men are slain - even
though one is a racketeer and the others are his henchmen."
"They were armed," returned Weston. "That makes a difference, Myland."
"Yes," agreed the criminologist. Then, with a slight tinge of doubt: "But
they were not engaged in crime, Weston."
"You mean -"
"That they could have been armed for self defense."
"That's right, Myland," observed Weston. "Your opinions are important in
this case. Personally, I have favored The Cobra's work. But if -"
"There is no cause to change your idea," interposed Myland. "Consider this
point, Weston. The Cobra, obviously, was there alone. Zobell - his henchmen
Corbin and Rigler - were three against one."
"You can safely give The Cobra the benefit of the doubt. He can be said to
have fought in self defense. That, Weston, would be my decision."
"And it is mine!" exclaimed the police commissioner, emphatically.
Caleb Myland smiled wanly. The criminologist seemed pleased. He tapped the
table methodically; then propounded this question:
"What of The Shadow?"
"He was there again!" declared Weston. "The newspapers do not know it -
but police reports show it. He was seen outside of the apartment house.
Apparently, he was there to interfere with The Cobra."
Babson entered. The servant announced that two visitors had arrived. His
manner indicated that they were Joe Cardona and Crawler Gorgan. This proved to
be correct.

CRAWLER GORGAN appeared eager when he entered. He wanted to talk. Weston
gave him an immediate opportunity.
"It was The Cobra, commissioner!" asserted Crawler. "You can bet it was
The Cobra that put King Zobell on the spot. He was the only guy that could have
done it!"
"So I have decided," commented Weston, dryly. "I am glad to learn that the
underworld shares my opinions. What else, Gorgan?"
"The Shadow was there, too," added the undercover man. "Everybody knows
it. He had to duck the cops. Say - The Cobra has them worried in the
Tenderloin. But The Shadow - well he -"
"Well, what?"
"Well, he's getting the razz. It don't look so good for him. I ain't
convinced that he's gone crooked, commissioner, like Mr. Myland here says; but
if he hasn't, he's gone looney, for fair."
"What makes you believe that?"
"Listening around the joints. Here's the way they all figure it - and
those birds are wise. The Cobra's knocking off the big shots, ain't he? Well
what does The Shadow want to butt in for?"
"Professional jealousy, perhaps," suggested Weston, with a smile.
"Listen, commissioner," protested Crawler. "You don't know The Shadow. He
didn't used to waste his time. Why should he be fooling around where guys are
going to get plugged anyway?
"He ain't helping The Cobra - that's a cinch. So it looks like he's trying
to hinder him, don't it? That's why the smart guys figure the way they do."
"Mr. Myland and myself," declared Weston, "have come to a definite
opinion. We feel that The Cobra's actions are justified. He is worthy of
support. We can base all of our findings on the affair at Old Growdy's. There,
The Cobra acted to save lives - including those of Cardona and myself.
"We find therefore, that he acted in self defense in the other cases,
including this one of King Zobell. The Cobra is deserving of police protection.
He shall receive it. Do you understand that, Cardona?"
The detective nodded.
"As for The Shadow," resumed Weston, "we can only presume that he, by
obstructing The Cobra, is trying to confuse the law. The Shadow, Cardona, is
wanted."
"For what?" questioned the detective. "There's nothing on The Shadow. He
made a couple of get-aways - but we don't know that he was doing anything
crooked."
"Cardona is right," observed Myland, wisely. "You must use discretion,
commissioner."
"Why do you say that?" demanded Weston. "I thought your opinion, Myland,
was that The Shadow had turned crook."
"Indications," returned Myland, "show The Cobra to be working in behalf of
justice. They also show The Shadow in a very unpleasant light. We can say that
we have established The Cobra's status, through your own experience at Old
Growdy's. Conversely, you must establish The Shadow's status by a definite
observation."
"I understand," nodded Weston. "Cardona, I am ordering a strict watch for
The Shadow. Should he be traced in criminal activity - or anything that
resembles it - we will not stop until we have captured The Shadow, dead or
alive.
"At the same time, The Cobra is immune. He is doing splendid work.
Perhaps, through his efforts, we may be able to disclose facts concerning The
Shadow."
"You hit it, commissioner!" The eager statement came from Crawler Gorgan.
"You've said just what's going to happen."
"How is that, Gorgan?"

"HERE'S the lay, commissioner. Understand - this ain't all my own idea.
It's what I've been hearing - specially since last night. Do you know what King
Zobell was?"
"A big shot racketeer."
"More than that, commissioner." Crawler was nodding wisely. "He was the
only real big shot left. The Cobra got some of them - the rest have taken it on
the lam."
"Is that right, Cardona?" questioned Weston, in a surprised tone.
"It looks that way," agreed the detective. "All the other big shots have
beat it. Some of the fellows who were running Zobell's rackets are sliding out,
now that King has taken the bump."
"Revolution in the underworld!" exclaimed Weston.
"Say chaos, rather," interposed Myland, sagely. "Mobsters galore - but no
leader."
"And none of the little guys want to be big," declared Crawler. "That's
something, commissioner."
"On account of The Cobra?"
Crawler Gorgan nodded.
"Good logic," decided Myland. "The Cobra has lopped off the heads. As new
leaders rise, he will cut them down. But apparently, there will be no new
leaders. There is opportunity, though." Myland shook his head in worried
fashion. "If anyone should dare to organize those bands, in opposition to The
Cobra -"
"There's only one guy big enough to do it!" blurted Crawler Gorgan.
"The Shadow!" exclaimed Weston.
Crawler nodded. Myland did the same. Joe Cardona looked glum. He had faith
in The Shadow's integrity.
"Get me right, commissioner," continued Crawler. "I don't want to give you
a bum steer - and there ain't nothing to prove that The Shadow has gone crooked.
"I'm just telling you this: there's plenty of mugs down in the badlands
who would follow any guy that they thought was tough enough to pull jobs in
spite of The Cobra.
"They've razzed The Shadow, but he's still got 'em buffaloed. He's played
a lone wolf game. There's no telling what he could do with a mob behind him. So
I'm telling you what to watch for that's all."
"Gorgan," decided Weston, "this is the best report you have produced.
There is our task, Cardona. The Cobra, alone, is stronger than The Shadow. If
mobs reorganize, there can be but one answer. The Shadow will have become their
leader."

THE commissioner turned to Caleb Myland. The criminologist was sitting
with his hands upon the table. His eyes were gleaming. He seemed to be looking
into the future.
"I can predict it now!" he declared, with emphasis. "Chaos always produces
a leader. Contact with crime produces criminals. Weston, the stage is set!
"I can see but one course for The Shadow. He has lost credit. He has
behaved in a suspicious manner. His power has waned; but it can be regained. He
has seen a way to take advantage of The Cobra's deeds. That is why he has sought
to block The Cobra.
"The Shadow has failed; but in failing he has won. The Cobra still remains
as an avenger; but mobsters, far and wide are looking for a leader. Petty crime
may exist for a short while; after that will come a masterstroke.
"Backed by a supercrew of ruffians, The Shadow will deliver crime. The law
will find it difficult to thwart him. We can only hope that The Cobra will aid."
"I believe you, Myland," declared Weston, soberly. "Nevertheless, we are
handicapped for the present. We need proof!" The commissioner thumped the
table. "Proof! Cardona has shown that. I believe that The Shadow will appear
with dangerous men at his heels - but until he has done so, we cannot act with
surety.
"Captured now, The Shadow could not be held. We must wait, Myland - wait
in watchful readiness, to see if your prediction is fulfilled."
"You will see my statements justified," prophesied the criminologist.
"It looks like something is due to happen soon, commissioner," asserted
Crawler Gorgan. "Still, I ain't saying anything. I'll keep my eye out - that's
the best that I can do."
Joe Cardona made no comment.
"On Wednesday night," said the commissioner, rising, "we shall meet here
again. Is that all right with you, Myland?"
The criminologist nodded.
"You be here, Cardona," ordered the commissioner. "If Gorgan is available,
bring him with you. If it is unsafe for him to come, get his report. Use your
own judgment in that matter.
"Perhaps, by Wednesday night, we may have evidence of the sort that we are
seeking. At any rate, I shall confer with you, Myland."
The criminologist nodded to close the conference. There was something in
his knowing smile that made the observers feel that he was sure his convictions
would be proven when that next meeting took place within this room.

CHAPTER XIX

THE SHADOW'S CLEW

THE police vigil had been raised from the apartment house where King
Zobell and his two bodyguards had been slain. The smashed window in the big
shot's apartment had been attributed to a wild bullet dispatched in that
direction. Hence all investigation had been directed to the elevator shaft,
which now was barred shut.
The lobby was deserted near the closed shaft. Hence, when a long streak of
blackness appeared upon the cracked marble floor, there was no one present to
view its strange, creeping motion.
Blackness that moved like a living thing - a streak of inkiness that
terminated in a hawklike silhouette. There was a meaning to that splotch. It
foretold the appearance of The Shadow!
Into the sphere of light glided a tall, cloaked form. A swish sounded
softly as The Shadow's garment swung to reveal a flash of its crimson interior.
The Shadow had returned to the spot where The Cobra had eluded him.
What was the purpose of The Shadow's visit?
The keen eyes beneath the hat brim were peering along the lobby. Their
gaze was searching. They spied the stairway that led below. The Shadow
descended.
A tiny flashlight glimmered. Its small circle of bright light focused upon
the door of the deserted barber shop. The Shadow entered the unused room. His
flashlight glimmered about the walls. It centered on the telephone which bore
the placard:

Out of Order.

The light moved closer. A black-gloved hand rested upon the coin box. The
Shadow's keen eyes studied the object before them. Long fingers, prying here
and there, reached the mouthpiece and turned it a scarce quarter inch.
A laugh whispered gloomily through the room. The Shadow had found the clew
he wanted. Working on the report received from Burbank - the contact man's
account of the last call from Cliff Marsland - The Shadow had made a discovery.
Cliff, in his call had stated that Diamond Rigler had called The Cobra
from downstairs. That was why The Shadow had come to investigate. To an
ordinary sleuth, the card on this telephone would have cleared the instrument
from suspicion. To The Shadow it denoted that this must be the telephone that
Diamond Rigler had used for his call.
Further, The Shadow had quickly detected that the phone, to serve The
Cobra, must actually be out of order so far as the public was concerned. Eying
the instrument, The Shadow had noted finger marks upon the mouthpiece. They had
given him the clew to the operation of the instrument.

THE SHADOW made no attempt to use the telephone. That would have warned
The Cobra. The light went out; a laugh again sounded, this time in darkness.
The Shadow had solved the riddle of The Cobra's fangs!
Throughout the decadent district which represented the badlands of
Manhattan, there were other telephones like this one. When such instruments
went out of order, they were seldom replaced. Every pay phone marked "out of
order" was a potential report station for The Cobra's agents!
The Shadow glided from the apartment building. He reappeared, near the
side door of an old garage, on the very fringe of the underworld. Entering the
door, The Shadow found a telephone in an obscure corner. He put in a call for
Burbank. His instructions came in whispered tones.
Sometime later, a young man appeared strolling along a side street of the
Tenderloin. He walked into a cigar store and purchased a pack of cigarettes. As
he strolled out, he spied a telephone in a corner and noted that it bore no "out
of order" placard. The young man continued on his rounds.
This quietly dressed, clean-cut young chap was no stranger to the
badlands. He had been here before at The Shadow's bidding. He knew the district
well. The young man was Harry Vincent, a trusted agent of The Shadow.
In another quarter, another keen-eyed young man was making rounds of his
own. Like Harry Vincent, he knew the underworld. Clyde Burke, police reporter
of the New York Classic, was a frequent visitor to gangland's dives. He, too,
was an agent of The Shadow.
With the aid of his two agents, The Shadow was checking up on the location
of potential calling stations. Following his first clew, he was tracing The
Cobra's operatives to learn the workings of those secret helpers whom The Cobra
termed his fangs.

IN a gloomy room where only a single lamp was glowing, a man was seated
facing a small switchboard. In response to a glimmering bulb, he pushed in a
plug. This man had earphones and mouthpiece attached to his head. He spoke in a
quiet tone:
"Burbank speaking."
A reply came through the earphones. Burbank spoke again:
"Report from Burke. Gangster identified as Gringo Volks made a call from
Cobra booth one block west of the Blue Crow. He received no reply. Burke
tracked him. Gringo is at the Blue Crow."
Fifteen minutes later, a black-garbed form moved silently along the street
where the Blue Crow was located. Stealthily, The Shadow lowered himself into a
small pit outside a grimy window. His keen eyes peered through the dirty pane
to survey the scene within.
Gangsters were assembled, talking in low, confiding tones. The Shadow
recognized faces that he had seen before. Among them was the one The Shadow
sought. Gringo Volks, formerly chief henchman of Deek Hundell, was seated at a
table with some others.
Gringo was the one who had spilled word of The Cobra on the night when
Deek Hundell had died. This was tribute to The Cobra's craft. It proved how The
Cobra had learned of the meeting which Deek had called. Gringo, Deek's most
trusted henchman, a minion of The Cobra. Thus had The Shadow learned from Clyde
Burke's report.
Seated apart from other mobsters was a visitor who had been in the Blue
Crow when The Shadow had come there in the guise of a sweatered dope addict.
This was Crawler Gorgan.
The Shadow knew the pale-faced undercover man for who he was - an agent of
the police. He watched Crawler rise and slouch from the dive. This was
sufficient proof that no conversation of importance was going on within.
Crawler reached the street and shambled along past the spot where The
Shadow lurked. The undercover man had no suspicion of the black-garbed
watcher's presence. The Shadow paid no attention to Crawler's departure. His
keen eyes, still close to the smudgy window, were fast on the thug called
Gringo Volks.
The hard-faced mobster seemed restless. He pushed back his chair and took
the path to the door. Coming from the Blue Crow, he, too, went by the spot
where The Shadow was in readiness. This time, The Shadow emerged from his
hiding place.
Gringo had no idea that he was being followed. He did not glance behind
him; had he done so, he would have failed to see the form the followed him.
When The Shadow stalked prey through the underworld, his stealth was superhuman.
Not even a swish of the black cloak betrayed his presence. Like Gringo's
own shadow, he followed silently until the gangster came to a disreputable
dwelling which appeared to be unoccupied. Gringo opened a basement door and
entered. He failed to close the door behind him.

THIS was the spot where Clyde Burke had watched - one block west of the
Blue Crow. A pile of barrels, near the opened door, showed where Clyde must
have stationed himself. The Shadow avoided this hiding place. Stealthily, he
moved to the door and listened - less than a dozen feet from Gringo.
The gangster was fumbling with the mouthpiece of a telephone. A buzzing
sound was audible. There was no further response. Gringo grunted impatiently
and turned toward the door. The Shadow moved back into darkness. Once again,
Gringo had called The Cobra with no reply.
This time, however, Gringo did not move back to the street. Instead, he
lighted a cigarette and stood smoking it in the shelter of the basement. When
he had reduced the cigarette to a tiny butt, he flicked the lighted end out
into the street and went back to the telephone.
Again, the twisting of the mouthpiece. This time the reply came. A hissing
sound from the receiver was plain to The Shadow's ears. Gringo spoke in low tone:
"Fang Two."
Clicking of the receiver. Then came Gringo's further conversation:
"I get you... Yeah... That's tomorrow night... Outside the Black Ship...
You're putting me in charge... Nine o'clock... I'll take care of the mob..."
The call ended. Gringo stalked from the basement. He passed The Shadow in
the darkness. His footsteps clicked on the sidewalk as he headed back toward
his favorite hangout, the Blue Crow.
A whispered laugh sounded softly after Gringo's footsteps had faded. The
tall figure of The Shadow glided mysteriously from a spot beside the door.
Gringo Volks had finally reached The Cobra. From his chief he had gained
definite information.
Tomorrow night. That was Wednesday night. The Cobra was planning some
action with the aid of fangs whom he had used before. From a hidden lair, the
unknown chief had issued an important order.
The laugh of The Shadow! Soft, but weird, it seemed to echo from the walls
past which The Shadow moved with gliding pace. Whatever The Cobra's scheme might
be, The Shadow would be concerned in its result.
Much was to be done before tomorrow night. Yet The Shadow's tone of mirth
betokened confidence. For by watching through the window of the Blue Crow; by
trailing Gringo Volks and observing the man's actions, The Shadow had gained
another clew!

CHAPTER XX

CLIFF AWAKES

CLIFF MARSLAND opened his eyes. He was lying on a cot, in one of the
strangest rooms that he had ever seen. Near him was a table and a chair; beyond
that, a large cabinet projecting from the wall. Cliff blinked as a door swung
open and a man stepped into the lighted room.
Cliff could not see the visitor's face. The man was dressed in dark
clothes and his back was toward The Shadow's agent. He was stepping toward
another door, which he opened to reveal a closet.
Cliff saw the man take down a garment. Stooping; he slipped trousers over
his legs and drew a sort of cowl up over his back. Groggy, Cliff did not
realize what this meant until the man turned and stepped from the closet. Then
The Shadow's agent gasped.
He was facing The Cobra! This room was The Cobra's lair!
A hiss came from the painted, hooded face. It was the warning of The
Cobra. Cliff stared as the brown-clad figure approached. He raised his arms and
found them heavy.
"You have slept well," hissed The Cobra. "You will sleep again - for long
intervals - while you remain my prisoner."
There was a forced tone to The Cobra's voice. It was that of a speaker who
chose his words in an effort to disguise his natural way of speaking.
"There are not many," went on The Cobra, "who have become my prisoners.
You are lucky. I am keeping you because I know your master - The Shadow.
"His time is up. Tonight, he will be outlawed. The police will be on his
path. So will The Cobra. That is why I intend to let you live. You will aid me
when I trap The Shadow."
Cliff's head was aching. The Shadow's agent sank back upon the cot. The
Cobra laughed in snarling fashion. He turned to the chair before the
switchboard and seated himself.
Cliff's eyes were closed, but he could hear The Cobra talking. Dully,
Cliff heard the instructions which The Cobra gave.
Crackling through his brain was the thought that these words would be
information for The Shadow; with it was the gloomy realization of total
helplessness.
Cliff knew that he had been drugged. He had lain here probably for days
and the effect of the dope had not worn off. Cliff's hands were trembling; at
moments, they seemed to regain their normal strength, but when Cliff clenched
his fists, all power seemed to leave him.

THE COBRA had finished speaking. He arose and again turned to look at the
helpless form of Cliff Marsland. Again, his hissing tone delivered insidious
words. Cliff's ears were pounding. He caught only momentary tones of The
Cobra's voice.
"Tonight... The Shadow... a fugitive... the law will seek him... when I
have done..."
Cliff closed his eyes in bewilderment. He was trying to connect these
utterances. They were ringing in his brain - words that he half understood. The
Cobra's voice ceased with a hiss. Cliff could hear his footsteps moving toward
the closet.
Something was happening, but Cliff had only a hazy idea of what it was. He
could hear The Cobra's hiss, coming as though far away. Once Cliff opened his
eyes; he stared in total amazement; then closed his lids and pressed his hands
to his aching temples.
Wild visions gripped him. The Cobra's hiss - it seemed to bring The
Shadow's laugh. Hope became despair. All was absurd and fantastic. Frenzied
desire for The Shadow's aid was racking Cliff's brain.
Opening his eyes again, Cliff stared, glaring at the ceiling. It seemed to
be whirling; as in a cloud, Cliff fancied leering faces.
The Cobra's hood - The Shadow's eyes - then ugly faces of scowling
mobsters. Steadiness came back only when Cliff closed his eyes and gripped the
sides of the cot. He heard The Cobra's hiss. Then came the reply of a crackly
voice, from the switchboard;
"Fang One."
"I am coming up," hissed The Cobra. "Is the way clear?"
"The way is clear."
"Turn out all lights. Above and below."
The lights went out as Cliff reopened his eyes. Complete darkness was the
result. Cliff could hear The Cobra moving toward the door. He heard the barrier
open; then close. A bolt shot. Muffled footsteps clicked from stone stairs
beyond.
"The Cobra!" screamed Cliff. "The Cobra! The Shadow! Stop - stop -"
Cliff's voice ended in a gurgle. Weakly, the deluded man sank head back
upon the cot. Darkness seemed to grip Cliff by the throat. He moaned piteously
amid these moments of awakened fantasy. The clicking of The Cobra's footsteps
seemed hours on those stairs, before they finally died.

YET The Cobra's ascent had required less than half a minute. At the top of
the stone steps, The Cobra was opening a door. He moved into the darkness of the
ground floor. In pitch blackness, The Cobra hissed.
An answering response came in a crackling whisper. It was Fang One - the
guardian of The Cobra's lair.
"Which way, Master?"
"The side door," hissed The Cobra. "I shall be gone at least two hours.
Wait here until I return."
"Yes, Master."
"Be careful with the lights. None until I have left."
"Yes, Master."
Footsteps thudded softly on a thin rug as The Cobra crossed the room. A
door closed. Faint footsteps from a passage beyond. The Cobra had left.
Fang One chuckled in the darkness. He seemed to like its atmosphere. Then,
a full three minutes after The Cobra's departure, a light came on as Fang One's
hand pulled a cord. The illumination, shaded in a table lamp, revealed a
plainly furnished room - also its occupant.
Fang One was an old, wizened man. His hair was thin and gray - on his
crown he wore a little rounded cap of black. Many denizens of the underworld
would have recognized that face, with its wrinkled, toothless smile.
The old man was "Crazy" Lartin, a recluse whom all regarded as almost
penniless. Crazy had been a beggar in his time. Whatever hoardings he owned
could not be large. This was the humble room of Crazy Lartin's abode. Below it
was the lair of The Cobra!
A humble, crumbling old house in an ill-kept district. Such was the place
that The Cobra had chosen as his headquarters. Crazy Lartin served as the
guardian to the way below. He held the title of Fang One!
This was a room with many doors. One was the way by which The Cobra had
come from his lair. There were four others. The old man was staring
significantly across the room; his gaze indicated the direction which The Cobra
had chosen for his departure.
Hands clasped and rubbing; lower lip protruding above the upper in a
fiendish leer - Crazy Lartin seemed to enjoy the prospect of The Cobra's
return. It was plain that he took pride in The Cobra's deeds. Fixed was
Lartin's gaze - so fixed that the old man did not hear a sound behind him.
One of the other doors was opening. Upon the floor stretched a long, thin
streak of blackness that crept forward in ominous fashion. Then came a figure
from darkness; that of a being clad in black. The Shadow!
The old man turned - too late. He gurgled as he caught a flash of blazing
eyes from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Then The Shadow was upon him.
Fang One writhed with surprising strength. He was overpowered. The Shadow,
stooping, trussed the old man with remarkable swiftness. He raised Lartin's body
with one arm and dropped the old man on a couch in the corner.
Leaning forward, The Shadow held a gag above the old man's face. Before
applying it, he put a stern, whispered question.
"Where is the prisoner?"
"Below," gasped Lartin. "Down the stone steps. The middle door - the light
beside it -"
The gag wedged its way between the old man's gums. As he twisted the ends
into a knot, The Shadow laughed. His whispered mirth boded no good for The
Cobra!

CHAPTER XXI

THE SHADOW'S COURSE

CLIFF MARSLAND blinked. The light had come on again. The period of
darkness had broken his dizziness. In the dim glow of The Cobra's lair, Cliff
felt a returning strength. Surging through his mind were thoughts no longer
scattered.
The Shadow must be reached! That was Cliff's one realization. Could The
Shadow hear Cliff's story, he would know amazing facts! With that thought,
Cliff Marsland flung himself sidewise from the cot and staggered to his feet.
The room spun. With crazy, whirling gait, Cliff plunged toward a wall as
though his steps were taking him down a ramp. He slipped as his fingers failed
to hold the cracks which they sought. Slumping, Cliff sprawled against the
rounded wicker basket. It rolled over and the lid came off.
"Ss-s-s-s-s-s-s!"
Half rising, Cliff stared in the direction of the sound. A new creature of
fantastic appearance was before him - a living snake - a cobra! Cliff uttered a
gasp as he saw the venomous serpent lift its hood. This deadly creature - pet
of The Cobra - was about to strike. It could deliver venom more potent than
that of its master!
Cliff did not hear the click of the bolt behind him. He did not feel the
swish of air that came from the opening door. The cobra's hood was poised to
strike. Cliff was staring, powerless to move.
Suddenly the gleam of a flashlight was reflected in the wicked, beady eyes
of the reptile. Blinded by the light, the snake paused in its stroke.
A terrific shot reechoed in Cliff's ear. It was the discharge of a heavy
automatic; caught by the stone walls, the report was cannon-like. Hood and head
were blown from the cobra's body. The writhing length of the snake wriggled on
the floor.
Amid the repeated echoes of the pistol shot came the strident tones of a
sardonic laugh. The fate of this real cobra was an omen. It was The Shadow's
challenge to The Cobra. Slumped by the wall, Cliff Marsland gasped again as he
stared into the eyes of The Shadow!

KEENLY, The Shadow discerned his agent's plight. With strong arm, he
gripped Cliff's body and raised the half-drugged man from the wall. He carried
Cliff to the cot and placed him there.
From beneath his cloak, The Shadow produced a small vial filled with a
purplish liquid. He uncorked it and placed the little bottle to Cliff's lips.
Cliff dropped back as a pungent odor filled his nostrils. Firmly, The Shadow
pressed the vial. Gulping, Cliff took the draught.
The room whirled. Cliff collapsed upon the cot. Yet as he lay there, he
could feel a potent fire that seemed to bring new life through his veins. The
Shadow's keen eyes watched the blood creep to Cliff's forehead. Then The Shadow
turned and stepped over to examine the switchboard.
Choosing plugs with care, The Shadow inserted them in the board. He spoke,
in low, whispered tones. Cliff Marsland raised himself on one elbow and stared,
despite his dizziness, as he heard a voice reply:
"Vincent speaking."
"Report," whispered The Shadow.
"Men assembled outside the Black Ship," came Harry's voice. "Cars waiting
in an alleyway."
"Join Burke," ordered The Shadow.
The gloved hands were busy with the plugs. Again, the whisper. Another
voice sounded from the plug box.
"Burke speaking."
"Report."
"Ready with the sedan."
"Await Vincent," ordered The Shadow. Then a pause: "Also wait fifteen
minutes after his arrival, Marsland may join you."
"Instructions received," came Clyde's reply.
A soft laugh rippled from The Shadow's lips as the black hands pulled the
plugs. Cliff stared steadily now; his head no longer swam; his eyes were filled
with keen interest.
The Shadow had solved The Cobra's system. More than that; from The Cobra's
lair he was using The Cobra's own equipment in order to instruct Harry Vincent
and Clyde Burke on the work they were to do!
The Shadow arose. He approached the cot and stood above Cliff Marsland.
The agent looked squarely into his chief's eyes. He felt the power of The
Shadow's burning gaze.
"You heard The Cobra?" questioned The Shadow.
Cliff nodded.
"What did he say?"
"He gave orders," declared Cliff, as he strove to remember. "Orders - to
men whom he called fangs."
Cliff paused; then, mechanically, he repeated disjointed phrases. There
was not a full sentence among them. They were not in the order that The Cobra
had uttered them. Yet The Shadow seemed to understand. More capably than Cliff,
he was piecing together the broken statements.
"You saw The Cobra," whispered The Shadow.
"Yes," returned Cliff. "He - he came in here alone. I could not see his
face. He went" - Cliff paused to point to the door of the closet - "over there.
He - he came out as The Cobra. I was dizzy."
The Shadow moved toward the closet. He drew out garments - among them two
long, wrinkled garbs of brown. He held them up to exhibit painted hoods. Cliff
shuddered at the recollection; then steadied.
"He - he put on one of those," gasped Cliff. "It - it was after that he
spoke. He - he said he would outlaw The Shadow. That - that tonight he -"
Cliff was weakening. He sank back on the cot. He felt what he was sure
could be no more than a last spell of dizziness. After that, he would have his
strength. He was sure of it; but for the moment, he could not speak, so weak he
was.
"And then?" came The Shadow's whisper.
"The Cobra!" blurted Cliff. "He - he went back to the closet. I - I saw
him. I - I was dizzy. I - I thought that everything was going black - that I
was falling - but that I would be safe for -"

A WHISPERED laugh came from The Shadow's hidden lips. Cliff Marsland had
settled back upon the cot. His mind was secure; but he could no longer speak.
It was unnecessary.
The Shadow's laugh was the sign that he had learned all that he needed to
know. He had divined the full meaning of Cliff's disjointed statements. He had
formed a complete report from wandering utterances.
Cliff lay quietly upon the cot. The Shadow moved about the room. Time was
floating leisurely in Cliff's mind, although moments only were passing. With
eyes still closed, Cliff felt himself raised up from the cot. He was moving to
the stairs, gripped by The Shadow.
Cliff's footsteps clicked on stone. The dampness of the stairway revived
him. Urged onward by The Shadow's arm, hearing The Shadow's whisper in his ear,
Cliff reached the top.
In the furnished room, he saw the old man prone upon the couch. Cliff
could see a fearful look in the bound prisoner's eyes. The man was staring at
the figure of The Shadow. The glimpse ended as Cliff reached the door toward
which The Shadow aided him. Then came the darkness of the passage; after that
an outer door.
Through a blackened alleyway, Cliff Marsland still felt The Shadow close
beside him. Across a street; another narrow way. Night air was reviving. It
added the final touch to the potent liquid which Cliff had swallowed. They
reached a street. On the other side, Cliff saw a parked car. He heard The
Shadow's whisper.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes," replied Cliff, firmly.
"I have placed an automatic in your pocket," declared The Shadow. "Join
Vincent and Burke in the car. They will tell you the rest."
Cliff nodded. With firm footsteps, he moved from the alleyway. He paused a
moment to grip the wall and steady himself. He did not see The Shadow in the
darkness. Turning, momentarily, he realized that his chief had withdrawn.
Cliff grinned. He was ready now. He headed across the street, steady and
alert. As he advanced to join the other agents of The Shadow, he heard a weird
whisper that rose behind him.
It was the laugh of The Shadow! From The Cobra's lair, the master fighter
had rescued his agent and had dispatched him to join the others who were
waiting.
The laugh faded, with echoing mockery. That was the token of The Shadow's
departure. The Shadow, himself, had started on his way. He had appointed work
for his men; for himself, a lone game.
This night would bring the climax. The meeting between The Shadow and The
Cobra was due to come! Like The Cobra, The Shadow had decided on his course!

CHAPTER XXII

PASS THE COBRA

CALEB MYLAND'S Long Island home showed dimly in the night. Only a few
windows were aglow. The quiet place seemed far away from the teeming slums of
Manhattan. Yet this secluded spot bore a close connection with affairs of the
underworld.
This was where Caleb Myland, criminologist, was to hold another conference
with Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. For this was Wednesday night - the
evening set for the appointed meeting.
Myland's estate was skirted by a hedge. Beyond that clumpy barrier, three
rakish automobiles slid into line. Lights out, men clambered to the road. They
stood silent, listening to the low growl of one man who was undoubtedly their
leader.
"Lay low, you fellows." The voice was that of Gringo Volks. "Ease in from
the hedge - I'll lead you back to where there's a break in it. Spread out and
move around the house.
"Keep the front clear. There's a big driveway there; we're not stopping
people from driving in. There's bushes on the drive. Keep behind them - you
guys that go to the front."
Low growls proved that the listeners understood Gringo's order.
"The Cobra's coming in tonight." Gringo's voice was still a low tone.
"Maybe he's in already. Maybe he's coming later. We took our time getting here.
It don't matter either way. Pass The Cobra - in or out. You get me? Pass The
Cobra."
"We get you."
"When he comes out," resumed Gringo, "that's when the fireworks start. You
won't see him at first. His signal will be a shot. That's when we cut loose.
High and wide. To cover The Cobra in his get-way.
"Crowd close to the house. Raise a big row. Then back here to the cars,
shooting all the way. Plaster the front, you fellows by the bushes. Plug the
tires in cars. Then join the rest of us.
"We're working for The Cobra. But we're mum. This is the job that fixes
things the way he wants it. From now on, we're in the money. And remember" -
Gringo's tone was final - "pass The Cobra!"
Slouching gangsters grunted their understanding. A squad of more than a
dozen, they filed toward the opening in the hedge. Spreading upon the darkened
lawn, they edged away at Gringo's order.

THESE mobsters represented a picked crew. Never before had such a capable
outfit ventured from the underworld. They were not ordinary gorillas. Each was
a fang of The Cobra. Each could have told his own story of treachery in The
Cobra's service.
Gringo's tale would have been typical. The former aid of Deek Hundell had
been cornered by The Cobra. In return for life - with the added promise of
remarkable gain - Gringo had worked from then on for The Cobra. He had betrayed
Deek Hundell to his new master.
Among the others who were in Gringo's squad were the ones who had crossed
other big shots. Only one was lacking: Diamond Rigler had been slated for a
lieutenancy higher than the one which Gringo Volks was holding. But Diamond,
alone of all the fangs, had died in The Cobra's service.
The nearer mobsters had reached the bushes on the close side of the drive.
Others had circled the house and were reaching a similar position on the other
side. Gringo had taken a vantage point close to the near side of the big house.
Fangs of The Cobra formed an armed circle! Steady hands with potent
trigger fingers, these aids were ready for what might come.
A car came up the drive. Gringo eyed it from a distance. The night was
still; he could hear the door slam; he could even hear footsteps crunching
along the walk toward Myland's front door.
An interval; then came another car. Like the first, it remained in the
driveway while an occupant alighted to enter the house. Gringo watched. Minutes
passed.
In accordance with instructions from The Cobra, Gringo had brought his
crew hither with no haste. Assembled at the Black Ship, he had waited until the
appointed time to start. Then he had gone from car to car, instructing his
drivers how to reach the road by Myland's hedge.
The Cobra was coming here tonight. It was probable that he had arrived
before his crew. At the same time, there was a chance that The Cobra had chosen
to wait until visitors had reached Myland's home.
The big house, as Gringo viewed it, would make a good lurking spot.
Gringo, had he been in The Cobra's place, would have chosen to come ahead of
the mob. Nevertheless, he saw merit in the other course, and appreciated The
Cobra's wisdom in making provision for a later entry.
Somehow, Gringo began to lean to the belief that The Cobra had remained
outside. Had he chosen this latter plan, he would be able to see how well the
gang stationed itself under Gringo's order.
The night had been cloudy. The overcast sky was clearing. Gringo was glad
that the fangs were stationed. Faint moonlight was now upon the lawn. Creeping
men would have been visible. As it was, all were in their places. Not a sign
could be seen of a single lurker.

THE lawn stretched out in back of Myland's house. A clear space showed a
dull, silvery surface instead of blackened grass. Gringo turned. His ears had
detected a faint sound that seemed familiar.
Was it a hiss?
Staring, Gringo saw a wrinkled shape, like a dark smudge on the silvered
lawn. A bulky, stalking body, it was topped by a strange, outlandish hood. Upon
that masklike headpiece glowed a luminous, painted face.
Circled eyes. Straight lines that tapered like chevrons to form a false
face of venomous appearance.
The hiss was repeated.
The Cobra!
Gringo growled a low order. It was heard by a fang stationed closer to the
house:
"Pass The Cobra!"
The next man whispered the word along:
"Pass The Cobra!"
Murmurs from the waiting fangs - murmurs no louder than a passing breeze.
Awed eyes watched while lips were silent. Like a triumphant general passing
beneath a bridge of swords, the figure of The Cobra stalked through the lines
of his waiting, watching fangs!
The brown-garbed figure reached its goal. The Cobra had advanced to an
obscure side door of the house. His snakelike form was swathed in darkness. The
back of his hood was toward his men. The luminous face could no longer be
observed.
"Pass The Cobra!"
The watchword had been obeyed. From now on, visitors could enter Caleb
Myland's only by the driveway in the front; but none would be permitted to
leave. The bars would not be lifted until the waiting fangs would hear the
signal shot that would thrust them into action.
Then, amid the barrage of a besieging horde, The Cobra would depart, while
his waiting fangs once more obeyed the order:
"Pass The Cobra!"

CHAPTER XXIII

MEN AT BAY

"WHERE is Mr. Myland?"
Commissioner Weston put the question. He was asking it of Babson, Caleb
Myland's servant. Babson had ushered two visitors, Commissioner Weston and Joe
Cardona, into Myland's study. They were awaiting the arrival of the
criminologist.
"Mr. Myland should be here, sir," informed Babson. "He was out of town. I
fancy that he missed his train and was forced to take a later one."
"Humph," grunted Weston, as Babson left. "This is maddening, Cardona. We
need Myland's advice at once. I want him to hear the report that you received
from Gorgan."
"It is still incomplete," reminded Joe. "Gorgan is going to call by
telephone before -"
"That's just the trouble," interrupted the commissioner. "Myland should be
here before Gorgan phones. Myland may have some important ideas on the matter."
The commissioner looked glum. He sat in meditative silence and Cardona did
not disturb him. Then came the click of the opening door. Weston uttered an
exclamation of satisfaction as Myland appeared.
"Sorry, gentlemen," remarked the gray-haired criminologist. "I was
detained in Philadelphia. It meant only one hour's delay in reaching here, so I
did not call by long distance. I came by taxi from the Pennsylvania Station."
"I didn't hear a cab drive up," observed Weston. "If I had, I would have
come to the door to meet you."
"This study is secluded," was Myland's rejoinder. "One cannot hear
automobiles when they arrive in the driveway at the front of the house."
"We have news for you, Myland," declared Weston, suddenly. "It is
important news - from Gorgan. Tell the facts to Mr. Myland, Cardona."

"CRAWLER GORGAN phoned me," asserted Cardona. "He was near a dive known as
The Black Ship. He observed mobsters gathering.
"Crawler could not recognize them in the dark. They were getting into
parked cars; and to all appearances they were preparing for some raid.
"It was too late for me to reach Commissioner Weston by telephone, for I
was at the place where I meet Crawler and I was ready to start here. I ordered
Crawler to slide back to the Black Ship - to see what else he could learn -
then to either call me here or to come with his report."
"I have used your telephone to call headquarters," said Weston, to Myland.
"Inspector Klein has sent two capable men down to the vicinity of the Black
Ship. They have instructions to be cautious."
"A mob assembling," remarked Myland, thoughtfully. "A mob - despite the
unsettled conditions in the underworld -"
The telephone bell rang. Myland picked up the receiver and handed the
instrument to Weston. The police commissioner heard the voice of Inspector
Timothy Klein. He held a short conversation; then hung up.
"The men have reported to Klein," informed Weston. "There are no cars near
the Black Ship. All is quiet there. Yet we have not heard from Crawler Gorgan -"
"Crawler may be on his way here," interposed Cardona. "If he found out
what the mob is doing, and had time to get here, he would come, rather than
call."
"Of course," decided Weston.
"A mob assembling." Caleb Myland was repeating his interrupted statement.
"That means leadership. Someone is reorganizing the forces of the underworld.
Shattered hordes have been assembled by a mighty chief."
"The Shadow!" exclaimed Weston.
"I think so," nodded Myland.
"Listen, commissioner!" Joe Cardona was on his feet. "This thing is coming
to a showdown. I think you're all wrong about The Shadow. If he was going crook,
he'd have done it long ago."
"He did not have the opportunity," reminded Weston, in an angry tone.
"I don't agree with you, commissioner." Cardona was blunt. "He could have
made the opportunity. I've got a theory of my own. Here it is.
"Who's been knocking off the big shots? I'll tell you. The Cobra! Why?
Because by clearing them out, he's left the very opening you've talked about -
but it's an opening for himself! The Cobra's the one that's ready to organize!"
"Preposterous!" exclaimed the indignant commissioner. "Cardona, such
remarks at this critical time come almost as insubordination!"
"You'll hear me out!" insisted Cardona. "You accuse The Shadow of having
tried to block The Cobra's work. All right - suppose he has. Maybe he knows
that The Cobra is actually a smart crook - maybe he knows what's coming.
"Take it from me - that gang that Crawler's been watching don't belong to
The Shadow. He doesn't deal with crooks. If some hidden hand is behind the
outfit, The Cobra is the one!"
"No more!" Weston drove his fist against the table. "Cardona, you will
answer for this absurd talk. The Cobra has proven his worth. The Shadow has
shown his questionable tendencies. Tonight, let us hope, we will gain positive
facts. Perhaps this crook, The Shadow, will become too bold. Your theory,
Cardona, is outrageous -"
"One moment, commissioner," Caleb Myland was speaking with a placid smile.
"We must not curb Cardona's statements. Any theory - given honestly - is worth
consideration. Why not plan what should be done tonight? We need further word
from Gorgan, but in the meantime, we can be discussing matters.
"I, like you, believe that The Shadow is a menace. But why mince words
when the proof is probably in the making? Perhaps from Gorgan - perhaps from
detectives - perhaps from crime itself, we shall know the answer before this
night is ended.
"Let the crook reveal himself, as I believe he will - somewhere in New
York. Speculation as to his identity will be useless until he has shown his
hand."
Mollified by Myland's words, the commissioner subsided. He knew that the
criminologist was right. Myland, like Weston, held the theory that The Shadow
had yielded to the lure of crime; yet Myland was content to wait.
The door opened. It was Babson. The servant seemed nervous. He approached
and spoke to Caleb Myland.
"Things aren't right outside, sir," he declared. "I was looking from a
front window. I thought I saw a man behind a bush near the drive."
Weston looked up in surprise. Cardona became alert. Myland held up his
hand to ease them.
"Babson is imaginative," he declared. "He knows that I have a large amount
of cash in my vault - here in this room. He is always expecting trouble.
"There may be a man outside; perhaps someone from the underworld. I have
feared this, but not on my own account. I have been worried about Crawler
Gorgan. His job as undercover man is a precarious one. Perhaps he has been
spotted making visits here.
"I shall take a look, gentlemen, at the place which Babson has mentioned.
It is better that I should go alone. I can peer from the window without being
observed. Come, Babson - show me the window -"
Myland was smiling serenely as he moved from behind the table. He was
heading toward the door of the study, with Babson at his heels. Weston was
watching the criminologist depart. So was Cardona. Both could see the door
beyond.
Then came simultaneous gasps. Weston and Cardona leaped to their feet as
Myland staggered back. Babson uttered a hoarse scream of terror. All hands went
up at the sight of the threatening form that stood within the doorway.
Armed with two automatics, a black-clad form was covering the four men.
Tall, menacing in appearance, his features were completely hidden by the
bundled collar of his black cloak. The broad brim of a slouch hat was turned
down from his forehead.
An ugly laugh came from unseen lips. The automatics moved forward in the
gloved hands that held them. Criminal in bearing, this intruder stepped toward
the group of helpless men.
A cry of outraged recognition came from Commissioner Weston, as the
official voiced the identity that was plain to all:
"The Shadow!"

CHAPTER XXIV

THE DUEL

COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON scowled as he backed toward the wall in response
to the gesture of the automatics. Myland showed a worried, bewildered
countenance. Babson was terrified. Cardona's face was hard.
"You asked for crime." The words came in a harsh sneer from the lips that
watchers could not see. "You shall have it. Open the vault in back of you,
Caleb Myland."
Glumly, Joe Cardona stood with upraised hands while Caleb Myland turned to
follow the bidding. Joe had staked all on the integrity of The Shadow. This turn
of events was wholly unexpected to the detective.
Joe had seen The Shadow in the past. Always he had arrived as a grim
avenger, to fight on the side of right. Now, his every action showing evil
intent, The Shadow had come to rob.
Babson had reported a lurker outside. It must be one of a mob. The
Shadow's mob! Joe could not have believed it, but for the presence of the
black-clad intruder now engaged in deliberate crime.
A sneering laugh. It was like the laugh of The Shadow that Cardona had
heard before; but it held a new tone - one that was ugly in its jeering. Joe
Cardona glanced toward Ralph Weston. The commissioner's face was purple.
"You have looked for crime." The sneer of The Shadow seemed a snarl as it
was addressed to Weston, "Watch it. Robbery - and murder. Turn out the law. I
do not fear it."
Caleb Myland had opened the vault beyond the panel. Without awaiting
bidding, the criminologist removed stacks of bank-notes and placed them on the
table. Thousands of dollars - all the wealth that the strong box contained.
"Close the vault!" hissed the unseen lips.
Caleb Myland obeyed.
"Death!" The word was ominous, as the black-gloved hands turned automatic
muzzles toward Caleb Myland and his servant Babson.
Weston and Cardona stood helpless. They knew that they could not save the
criminologist and the menial. One move would mean shots; then the guns would
swing in their direction.
The money lay where the black-gloved hands could pluck it. Quick death to
Myland and Babson - that, Weston took, was the intent of The Shadow. Then the
money - unless Weston or Cardona should attempt to intervene. If they did,
those automatics would bark new shots to end the lives of commissioner and
detective.

WESTON could not watch. He heard the taunting laugh, delivered in spiteful
hatred. He turned his eyes toward the door, to avoid a view of Myland's death.
Cardona, glancing toward Weston's face, saw a sudden gleam appear in the
commissioner's eyes.
At the same instant, Weston's lips blurted forth a cry of hope. The words
swung Cardona's eyes in the direction of the commissioner's gaze.
"The Cobra!"
Framed in the doorway was the fantastic figure that had rescued Ralph
Weston and Joe Cardona from a former plight like this. The folds of the dark
brown garb seemed almost black against the gloom of the hall beyond. But the
painted hood shone with luminous circles and pointed lines!
The moment that followed Weston's involuntary gasp seemed like a lifetime.
Four men - those with upraised hands - stood motionless. They were but helpless
witnesses to the amazing scene.
Weston's gasp had been an alarm. The black-cloaked figure of The Shadow
whirled rapidly toward the door. Both automatics swung to cover the
brown-garbed form of The Cobra. At the same instant, a long brown arm shot up
from the folds of The Cobra's brown attire. A revolver flashed as the quick
hand took aim!
A hiss came from the doorway. It was answered by a scoffing laugh. Then
came the conflict.
Three shots resounded with a deafening roar. To the listeners, they came
as a single, prolonged outburst. In this instantaneous duel between The Shadow
and The Cobra, both mighty fighters had launched their lead with fierce
defiance to the other's challenge.
But in that mighty burst of gunfire, one trigger was pulled a split second
before the others. A quick, but perfect shot accomplished both vengeance and
salvation. Brown finger, pressed to revolver trigger, had beaten the black with
their automatics.
Turning, Joe Cardona saw the figure of The Shadow as it wavered. The arms
had swayed in firing. A bullet to the body beneath the black cloak had caused
the automatics to falter in their aim.
The black-cloaked form crumpled. It sprawled on the floor, a helpless,
inert mass, while clattering automatics dropped beside it. The black hat,
toppling forward, completely obscured the face beneath.
At the door stood the hooded figure of The Cobra. The painted face seemed
to represent a gleeful smile. The muzzle of the revolver still was pointing; a
wisp of smoke was curling from it.
Eyes behind the painted mask saw that the shot had gone home. The figure
of The Cobra faded beyond the door.
"The Cobra!" exclaimed Ralph Weston. "He has saved us all. He has killed
The Shadow!"

THE commissioner was pointing toward the motionless figure on the floor.
Caleb Myland, leaning pale-faced on the table, nodded, as his hands pressed the
stacks of rescued bank-notes.
Joe Cardona was stunned. The Shadow - slain in the act of crime - by The
Cobra! Mechanically, the detective moved forward from the wall. Stooping, he
fumbled as he plucked up one of the automatics. A sudden stare came to
Cardona's eyes. He grabbed for the other gun and stood, gaping, with one weapon
in each hand.
These were not the famous .45s - those mammoth weapons with which The
Shadow had mowed down many fiends of crime. They were .38s - powerful, but of
lesser caliber than The Shadow's mighty guns.
As Weston stepped forward, Cardona stooped again. He dropped the
automatics to the floor. With sudden inspiration, he seized the black hat and
whipped it from the face that was beneath.
"Look!"
Ralph Weston and Caleb Myland obeyed Cardona's cry. Like the detective,
they registered amazement. Cardona's expression turned to triumph.
The lifting of the hat had revealed an unexpected sight. The painted hood
of The Cobra! An exact duplicate of the luminous, circled mask which had been
worn by the fighter at the door!
Again, Cardona stooped. He seized the hood by the knot at the top. He
yanked it clear of the head that wore it. This time, Joe Cardona, as well as
the others, stood amazed and wordless.
The face of the dead man was that of Crawler Gorgan!
It was Caleb Myland who saw the light. Blurting, the criminologist gave
the facts as he perceived them.
"Gorgan - The Cobra!" exclaimed Myland. "He turned to crime. He came here
as The Shadow - to lay crime on The Shadow! The one at the door - we took him
for The Cobra - was - The Shadow!"
As in corroboration of Caleb Myland's finding came a weird, chilling token
from beyond the door. It was a whispered, creeping laugh, that broke with
shuddering echoes - the laugh of the one who had slain The Cobra.
Saved men stood in silent awe as they heard the triumphant laugh of The
Shadow!

CHAPTER XXV

VANQUISHED MINIONS

OUTSIDE of Myland's home, Gringo Volks was tense as he whispered orders to
his men. The fangs had heard dull, muffled reports of gunshots within the house.
They were waiting for another signal.
It came. From the side door which the fangs had seen The Cobra enter, a
burst of flame appeared accompanied by the bark of a revolver. Fangs of The
Cobra fired in return. High shots smashed against the walls of Myland's home.
Into a patch of moonlight appeared the figure of The Cobra, moving
forward. A brown hand flung aside a glittering object - a revolver. The hand
descended; two arms swung upward, holding blackened objects: huge automatics.
A peal of weird laughter. Strident, unrepressed, the battle cry of The
Shadow struck the ears of the fangs as they paused in their fire. Wild
exclamations followed. Before them stood The Cobra - but his weird call was the
laugh of The Shadow.
Terror gripped the waiting fangs.
Then came bursts of flame from The Shadow's automatics, followed by
screams about the lawn. Guiding his shots by the flashes of revolvers, The
Shadow was aiming for The Cobra's henchmen.
"Let him have it!"
The order came from Gringo Volks as The Cobra's chief aid leaped from the
bush where he was waiting. Flashing a revolver, Gringo sought to meet the
challenge. Cobra or Shadow, this hooded figure was an enemy.
Gringo fired. His first quick shot was wide.
Gringo was aiming again. He was in full view of the house. An automatic
barked. Gringo sprawled. His finger slipped from the trigger. His revolver
bounded in the dirt beside a bush.
Staring fangs had seen the lieutenant's fall. With one accord they broke
into frenzied flight. Cutting across the lawn, they fired hasty shots as they
fled. They could no longer see the form at which they aimed. They could see
only the bursts of flame from automatics.
Crouched behind a little wall that was beside stone steps, The Shadow was
picking off the fleeing fangs. Responding bullets chipped off fragments from
the wall; but the ricocheting shots missed the living target.
Fangs from the other side of the mansion were heading in a wide circle to
escape The Shadow's fire. The automatics stilled. A weird laugh broke as five
escaping crooks drove madly toward the opening in the hedge.
A searchlight's beam came flooding through the opening. The loud, eerie
laugh had been a signal to men stationed in a car that had pulled up beyond the
break in the hedge. Five fangs stopped blinded as they faced that glare. They
raised revolvers.
Shots from beyond the hedge. They were delivered by The Shadow's trusted
men, Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent - with Cliff Marsland revived to aid them -
and broke the headlong retreat of the survivors who had obeyed The Cobra as
their master.
Two fangs fell. A third remained firing, while his companions cut at an
angle toward the house. The lone man aimed for the searchlight and missed his
target. A burst of return shots dropped him.

RISING from his protected spot, The Shadow took long-range aim. One shot
clipped the foremost fang; the next bullet sent the second sprawling. The last
of the fangs had fallen. The Shadow's laugh rose triumphant; then faded as the
master fighter - still garbed as The Cobra - turned to enter the house.
The Shadow's agents drove away from beyond the hedge as men appeared from
Myland's. The fray outside had been furious, but fast. Not until its quick
action had terminated did Joe Cardona appear, followed by the others from the
study.
Moonlight showed sprawled and writhing forms upon the lawn. Cardona and
Weston, carrying guns for protection, rushed forward to corral the dead and
wounded mobsters. Aided by Myland and Babson, they carried in the bodies of
those who were still alive.
Placing the crippled fangs in the front living room, Cardona and Weston
hurried to the study to call for ambulances and reinforcements from
headquarters. Joe Cardona was speaking as they moved along.
"These men will talk," said the detective. "The Cobra is dead. The Shadow
spotted his game and picked off his whole crew. We'll find his hide-out."
"How The Shadow did it is a mystery!" exclaimed Weston. "Commendable! Most
commendable!"
Little did either realize the details of the work which The Shadow had
accomplished as a sleuth in the underworld. They did not know how The Shadow
had spied on Gringo Volks in the Blue Crow; how he had noted that while Crawler
Gorgan was present, calls which henchmen sent could not reach The Cobra.
That was the clew which The Shadow had followed. He had trailed Crawler to
his abode this very night. There, from Cliff Marsland's disjointed phrases, he
had divined The Cobra's game. The Cobra had departed, attired as The Shadow!
Cliff had taken it for a fantastic dream; The Shadow had understood all!
He had chosen the attire of The Cobra for himself. He had taken one of the
additional garbs when he had left The Cobra's lair. Moving to the Black Ship, he
had heard Gringo's final instructions to his men - corroborating facts which The
Shadow had already fathomed.
It was The Shadow who had entered as The Cobra, passing through the lines
of watching fangs; while The Cobra, wearing a cloak and hat to impersonate The
Shadow, had been lurking within Caleb Myland's home!

CARDONA guessed this part as he spoke to Weston just outside the study
door.
"The Cobra would have slain Myland and Babson," said the detective,
solemnly. "Then, with the money, he was going to drop that cloak and hat to
appear as The Cobra."
"So his men would pass him," asserted the commissioner.
"Yes," agreed Cardona. "They would have held us back. We would have blamed
The Shadow for the crime - we would have thought the mob was his."
"We would have hounded The Shadow," admitted Weston. "Captured him - or
driven him to hiding - leaving The Cobra free to sweep with crime."
"Those men of his," assured Cardona, "were lieutenants of the big shots
that The Cobra killed. Each would have had his own mob - his own racket - his
own crimes."
"With The Cobra master of them all!"
They had reached the study. Cardona uttered an exclamation as he pointed
to the body of The Cobra, sprawled upon the floor. The black cloak and slouch
hat were gone. Both Cardona and Weston knew the answer.
The Shadow had returned. He had taken away these garments in which The
Cobra had masqueraded. Imitations of The Shadow's own guise, they belonged to
The Shadow now - not to Crawler Gorgan, the traitor who had used his knowledge
of the underworld to double-cross the law.
Commissioner Weston stood still as Detective Cardona raised his hand for
silence. Far away, barely audible in this rear room of Caleb Myland's home,
came the echo of a parting laugh.
Ghoulish, chilling mockery, it faded from its strange crescendo. Yet the
recollection of that bursting cry could not be forgotten. It was the note that
sounded final victory over The Cobra and his evil minions.
The triumph laugh of The Shadow!

THE END