Howard Norwyn was coming to his senses. The whizzing trip down through the elevator shaft had produced a reviving effect. But The Shadow gathered him as before and carried him along the deserted concourse.
A turn in the wall brought The Shadow to a heavy barrier. A pair of metal doors, dimly discernible outside the range of the basement lights, were closed and locked. These, during the day, stayed open against the walls. At night, they were shut. A huge bar, dropped from one door into a catch on the other, added strength to the lock.
The Shadow again rested Howard Norwyn on the floor. By this time, the young man was almost entirely conscious. He was rubbing his chin ruefully, trying to take in his surroundings. He stared toward The Shadow, who was by the doors, but he could barely discern the black-clad shape.
The Shadow was picking the lock. Clicks responded to his efforts. He forced the big bar upward and poised it carefully as he opened the door on the right. Turning, The Shadow gazed toward Howard Norwyn. His gleaming eyes saw that the young man was recovered, but still dizzy. The Shadow stepped beyond the door.
There he dropped coat, hat and gloves. The black garments went into the unfolded briefcase. Depositing the bag, The Shadow stepped back through the door and approached Howard Norwyn.
“Come.” The Shadow’s voice was a quiet, commanding tone, different from his sinister whisper. “We must leave. Do not delay.”
Howard Norwyn nodded. He sensed that this was a friend. The Shadow aided him to rise. Norwyn passed through the open door. The Shadow drew the barrier slowly shut; then gave it a quick jerk that caused a slight clang. From inside came the answer; the poised bar dropped from the jolt and clattered into position. The doors were barred on the inside as before!
THE SHADOW and Howard Norwyn were in a gloomy underground passage, where the only light came from a hundred feet ahead. The Shadow paused to work upon the lock that he had opened. With the aid of a special key, he again locked the door. Picking up his briefcase, he gripped Howard Norwyn by the arm. Together, they made their way along the underground passage.
Norwyn blinked as he came into the light. For the first time, he realized where he was. They were entering the subway station, one block from the Zenith Building. The Shadow had opened the way between the skyscraper and the station.
Howard Norwyn followed his rescuer through the turnstile. A train was coming into the station; The Shadow urged Norwyn aboard. As they stood on the platform of the car, Norwyn studied this stranger who had brought him here.
He did not recognize The Shadow as the one who had encountered him at the door of the vault room. Nor did Norwyn recall the strange journey through the elevator shaft. He remembered, dimly, that he had found George Hobston dead. He could recollect an enemy striking him down; then this friend who had brought him to the subway.
The face that Norwyn viewed was a singular one. It was a countenance that might have been chiseled from stone. Thin lips, inflexible features; these formed the masklike face. Most noticeable, however, were the eyes that burned from the sides of a hawklike nose.
Those steady optics held Howard Norwyn with their gaze. Dizzy as he clutched the inner door of the speeding subway car, Norwyn lost all sense of other things about him. The roar of the train precluded speech. The dominating eyes commanded trust and obedience.
The express came to a stop. A sliding door moved open; The Shadow’s hand caught Norwyn’s arm. Nodding, the young man followed his commander to the platform. The Shadow headed for an obscure flight of steps. He and Norwyn reached the street.
They were at Fourteenth Street. Half a block from the station, Norwyn’s rescuer stopped beside a limousine. A chauffeur bounded to the street. He opened the door. Norwyn felt a steady hand thrust him into the car. Then his companion joined him.
“New Jersey, Stanley,” spoke a quiet voice through the speaking tube.
THE car rolled away. Howard Norwyn settled back in the cushions. He began to feel a sinking sensation. The back of his head was aching as a reminder of the pounding that it had received from the antagonist in Hobston’s office.
“Where — where are we going?” questioned Norwyn, faintly.
“You will learn later,” came the quiet reply.
“But — but what has happened to Mr. Hobston?” protested the young man. “Who — who killed him?”
“That we shall discover.”
“But I–I should be back there. I–I must explain to the police. If they — if they—”
“If they find you, they will hold you for murder.”
Howard Norwyn clutched at the strap which hung beside the window of the limousine. He tried to bring himself up from the cushions to stare at the quiet speaker. All he could see was the outline of the other rider.
The words still rang in Norwyn’s ears. Sickened, the young man dropped back. He realized the truth of those steady words. He understood what the murderer had intended. Much had been stolen from Hobston’s vault. Enough, however, remained to incriminate whomever the police might have found in the vault room.
“The revolver!” gasped Norwyn, suddenly. “I–I had it in my hand. Was it — was it—”
“It was the gun that killed George Hobston. It was in your possession. I have brought it with us.”
A sigh of relief came from Howard Norwyn. It was followed by a groan as the young man realized that a predicament still existed. Norwyn’s aching head rolled back against the top of the seat. Dazedly, his mind was yielding to drumming thoughts of new danger.
A hand stretched forward. It held a small vial. As Norwyn grasped the little bottle, he heard the command from beside him:
“Drink.”
Norwyn pressed the bottle to his lips. He swallowed its contents. His head became light. The vial slipped from his hands. Swimming thoughts faded; under the influence of the opiate, Howard Norwyn slumped against the cushions and became quiet.
His worries were ended for the night. On the morrow, The Shadow would hear his story. The limousine had passed through the Holland Tunnel. It was heading into New Jersey, carrying its pair of passengers from Manhattan.
Howard Norwyn was traveling from the scene of crime. His course would not be traced. The Shadow had brought him from the spot where he had been left to bear the brunt of crime. Yet The Shadow knew that Norwyn’s safety could be no more than temporary until the real murderer should be uncovered.
A soft laugh came from the darkness of the limousine. The whispered mirth of The Shadow faded. The rescue of Howard Norwyn had been effected. Work of more importance lay ahead.
That laugh presaged determination. It was The Shadow’s challenge to hidden plotters who had gained their aim of crime. Against them, The Shadow had scored one point: the rescue of the man on whom they had sought to shoulder murder.
There was other work to be accomplished. The murderer of George Hobston must be discovered; with him all who had concerned themselves with that crime. The Shadow could foresee a mighty task.
Perhaps it was the subtlety of the murder itself; perhaps it was quickness with which the actual murderer had made his get-away — either of these points might have impressed The Shadow. Whichever the case, there was something strangely grim about The Shadow’s laugh.
The master of darkness recognized that he was dealing with unusual crime. He could see that this episode might be but one in a sequence of malignant events. The Shadow knew the need for counterstrokes against a hidden menace.
Well did The Shadow divine hidden facts! To-night, he had encountered a phase of crime that was merely the surface indication of what lay beneath. The Shadow had but reached the threshold beyond which he was to find insidious evil.