THE SHADOW had reached another corner. The big sign was blinking a word. Pausing to play the part of Channing Rightwood, The Shadow waited at the crossing. Another passer joined him; together, they began the crossing.
“Look out!”
A big truck was lumbering down upon the two figures that stood in its path. The man beside The Shadow threw out his arm as if to protect his chance companion. At the same instant he leaped forward.
Had the man’s action succeeded, The Shadow would have remained within the truck’s path — although a stranger would have gained credit for attempting to save him. But The Shadow was ready. His strong grip caught the leaping man’s arm. With a forward motion on his own part, The Shadow sent the would-be murderer spinning backward, while he, himself, sprang for the curb ahead.
The truck driver jammed the airbrakes. He, too, was in the game. He had seen the wrong man swing into his path. His action, however, was too late. The minion of crime went hurtling as the fender of the truck propelled him. The huge vehicle shot toward the curb.
People scattered as the truck mashed against a wall. A deluge of falling bricks descended as the truck toppled over on its side and crashed into the street, its driver trapped within.
Blinking borders — corners with red centers — corners that turned green again. Once more the alert watchers within the circle of death had sent a false alarm. The Shadow had turned their own traps against minions of doom!
The Shadow’s course had changed. Boldly, this stranger who feared no danger was touring through the circle. In the middle of a block, a group of workmen shoved a barrier away from a grating. The foreman who had ordered them to do so was at the machine which controlled the electric drills.
He was watching the approach of Channing Rightwood. Eagerly, he had flashed his first signal. So sure was he of success, that he sent the second, just as the tall, stoop-shouldered walker reached the barrier that would force him to the grating.
As the foreman’s hand gave the switch the second press, a long arm shot forth. The tall body of The Shadow doubled. Hands caught the would-be murderer. The foreman uttered a choked cry as he was lifted high above the barrier. With a powerful swing, The Shadow hurled the man flat upon the grating.
Dazed, the frustrated murderer clawed at the bars while workmen were dashing to his aid. His fingers encountered the bar at the end of the grating.
A surge of gas came upward. Gasping, the foreman rolled away. Dazed, he clutched the electric machine and pressed the switch. The workmen looked on stupefied as the foreman arose; then gasped and fell. He had inhaled the noxious gas intended for the victim whom he had failed to snare.
Angry cries came from the workmen as they stared about for the man who had attacked their chief. The tall form of Channing Rightwood had ambled along the street. Another death trap, previously infallible, had been reversed when The Shadow had encountered it!
Excitement reigned within the circle of death. Minions of crime were in confusion. Men were obeying new blinks from the border lights. They were doubling their tracks, wondering as red centers changed back to green.
The doorman at the Hotel Zenith was watching the sign against the sky. So was the sandwich-board man who stood near by. Both wore ugly, puzzled faces as they realized that the quarry might soon be with them.
The Shadow, traps of death sprung uselessly behind him, was nearing the outer limit of the circle of death!
CHAPTER XXIV
THE FINAL ORDER
FELIX TRESSLER was in a rage. Stamping across the map room in his penthouse, the fiend was voicing his fury in vile epithets while Perry Harton and Logan Mungren stood in glum silence.
Staring from his corner, Joe Cardona had recognized the reason for Tressler’s fury. Joe knew that the circle of death was failing. Some amazing stranger had put it to the test which it could not stand.
Single lights had blinked; with them had come extensions of the neon line that marked The Shadow’s progress through the zone of doom. Then had come double blinks; these had brought triumphant cries from Tressler’s lips. Yet the neon line had kept moving onward. Lights that had blinked twice were followed by single blinks, as reversals of their previous claims.
Every signal that said death was delivered had changed to indicate only that the victim had passed unscathed. Meanwhile, the neon light had turned corner after corner. Not content with passing safely through the circle, the elusive quarry had picked new spots to conquer!
The neon tubes formed a blazing grille. The Shadow had played hob with Felix Tressler’s circle of death. To add to the raging fiend’s confusion, new tokens of dismay were coming.
Beneath the big map, red lights glimmered. These were evidently signs of emergency. They meant that trouble had come to minions of the circle. For a moment, Tressler stood with clenching fists while his big brows furrowed. Then, with fierce determination, he spat an order to his lieutenants.
“You, Mungren!” Tressler’s command came with a further scowl. “Out to the service elevator. Be ready. Men will be coming up! You, Harton! Get out on the roof. Look over the edge. Watch for any signs from below. Listen for sounds from the street!”
Fuming, Tressler watched the map. Lights were blinking that had shone before. They were coming with many flashes while red bulbs glimmered beneath. The telephone bell was ringing in Tressler’s office. The bulky fiend gave it no attention.
Turning in rage, he happened to spy Joe Cardona. Digging his hand into his pocket, the millionaire yanked out a big revolver.
“You will die, you fool!” stormed Tressler. “You, at least are helpless, even though the circle of death has failed!”
He gestured threateningly with the gun. Then his own words stopped him. Felix Tressler had voiced the truth. The circle of death had failed!
FIERCELY grim, Tressler thrust the revolver back into his pocket. He faced the map. The neon line was creeping toward the rim of the red circle. A single light blinked. It was the one controlled by the doorman at the Hotel Zenith.
“The last spot,” growled Tressler, letting Joe Cardona hear his words. “One man — free from the traps that lie behind him. He is the last I need. He shall be the last that I take!”
Red bulbs were burning. The neon light was creeping closer to its goal. The telephone was persistent in its ring. Wild bulbs were flashing white, upon the map.
“He can be stopped.” Tressler’s voice was determined. “No one can escape the circle of death!”
Striding to the huge map, the bulky man seized a switch which he had not yet touched. This switch was painted red. Cardona could understand its use. It was the control for an emergency signal.
“When this is swung,” Tressler turned to Cardona as he spoke, “the victim will die. A score of men are there to stop him at all odds. Battle will break loose, with many against one.
“After that, your turn will come. Harton will report what he has seen and heard from below. Mungren will admit my men. You will die, because you were a fool.
“There is a fool greater than you. He is the one below there.” With his free hand, Tressler pointed to the map. “He has succeeded because he has dodged traps one by one. Let him fight against odds that will bring sure defeat. The circle of death has worked from cover. It will show its power in the open!”
Another glance at the luminous map. The neon line, gauged to indicate the victim’s speed, was almost at the final light that showed the Hotel Zenith. That was the barrier upon which Felix Tressler counted. That was the spot where the loosing of death would start with certainty!
The bulky man pulled his revolver from his pocket. The weapon seemed to give him zest for his next deed. He was the leader of his warriors. Even though he was high above the street, out of the zone where danger reigned, Felix Tressler was ready for murder.