Still shielded, he was seeking opportunity for another shot at Wimbledon.
Had Wimbledon held his ground, he would have become The Shadow’s prey. Another attack caused the crook to resort to flight instead. While Lester Drayson and Dudley Arment had taken shelter — Drayson in a closet and Arment behind a desk — Commissioner Ralph Weston was turning in response to Wimbledon’s shot at Cranston.
Weston opened fire in a hurry. His bullets peppered the doorway. Wimbledon, unable to aim toward two enemies at once, decided to leap for shelter. He slammed the heavy door in back of him. Weston, pounding forward, reached the barrier just as the lock turned.
Two policemen came dashing into the library. Weston’s chauffeur had heard the shots. He had given an alarm. The commissioner ordered the bluecoats to take up the pursuit. They hurried in chase of Wimbledon.
While Drayson and Arment, coming from hiding, were giving first aid to Joe Cardona, Weston seized the telephone and put in a call to headquarters. Hardly had he finished with his orders when one of the policemen arrived back in the library.
“He’s made a get-away, commissioner,” informed the officer. “Out through the back — he drove off in a car that was parked out there.”
“Harlton’s car!” exclaimed Weston. He turned to Lamont Cranston, who was examining the wound of the servant, Harkin. “Where can Wimbledon have fled? How can we stop him?”
“Harlton came from the Universal testing field,” remarked Cranston. “There are ships there. Wimbledon is a skilled pilot—”
“We’ll call the testing field!” declared Weston. “We’ll stop Wimbledon before he can take off—”
“The field has been closed,” interrupted Cranston. “There are watchmen there; but I understand that the telephone has been disconnected.”
“Come along!” Weston seized Cranston’s arm. “We’ll start there in my car. Call headquarters” — this was to the policeman — “and tell them where I’ve gone. Order out cars — and planes and—”
EAGER for the chase, Weston dragged Cardona with him. The commissioner was talking excitedly as they reached the street.
“The testing field is out on Long Island!” he exclaimed. “Further than the regular airport. It will take Wimbledon half an hour. Come with me, Cranston—”
The commissioner paused abruptly beside his car. Lamont Cranston was wavering. He had clapped his right hand to his left shoulder. His face seemed pale by the light of the street lamp.
“What’s the matter?” questioned Weston. “Are you wounded, Cranston?”
“Slightly,” came the weak reply. “That shot of Wimbledon’s — it must have grazed me—”
He stopped; then waved to a uniformed chauffeur. It was Stanley. Leaving Weston, Cranston half staggered toward his own car.
“Go ahead, commissioner,” he called, as he leaned on Stanley for support. “My chauffeur will get me home — or to a hospital—”
Weston hesitated as he saw Stanley aid Cranston into the millionaire’s limousine. Two patrolmen were alighting from a car. Weston waved one into the house; he told the other to accompany him.
“All right, Cranston,” he shouted. “Take care of yourself, old man. I’m going after Wimbledon.”
The commissioner’s car shot away. Lamont Cranston’s limousine followed a few moments later. A soft laugh sounded from the interior. A firm voice spoke through the speaking tube. Stanley was startled by this evidence of his master’s recovery. The chauffeur, like the commissioner, had not detected that the wound had been feigned.
“To the airport, Stanley,” came Cranston’s order. “Long Island. In a hurry.”
Black garments came from the bag. Heavy automatics clicked. The Shadow’s laugh came in a weird, reverberating whisper.
The regular airport was nearer than the testing field. Lamont Cranston’s private plane was at the airport.
The Shadow, despite his delayed start, could be in the air as soon as Roscoe Wimbledon.
While Police Commissioner Ralph Weston was hurrying in pursuit; while orders were out to have police cars take up the chase and for police planes to follow with their own pursuit, The Shadow was turning to a plan of his own making.
Should Roscoe Wimbledon, master of theft and murder, escape the closing meshwork of the law, he would find another foe to bar his path to safety.
The Shadow, relentless when he dealt with men of crime, was on his way to block the arch-crook’s flight.
CHAPTER XXIII. ABOVE LONG ISLAND
A COUPE came to a jolting stop in front of a heavy gate. Headlights, cutting a swath through the metal bars, revealed the flat acreage of the Universal Aircraft testing field.
Roscoe Wimbledon had arrived at the destination which The Shadow had declared. Fortune had favored the fleeing crook. Not only had he evaded all pursuit; he had reached his goal before the police had managed to get there.
The automobile horn honked raucously. A sleepy watchman appeared beyond the gate. Again the horn; the watchman seemed to recognize its tones. He opened the barrier. The coupe rolled through.
After closing the gate, the watchman came back to the car. He could not see its occupant in the dark; he took it for granted that Ross Harlton was in the coupe. He climbed on the running board as a hand beckoned.
“Where are the pursuit planes?” came a voice. “Take me to their hangar.”
“Who are you?” demanded the watchman. “You’re not Mr. Harlton.”
“I’m Roscoe Wimbledon,” retorted the man at the wheel. “Harlton couldn’t come with me. Hurry — show me the hangar.”
“Over there, sir. Third on the right.”
The coupe started forward. Since government tests had revealed faulty ships, this testing field had been closed. Ross Harlton, technician for World Wide Aviation, had been allowed admission since the new owners had taken over Universal.
Harlton’s inspection had been largely confined to the Paraguayan planes which Washington had condemned. It was natural that Roscoe Wimbledon, president of World Wide Aviation, should come here to view the faulty ships.
Yet the watchman could not understand the reason for so late a visit. A second watchman also appeared as the coupe pulled up in front of the hangar. The first man’s explanation that this was Roscoe Wimbledon was satisfactory to the second.
“Open the hangar!” ordered Wimbledon. “Show me the plane that Harlton has ready for a test!”
The watchman obeyed. The lights came on. A trim, one-seated plane was ready for flight. Wimbledon snapped another order:
“Bring it out!”
Reluctantly, the watchman obeyed. One of them voiced an objection as he aided in the wheeling.
“You can’t go up in this ship, Mr. Wimbledon. The field lights are disconnected. Mr. Harlton can’t even make a test until he gets word from Washington—”
“My company owns this field,” snapped Wimbledon. “I’ve received the government permission. I’m testing this ship tonight. Spin the propeller!”
WITH these words, Wimbledon clambered into the plane. He found a loaded machine gun in readiness.
He muttered in satisfied fashion as he examined the controls. This ship, fuelled and ready for flight, had been arranged by Ross Harlton. It had been planned to carry two in case of emergency. Wimbledon, alone, was taking it tonight.
“Spin the propeller!”
As the watchmen hesitated on the ground, a whining siren sounded beyond the gate. The lights of a car showed through the bars. Pursuers had arrived.
“Police!” cried the first watchman.
“Say — maybe they’re after you — maybe you aren’t Roscoe Wimbledon—”
“I’m Wimbledon!” came the snarl. “Spin that propeller.”