One man had gained the wheel. Alone unscathed, he shot the car forward. As the automobile passed the spot where The Shadow loomed, a wounded man arose from the back and with a tense, almost dying, effort leveled his revolver straight toward the black-garbed avenger.
The Shadow’s automatic spoke. Not toward the man who held the gun, but toward the driver of the car.
The automobile swerved as the driver cried aloud. It headed for the opposite curb. The gun-raising gangster fired. His shot went wide. The bullet thudded against the wall above The Shadow’s head.
The man who had fired made no further effort. All his strength had been spent in that last attempt to down the dread fighter whose name meant terror to the underworld. The touring car jolted along the curb; one mobster fell out as the machine bounded back into the street.
The wounded driver, although sinking fast, managed to step upon the accelerator. With wobbly, serpentine course, the car of beaten gangsters shot ahead until it came to a crashing stop beyond the next corner.
The echoes of the shots had ceased. A peal of mocking laughter had replaced them. The tiny ray of a sharp-disked flashlight glimmered in the alleyway. The Shadow had gained the spot he sought. His torch revealed nothingness!
Out went the light. A phantom shape traveled swiftly through the alley to the street at the other end.
Again the quest was in vain. The minions of the fiend had profited by the delay of battle. With Cliff Marsland in their grasp, they had departed, leaving no trail for The Shadow!
Even then, the master of darkness was not beaten. He glided back to the street where the battle had been fought. Swiftly, he gained his coupe. Headlights showed brilliantly. The car shot forward and turned the corner.
Though his start might be a blind one, The Shadow intended to take up the trail of those captors who had wrested his agent from their grasp. Relying only upon intuition, The Shadow was seeking a trail that might lead him to Cliff Marsland’s rescue.
IT was another unforeseen occurrence that blocked The Shadow’s plan. The shrill note of a siren came to the pursuer’s ears. Straight up the street swept a car with glaring headlights, not more than a block distant. Police had heard the sound of firing. They were rushing to the scene.
The Shadow swung the wheel of the coupe. The trim, low-balanced car responded. It swerved through a narrow thoroughfare that showed suddenly before the headlights. With roaring motor, The Shadow took this avenue to avoid a fruitless encounter with the arriving minions of the law.
More sirens. The Shadow knew the reason. This district of Manhattan had been heavily patrolled since the disappearance of Joseph Barratini and Rupert Sayre. With cunning and skill, The Shadow picked a course which lead him through the network of streets. His coupe passed beyond the district into which the officers had swarmed.
Along the street where the gangster cars had been, policemen found the relics of The Shadow’s battle.
Duke Scurley lay dead at the entrance of the alley. Punks Gumbert was an inert form. Other mobsters were sprawled in pools of blood.
In the touring car, some men were moving, others were not. The driver, crippled by The Shadow’s final bullet, was slumped beneath the wheel, his right hand extending through the broken windshield.
Gang warfare. That was the answer. The policemen who surveyed the riddled touring car were convinced that this smashing result could have been accomplished only by a barrage of bullets from a dozen gangster guns. Orders went out to stop all large cars that might appear to contain a squad of desperadoes.
THE trim coupe was rolling easily along an avenue, headed southward in Manhattan. Unscathed, his car untouched, The Shadow was returning from the conflict. His keen eyes were steady as they watched the traffic ahead.
A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. Partly a tone of triumph, partly a note of regret, that laugh portrayed The Shadow’s thoughts.
The master of darkness had proven his skill tonight. Single-handed, he had brought disaster to a complete mob of snarling ruffians who had deserved all that they had received.
Yet in his fight, The Shadow, in dealing with superior numbers, had been unable to accomplish the task which he had sought. He had heard Cliff Marsland’s cry for aid. He had realized, on the instant, the dilemma which had fallen upon his agent.
Chance had played against The Shadow. Cliff Marsland had fallen into the hands of the enemy. He was in the power of the superfiend; all chance of tracing him tonight was ended. Yet The Shadow’s sibilant laugh denoted confidence.
Cliff Marsland was still alive. Perhaps fate would play the other way in return for its unwarranted trickery.
For The Shadow asked no long delay. He had learned the identity of his master enemy.
By tomorrow night, The Shadow would be face to face with Eric Veldon, the murderous fiend who toyed with human life. If Clifford Marsland still were living then, The Shadow would surely save him.
Through Holbrook Edkins, The Shadow would reach Eric Veldon. That thought was prophetic. Yet before it would be realized, The Shadow was once again to learn the treachery of fate!
CHAPTER XVII. THE LIVING SKELETON
HEAVY tires crunched on a gravel driveway. A big limousine came to a stop before an isolated house.
Two men moved through the darkness. They carried a limp body into the building. Laboring footsteps echoed with mechanical beat through the gloomy corridors.
The solemn tread died away. Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, had reached the end of his journey.
His captors were bringing him within the portals of Eric Veldon’s mansion of mystery.
In an upstairs room, a young man was listening to the sounds that betokened Cliff’s arrival. Calm, yet serious-faced, Doctor Rupert Sayre accepted the rhythmic footsteps as proof that another prisoner had arrived.
The room in which Sayre dwelt was not uncomfortable. On the contrary, the young surgeon had found many items provided for his comfort. He was a prisoner, in a high-walled room where daylight penetrated only through an inaccessible skylight. But the burden of confinement seemed less at night.
On this particular evening, Sayre was smoking his favorite pipe, which had been in his pocket at the time of his capture, and the illuminated room was actually a homelike abode.
Rupert Sayre had awakened in his room. Between his discovery of Joseph Barratini’s dead body and the awakening, there had been a complete lapse. Sayre knew that he had been under the influence of some soporific vapor. He did not know how long its effects might have held.
In one corner of the room stood a pedestal which held two instruments. One was like a stock ticker, with its paper ribbon; the other was a small typewriter which had only capital letters. Sayre had first noticed the device when it had ticked a message; he had recognized it as a teletype apparatus.
Brief instructions had imprinted themselves upon the paper ribbon. Some operator, probably in a distant portion of the house, had warned Sayre to make no effort to escape.
The physician had typed back that he would obey the injunction. That had been the beginning of a routine. A corpselike man had stalked mechanically into Sayre’s room, bringing food. Since then, new provisions had been furnished.
Yet Sayre knew that this captivity could not go on indefinitely. He wondered why his life had been spared. He sensed that he would soon learn. Tonight, he had heard an automobile set forth; he had heard it return. Was that a sign that Eric Veldon contemplated plans which might involve Sayre’s welfare?
WHILE the young physician pondered on this question, the teletype began to tick. Puffing his pipe, Sayre strolled to the corner and began to read the words that appeared upon the paper tape.