The rear lights of the evening train were showing less than a quarter of a mile ahead! The train was running late by at least three minutes!
With this opportunity present, The Shadow did not hesitate. The speedometer pointer passed the hundred-mile mark. The speedster whirled past the moving train at double the locomotive’s pace!
A curve one hundred yards ahead was revealed by the powerful searchlight mounted on the speedster. The road veered to the right; a railway crossing sign was in view.
Without a single glance to the rear, The Shadow applied the brakes. The speedster slackened for the sharp turn. With calm precision, The Shadow swung the wheel as the car reached the low speed of twenty miles an hour. A shrill whistle sounded from the right. The train was approaching.
UP went the front wheels on the grade crossing. From the right came the gleaming headlight of the locomotive. It was bearing down upon the speedster at a rate of fifty miles an hour. The automobile seemed doomed, as it struck the nearer track at the crossing. Then, as it was fairly on the cross-over, it shot forward as The Shadow gave it speed.
The car leaped from the locomotive’s path. It twisted to the left, taking another sharp turn. The locomotive missed its rear by a scant two feet.
The train thundered by, the engineer staring with bulging eyes. He expected to see the fortunate driver bring his car to a stop; instead, the speedster increased its speed and traveled onward.
It burst ahead of the locomotive. Its tail lights disappeared behind a clump of trees, just as the engineer began to slacken speed for the Darport station.
With dim lights only, the speedster cut down a side road that brought it to the depot in advance of the train. Even those lights were extinguished before the swift car came to a stop. Silently, The Shadow dropped from the side of his machine.
The approaching glare of the locomotive showed a man standing beside a parked sedan, awaiting the train’s arrival. The same light revealed another, not far from where The Shadow’s car was located. As the glare ended, The Shadow approached the second man, whom he had recognized as his agent, Harry Vincent.
Above the din and rattle of the stopping train, Harry heard The Shadow’s whisper as it came from the sinister darkness. He nodded as he obeyed an order, turning toward the direction of The Shadow’s speedster.
“Report,” came a whisper.
“Moxton’s car,” replied Harry, in an undertone. “Meeting the train—”
Steps were opening. A man — evidently Neswick — was descending from a coach.
“Report received,” whispered The Shadow, still lost in darkness. “Take speedster. Follow instructions.”
Harry climbed into the huge car. He waited. Watching, he saw the man by the sedan approaching Neswick as the train began to chug from the station. Something fluttered in Harry’s lap. He clutched a folded piece of paper in his hand.
The lights of the sedan came on. The car started from its parking place. As it swung out toward the street, Harry Vincent stared. The rear light had twinkled twice. Something had momentarily obscured its glow.
As the sedan disappeared, Harry opened the note and read the hasty coded words which The Shadow had inscribed.
Back to crossing. Take road on this side of railway. Thus avoid pursuing police. Unique Garage in New York.
Harry turned on the lights. He started the motor, and shot the big car to the road alongside the railway. He reached the crossing, but kept straight ahead. As he rolled down a side road amid trees, he heard the rattling chug of motor cycles.
The Shadow had far outdistanced the police. They would be on his trail, however, looking for the huge speedster in Darport or beyond. Harry’s own car was near the Darport station. That did not matter. He knew The Shadow could find it if he needed it. Otherwise, Harry could return and get the coupe on the morrow.
As he drove along, however, Harry was wishing that he could have remained in Darport. Once he had located Jarvis Moxton’s house, by cautious inquiry, he had been positive that it must be the place The Shadow sought.
The Shadow, however, had gone to face danger alone. Harry knew the reason for the blinking of the tail light on Moxton’s sedan. The Shadow, riding on back of that vehicle, was going as extra passenger, to witness the interview that would take place between the owner of the old house and the visitor who had come by train from New York.
Harry Vincent knew nothing of the details. In his duty as an agent of The Shadow, he took orders and followed them. He wasted no time in idle speculation. Nevertheless, his common sense told him that The Shadow’s errand tonight must be one that involved great danger.
In this surmise, Harry Vincent was correct. Jarvis Moxton, who called himself Mox, was a man who dealt in murder to gain his wealth.
The Shadow, like Joel Neswick, was going into the monster’s lair, there to foil the death that had been set for the hour of midnight!
Trails had converged. The path of Joel Neswick, prospective victim, had been crossed by that of The Shadow, master of vengeance. Both would join within the weird house where Mox, the slayer, held his evil abode!
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE HOUSE
THE sedan rolled up at the side of the old mansion. The driver alighted and opened the door for Neswick. Neither man saw the figure that dropped from the rear bumper of the car. The Shadow melted into darkness.
Neswick was visible as the door of the house was opened. The Shadow, peering from the night, saw the ugly-faced servant who had admitted him. He also caught a glimpse of Neswick’s profile. The inventor was a man with sharp, determined features.
Beyond the space within the door, The Shadow saw the gloomy hallway that led to the stairs. The fellow who had driven Neswick from the station returned to the sedan and drove it to a shed in back of the house. This spot evidently served as a garage.
The Shadow knew that quick action was necessary. He also realized that the man who had admitted Neswick could not be Mox. It still lacked nearly a dozen minutes before midnight. That was the time when the blow would fall.
Circling the house and shed, The Shadow spied lighted windows at the other end of the second story. Pressing his form flat against the side of the house, The Shadow began an upward course.
Like a creature of the dark, he gripped projecting portions of the stone wall and reached the level of the second-story window. The closed sash was curtained; it was also locked. Noiselessly, The Shadow pried the fastening open with a thin sliver of black steel that he wedged between the portions of the sash. He raised the lower half of the window a bare inch.
With gloved hands gripping the sill, The Shadow peered into the living room. He could see the flare of the fire in the hearth. He observed the Dalmatian serenely resting in a corner. The dog did not sense the intruder’s presence.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Joel Neswick appeared, conducted by the second servant. The attendant informed the visitor that Mox would see him immediately. He walked out.
During the minute that passed after the servant had left the room, the sharp eyes of The Shadow studied the inventor more closely. Neswick bore the marks of genius. He seemed to be a meditative type of man, preoccupied with his own thoughts; at the same time he appeared capable of action at a critical moment. It was upon this that The Shadow based his plans.
Had Neswick appeared less capable, The Shadow would have entered to warn him. Instead, the watcher from the dark remained at his hidden post. He was ready to let this game continue until Mox, the murderer, had revealed his hand.
THE servant returned to inform Neswick that Mox was ready to interview him. It was not until the two had left the room that The Shadow moved. Slowly, his black hands raised the sash. His keen eyes peered about the room. His tall, lithe form came over the sill.
The coach dog raised its head. A low growl came from its throat. The burning eyes of The Shadow shone toward the dog. The Dalmatian settled its head between its paws, and blinked. The Shadow lowered the sash without noise.
Stealing to the door of the room, The Shadow peered along the hall. He saw the servant standing at a spot some distance from the room, with Neswick beside him. The hall was gloomy. It held opportunity for The Shadow.
Like a specter, the tall visitant eased toward the hallway. Momentarily motionless, his form was a blackened statue. Across the floor lay The Shadow’s shadow; its silhouetted profile wavered with the flickering of the lighted fire.
While The Shadow prepared to advance along the hall, a silent action took place within the room. The door of a cupboard — in a corner which had not been visible from the window — opened. From it came the hunched creature with the spidery legs, the dwarf whom Mox had called Sulu.
The cupboard was the hiding place of this evil wretch. Through a tiny peek-hole, Sulu had seen The Shadow enter. Reaching the floor, Sulu glared with venom. His spidery arms raised from his baggy blouse.
Despite the noiselessness of Sulu’s appearance, The Shadow sensed the creature’s presence. As the dwarf’s thin arms came up, The Shadow turned his head. His eyes, blazing over his right shoulder, glimpsed the evil monster.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow whirled; not toward the room, but out into the hall. Simultaneously, a long, thin knife blade whizzed through the air.
Aimed for The Shadow’s back, it missed its mark by the scant fraction of a second. The Shadow, turning back toward the wall, was saved from death.
The point of the swift blade penetrated the flesh of The Shadow’s left arm, just beneath the shoulder. A sharp stroke, but one which missed the bone, it pinned The Shadow to the wall.
The master fighter never faltered. The wound, though sudden, was no more than superficial. His right arm swung into action; an automatic blazed its reply to Sulu.
Chance saved the dwarf. The frame of the door intervened. The Shadow’s bullet, directed with only a narrow margin, missed the dwarf by inches. Sulu made a dive for safety.
The second shot from The Shadow’s gun clipped splinters from the woodwork, but, like the first, it could not get the hideous creature who was just outside its range.
Sulu had fled; The Shadow, still flat against the wall, turned his head along the hall. The servant was drawing a gun.
Neswick, looking vainly for the shots, and not observing The Shadow, happened to glance at the servant’s face.
In an instant, the keen-minded inventor knew that danger lay not with the one who had fired, but with the servant. He saw the hideous, brutal features of the man. He sprang to wrest away the underling’s gun.
The servant fired wildly, his bullet whizzed past The Shadow’s head. The Shadow’s finger was on the trigger of the automatic. It rested there. The Shadow could not fire, for Neswick had come between him and the servant.
A hand swung in the air. It held a revolver. The servant was swinging a blow for Neswick’s head.
The Shadow fired. A scream echoed through the hall as his bullet caught the descending wrist. The barrel of the revolver glanced from Neswick’s head. The servant, plunging to the floor with the inventor, scrambled wildly to pick up his dropped gun with his left hand.
The Shadow coolly used the interim. His automatic dipped into the folds of his cloak. With his free right hand, he gripped the handle of the knife which had pinned his left arm so mercilessly. He plucked the weapon from his flesh and threw it to the floor of the living room.
The servant had gained his gun. He raised it and fired with his unsteady left hand. The Shadow, his left arm at his side, was whirling as the shot went wide. His automatic came forth in his right. The evil servant sprawled as The Shadow’s next shot found a vital spot in his body.