Kistelle, the wheel wrenched from his hand, yanked at the handle of the door as the big car twisted onto its left side. The door broke open just as the limousine hung suspended on the sloping edge of the ravine.
Fenwick’s cry was a piercing shriek. The limousine plunged nose downward. It turned in its drop and struck bottom up when it reached the depths. The expensive automobile was shattered into a mass of wreckage.
A few seconds later, the coupe came to a stop beside the jagged section of the fence. Sharp eyes peered toward the edge of the gorge. A low, solemn laugh came from unseen lips. There was no elation in The Shadow’s tone. His laugh was one of retribution, formed by the knowledge that evil had been rewarded by stern doom.
The door of the coupe opened softly. The Shadow’s blackclad form moved through the night until it reached the fence which was dimly outlined by the light from the coupe. The scrubby, curving bank of the ravine was plain to The Shadow’s piercing eyes.
The rapid chugging of a motor could be heard. Two tiny lights appeared at the top of the hill where the mad death flight had begun its final stretch.
Swiftly, The Shadow regained his coupe. The little car shot away and sped down the road, its tail light disappearing before the police car had crossed the mid-hill bridge.
The driver of the police car saw the broken fence rail. He came to a stop. He and the others scrambled out and flashed their lights over the edge of the ravine. They saw the wrecked limousine. They knew that no one could have remained alive within that car.
A long, curving road led down into the ravine and the officers headed for it, so that they might make their inspection of the wreckage. They drove down the highway and turned off at the required point. Silence reigned over the spot where The Shadow had struck again.
Amid that silence, a huddled figure came to life. Out of the scrubby brush that edged the top of the ravine, a man crawled and walked unsteadily toward the road.
It was Charles Kistelle. Miraculously, the superplotter had escaped the doom that should have been his.
The opening door had dropped him while the limousine had made its momentary hesitation on the brink of death. Gripping the scrubby bushes, he had lain on the edge of the gorge. He had escaped the inspection made by The Shadow because the arrival of the police car had caused the blackclad avenger to depart.
Only Horace Fenwick had died. The master schemer still remained, and his one thought now was to offset the work that The Shadow had accomplished.
Charles Kistelle had escaped, but his perfect plan had been spoiled. He would have to seek elsewhere, now, to carry out his evil desires — elsewhere, where The Shadow would not find him!
CHAPTER XX
BEYOND THE LAW
IN the chill of an early evening fog, a man was wending his way along a narrow San Francisco street. Ahead of him, towering through the mist, was a strange galaxy of Oriental signs. The man had reached the fringe of San Francisco’s Chinatown.
This visitor to the Oriental district seemed to know his way perfectly. Yet there was something furtive in his step as he kept to the inner side of the walk, avoiding persons whom he met.
As he reached the bizarre section where East and West were mingled, the man turned from the brilliant street and sought the seclusion of one of those mysterious alleys which are so common in that part of San Francisco.
The man walked more easily now. His gait became a long, lusty stride. Using the dim street lamps as a guide, he stopped before a darkened door that appeared to be the entrance to a closed shop. He opened this door and came into a narrow entry. There, he rapped upon an inner door.
A bland-faced Celestial appeared. He gazed solemnly at the visitor as though to inquire his purpose. There was a brief pause; then, as the man from the street did not speak, the Chinaman questioned him in English.
“Who you want to see?”
“You savvy English, eh?” responded the visitor in a growling tone. “All right. I want to see Tam Sook. Tell him Charley Kistelle is out here.”
“Charley Kistelle,” repeated the Chinaman. “All right. I tell him. You wait here.”
The Chinaman disappeared and returned about three minutes later. He pointed to the door and the visitor followed him. They went up a flight of steps and the Chinaman ushered the man into a lighted room.
There, seated at a table, was a man dressed in American garb whose face showed his Oriental ancestry. This man was Tam Sook, one of the most important figures in Chinatown. He turned his gaze upward and his almond eyes narrowed as he saw the face of his visitor.
“You are not Charley Kistelle,” he declared.
The visitor laughed. His face, pudgy-nosed and sloping, remained impassive until the lips began to form a smile.
Tam Sook stared incredulously at the evil leer which spread upon the countenance before him. He was more sure than before that this was not Charley Kistelle. Then came words that astounded Tam Sook.
“Don’t look at my face, Tammy,” said the visitor, in a friendly tone. “Listen to my voice. That’s all. You’ll hear Charley Kistelle’s voice. That ought to be enough for you.”
Tam Sook began to nod. There was something about the voice that he recognized. Yet he could not connect the voice with the man. Here, Tam Sook decided, was something extraordinary.
“I KNEW you in New York, Tammy,” said the visitor, seating himself in a chair. “We worked together there. When you moved to Frisco, we made an agreement. If I needed you again, I would know where to find you. So I’m here now.
“A lot has happened since I saw you last, Tammy. See this face of mine? Well, I picked it up in the meantime. It makes Charley Kistelle look different, doesn’t it?”
Tam Sook nodded. “You are Charley Kistelle,” he said, solemnly. “I know it now. Tell me how you got your new face. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“I picked up the face in Mexico,” responded Kistelle, with an evil chuckle. “That’s a long story. I’ll come to that later. But right now I’ll tell you how you can help me out.
“There are six of us, Tammy — ” Kistelle paused for a correction — “that is, there used to be six of us. Now there’s five. We all look alike. Sounds funny, eh? Well, it’s true. Five of us — all alike.
“So we worked together and we went after some nice hauls. We made three clean-ups, Tammy, and we were on our way to a fourth. Then we hit trouble” — Kistelle’s lips formed a reminiscent leer — “and we had to scram. I’ll tell you what it was, Tammy. We landed up against The Shadow.”
“The Shadow!”
Tam Sook’s echo was a knowing one. It was evident that the name of The Shadow held a powerful effect upon the Chinaman. Kistelle saw Tam Sook’s expression and responded with a growl.
“Yes, The Shadow,” he said. “Another fellow and I were making a getaway and he queered it. Shot a tire off our car out on a Dakota road. We went over the edge of a cliff. The car did — with my pal in it — but I managed to get out in time.”
“You were fortunate,” declared Tam Sook.
“You bet I was!” said Kistelle. “But it put me in a bad jam, just the same.
“The only thing that saved me was that The Shadow thought I was dead, too.
“Get this, Tammy. Here were four of my pals sitting pretty. One in Illinois, one in Maryland, one in Georgia, one in Louisiana. Each has a mug like mine. I pulled alibi jobs with three of them and the other guy was waiting.
“Then The Shadow pops up and queers the whole lay. The police have all the dope — and I’m out in the middle of North Dakota. Well, that’s where I acted smart.