The gorilla obeyed. Slug watched the remaining men, four in number, head through a passage toward the rear. He spoke in a low tone to Tyrell.
“I don’t have to take all those extra mugs,” he stated. “The three with me will be enough. It’s a good idea, though, to have the sedan tag us. If we get in any trouble on the way, they can put up a scrap while we keep on.”
“That’s safest,” came Tyrell’s purring agreement. “Don’t be in a hurry, Slug. Better drift along.”
“I’ll take a long way,” agreed Slug. “Keeping away from traffic is the best bet. Don’t worry, Tyrell. I’ll deliver the swag. So long — I don’t want to keep that touring car sitting still out front.”
DURING Slug Bracken’s final conference with Mark Tyrell, Pug Halfin had followed “Lefty” into the house. The gorilla had gone down into the cellar. Pug had taken the same course. They had reached the padded cell room, to find Foon Koo staring gleefully through the bullet-proof window.
Lefty yanked open the entrance to the cell. He stooped and entered. Pug followed. The gorilla indicated the cloak-covered body. Pug stepped forward eagerly and raised the enshrouding cloth to view The Shadow’s face.
The mobleader stepped back with a start as he viewed the dead man’s countenance. The sight of Mark Tyrell’s features left him stupefied. Lefty laughed.
“The mug tried to pass himself as Tyrell,” explained the gorilla. “But Tyrell was here already. He beat this phony to the shot. Look — here’s The Shadow’s gun — he didn’t have a chance. His slug went high and Tyrell croaked him.”
Lefty picked up a revolver and handed it to Pug. The mobleader stared at the weapon. It was a .38.
“Sounded like a pop-gun,” snorted Lefty, “alongside of that cannon Tyrell used. His smoke-wagon sure did the trick, Pug.”
“You mean Tyrell had a .45?”
“You bet he had. He knew how to use it, too.”
Pug grabbed the gorilla by the arm. He dragged him through the door. Foon Koo saw the action; he noted the excited expression on Pug’s face. In spiderlike fashion, he joined the two men.
“Listen, Lefty,” spoke Pug, hoarsely, “an’ you, too, Foon Koo. This dead guy ain’t The Shadow. It’s Tyrell!
“Let me tell you somethin’, both of you” — Pug glared from man to man — “The Shadow pulled a fast one on Tyrell before. He fooled me, by makin’ up to look like Tyrell. Listen, Foon Koo. Tyrell told me somethin’ upstairs last night. Maybe you don’t remember it. He told me that a .38 was the kind of rod he used — not a .45.
“This guy that’s upstairs talkin’ with Slug Bracken ain’t Tyrell. Tyrell’s dead! The bimbo that looks like him is The Shadow. Come along” — Pug urged his companions toward the adjoining room and pulled a revolver as he spoke — “an’ have your rod ready, Lefty. We’ve got to get The Shadow!”
Pug completed the sentence while Lefty was pulling out a revolver. He and the gorilla had reached the door. Foon Koo was behind them. As they thrust themselves into the room, Pug Halfin uttered a sudden snarl.
Stepping through the opposite door was the person whom they sought. The light was squarely on the living features of Mark Tyrell. For the first time they looked masklike.
“The Shadow!” came Pug’s rasp of recognition.
IN answer, false lips uttered a bursting laugh. No longer did The Shadow seek to hide his identity. His arms were crossed: like whips they snapped outward. As Pug and Lefty raised their ready revolvers, long hands displayed a brace of automatics.
Shots boomed through the underground chamber. Quick on the draw, ready with his fingers, The Shadow met the challenge with the guns that he had hitherto concealed. Lefty crumpled, downed by a shot from the right-hand automatic. Pug Halfin staggered, but fired in return.
The Shadow’s cramped left arm had failed him. The bullet from the second automatic had found its mark in Pug’s left arm; not in the gangleader’s heart. But the shot had served a purpose. Pug’s returning aim was wide. As quickly fired bullets sizzed past him, The Shadow dispatched a second shot from his right hand gun. Pug Halfin sprawled upon the floor and rolled over on his back, dead.
The Shadow dropped. He was just in time. Instinctively, he floundered to the floor as a gleaming knife came whizzing from the quick hand of Foon Koo. The blade missed The Shadow’s falling form by inches. After it, quick as a cat upon his spidery legs came Foon Koo.
The Chinaman had launched an amazing spring, his strong hands extended, their clawlike fingers hoping to clutch The Shadow’s throat. With a mighty dive, Foon Koo came hurtling out of space, straight for the rolling form upon the floor.
The right-hand automatic spoke its final message. Foon Koo landed squarely upon the figure that he sought, but the evil Chinaman’s hands found nothingness. They struck the stone floor beyond The Shadow’s body. The last shot, fired at a plunging shape, had found the heart of the dwarfish monster.
Rising, The Shadow shook off the sprawled form of Foon Koo. Thrusting his automatic out of sight, he strode toward the padded cell room. There, he plucked the cloak and hat from the corpse of the real Mark Tyrell.
An ominous laugh sounded weirdly in the underground cell as The Shadow donned his chosen garb. He had reclaimed the garments which he had discarded. They were to serve him in an adventure that demanded his prompt attention.
The Shadow had let Slug Bracken and his gorillas travel away with the swag. He had seen the need for action elsewhere. He had learned important facts from Pug Halfin’s statements. He knew why Pug had come here alone.
Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland were prisoners in the old garage. They were doomed to die. Minutes alone remained before their execution. They were prisoners; The Shadow knew their place of captivity. Both had given Burbank the location of the old garage where they had gone to-night.
Two minutes later, the extra sedan shot away from the curb in the street behind the house of Foon Koo. A grim, whispered laugh came from the blackened shape that gripped the wheel. The Shadow, triumphant over enemies, was setting forth upon the pressing rescue.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE BROKEN TRAIL
“THE rub-out, Chopper.”
“In a couple of minutes, Muff.”
The speakers were the two henchmen who had been left in the old garage. They were standing in a stone-walled room that had but one door. A single light showed their sullen faces. It also revealed two figures propped against the wall.
Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent, bound and gagged, were facing death. They had been trapped. Mark Tyrell, Pug Halfin and these two gorillas had fallen upon them unaware. Their impending massacre had become a question of minutes only.
Chopper Hoban and Muff Motter had become restless after Mark Tyrell had left. They had argued with Pug Halfin that living prisoners might prove troublesome. According to their code — if such it could be called — men slated for the spot should be dispatched without delay.
That was why Pug, in leaving, had set a time limit. That period ended, the killers could slay without waiting for the return of either Pug or Tyrell. The hour set by Pug was ending. Chopper and Muff were arguing the fact.
Of the two, Chopper was the harder. He was more ready to bide his time. Despite Muff’s urging to complete the job, Chopper was determined to hold out until the final minute of the established period.
“You never can tell what’s happening, Chopper,” snarled Muff. “Maybe Tyrell or Pug ran into some bulls. Say — we’d be in a lousy jam if a bunch of cops showed up here.”