"It would be just as bad if they found him pumped full of lead," retorted Whitey. "There's no use plugging' him if he's goin' down with the car."
"Who said anythin' about usin' a gat?" questioned Jake, in the darkness. "What do you think I brought along that bottle for? An' those rags? Wait here till I get em'."
Jake Michener went to the touring car and returned quietly. He instructed Whitey Shane to turn on the flashlight.
In expert fashion, Jake applied a saturated rag to Harry Vincent's nostrils. Harry's head toppled back against the seat.
A knife gleamed in Jake's hand. He cut the bonds that held the victim, and severed the gag that had prevented him from raising an outcry.
"All set," he declared. "Now we're ready to let go. We frisked this bozo back at the Green Mill. I left a little money on him, and the licenses for the car are in his pocket."
"That dope I just gave him will hold 'im. Maybe he'll wake up at the bottom of the quarry.
Maybe. Maybe not."
"Let's go," urged Whitey, "we've been spendin' enough time. We didn't do nothin' to cover up our trail when we came here. Don't forget that."
"There wasn't any need for it," said Jake. "Don't worry, Whitey. As soon as I get in our car, let the brake loose on this buggy. There's a gradual slant to the edge of that pit, and it'll go right over. Then come over and we'll chase out of here."
Whitey waited as ordered. Jake hurried to the touring car and started the motor. It roared as he pressed the accelerator.
Whitey, taking the signal, reached forward to release the emergency brake. He grinned as he thought of one detail that Jake had overlooked. Whitey turned on the headlights of the coupe.
A good touch of detail, he thought. The lights would soon cease glowing under water. The handle of the emergency brake clicked. Whitey stepped back and closed the door with a slam.
The coupe commenced to move slowly backward. Whitey gave it the impetus of a push. He hurried over to the touring car and clambered in beside Jake Michener. Both gangsters looked forward at the rolling coupe. Its front wheels jogged as they lifted over the left edge of the road.
It was thirty feet to the top of the quarry. Jake's car was turned so the two men could witness the fatal plunge.
Only seconds remained in the life of Harry Vincent. Two hardened gangsters were looking on in enjoyment — the sole witnesses of the certain doom to which the unconscious man was traveling. The motor of the touring car was roaring as Jake Michener prepared to drive away as soon as the coupe had disappeared.
Then, with amazing suddenness, the coasting car was revealed in every detail beneath the glare of a powerful searchlight! A huge automobile was whirling up the dirt road that came from the highway!
The gangsters had not heard the purring whir of its powerful motor, because of the roaring motor of their own car. The mighty monarch of the road was approaching with the speed of a meteor!
"Look!" cried Whitey Shane.
The great car was turning to the left. Its driver, guided by a strange intuition, had sensed the situation in an instant. For a moment the gangsters thought the big car was out of control. It was heading directly toward the edge of the quarry!
Then the powerful car swerved to the right. Its wheels skirted the edge of the threatening pit. The huge roadster was leaning to the left, almost toppling toward the depths below! It righted itself and shot directly into the path of the rolling coupe.
Brakes screamed as the two cars met. The superman who drove the huge car brought his machine to an instant stop within a dozen feet. The rear of the coupe crashed against the front of the great roadster. The impact was a sharp one. The rescue car was on the brink of the precipice.
The force of the coupe would have driven an ordinary car over the edge. But this monster machine withstood the blow. For the fraction of a second it began to rise and shift toward the danger zone. Then it became motionless, blocking the coupe from destruction.
Jake realized that this was no chance occurrence. This huge automobile had come from nowhere. Its driver had accomplished the seemingly impossible. The helpless man was saved!
"Give him the works," exclaimed Jake to Whitey, "Give him the works. Quick!" As he uttered the order, Jake Michener headed the touring car directly toward the locked automobiles.
Whitey Shane was leaning from the side, his automatic drawn. His first bullet spat against the side of the anchored roadster. The next whirred through the top.
Whitey Shane was timing his third shot. Jake Michener, grimly driving the touring car in second gear, was swinging the wheel with one intent — to crash the side of the rescuer's car, and to do what the slow-moving coupe had not done — hurl the big car to its destruction!
At that instant, the quick staccato of revolver fire replied to Whitey Shane's shots. A bullet struck the aiming gangster in the arm. Another crashed solidly through the windshield and found its mark in Jake Michener's chest.
The driver of the touring car slumped behind the wheel. The turning motion of the car ceased. Instead of striking the big roadster in the middle, the gangster's car sped toward the rear of it. Wounded, Jake Michener had lost control.
The rear fender of the touring car clicked the bumper of the roadster. A piercing scream of terror came from Whitey Shane, as he felt the touring car hurtle forward into space. The long scream faded as the car shot downward into the depths.
A dull, distant splash marked the doom of the killers. Jake Michener and Whitey Shane had plunged to the fate that they had planned for others.
Silence followed. Upon the brink of that pit stood a man in black — a figure invisible in the darkness. From the verge of doom came a long, mirthless laugh — a laugh more terrifying than the scream that had come from the lips of Whitey Shane.
The Shadow, dread man of vengeance, had traced the path of the gangsters. He had arrived at the moment when the plan of the evil-doers seemed impossible of failure. Sweeping from the darkness, The Shadow had saved Harry Vincent from destruction.
Once more The Shadow laughed!
Chapter XVI — Plotters Unheard
"It's three o'clock. Grady ought to be here soon."
The speaker was Jeremiah Benson. He sat facing Sidney Delmuth. Between them was a plain wooden table, upon which rested a bottle and glasses. They were in the back room of a small cafe.
"You're sure he will come here?" questioned Delmuth anxiously.
"Don't you worry about Grady," said the gray-haired man. "He was to call me before he came up to the apartment. He won't get any reply on the phone. So he'll come here. This is our regular hangout." Delmuth poured himself a large drink and swallowed the liquid hurriedly. He was glum as he studied Benson.
"I don't like this business," declared Delmuth. "Everything was going well — but with The Shadow mixing in it, we have to be careful."
As he finished speaking, Delmuth turned and glanced about the room. He seemed to feel that he was being watched. The memory of The Shadow still hung over him.
Benson laughed.
"Forget The Shadow for a while," he said. "That's why I brought you here — so you could be sure he wasn't on your trail."
"Suppose he has followed us?" Delmuth still doubted.
"He hasn't. I'm old in the game, Delmuth. The way we changed cabs coming here would fool the best of 'em."
"He followed me to your apartment!"
"Yes. That was because you weren't foxy enough. He probably suspected that Shamlin wasn't you when he got out of the cab. Maybe he saw Shamlin hiding in the cab in the first place!"
"I thought I fooled him, anyway," said Delmuth. "Now you think you've put one over on him. I missed out; maybe you've done the same — "