“Lay off it,” growled Soupy. “De mug ain’t to look like he’d been pasted. He’s part of de blind—”
Soupy broke off as he heard the sound of approaching voices. Two gorillas came into the light of the headlamps. Nick and Lefty had finished the job at the bridge. One of them spoke to Soupy and Marty.
“How’s the mug?” was his question.
“Wakin’ up, Lefty,” replied Marty.
“Shove him under the wheel, then,” ordered Lefty. “That’s the way. Now loose that hand brake.”
“Ain’t you goin’ to shove it in gear?”
“No. Think I want to stall it?”
“O.K., Lefty.”
Meanwhile, Soupy and Nick were talking. The man from the bridge was bringing up a question that had evidently been dropped upon their arrival here.
“That blast after we left,” Nick was saying. “It didn’t sound like it come from the quarry. It was too close—”
“I tell you it was from de quarry,” broke in Soupy. “If it wasn’t—”
“They’d have quit blastin’, Soupy, after hearin’ that load we let off—”
“Maybe dey would. But maybe dey had de charge all set an’—”
“Look out!” came Lefty’s growl from the other side of the truck.
Nick and Soupy stepped away. The wheezy truck was rolling. Slow on this easy portion of the slope, it would gain speed straight for the bridge.
“We pinched dat wagon up in Rockport,” chuckled Soupy. “Say — de guy dat owns it’ll be—”
He stopped. Like the others, Soupy turned, then leaped to the side of the road as he heard a car come roaring from a bend behind him. Then, like a meteor from darkness, a sedan came hurtling down the slope.
Lefty, leader of this quartet, yanked a gun as the glare bore down upon him. He shouted an order that sounded above the approaching roar.
“Let ‘em have it!”
AS gorillas drew, the bark of an automatic came from the left side of the whizzing sedan. Bullets sizzed into the cluster of firing thugs. Tongues of flame accompanied the staccato bursts as the sedan whirled past the crew.
Enemies sprawled — all save Lefty. He leaped for the sedan as the driver suddenly applied the brakes. Catching an opened window, the ruffian went flying to the running board and swung to aim a shot at the driver, who was now trying to avert disaster.
Brakes screeched as the car cut down its eighty-mile-an-hour pace. Lefty lost aim as the driver swerved past the speed-gaining truck. On toward the very edge of the bridge. Then the brakes jammed.
The sedan did a sudden right-about. In its whirl it came into the path of the truck; then out of it. Lefty, losing his hold on the tilting side, was thrown on to the bridge.
The door of the sedan shot open; out sprang a figure that showed solid black as it dodged away from the oncoming truck.
The Shadow had arrived. He had stopped on the verge of disaster. In split-seconds, he had summed the situation. Forgetting Lefty, who had dropped his gun and was trying to rise from the bridge, The Shadow whirled almost against the passing truck.
There was no door by the driver’s seat. But a man was behind the wheel, dangling there, groggy, shaking with the jolts that the truck made in gaining a fifteen-mile-an-hour speed.
Swinging to the running board, The Shadow seized the limp figure and went rolling to the roadway, carrying the man with him. Both figures went sprawling in the dust by the sedan.
A scream from the bridge. Lefty’s hoarse cry was too late. He was unable to crawl clear. His rising form went over like a tenpin, as the big truck struck him. The front wheel jolted as it passed over the crook’s body. The truck veered toward the rail.
Before the lumbering Jagannath reached the side, a crackling sound came from the bridge itself. Weakened timbers gave. The wooden planking caved. The whole structure swayed and went crashing down into the gorge, the truck hurtling beyond the falling debris.
Lefty’s writhing form was on the sloping brink. A clawing, helpless sight, the last of the quartet slipped with the loosening planks. While the echoes of the crashing truck were still sounding from the depths of the ravine, Lefty disappeared into the chasm.
THE SHADOW saw it, while rising from the dust. By the sedan he found a bewildered man trying to get to his feet. The Shadow helped the rescued man into the sedan. Behind the wheel, The Shadow turned on the dome light. He laughed softly as he recognized Bart Drury’s face.
Groggy, grimy-faced, his clothing torn, the star reporter lay bewildered. The Shadow drew a phial from beneath his cloak. He pressed the tiny vessel to Bart’s lips. A purplish liquid trickled to the reporter’s tongue.
Bart stirred. The Shadow clicked out the dome light and started the stalled motor. The car was turned up the slope. As it started forward, the headlights showed the sprawled, motionless forms of three gorillas.
Then that sight was left behind. The sedan was purring toward the level road. Bart Drury, half bewildered, was mumbling:
“Burke, Burke — is that you, Burke?”
“No,” came the quiet response. The Shadow’s tone was assuring. “Burke is all right.”
“Glad of that,” mumbled Bart. “Made me call him — Konk did. Couldn’t — couldn’t get out of it.”
“Speak on,” ordered the quiet voice.
“They grabbed me,” explained Bart. “In Konk’s place — at the Phoenix. Konk said I’d have — to be the goat. Said he’d — he’d bump Burke — unless I played the game.”
The phial came to Bart’s lips in the darkness. A taste of the potent liquid was reviving. Bart steadied, and spoke further to the silent driver beside him.
“Burke was to see me running things,” explained Bart. “Konk was to let him go. Burke would pin it on me. I knew I was slated for the spot. But I played the game — to get Burke out of it.
“Maybe Burke knows I was on the level. I–I couldn’t go out without trying to tip him off. They had me doing an act with an empty gun. They’d have plugged me if I hadn’t played my part. But I flashed the revolver in front of Burke’s nose. He — he saw, it was empty. No bullets.”
Bart subsided in the cushions. His strength had lessened. But as he rested, his mind cleared. He could hear the quiet voice speaking, stating facts that Bart Drury knew, yet which he had never pieced together. Then came orders that the reporter understood.
The car came to a stop. The door opened so softly that Bart did not hear it. The Shadow stepped through darkness to a spot where a coupe was standing. He voiced a low hiss.
Clyde Burke alighted. Cliff Marsland shifted from the driver’s wheel. Entering, The Shadow took his place. A questioning hiss. Cliff spoke tensely, telling of the trip to Harrison Knode’s; and how he had been trapped when he fluked the safe.
A soft laugh. Clyde Burke, by the coupe, heard whispered orders. He responded. The motor started. Taking Cliff, The Shadow drove away, leaving Clyde standing by the sedan.
In the stopped car, Drury had heard voices; then the departure of the coupe. Turning to the driver’s seat, he shot a question to the person whom he supposed still sat there.
“Say — who are you?”
No response. Bart groped for the dome light and switched it on. He stared, dumfounded. The seat behind the wheel was empty. Then came footsteps. A face was thrust into the light. Bart stared at Clyde Burke.
“Hello, Bart!” smiled The Shadow’s agent, opening the door to take his place behind the wheel. “I got that gun flash when you gave it. Well, old man, you’re out of it — like I am. But we’re diving in again.”
Bart nodded. He, like Clyde Burke, had received orders from The Shadow. Like Clyde, Bart was game.
CHAPTER XXII
THE EVIDENCE