The Shadow reached his goal. His hand tried the knob of the door. It refused to yield. The pick replaced the light. With his one usable hand, The Shadow pried at the lock.
An odd click. Like a flash, The Shadow sprang backward. His quickness would ordinarily have saved him from the trap that he had struck, for it was but a single leap to the archway through which he had come.
The sudden strain, however, was too great for his injured body. The Shadow’s leg gave; his body crumpled on the floor. Then came the smash as a steel curtain crashed downward in the archway. The Shadow was trapped!
THE flashlight glimmered from the floor. While its rays circled, The Shadow surveyed his prison. He was caught in a space less than a dozen feet square. The steel curtain was formidable. The door ahead offered the only outlet.
Rising weakly, The Shadow limped toward the door. He worked with pick. The door was a tough obstacle, but it gave. The Shadow forced the barrier with his left shoulder. He staggered into a larger compartment.
So far as escape was concerned, this offered nothing.
Except for a disused furnace, an empty coal bin, a few lengths of pipe and a switch-box for electric lights, the place was deserted. The walls were irregular; one showed a bulge, the other an alcove; but all were of stone and mortar.
There was no sign of a tunnel. The Shadow realized that such talk had been a hoax. He saw the purpose of The Crime Master. New deeds of evil were coming; rather than risk men and cause commotion by an open battle, the superfiend had resorted to this trap.
The flashlight’s beam began to waver. The Shadow’s strength was on the wane. The light steadied. Seizing a piece of pipe, The Shadow approached the protruding portion of the wall. He delivered half a dozen strokes against the mortar. Cracks showed bricks beneath. Then the pipe clattered to the stone floor. The Shadow was exhausted.
Sinking downward, The Shadow laid his flashlight on the floor. His hand raised the fringe of his cloak toward the slouch hat. His teeth ripped at the lining. Powder — black in color — sifted into The Shadow’s glove.
The same process was repeated, at a different spot along the hem. This time a grayish powder appeared. The grains mixed. The Shadow let the powder trickle by the spot where he had hacked away the mortar.
Together, those powders formed a powerful explosive. Moistened by a liquid from a vial which The Shadow carried, they could cause much damage. The vial appeared. Its precious drops fell. Then, with a final effort, The Shadow staggered through the doorway, to escape the blast.
It came, but with fizzing, deadened noise. There was a clatter of falling mortar that seemed louder than the squibby explosion. The Shadow’s form arose from the floor. With flashlight showing the way, the trapped invader approached the wall.
Some bricks had crumbled. A small hole showed; the cavity was but inches in diameter. Weakly, The Shadow laughed. He knew the reason for the unexpected failure. The powder had been soaked by blood, seeping down through the cloak on the night of The Shadow’s momentous fight.
The explosive had lost its efficacy. There was the beginning of a break through this portion of the wall. Possessed of his accustomed strength, The Shadow could have used a piece of pipe to batter away at the bricks.
That was impossible at present. With one arm alone; with legs that were exhausted, The Shadow lacked strength for heavy effort. His left hand seemed weary even as it swept the light about the stone-walled room.
Out went the flashlight. The Shadow’s form moved wearily. It staggered forward in the darkness. The extended left hand stopped the body as it struck the further wall. Groping as he managed to maintain his footing, The Shadow found the electric light switch.
The gloved hand alone seemed possessed with life as it pulled the switch down; then pushed it up. Again that motion; but with different interval. Then the hand apparently became intrigued with this new work.
DOWN — up; down — up; down — a pause — then up. The process continued while seconds ticked onward. Grimly, The Shadow seemed intent upon his work. Silently, he steadied in the effort as though utilizing every ounce of remaining strength.
At last came the finish. The switch clicked upward and stopped, after the long succession. The Shadow had performed the operation nearly fifty times.
The gloved hand relaxed. The black cloak swished as The Shadow sprawled to the floor. The tall figure stretched upon the stone floor. A weary gasp came from invisible lips. As he had settled upon the pillows at Sayre’s so did The Shadow rest his head upon his arm.
Minute followed minute. Midnight arrived. On the street outside, prowling figures approached the old house. Cautious men unlocked the door that The Shadow had closed behind him. They entered and descended to the basement. They flashed lights on the lowered curtain of steel.
Harry Vincent had seen the prowlers enter. They were the first whom he had observed. Still watching, he saw the lights of the old house click off one by one. Then he noticed that the men were coming down the steps. They had locked the door behind them.
Five minutes later, Harry left his observation post. He hurried along the street until he reached a small corner lunch room. He entered and went to a telephone in the corner. He called Burbank.
Harry’s mouth was close to the receiver. Only Burbank, at the other end of the line, could hear the low words that he uttered. His call finished, Harry Vincent looked grimly about him.
Satisfied that none of The Crime Master’s minions were stationed here, The Shadow’s agent departed. Crossing the street, he slackened his pace and moved with caution as he proceeded in the direction of the old house.
BACK in the office. Doctor Rupert Sayre had finished his work. Entering the corridor of his apartment, he paused at his patient’s door. He heard no sound; he smiled, satisfied that his convalescent visitor was asleep.
Doctor Sayre was correct in that assumption. The Shadow was asleep. His resting place, however, was not a comfortable bed. It was the stone floor of the old cellar which The Crime Master had provided as The Shadow’s lodging!
CHAPTER XVIII
ANOTHER PRISONER
“A GENTLEMAN to see you, commissioner.”
“At this hour?” Commissioner Weston looked up from the desk where he was working. “What does he want, Grady?”
“Something confidential, sir. He wouldn’t give his name.”
“Very well. Tell him I shall see him in a few minutes.”
Commissioner Ralph Weston was in the little office which formed a room of his apartment. It was one o’clock in the morning; yet he was still at work on problems of crime. There was a reason.
Earlier, there had been a slaying in the underworld. The police had found the bullet-riddled body of a scrawny mobster in a slovenly room of an old house. Inspector Klein, covering the case, had recognized the dead man as a stool pigeon — Squawky Sugler.
On Sugler, Klein had found a crumpled sheet of paper. It was this penciled slip that puzzled Weston. It bore an odd shaped diagram that looked like the floor plan of a house.
Weston was sure that this chart was a clue to coming crime. During the past week, the police had confirmed their belief that a supermind was controlling gangdom. The law had come to recognize the existence of an overlord of evil whom gangland knew as The Crime Master.
Did this penciled scrawl represent information that Squawky Sugler had gained? All stools had been ordered to learn whatever facts they could concerning the master mind who controlled the underworld. The Crime Master’s previous efforts had been well-mapped attacks upon buildings where wealth was stored.