“All right, inspector.” Weston’s smile was stern. “The latter surmise is correct. I wanted no one to know where I was. I shall visit Ganford Dagron later, in person, to explain the matter to him.
“I was engaged in special work last night, inspector. My efforts are completed. Call in my secretary. I wish to dictate orders.”
Klein obeyed. The secretary seated himself by Weston’s desk. While Klein listened, Weston’s voice began to drone police orders. The inspector stared dumfounded.
“Coming robbery of the Impregnable Trust Company,” were the words. “Scheduled for tonight. Detail patrol cars as follows—”
Tersely, the orders continued. Patrol cars, detectives, squads of policemen — the commissioner was arranging them in methodical precision. Concentrating powerful forces at strategic points, he was forming an array of strength that seemed amazing.
USUALLY, Klein knew, Weston deliberated upon such courses. This afternoon, his method differed. Never before had the inspector listened to such perfected plans. Handling hundreds of men, forgetful of no detail, Weston was presenting a system of police deployment that outmatched anything that Klein had ever known.
Secrecy seemed linked with strategy. Yet the plainness of the details impressed themselves firmly upon the inspector’s brain. As the secretary arose to take the orders for triplicate typing, Klein gasped in admiration.
“It’s in again?” he questioned. “The Crime Master business? Tonight?”
“Deductively speaking, yes,” asserted Weston. “Tonight is the logical time. Should there be postponement, we shall repeat our plans to-morrow. You will notice, inspector, that my orders leave nothing to chance. Followed perfectly, even our own forces will not know the nature of the crime which we are seeking to prevent.”
“There can’t be a leak,” admitted Klein. “You handled that part of it perfectly, commissioner.”
“You will notice, also,” declared Weston, “that I have provided for all movements to be guided by one controller. You, inspector, will have that duty!”
“You mean,” exclaimed Klein, “that you are turning the command over to me?”
“Yes. As my deputy.”
Minutes passed while the commissioner gave verbal instructions to the inspector. The secretary entered. He was bringing the typed orders. Rising, Weston handed the sheets to Klein.
“Follow my orders,” was the commissioner’s statement. Then to the secretary: “You and the stenographer may leave. I shall remain a short while.”
Five minutes later, Commissioner Weston’s tall form was standing by the desk, alone. One hand moved — the left. The overcoat, which was now unbuttoned for the first time, dropped to the floor.
With the doffing of that garment, the tall form seemed to lose its bulk. The single hand opened the briefcase. It drew out two garments — a black cloak and a slouch hat.
A laugh came from the lips beneath the mustache. The face of Commissioner Weston, suddenly relaxed, seemed to lose its contour and become masklike. The free arm raised the cloak; it settled over shoulders. The hat was lifted to the commissioner’s head.
The transformation was complete. Commissioner no longer, this personage who had directed the perfect massing of law forces under Inspector Klein, had now resumed his chosen part.
The Shadow, his face disguised in perfect fashion, his clothing padded to give it proper bulk, had taken the place of Commissioner Ralph Weston.
Somehow, The Shadow had escaped. Divining the crime that loomed, he had sought to reach Weston anonymously. Scenting that the commissioner’s absence was due to some action of The Crime Master, The Shadow had decided to play a double role.
First, as Commissioner Weston, he had arranged the law for action. That task completed — to a perfection previously unknown — he was returning to his own part.
As The Shadow, he was ready to deliver telling strokes of a sort that he, alone, could make!
CHAPTER XX
MASTERS MEET
TEN o’clock. All was quiet on the street in front of the massive Impregnable Trust building. Then came a rumble as a truck rolled along the thoroughfare. Stopping, a hundred feet past the bank, the big vehicle backed into the open door of a garage.
A second truck arrived. Like the first, it performed the turntable maneuver. A third truck came a few minutes later. Silence again prevailed until a fourth truck appeared upon the scene.
This machine stopped abruptly. Squarely in front of the Impregnable Trust Company, the driver alighted and went to the rear. He opened a door. From inside the truck came a dozen men. They approached the big building.
These arrivals worked rapidly. Their task completed, they scrambled back into the truck. The lumbering vehicle moved forward for one hundred feet. Then came a tremendous blast.
With a flare that was followed by rocketing echoes, the entrance of the Impregnable Trust was blown clear.
A gaping hole replaced metal doors. The truck moved backward. It stopped short of the smashed entrance. A dozen men sprang to the street. At the same time, three trucks came rolling from the garage. One faced in the same direction as the truck in front of the bank; the others headed opposite.
Alarms were clanging. Massed raiders seemed disdainful. Waiting for a signal, they were ready to advance. These were The Crime Master’s reds. They knew that greens and blues were everywhere about. They did not fear the arrival of the police.
An order. Men moved forward. Their next work, in the bank, would be to blow the vault. Then the platinum, handled by a dozen stalwart gorillas, would be on its way to the waiting truck.
A muffled shot. A zimming bullet winged the gangster who had given the order to advance. While the underlings stared, their leader collapsed at their feet. Astounded, the ruffians paused. One man, turning, gave a sudden exclamation. A second report; he fell.
The others wheeled. They were at the mercy of the hidden sniper. They saw whence the shots had come. A wreath of smoke was curling from between two tires in a stack that stood before a store across the street. Revolvers flashed. They barked.
Zipping bullets seared through the rubber tires. The leaden messengers were flattened by the thick rims within. An automatic responded. Shots came in quick precision. As mobsters dropped, their fellows dashed for the safety of the truck.
SAFE in his improvised pill-box, The Shadow had covered the center zone of crime. Once again, he was defying The Crime Master’s hordes; this time from a security which they could not shake.
The stack of tires — a natural sight in front of any store — had completely passed suspicion. Through the narrow slit, on a level with his eyes, The Shadow could spy forth while he fired with his single hand. His right arm, resting at his side, was not needed. New automatics were within reach of his left hand; at any time, a lowering of his body could bring him beneath the space that served as loophole between the steel rims of the tires.
Whistles blaring, sirens shrieking — gunfire roared from blocks around. Police, held in readiness at distant locations, were smashing in through cordons of mobsmen.
The Shadow had arranged their attack. They were breaking down The Crime Master’s blockades. In a few minutes, they would be here, in this very block, where impotent raiders were unable to rush the door that they had shattered!
Suddenly, one of the trucks by the garage lumbered forward. It was moving away from The Shadow. From its interior came the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun. The truck stopped at the far end of the block. Like an armored tank, it resisted the advance of the police.
The blocking truck was beyond The Shadow’s range. But as the hidden fighter watched, impervious to scattered shots that struck his pill-box, a second truck came rolling toward the corner.