Police cars were coming from the distance. As the truck rolled up to meet them, the first rattle of its machine gun began. The men in this truck knew nothing of The Shadow’s presence. They did not know why the raid on the bank had ended so abruptly. They were to learn.
An automatic spoke. The gunner of the machine gun dropped. Another leaped to take his place. The automatic snapped forth new reports. Savagely, a gangster leaped to the gun and swung it toward the stack of tires.
Bullets sped from the belching muzzle of the machine gun. Lead rattled against steel tire rims. The pill-box was withstanding the fire. Crouched low, to avoid the danger of the loophole, The Shadow waited. He had diverted fire from the advancing police.
Sharp cries: gangsters turned their rapid-fire weapon on the law. They thought that they had quelled the sniper. They were mistaken. Again, The Shadow’s automatic blazed from the opening. The new gunners fell.
A roar. The last truck, its driver informed of the trouble, was moving from the front of the garage. The man at the wheel was crouched as he drove his big machine toward the stack of tires where The Shadow lurked.
The Shadow saw the move. The truck had a hundred feet to come. The automatic ceased its fire. Unhindered, the mammoth truck lurched forward. Its front wheels jounced upon the curb. It smashed into the stack of tires; hurtling onward, it carried them through the plate glass window of the accessory store.
Glass — woodwork — bricks — all went with a crash as The Shadow’s pill-box was scattered. Clear into the building; the truck flung tires before it as it came to a stop inside the store. It had passed the spot where the pill-box had been set; in the wake of the truck, a dozen mobsters were coming forward.
They stopped short. They saw the rising floor of the elevator car, coming up beneath Harry Vincent’s improvised grating. The foremost mobsters were too late. As the opening closed, they heard the weird cry of The Shadow — a mocking laugh of triumph.
The moment that the truck’s attack had started, the fighter in the pill-box had released the car on which he stood. His body, passing between the bars, had descended to the safety below the level of the street.
Mobsmen were doomed. Police cars had arrived. Vainly, gorillas leaped to the machine gun. Bullets stopped them. Speeding onward, two police cars approached the distant truck from the rear. They arrived while the machine gun was being twirled toward them. They silenced the gunners before the men had time to open with a deadly spray of bullets.
The Crime Master’s minions had failed. Flanked, scorched with enfilading fire, blocked on all sides, they had no chance. Inspector Klein had set the machinery in motion. The Shadow’s strategy had guided the law to victory.
THE CRIME MASTER was in his paneled room. Seated at his checkered table, he was chuckling expectantly as he studied the pieces which he had not yet moved. Groggy, in chairs close by, were Cliff Marsland and Ralph Weston. Old Ganford Dagron had ordered them brought here, half-drugged, that they might witness his triumph.
“Any reports, Henley?”
The Crime Master’s question was an eager snarl. Henley, who had entered a moment before, shook his head.
“Not yet, Master,” he replied. “It is too soon. Woodling has not returned.”
“Half an hour has elapsed,” croaked Dagron. “I shall not have long to wait.” He turned and leered toward Weston. “You, commissioner, will learn how puny the law can be.”
Chortling, The Crime Master produced a slip of paper and wig-wagged it in front of Weston’s half-closed eyes. It was the check that the commissioner had given Woodling the night before.
“You are a fool,” sneered Dagron. “To think that you could bribe one of my trusted men. My servants — like myself — love crime. Money! Bah! I have all the wealth I need. They are entitled to their share.”
The old man tore the check to bits and threw the pieces on the floor. A buzzer sounded beside his table. Dagron’s face gleamed.
“Woodling has returned!” he exclaimed as he pressed the button to unlatch the door.
With Henley, The Crime Master gazed toward the clicking barrier. It opened. A snarl came from Dagron’s lips; Henley emitted a stifled gasp.
It was not Woodling, returning with news of triumph. It was another, whose very arrival was proof of disaster. Caught unaware, The Crime Master and his servant could not make a move.
There, in the doorway, stood a figure cloaked in black. A raised left fist held a looming automatic. Burning eyes showed beneath the brim of a slouch hat.
It was The Shadow. Following the clue of Weston’s disappearance; knowing that Ganford Dagron might well be The Crime Master, he had come in hope of uncovering the super fiend.
Victor in the fray against The Crime Master’s minions, The Shadow, master foe of crime, had trapped The Crime Master himself.
CHAPTER XXI
BLACK STANDS ALONE
A WEIRD laugh crept through the paneled room. Dagron and Henley, staring; Cliff and Weston, motionless in their chairs — the four formed a strange tableau before The Shadow’s burning gaze.
As the black-garbed arrival moved forward, leaving the door ajar behind him, his keen eyes centered upon the table where The Crime Master’s men formed their colorful array.
The hand with the automatic made a wide sweep. Its swing cleared the board. The pieces in The Crime Master’s game went scattering across the dark-hued rug. Swinging, The Shadow came to a stand at the side of the room. From this point, he controlled both Dagron and Henley with the aim of his single gun.
“Your game is ended.” The Shadow’s sinister whisper was addressed to Ganford Dagron. “Your minions have met with final defeat tonight.”
The old man snarled. Again, The Shadow laughed. He recognized the burden of The Crime Master’s thoughts.
“Your trap” — The Shadow’s voice was a sardonic sneer — “failed in its purpose. I lacked the strength to break it; but I found another method. Your one mistake was the light switch in the cellar.”
The Shadow’s tones were bitter gibes that brought a fiendish scowl to Dagron’s face. The old man’s claws were clutching furiously.
“Through that switch,” jeered The Shadow, “I operated the lights upstairs. My agent, stationed across the street, caught my coded signals. He waited — at my order — until your men had come and gone.
“Then he arrived. He waited long — until I had revived from weariness. Then, by taps, he signaled. He broke into the walled-up fireplace. I had gained entry to the ash pit beneath. He lowered tools and explosives that I needed. The rest was a matter of time alone.
“I have been free since noon. I divined the crime you scheduled for tonight. I took measures to prevent it. The police moved under my direction. I was at the heart of crime — this time encased by rings of steel that withstood the bullets of your minions.”
The Shadow’s words ended with a startling hiss. A shuddering laugh; Dagron, like Henley, quailed. The Crime Master, seated by his cleared board, realized his total helplessness.
“The police are coming here.” The Shadow’s words were mocking. “They will rescue their captured chief, as I shall first aid my captured agent. Your game will be exposed when they have reached this lair.”
The Shadow paused. The echoes of his words lingered in Dagron’s ears. There was a sinister note of doom in all that the avenger had said. Yet Ganford Dagron, fiend to the end, managed to regain his evil snarl.
HALF rising, the old man spat venomous words. It was a futile act; yet the fierceness of the challenge came as a warning to The Shadow. Realizing that Dagron might have some purpose in his action, The Shadow wheeled suddenly from the old man’s gaze.