Skeeter had dodged behind the coupe. He had not been seen. He had fired no revealing shots, being without a gun. Huddled, cringing, he expected the arrival of The Shadow. Then came a break.
A motorcycle roared suddenly from the lower driveway. It’s lone eye blazed a path that showed The Shadow’s agents clustered among the shrubbery. Cliff — Harry — Hawkeye — all knew the identity of the arrivals. The policemen who had been patrolling the lower road!
THE three ducked for cover as revolvers barked. Then, from the neighborhood of the parked cars, came the shots of automatics. The Shadow had sensed the situation. He was firing to draw the police.
The motorcycle swerved and sped in that direction.
A motor roared. Headlights blinked on. Out from the cluster of the mobster cars came Driller’s coupe.
The Shadow had reached that car. He had plucked the dead gorilla from the wheel. He had timed a quick and sudden departure.
Cycle and side car skidded into a ditch to avoid the path of the coupe. As the light car swept past the spot where The Shadow’s agents lurked, a weird laugh came from behind the wheel. That burst of mockery was a signal.
“Come on!” ordered Cliff.
He headed for Harry’s sedan. His companions followed. As they piled aboard, they saw the motorcycle come down the driveway. The Shadow had taken the route to the lower gate, leading the cops in a futile chase.
“They’ll never overtake him,” declared Harry, as he started the motor of his car. “We’ll head out by this other driveway.”
The course led upward, across the large Long Island estate. As they reached the brow of a hill, Hawkeye gave utterance. Harry stopped the car. Down the sloping hill a panorama spread beneath them in the moonlight.
They could see the road by which they had come. Speeding along it was a coupe — Driller’s — manned by The Shadow. A mile back was the gateway to the lower drive. The motorcycle was at that spot, turning about.
“They’ve given up the chase,” laughed Cliff. “They’ve just decided that they belong back at the house, to see what’s happened there.”
“That’s it,” agreed Harry. He shoved the car into gear. “And that’s why we’re going to make time toward Manhattan. We’ll just have time to reach a through highway before they telephone to have the roads watched.”
The sedan shot forward. It sped through an upper gateway and caught a paved road that followed the direction they wanted. Cliff and Hawkeye settled back as Harry opened the throttle and brought the speedometer up to seventy-five.
The safety of thronged thoroughfares lay ahead. To that same safety, The Shadow was driving alone. The master fighter and his agents had done their work. Mobs had met to commit robbery and murder. The law would find dead gorillas and their slain leaders.
And in that same mansion where The Shadow had blazed a trail of vengeance, the law would find two captured men unharmed. For The Shadow and his agents had saved helpless victims from doom.
CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW’S PASSENGER
A LIGHT coupe came to a stop on a secluded Manhattan street. A door opened. Someone stepped forth. The door closed.
Five seconds passed. Then a streak of blackness glided along the sidewalk beneath the dull glare of a street lamp.
The Shadow had abandoned Driller Borson’s coupe. That momentary blotch upon the paving was the only token of his passage. From that spot, The Shadow had merged with darkness. His work accomplished, the weird battler was departing into the night.
Three minutes ticked by. Then came a motion at the back of the coupe. The rumble seat opened. A head poked into view. The street lamp showed the grimy, sweat-streaked face of Skeeter Wigan.
Cautiously the puny mobster emerged. He stole to the front of the car and looked in. He seemed puzzled; then his face showed fright.
Until now, Skeeter had thought that one of Driller’s mobsters had been at the wheel of the coupe. The true identity of the driver dawning on him, Skeeter was filled with terror. He sidled across the street and dodged into an alleyway.
Ten minutes later, Skeeter appeared upon the steps that led to an elevated station. Peering nervously over his shoulder, the little gangster ascended and huddled in a corner of the platform until a train arrived.
He rode for several stations, hunched in a corner of a half-filled car. Then he stepped from the train and descended to the street.
Skeeter spied a cab. He entered it and gave the driver an address. Some minutes later, he entered the lobby of a second-class apartment building. He used an automatic elevator to reach the third floor. He tapped at a door marked “3 G.”
The door opened. A dark-skinned man eyed the visitor and motioned him to enter. The servant who had admitted Skeeter was a Hindu. Silently, the Oriental pointed to a chair; then started toward an inner door.
“Who is it, Mahmud?” came a gruff question from beyond the door.
“The little man, sahib,” responded Mahmud. “The one that you call Skeeter.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Before either Mahmud or Skeeter could reply, the speaker arrived in the doorway. He was a tall man, attired in a gaudy dressing gown. His face was almost as dark as Mahmud’s. His lips, also brown, showed a vicious leer that revealed the gleam of gold teeth.
THIS individual was well-known in certain circles of Manhattan. He was “Gyp” Tangoli, one-time speakeasy operator, erstwhile racketeer and reputed gambler. One of those shady characters upon whom the law had pinned nothing; yet who never stood above suspicion. Gyp Tangoli was noted for his participation in doubtful enterprises.
“Well?” Gyp glowered as he snapped the question at his visitor. “What’s on your chest?”
“I got to talk to you, Gyp,” pleaded Skeeter. “Right now. Alone.”
“All right.” Gyp seemed displeased despite his agreement. “Come on in.”
He led the way to a bedroom, where another Hindu was putting shirts in a bureau drawer. Gyp spoke to this second servant, using a jargon of Hindustani. The servant departed, closing the door behind him. Gyp wheeled to Skeeter.
“I told you to stay away from here,” he snarled. “What do you want to do — queer the game?”
“It’s queered already, Gyp,” whined Skeeter.
“What do you mean?” demanded Gyp, savagely. “Did somebody wise the bulls?”
“No.” Skeeter’s face showed real terror. “It wasn’t the bulls, Gyp. It was The Shadow!”
Gyp paused to stare. For a moment, his hard features seemed frozen. Then he motioned to a chair.
Taking a bottle from a bureau drawer, he poured out a drink and handed it to Skeeter. The little mobster gulped the liquor.
“Spill it,” ordered Gyp. Then, with a short, forced laugh: “I mean the news. Not the booze.”
“Out at Lovenson’s,” blurted Skeeter. “The Shadow was there. He got Driller. Then Gat. At least I think he got them; I didn’t see them drop.”
“Yeah? And what were the gorillas doing?”
“They took it too. The mugs that were inside the house. I hopped out and hollered to the others. But they didn’t have a chance.”
“Why not?”
“The Shadow had a crew planted outside. They bumped off the rest of the mob. I thought Wedge Dunney was going to get away in Driller’s coupe. So I hopped in the rumble and pulled down the top.”
“Yeah? And what happened to Wedge?”
“The Shadow must have got him, too. I didn’t know it until the coupe got to town. Then I got out and looked in the front seat. There wasn’t nobody there.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means that The Shadow was the guy that drove me in. No foolin’, Gyp! He blew in that coupe, with me ridin’ in the rumble!”