Bosco was breathing weakly, but steadily. Propped by the open window, the thug was reviving from the cool air that whistled into the coupe. Keeping the car at its top speed of seventy, The Shadow jogged Bosco with his elbow. The crook muttered something in a gargly voice.
"Snap out of it, Bosco!" The Shadow's tone was gruff. "This is Pike - hear me? We got The Shadow!"
Bosco's next mutter was almost coherent. He was lying back, his burned coat sleeve across his scorched eyes.
"Hear me, Bosco?" demanded The Shadow in the same hard tone. "Know who I am?"
"Yeah -" coughed Bosco. "You're Pike - Pike Fengel!"
The Shadow had learned one important point: Pike's last name. He needed it for future reference, if his present bluff worked.
"Lucky I was with you, Bosco," growled The Shadow. "I seen you drop, and got to where you was."
"The Shadow" - Bosco's cough brought blood - "did you see him?"
"Sure! He was layin' cold. I drilled him an' left him to burn. Quill's goin' to like that, ain't he?"
"Yeah. It's lucky - lucky I brought you along with the mob. I told Quill you'd come in handy. He knows you're good -"
Bosco coughed, pawed at his lips, then added:
"Quill knows you're good - even though he ain't never met you."
The Shadow gripped the steering wheel tightly, kept the car at full speed as he hit a long curve. He'd heard more news, of the sort he liked. Just one more thing was needed. He was preparing to put another question, when Bosco brought up the subject on his own.
"You gotta get there, Pike!" gulped Bosco. "Back to the main joint - Quill's hide-out."
"Sure!" gruffed The Shadow. Then, smoothly: "Gimme the dope on how to get there."
Bosco mouthed an address on the East Side. The place wasn't many blocks from the corner where The Shadow had staged a fight beneath the elevated.
"I got it," informed The Shadow, in the style that did for Pike. "What about the password - ain't there any?"
"Give the buzzer two pushes" - Bosco's words were weak - "then wait half a minute. Give it a short an' a long. When a guy calls down to you, say 'Hello, Hoppy' - an' that's all -"
Racked by a sudden coughing spasm, Bosco came upright. A sudden recollection had gripped him. His eyes bulged open; for the moment, they were sightless as the crook snarled:
"Say - I spilled all that dope to you before! You ain't Pike -"
They were taking a curve to the left; the lights of a car coming from the opposite direction bathed the interior of the coupe. In that sudden glare, Bosco's tortured eyes saw the driver beside him.
"The Shadow!"
BOSCO'S move was as quick as the rasped recognition he uttered. Gripped by a convulsive fury, the dying thug whipped a knife from his coat, drove it for The Shadow's heart.
Twisting at the wheel, The Shadow parried the stroke with his elbow. His foot left the accelerator, but the car was on a downward slope. It was scorching along that straight stretch of road at more than sixty miles an hour.
One curve was past; another lay just ahead. It went to the right; if another car appeared, it would come squarely into the path of the hurtling coupe. Like Bosco, the coupe had to be controlled within the next few seconds.
Shoving his left shoulder through the open window, The Shadow kept a left-hand grip on the wheel.
Simultaneously, his right hand grabbed Bosco's knife hand, held it at bay, the blade point almost at The Shadow's heart.
A long right leg shoved clear across the car; The Shadow's foot hooked the handle of the door on the right. As the handle came downward, The Shadow lunged inward from his own window. Heaving hard against Bosco, he flung the crook to the right side of the car.
The loosened door gave. Bosco took a long, clawing dive to the highway. His last spasm was ended before he hit the concrete. The crook had given his last ounce of life in his murderous attempt to obliterate The Shadow.
Gloved hands wheeled the coupe hard, out of the path of an oncoming car. The flapping door, hinged at the front, slammed shut as The Shadow stepped on the gas.
Bosco's body had rolled deep into a gully, to lie forgotten. The Shadow was speeding onward to settle scores with mobsters who believed him dead!
Those tools of Professor Lawsham had handled earlier victims; men, at present helpless, who were termed the "Dead Who Lived." They were to learn, however, that such a title could be improved - and regarded from another viewpoint.
They were to meet another kind of Dead Who Lived - as represented by The Shadow, risen from a fiery grave to complete a new errand of justified revenge!
CHAPTER XVII. IN THE HIDE-OUT
THE East Side street was in a rundown neighborhood; but it was quiet. It wasn't the sort of thoroughfare where crooks would ordinarily choose a place for conclave. Perhaps that was why Quill Baxton had picked it; particularly the address that Bosco had mentioned.
It was a narrow house, brick-fronted, its door boarded up. There were steps, however, that led down to a basement entry tucked well from view. That was the spot The Shadow chose, when he left the cab that brought him.
The Shadow had been forced to use precious minutes, preparing for this foray. That had necessitated a stop at his sanctum, a hidden room in the heart of Manhattan. Since time had to be taken out, The Shadow had left the coupe and summoned the cab instead.
Curiously, The Shadow was visible, despite the darkness at the little doorway. That was because of the new garb he wore. His khaki pants, though darkish, could be spied. The same applied to the brown-striped jersey and the checkered cap that topped The Shadow's head.
Finding the bell-push, The Shadow gave the signals. Someone opened the door, stepped out of sight.
Moving into darkness, The Shadow sensed that a gun was covering him. It would be a bad spot if he didn't know the password.
A hoarse voice whispered from a stairway: "Who's there?"
The Shadow gave a guarded growl; "Hello, Hoppy!"
A flashlight glimmered to guide The Shadow up the stairs. At the top, the beam was turned upon the visitor's face. The Shadow was prepared for the doubtful grunt that came.
"Take it easy, pal," he told his challenger. "I'm Pike Fengel. Working with Bosco Treff. Where's Quill?"
The Shadow was guided to a closed door; when it opened, he saw a lighted room, its windows completely shuttered. Quill Baxton was seated there, eyeing a man who lay bound in the corner. The prisoner was Dick Remingwood.
The room had soap boxes for chairs, army cots for beds. Evidently Quill and his tribe lived tenement fashion when they occupied these premises. There were other furnishings, though, that caught The Shadow's notice.
A big compressed-air tank stood in the corner; the object was fully five feet high. In addition to that large cylinder were smaller, portable tanks. The big tank was evidently loaded with a supply of sleep-inducing gas. The small ones were used to carry lesser quantities. One had been taken to Mandor's apartment, for the job there.
The Shadow also saw the apparatus that had been used in Thurnig's Servidor, and the mechanism from the telephone booth where Brellick had been overpowered.
There was no sign of Harry and Arlene. The Shadow had no time to speculate on their absence. Quill was glaring in his direction.
"I'm Pike Fengel," rasped The Shadow. "In from the joint at Hadley."
"Yeah?" queried Quill. "How'd you crawl out of there?"
Pike's appearance suited Quill. The Shadow looked as tough as any of Quill's own crew. What was more, The Shadow's present face was copied from a rogues' gallery portrait of Pike. What puzzled Quill was the manner of Pike's escape. The Shadow answered the query with a blunt tone that made Quill like him.