Another shot would have meant his doom. But even in the last futile moments, the reflex action of his dying clutch could have succeeded. The Shadow did not fire again.
Turning, he dropped his automatics and stepped upon the platform, to seize the body of Joe Cardona. The platform was moving as The Shadow, with long, powerful arms, drew Cardona toward him. The Shadow's feet were on the solid floor; his body was flinging backward as the platform fell. For a split second, Cardona's body hung over a black abyss as it was being swept to safety. Then the detective struck the floor and lay there, utterly helpless.
The Shadow stooped and picked up his automatics. He looked toward the wall, and watched the form of Snooks Milligan as it swayed in convulsive gyrations. The gangster sprawled upon the floor, dead. Cardona's bonds were cut. Supported by his rescuer, the detective staggered out into the night, and was helped into the waiting car. The cool air revived him; but as his mysterious companion took the wheel, and headed back toward the city, the aftermath of the terrible strain had its effect. Cardona lay in a stupor that was only momentarily broken when he found himself being urged through the darkened lobby of his hotel.
The ringing of a telephone awakened the detective. It was broad daylight. Groggily, he answered the call. It was the clerk, telling him it was ten o'clock.
Ten o'clock! Cardona could not understand why he had been called. His mind was groping dizzily, trying to recall the dreamlike events that he had encountered the night before.
He remembered his capture dimly. The torture was a vivid recollection. Cardona's weakened, aching shoulders were a strong reminder.
But the rescue was a haze. A tall man, whose face Cardona had only glimpsed, had effected his delivery from death. Cardona awoke to the knowledge that only one man could have accomplished it — The Shadow!
Cardona spied a small package lying on the desk. With numbed fingers, he opened it. From within, he produced a bunch of violets.
A new message from The Shadow!
It was the first since Cincinnati, Cardona thought. He did not know that a warning message had gone astray the night before — a message with three brief words that would have kept him from walking into the unexpected danger which had beset him.
With fumbling fingers, the detective found the disk. It bore these words:
To-Night
Headquarters
New York
Cardona realized now why he had been called at ten o'clock. He could reach New York by eight to-night, if he took the noon plane from Chicago.
Hastily, the detective dressed and packed. He reached the airport in time for the plane. Still dazed, he watched the outskirts of the city drop away, and saw the broad expanse of Lake Michigan spread away into the smoky haze.
In Cardona's pockets were the notes of all the information he had gathered on this trip. Scattered facts, which had significance, yet which required more to make them complete and useful. Cardona's thoughts flew ahead of him to New York. What awaited there?
A newspaper lay beside him. Cardona looked at the front page. Then he temporarily forgot his problems. He was reading the account of a gun fight in a house on the shore of Lake Michigan. Al Barruci and Snooks Milligan, noted gangsters, had been slain. A death trap had been discovered. Two other gangsters had died in the fray. The police, brought to the spot by a mysterious telephone tip, had carried away two more who were wounded.
The news of the affair was causing consternation in gangland. The two men who lived would not talk. It was believed that a quarrel had taken place between the two gang leaders and their underlings. That was all.
Joe Cardona grinned. The account bore no reference to the surprising rescue of a captured New York detective. Nor did it mention the fact of a rescuer.
The Shadow had come and gone, leaving no trace of his mysterious, timely presence!
Chapter XIX — Slade Signs
Martin Slade, posing as James Telford, was on the front terrace of the Long Island bungalow. It was late in the afternoon. His adopted father had not yet returned from his trip to Baltimore. Slade was in a mood of elation. He had gone through the safe during Thomas Telford's absence. He had learned facts regarding the old man's wealth and holdings.
Had there been valuables in the safe, Slade might have had difficulty in resisting the temptation to purloin them, for he was a crook through and through.
He had learned, however, during his stealthy search, that Thomas Telford kept all stock certificates and valuable items in safe-deposit vaults.
A taxi wheeled up to the bungalow, and Thomas Telford alighted. Slade advanced with a warm greeting, to help the old man with his suitcase.
Thomas Telford shook his head and strode directly into the house. Slade, watching in surprise, saw the old man enter the room where the safe was located. The door slammed behind him. What was the meaning of this? Martin Slade's brow became furrowed. Had Telford learned something that had put him wise to the deceptive game that Slade was playing? It seemed a logical explanation of the old man's action.
Slade strolled about the terrace, wondering what would be the best course to follow. The sun had set. Long, flickering streaks of darkness were on the lawn. Early evening, and still Martin Slade paced up and down. Thomas Telford had not left that room. Slade sensed that it would be a bad mistake to interrupt him in his present mood. The crook was playing a crafty, waiting game. The gloom of night felt oppressive. Slade was ill at ease, almost as unexplainably nervous as he had been on the night when he had first entered this bungalow.
He stopped pacing to listen outside the screen door. He saw Thomas Telford come from the closed room and go upstairs to the small second floor. The old man did not glance at the screen door as he passed.
This was Slade's cue for action. Quickly, he slipped into the house, and entered the room that Telford had left. The door brought him in past the safe. He stopped at Telford's desk in the corner and looked about. The room did not seem oppressive now.
On the desk, Slade saw some typewritten sheets of paper. He scanned the upper one, and certain words caught his eye immediately. This was evidently a statement that had been dictated by Thomas Telford. Slade read:
This day, in Baltimore, I have received proof positive that my son is dead, and the man posing as my son is an impostor. Should I be unable to rid myself of him, keep this statement as evidence that I knew he was not James Telford. My will is made out in his name, but I intend to change it when my lawyer returns to New York. Reasons why I do not want the impostor to know that I have suspected him—
Slade had read enough. He did not need the details. He realized that Telford, absent-mindedly, had left the paper here. The old man might return at any minute. Slade started to leave the room. Then his eye spotted a silver water carafe, with a glass resting beside it.
With a shrewd expression, Martin Slade drew a small phial from his pocket. He uncorked it and poured a colorless fluid into the glass, which contained a little water.
Telford drank a great deal of water, as a habit of health. Each afternoon, the housekeeper refilled the carafe. Evidently Telford had taken a drink already. It was probable that he would take another. Slade strolled from the room. Out on the porch, he heard Telford coming down the stairs. The old man called through the screen door.
"Jim!"
"Oh, hello, dad," responded Slade, opening the door.
"Sorry I was so brusque to-night," said Telford. "I was worried— worried about something that occurred in Baltimore. An old friend of mine told me— told me that he was very ill. Incurably ill. It was a great blow to me, you understand."