Yet The Shadow, even when he had learned that Blaine Goodall had departed, displayed no hasty response.
In the calm guise of Lamont Cranston, this supersleuth quietly surveyed the chair which Goodall had recently occupied.
A full minute passed — a minute which a smart detective might have considered as wasted time. But at the end of that minute, keen eyes had found a mark.
Protruding from beneath the edge of the chair was the corner of a white piece of paper. Still puffing his cigarette, Lamont Cranston seated himself in Blaine Goodall’s chair, and with the same action, his hand plucked an envelope from the floor.
The eyes of The Shadow saw the rough sketch which Blaine Goodall had made for Hugo Urvin. The hand of The Shadow crumpled the envelope in a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket — the target which Goodall had missed. The Shadow had scored an important point against the enemy. His deliberate actions had enabled him to avoid a useless step.
Where any other would have followed the direct route to the New Jersey capital, The Shadow was ready now to take the roundabout route for which Blaine Goodall had expressed a preference.
Still deliberate, this being who masked himself in the guise of Lamont Cranston arose and strolled to the lobby. He entered a telephone booth and called a New Jersey number. A voice answered; it was that of Richards, Lamont Cranston’s valet.
“This is Mr. Cranston,” said The Shadow, in the calm tone of the millionaire. “Tell Stanley that I intend to use the speedster tonight. Have him bring it immediately to the New Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel. He will wait for me there.”
His call completed, The Shadow left the Union Club. The doorman gave Lamont Cranston a salute as he passed. A smile flickered upon thin lips beneath a hawkish nose.
Lamont Cranston! The name commanded great respect. Only The Shadow knew that the real Lamont Cranston was still hunting his elephants in the wilds of Nigeria!
Reaching a coupe, the actions of The Shadow became more swift. The trim car headed rapidly downtown. In quick time, it reached the Holland Tunnel, and sped through the tube beneath the Hudson River. A swift car, this one; yet not swift enough to overtake a man with the start that Blaine Goodall had gained.
AT the Jersey side of the tunnel, the coupe stopped. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow emerged and approached a long-hooded roadster that was waiting there. A uniformed chauffeur tipped his hat.
“Hello, Stanley,” came the easy tones of Cranston. “Take the coupe home. I am going for a spin.”
The chauffeur nodded. He noted that his employer was carrying a briefcase. Lamont Cranston had one frequently.
Stanley would have been surprised had he known the contents of that bag. Within the darkness of the parked speedster, the personage who was the perfect double of the millionaire opened the briefcase and removed a bundle of dark material.
As the car moved forward, the driver seemed to disappear beneath the folds of a black cloak. A broad-brimmed slouch hat crowned his bead. Black gloves were upon his hands.
The Shadow was The Shadow!
The huge speedster — a car with wheel base greater than that of a large limousine — moved rapidly along the Lincoln Highway. It was gaining, no doubt, upon Blaine Goodall; but its speed, at present, was no greater than that which the coupe could have made.
Then came the turning point. Following the odd route which Blaine Goodall had chosen for his trip to Trenton, the huge car swung off the traffic-ridden highway.
Miles behind? What were miles to this powerful foreign car? What were miles when The Shadow was at the steering wheel?
A long, clear stretch of road lay far ahead. Not a car in sight at this late hour. The motor purred softly at seventy miles an hour. It began to thrum at ninety. Then its noise became a roar.
The speedometer moved upward to one hundred and ten. It wavered there, occasionally tending toward a higher point than that terrific speed. At whirlwind pace, the huge speedster held the road, scarcely slackening at long, sweeping curves.
The hand of The Shadow was at the wheel. The master who battled crime was on the trail of Blaine Goodall, gaining one mile out of every two!
If danger lay in the path of an innocent man tonight, The Shadow would be there when the menace arrived!
CHAPTER XII. THE MIGHT OF KOY SHAN
OUT upon a lonely New Jersey road, not far from the town of Hopewell, Blaine Goodall was following a well-paved path to Trenton. The road which the corporation president had taken was excellent, despite its moderate width.
A light drizzle was beginning. The road was slippery, and Goodall dropped the gait of his sedan to forty-five miles an hour. Up to now, the man had been traveling between fifty and fifty-five.
Blaine Goodall was grumbling to himself. He could not understand why his friend Beecham had changed his mind about this trip to Trenton. Goodall had been angry ever since he had received the telephone message at the Union Club.
Because of the message from Beecham, Goodall was now riding alone. Had his friend been thoughtful enough to have informed him earlier, he would have been able to start at eight o’clock, and would now be enjoying a comfortable bed in a Trenton hotel.
The drizzle, foggy in parts, had made driving uncomfortable. Goodall could not understand the lack of consideration which Beecham had displayed.
Little did Goodall suppose that his chance conversation with Hugo Urvin had been the real cause of the present state of affairs! A chain of remarkable events had occurred immediately after that talk, and at this very moment, Goodall was riding into unexpected difficulties.
One driving hazard that annoyed Blaine Goodall was the frequency of crossing signs. Every time that he slowed the coupe in response to a shining warning, the driver discovered that the crossroad was nothing more than a third-class highway. Nevertheless, Goodall instinctively obeyed each caution as he approached it.
He was on a long, curving stretch of deserted roadway. Somewhere, in the distance, the whirling beacon of an airway marker played elusively across the horizon. Those flashes of light were always the same space away. Goodall decided that the road must be circling the beacon.
Something thrummed from far behind. The sound increased to a distant roar.
An airplane? It sounded more like a powerful motor that was following along the road, yet the swiftness of its approach convinced Goodall that it must be an air rider rather than an automobile, for the sound was gaining constantly.
A curve. Another crossing sign. Goodall applied the brakes and grunted as he rolled across a dirt-road intersection. He pressed the accelerator as he rose over a sloping bridge. Then, in the midst of this barren stretch, events began to happen.
THE roar behind became a terrific sound as a high-powered follower swept past the bend which Goodall had just taken. Powerful headlights glimmered in the mirror in front of Goodall’s face.
Something else loomed ahead — across the highway, Goodall saw a touring car. The vehicle was parked at a slight angle, heading the same way that he was driving; but Goodall realized that if he kept on, a crash could not be avoided.
Powerful lights, accompanied by a terrific roar. That was the sign from the rear. A black, rakish automobile, like a pirate ship of the road, barring the way ahead. This sight was the real menace that startled Blaine Goodall.
The man applied the brakes with more than usual pressure.
Goodall’s coupe began to skid. Still sticking to the brakes, Goodall controlled it to some degree as it swung sidewise in the road. In the midst of this dizzy whirl that was bringing him close to the touring car, Goodall was overtaken by a huge speedster that took to the side to avoid him.