Another human target plopped to the floor. The Shadow, swinging inward as he fired, had picked his mark with perfect precision. Moreover, he was swinging toward the inner room, to deal with any others who might be lurking there.
Then instinctively, he whirled toward the outer door. Gifted with uncanny intuition, The Shadow had not only divined that other foes were absent in the inner room; he had also guessed the spot from which a new attack might come.
THE unlocked door was swinging open. Framed in the portal were the two crooks from the lobby. Shots had told them that something was amiss. Plans for Bragg’s capture and murder had not included gunplay in the hotel itself.
While his gun-holding right hand had been reaching forward, almost probing the spaces of the inner room, The Shadow’s left had dropped to its original position — within his pocket. As his right hand swung toward the outer door, this hidden left also snapped into view, carrying a second gun.
Had they been dealing with a black-cloaked fighter, the new arrivals would not have had a chance. But The Shadow was here as Bragg. His disguised form was plainly visible against the window. Both entrants recognized their foe. They were ready with their guns.
The Shadow beat them to the shots. His automatics boomed a simultaneous welcome as the killers opened their hasty fire. Revolver bullets sizzled through the air. The whining slugs shattered windows.
But The Shadow, still whirling, had standing marks. The missives from his automatics found living bodies in their paths. Hildrow’s reserve assassins went slumping helplessly.
Moving toward the door, The Shadow pocketed his gun and yanked open the suitcase that he had previously placed on the floor. From it, he produced cloak and hat. Here, away from the light of the windows, he performed a black-out as he donned his chosen garb.
A flexible briefcase followed. It contained The Shadow’s make-up equipment. It would later hold the hat and cloak. This object went from view. Pausing, The Shadow listened. He could hear shouts from outside the room; but they were all far below.
One man, slumped against the wall, was staring with glassy eyes. Dying, the rogue had seen The Shadow’s transformation. His blood-flecked lips were trembling with fear. The Shadow turned his burning gaze upon this crippled foeman.
“Name your chief!” came the hissed whisper. “Speak, while you still live!”
The dying man quivered. Pain was forgotten in the midst of the fear that shook him. The frustrated murderer coughed; then gasped:
“I—I don’t know — who he is.”
“You have seen him,” hissed The Shadow.
The sinister tone brought another tremor to slumping shoulders. The sagged gunman coughed out another statement:
“I—I’ve seen him,” he gasped, “but it — it ain’t him. He — he’s different, the chief is. Like last night” — the fellow paused and The Shadow knew that he was the one who had escaped from Death Island — “he was — he was a guy with a mustache then. But he changed — changed it later — to a beard—”
That was all. The man had talked beyond his time, spurred by the presence of The Shadow. He toppled from the wall and sprawled crazily upon the floor. He had told all that he knew; and his dying statement had corroborated The Shadow’s previous supposition.
The master plotter was the enemy. One who had many agents, who knew him in different guises. But now was no time to speculate upon Eric Hildrow, the villain whose name The Shadow had not yet learned. Shouts from a stairway told that police were arriving.
The Shadow swept into the hall. He spied a flight of stairs and sprang up them just as bluecoats appeared from below. On the fifth floor, The Shadow headed straight for the elevator shaft. Stopping there, he pried doors apart just as a car came up and stopped at the fourth floor.
Softly, The Shadow lowered himself through the opening and closed the doors noiselessly behind him. The car had delivered two officers. It descended, and The Shadow rode down with it. At the ground floor, he slid over the top of the car, worked down its partly grilled side, then dropped a floor to the basement level. This was possible, for all the elevators were in an open shaftway. There, he pried open a pair of doors and moved swiftly through gloomy cellar corridors.
FIVE minutes later, Bragg appeared upon a secluded street. He was carrying a well-stuffed brief case. The Shadow had stowed away his black garb. It had aided in his escape. That was sufficient.
Entering a large drug store, The Shadow went to a telephone booth. He dialed Burbank’s number and spoke in a low, whispering tone. Over the wire came Burbank’s report, telling of Commander Dadren’s departure from Cedar Cove. The contact man added further intelligence from Cliff Marsland. Harry Vincent was taking the afternoon express. Cliff was going with him.
Then came another report. This was from Clyde Burke, an agent of The Shadow who worked as a reporter with the New York Classic. It was Burke’s job to forward important news flashes before they were printed.
“Dispatch from Washington news bureau,” informed Burbank. “Officials at the airport are expressing anxiety about the plane flown by Commander Joseph Dadren. One hour and a half overdue, coming from the Carolinas.”
A soft laugh sounded in the telephone booth. Its whispered tone was grim. The Shadow knew that Dadren had been intercepted. More than that, he foresaw what might follow. His answer to Burbank was a prompt one.
“Contact Miles Crofton,” ordered The Shadow. “Order him to the Newark airport. To join a man named Bragg who has an autogyro there. He will follow all instructions that he receives from Bragg.”
“Orders received,” responded Burbank.
A few minutes later, a taximan pulled up beside the curb near the big drug store. He opened the door to let an owlish, round-faced man step aboard the car. The passenger was carrying a briefcase.
“Where to, sir?” inquired the taximan.
“Newark airport,” replied The Shadow, in the solemn voice of Bragg.
CHAPTER XI
ON THE NORTHERN EXPRESS
COMMANDER JOSEPH DADREN had been captured at noon on this eventful day. At three o’clock, The Shadow had demolished a squad of Eric Hildrow’s minions who had attacked him at the Hotel Halcyon. Shortly after six, Harry Vincent was eating dinner aboard the Northern Express.
This was the train that Harry had taken from the town near Cedar Cove. It was a slower train than the through limiteds. At the same time, it was equipped for long-distance travel. The only day train on the line, it did a large business in passengers between way points.
Seated at a table across from Harry was Cliff Marsland. The two had not talked together. To all appearances, they were strangers — chance travelers on the same train to Washington. All the while, however, Cliff was keeping Harry in view. He knew the importance of the briefcase that his fellow agent carried.
Dusk had settled while Harry and Cliff were finishing their meal. The Virginia landscape had grown hazy. Harry glanced about the dining car; then arose and left by the rear door. Cliff followed half a minute later.
Harry’s course led back through the Pullmans that were attached to the rear of the train. When he reached the last car, Harry walked into a passage that led along the right side. This car was half-compartments, half-lounge — a combination car that had come through from the South.
Two men were seated by the rear window that opened on the observation platform. Harry looked them over; then took a chair midway in this section of the car.
Shortly afterward, Cliff Marsland arrived and seated himself at the writing desk near the front.
The train was coming to a stop, in a fair-sized city. This was the last stage of the run; from here on, it was a two-hour-trip straight into Washington. The express waited a minute at the station platform; then chugged slowly out into the yards.