CHAPTER XXIV
THE LAST SETTLEMENT
THE sirens which Eric Hildrow had ignored were not the whines of fire engines. While the master plotter had been gaining the missing plans, a dozen police cars had undertaken a most unusual chase.
A huge roadster had entered the limits of Washington, traveling at a speed of nearly one hundred miles an hour. Its driver blaring a horn that sounded warnings a full block ahead, the car had roared along a broad avenue toward the business district of the capital.
Traffic had been disrupted. Pedestrians had ducked for cover. At hurricane speed, the mammoth roadster had cleared a path before it. But in the wake of this foreign-built car came a deluge of pursuers.
Motorcycle cops and patrol cars had taken up the chase. The big machine had outdistanced them. Its speed had decreased to eighty as it neared the center of the city; then had come another lessening of pace. Yet the most ardent pursuers had failed to catch up with it.
New patrol cars, cutting in, had complicated the chase. By the time the big car was in sight of the Hotel Barlingham, it seemed that half the police of Washington were on its trail. Then the foreign roadster did an unexpected circuit about a circle. It cut along a street that led to the Hotel Barlingham.
CLIFF MARSLAND was the grim driver of that roadster. Blaring his warning, he had cut a swath toward his goal. He was not the daredevil that Miles Crofton was. In an autogyro, Cliff would have admitted his inability.
But Cliff was an accomplished driver. He knew this car. Like Crofton, he was inspired by the companion who rode with him. For beside Cliff sat a silent figure cloaked in black. During the early portion of the ride, The Shadow had donned a garb that he had taken from the suitcase in the car.
The Shadow had regretted that he had not kept Miles Crofton in Washington. Crofton had brought the big touring car to the capital, to leave it with Cliff Marsland. The car had been there to serve The Shadow. For once, the cloaked warrior had not anticipated an emergency which had come.
But Cliff Marsland had proven his ability in the pinch. He had cut away precious seconds during this roaring trip. A soft laugh came from hidden lips as The Shadow viewed the home stretch. Whining sirens from behind meant nothing. The goal lay half a block ahead. Cliff had made it in a time limit that Crofton would have envied.
Cliff jammed the brakes and shot the roadster into the alleyway beside the Hotel Barlingham. As the big machine swerved, The Shadow raised a gloved hand and pressed a phial to his lips. Purple liquid showed by the dashlight as The Shadow lowered the tiny bottle.
A strengthening elixir, included in the suitcase. The Shadow had reserved this dosage for the finish of the run. Already well recovered from his loss of blood, he was making final preparation for the ordeal that lay ahead.
The roadster jammed to a stop in the darkness of the alley. The roaring trip had been made through lighted streets. Evening had settled. It was gloomy in this spot. The Shadow could be distinguished only by his soft laugh.
Cliff saw a shape glide across the alley. He spied a man standing by a service entrance to the hotel. The fellow looked like a watcher. Cliff heard the man growl a challenge. He saw the fellow flash a revolver.
Then came a stroke from the dark. The guard thudded to the pavement. A black shape blotted out the illumination of the service entrance. Then The Shadow was gone.
Cliff smiled tensely. The Shadow had anticipated this. He had given Cliff the tip in whispered words. Cliff knew what to do. He had his alibi for the police. He needed it, too, for they were here.
SOME had spotted Cliff entering the alley; others had doubled back; more had gone around the block. The roadster was the center of a glare of headlights. None opened fire, now that the machine was stopped. But they came piling in, a dozen of them, ready with revolvers. A powerful flashlight showed Cliff Marsland.
“Climb out of there,” came a gruff command. “What was the idea, you doing ninety down the avenue?”
“An emergency,” returned Cliff, coming peacefully to the street.
“Yeah?” The officer grunted. “Well, spill your alibi. We’re ready for a laugh, after that chase.”
“Look across the street and you’ll see it,” stated Cliff.
One of the cops turned a flashlight in that direction. The glare showed a hard-faced rowdy laying flat on the sidewalk. Two cops hurried in the direction. Others turned to Cliff.
“I drove this car,” stated Cliff, quietly, “in behalf of Commander Joseph Dadren, of the United States Navy. I brought him here to prevent the murder of Senator Ross Releston.”
Exclamations from the cops. One growled his disbelief in the statement; but another joined with Cliff.
“Say,” put in the second officer, “Senator Releston does live here. This is the Barlingham.”
“Who knocked out the guy across the street?” demanded a policeman.
“Commander Dadren,” responded Cliff. “He chose this entrance because he believed that others, on the avenue and further street, would be more heavily guarded. Thugs are about, to cover the murderer.”
The easy tone impressed the officers. The one who had supported Cliff was quick to give a suggestion.
“If this fellow’s right,” said the cop, “we’re dubs to be standing here. A couple of you boys watch him. I’m taking a look for these thugs he spoke about.”
Two officers took Cliff in charge. The rest set off on the run. Two headed through the service entrance. The others circled the hotel in both directions to cover the main doors. Cliff Marsland settled back in the seat of the roadster.
UPSTAIRS in the Hotel Barlingham, two men were standing in the sixth-floor hall. One was Marling; the other, a crook. Hildrow’s chief lieutenant was troubled. He had heard the sirens coming closer. He had heard their whines reach a finish.
“Sounds like a fire,” he said. “I wonder if it’s here.”
“It might be,” returned the underling. “Say, if it was in that corner apartment—”
“I’m taking a look,” broke in Marling. “Listen: If we get in a tight place, make out we’re fighting a fire. There’s an extinguisher, over past the elevator. Be ready with it.”
Marling sneaked toward the main door of Releston’s apartment. He drew a revolver with one hand; a key with the other. The key was a duplicate of one that Stollart had sent. Marling unlocked the door into the waiting room. He entered softly and locked the door behind him.
The aiding mobster was standing with one hand on the fire extinguisher, which was of the heavy, cylindrical type. He was ready to lift it from its place, if Marling should give the word. Anything might have happened in that apartment where the chief had gone.
A shade of blackness fell across the extinguisher. The gunman wheeled. He was too late. From the stairway had come a form cloaked in ink-hued garb. The Shadow was springing upon Marling’s aid. A chopping left arm descended. An automatic thudded against the mobster’s head.
The fellow toppled. His hat rolled on the floor. His gun clattered; The Shadow stopped it with a quick motion of his foot. For one brief instant The Shadow listened.
He had seen Marling enter the waiting room. He knew that Hildrow must be inside. Marling would surely lock the door behind him. Time out to pick the lock would be time lost, despite The Shadow’s swiftness at such work. For the climax would be in that extending living room, where bolted doors could resist advance.
The Shadow gazed straight toward the door that led from the hallway directly into the living room. He knew exactly where the bolts were located. A foot above the knob. Strong bolts, but an old door. Not too formidable.
A soft laugh sounded in the hallway.