“It will be curtains after this,” he informed. “Whether the guy decides to squawk or not. But he’ll squawk this time — unless he’s already out.”
Doc spoke into the telephone. His demand was harsh; but it was coupled with the promise of less pressure if The Shadow named his agents. Doc followed with the threat of more compression if The Shadow refused to answer. A laugh — feeble, yet final — was the sole response from the receiver.
Doc jammed the receiver on the hook. He reached for the compression lever. Savagely, he shoved it to its full extent. Curtains for The Shadow — every ounce of air pressure, all at once. Doc was carrying out The Python’s final command. Chuck and Bevo grinned their approval.
DOWN in that chamber past the shield, The Shadow heard the hissing surge of the incoming air. He had caught the sound of Doc’s clicking receiver; he knew that this was the final stroke. Yet The Shadow laughed as he rose within the cavern. Weak though his mirth sounded, it carried a prophetic tone.
Grasping toward the ceiling, The Shadow dug his fingers into slimy ooze. He could feel the rush of escaping air, sweeping his hands as it fizzed up through the cracked rock. His head was roaring with tumultuous sounds. The pressure of the new air was crushing.
Its increase might mean death within a minute. Yet that very threat afforded The Shadow one bare hope of safety. The Shadow had taunted Doc, to drive The Python’s lieutenant to this very measure.
Suddenly, the action came. Its swiftness was so stunning that The Shadow did not sense it. He was already sagging, about to cave under the advanced pressure that no living person could long stand.
His ears, bursting inward, heard nothing; nor did he feel the terrific, puffy blast that loosed itself from within the cavern.
The terrific pressure had proven too great for the flawed rock above. With a mighty blast, the pent air ripped earth and stone asunder.
Like the contents of a burst balloon, it tore a wide opening through the ceiling, at the very spot where The Shadow stood. With the blast, The Shadow’s sagging form was rocketed straight upward through the river bed.
Foaming bubbles were all about. Pressure relieved, the air from the tunnel was sizzling through from the opening that it had cut. The Shadow had reached the surface in safety. He was uninjured by the terrific trip.
His feebleness, however, had not ended. Even the reviving coolness of the water was not sufficient to offset the effects that he had felt within the shielded cavern.
Struggling weakly, he managed to keep afloat; that was all. His ears could vaguely hear the sound of steam-boat whistles. They seemed far away, like noises from another world. The Shadow could see lights; but they were dim and distant.
BACK in the control room, Doc drew back the lever. He stopped it before he had gone far. He had gained no indication of what had happened below. He thought The Shadow still a prisoner; and he decided to play sure.
“He’s finished,” Doc told his men. “I gave him six minutes; I’m leaving the pressure tough enough even if he did survive. But don’t worry about that. No human could have stood that dose.”
Doc was right; but he might have added that earth and rock had failed before The Shadow. Doc’s word would be that The Shadow had died. The Python, like Doc, would believe it, when he heard the details. Neither would even begin to guess that The Shadow still lived while they gloated.
There was still a chance, however, that The Python’s machinations would succeed, even though The Shadow had escaped the pit in which he had been placed.
The accident, the dope, the air pressure — all had preceded his rapid journey through the river bed. They had left The Shadow deprived of nearly all his strength.
Upon the wavy blackness of the lower East River, a feebly moving form was drifting with the tide. Weakened arms were failing in their efforts to strike out; tired legs were doing no more than to aid in the mere task of holding a limp form afloat.
Minutes only; at the end of a brief interval, The Shadow would succumb. Oddly, his surge to safety had left him in a plight that soon would bring him to the doom that The Python had forecast. Death was hovering close above those darkened waters that held the wearied body of The Shadow.
CHAPTER VI
OUTWARD BOUND
“THAT’S the flash-back, Jake.”
“What’s the orders? To clear the harbor?”
“Yeah. As soon as Tanker and Pete come aboard.”
“They’ll be here any minute, Lem.”
The speakers were peering from the side window of a tiny pilot house, aboard a seagoing tug. They were watching the flicker of those bluish lights atop the loft building. The glare was easily discernible from this spot on the East River.
The man called Lem was standing with one hand on the wheel. The dim light of the pilot house showed a hardened, flattish face beneath a stiff-visored cap. Lem was the captain of the tugboat. His pal Jake, a scowly, long-jawed ruffian, was the ship’s first mate.
“Remember, Jake,” confided Lem in a low-pitched tone, “I’m Mr. Hurdy, on board this packet; and you’re Mr. Baliss. We’re using our right names; and we’re sticking to them.”
“I’ve told that to the crew, Lem.”
“Good. Make sure that nobody forgets it. I’m the captain of the tug Colonia; you’re the first mate; nobody else counts. We’ve got to act like we were somebody, in case we talk to coast guards. This Lem and Jake stuff don’t sound right from a disciplined crew.”
“I get it, Lem.”
Hurdy was looking through the front window of the pilot house. He spied a light twinkling halfway from the shore. He signaled for more steam.
Jake Baliss caught the idea. The light indicated that the little boat manned by “Tanker” and Pete; Lem intended to steam ahead and meet them.
WHILE Lem was talking thus to Jake, another man was also conversing with a lone companion. Seated in the stern of a rowboat, the underling called Tanker was speaking to his pal Pete, who plied the oars.
“Here comes the Colonia, Pete,” Tanker was saying. “Let her drift; the tide’s moving us upstream. They’ll take us aboard. Lem Hurdy must have spotted my flashlight.”
Pete complied. The rowboat swished around in the lapping tide. Tanker used the flashlight. The Colonia swung shoreward. Tanker dropped his right arm to the side of the seat. An instant later, he delivered a hoarse outcry.
Pete swung about from gazing at the tug. He dropped his oars as he felt the rowboat tip to one side. Yanking a flashlight of his own, he turned its beam on Tanker. Instantly, Pete saw the reason for his pal’s shout.
Hands from the water had gripped the side of the boat, close to the stern. Clawing for a better hold, they had found Tanker’s arm. Fingers had gained a viselike clutch, the grip of a drowning man. One grappling arm was around Tanker’s shoulder, fighting to retain its hold.
Tanker was trying to wrest away; but could not. Out of the river had come a dripping shape. Grim eyes were staring from a pale, water-soaked face.
Fighting desperately for life, this unexpected passenger had tipped the boat so that it was shipping water. Pete was forced to trim ship by clambering to the upper side.
“Haul him in!” he ordered, to Tanker. “Haul him in — before he drags you out! Get him aboard, Tanker, or you’ll be a goner! He’s got a drowning man’s grip!”
TANKER clutched the figure that had gripped him. As he wrested, he tugged, pulling toward the uptilted side. The lower gunwale raised. Pete reached for Tanker as the fellow twisted toward the bow. Both men jerked to haul their burden aboard.