With the first stroke, The Shadow acted as with inspiration. Swaying, almost tottering, he seized the clock with both hands. The clock was a heavy timepiece, an antiquated relic pillaged from some noble’s palace. The Shadow, staggering backward to escape Prensky’s attack, raised the massive object above his head.
The chime was striking two as the clock was raised between The Shadow’s hands. Prensky, charging like a maddened bull, hurled himself forward with knife hand high.
Down came The Shadow’s arms. The falling clock chimed three as it crashed upon Prensky’s skull.
The Russian’s leap ended in a long, forward plunge. The knife hand descended of its own accord. The point of the weapon struck the side of The Shadow’s shoulder, and ripped a long, downward slit in the sleeve of the dressing gown which he was wearing.
The Shadow staggered away, too late to escape the final, headlong dive of Prensky’s sprawling form.
Together, the men collapsed upon the floor. They lay there, motionless for a few moments. Then The Shadow dragged himself away and rose to his feet, clinging by the side of Motkin’s desk.
Prensky lay still. The impact of the heavy clock had cracked his skull. The timepiece lay shattered on the hearth, where it had fallen, a mass of broken glass and split marble. Its chime had ended with the third stroke — the one that had marked the end of the villainous Prensky.
Yet the hands on the upturned dial still registered eight. That was a reminder to The Shadow. Gregori would soon be here, to take Prensky to the airport!
Faltering, The Shadow made his way along the hall until he reached an improvised bedroom; the place that had been his abode for more than a week. When he reappeared in the office, he still looked the part of Henry Arnaud; but instead of the dressing gown, he now wore a suit of plain black.
Recovered from the wearying conflict, he moved more certainly than before. The keen eyes saw the black cloak and hat upon the chair. Deliberately, The Shadow donned his familiar disguise. All traces of the man who called himself Henry Arnaud were lost within those spectral garments.
Two eyes alone shone from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. The crimson lining of the cloak flashed as The Shadow stepped to the spot where the form of Prensky lay. Stooping over the inert body, The Shadow withdrew a sheaf of papers from the dead man’s pocket.
Sharp eyes studied the documents beneath the light. A low, soft laugh echoed through this silent room. A white hand extinguished the light. There was a swishing sound amid the darkness. It continued through the hall and down the stairs.
A long, silhouetted shadow showed on the paving of the courtyard. It, alone, indicated that The Shadow, himself, had stepped from the house. That black blotch twisted in fanciful, grotesque shapes as the headlights of an automobile swept into the court. The car stopped beside the door.
“YOU are late, Gregori.”
These words, spoken in Russian, were heard by the chauffeur the moment that he had brought the big car to a standstill. They resembled the low tones of Prensky. Startled, Gregori heard the door close as some one entered the rear of the automobile. He stared into the darkness, in a puzzled manner; then, the repetition of the voice reassured him.
“Hurry, Gregori!” came the low words. “I must reach the airport before ten o’clock! Do not delay. It is Motkin’s bidding!”
Gregori seldom conversed with Prensky. The tones that he heard carried an odd accent, yet they also sounded like the voice of Motkin’s aid, as Gregori recalled it, the words were a command, and Gregori realized that it was his duty to obey. Ivan Motkin had told him to follow Prensky’s orders.
It was a long run to the airport. Nothing was said from the back seat on the way. Gregori was not surprised. Prensky was usually silent. Only when they neared the flying field did Gregori receive another order.
“Drive close to the Warsaw plane. Behind it.”
Gregori obeyed. He brought his car to a standstill, at a spot some yards away from a huge monoplane that glistened in lights of the flying field.
A choking exclamation came from Gregori’s lips as two hands clutched his throat from in back. The action was swift and certain. The chauffeur had no opportunity to emit a cry. He slumped in back of the wheel.
Leaning over the front seat, The Shadow gagged the senseless chauffeur with a handkerchief. He bound Gregori’s hands with a leather belt. Noting that the half-choked man was helpless, The Shadow slid back and removed his cloak and hat. He folded them into a compact bundle, and opened the car door.
The ship was making ready for its flight. A surly officer gazed curiously at the tall, hatless figure that approached him. This man did not announce himself as Henry Arnaud.
“M. Prensky, aid to Ivan Motkin,” he declared. “Here are my passports and instructions.”
The words were in perfect Russian. The officer examined the papers, and motioned the tall figure into the cabin of the plane. There were two other passengers, already in the ship. The officer gave instructions to the pilot.
The whirling propellers sped more swiftly. The big plane started across the field. Gaining speed, it took off into the wind. Rising, it swerved back across the field, where, far below, the automobile in which Gregori lay gagged appeared like a tiny toy.
Heading eastward, the huge monoplane swept on its way to Warsaw. Reclining quietly upon a cushioned seat was the passenger who called himself both Arnaud and Prensky — yet who was neither.
Ivan Motkin had promised his prisoner safe conduct from Moscow. That safe conduct had been gained, despite the faithlessness of Motkin’s word.
Motkin — Senov — Paris. New action stalked the bloody trail that the quest of the Romanoff jewels had caused. Two barbarous factions were aiming toward a brutal struggle for possession. Members of both sides had used crime and treachery.
The Shadow was speeding on to fight them all!
CHAPTER XIV. IN PARIS
A YOUNG man was seated at a table in a room of a Paris hotel. His face was turned toward the window as he stared out upon the twinkling lights of the French capital. The telephone rang upon the wall, and the young man turned to answer it. The dark features of David Tholbin showed plainly in the light of the room.
“Hello,” said Tholbin. “Oh, yes, Betty. This is Dave. All ready to leave?… Very well, I’ll meet you and dad in half an hour. At the little cafe on the boulevard… Yes, I saw to the luggage. It’s all gone.”
Tholbin smiled as he hung up the receiver. He looked about the room to make sure that he had forgotten nothing. He started toward the door; then stopped suddenly as he heard a cautious rap from the other side.
With a worried look, Tholbin slipped his hand into his coat pocket. The touch of a revolver that he felt there eased his apprehension. He ordered the visitor to come in. Michael Senov entered. Tholbin withdrew his hand from his pocket.
“You are ready to leave?”
Senov asked the question in English that bore a slight accent. Tholbin nodded in reply.
“Good,” said Senov. “I came here to make sure. This is only the second time that we have met. It will probably be the last.”
Tholbin gave no sign that he regretted the fact that Senov had mentioned. The Russian looked about with apprehensive eyes. He studied Tholbin cautiously.
“It is a strange arrangement,” said Senov solemnly. “Much that I know, I do not tell you. Much that you know, you do not tell me. We are both under orders.”
“I am following mine,” interposed Tholbin calmly.
“That is good,” declared Senov. “I can only tell you this. You must be careful in all that you do. My instructions were to meet you here in this hotel. I did that, four nights ago. I was told to deliver a certain trunk into your care. I have done so. It is your duty, now, to make sure that the trunk reaches its destination. Have you taken care to do that?”