Holtmann tried to rise, and sank back. The Shadow was beside him, lifting his helpless body. Then a choking scream came from Holtmann’s lips.
His form doubled, and he pressed his hands to his body. Twisting in new and unexpected torture, he toppled from The Shadow’s grasp, and lay writhing on the floor.
The Shadow’s eyes saw the broken fragments of the saucer. Quick understanding shone in those gleaming orbs. Then, as the figure in black stepped swiftly forward to aid the anguished prisoner, The Shadow’s thought was uttered by the victim.
“I am poisoned!” Holtmann’s cry was a hoarse scream. “Poisoned, because I spoke—”
His voice broke as his eyes stared, not toward the apparition who had come to save him, but toward the steel door beyond. The curtain had risen, and framed in the doorway stood the grim henchman who had come to the dungeon at Froman’s order.
The Shadow was stooping over Holtmann. He turned swiftly as he saw the poisoned man’s gaze.
Already, the Russian retainer was launched in a mighty spring from the steps. A huge dirk gleamed in his clenched fist.
The Shadow’s automatic was in readiness; but he never used it. He flung the gun aside, as though to avoid a shot that would spread the alarm if heard. Strange action, in this buried cell, where sounds would be deadened!
Rising, The Shadow met his foeman’s leap. The two forms went down from the force of the meeting.
The heavy Russian was swinging the knife; but before his blow could strike home, his wrist was caught in a grip more solid than the steel of his weapon.
Locked in a mighty struggle, the fighters strained to the utmost. The Russian was a huge brute, yet all his strength was not enough. As minutes went by, the silent conflict continued grimly, while Marcus Holtmann writhed grotesquely on the floor beside the strugglers.
The threatening knife never budged from its position. The hand that held it could not move an inch, despite the power that was being exerted. Arm to arm, and hand to wrist, The Shadow and his antagonist were lodged in a deathlike clasp.
But one was fighting a hopeless battle. That one was the Russian henchman. He did not realize, during those tense moments, that The Shadow was merely holding him at bay, waiting for his strength to fade.
The glowering Muscovite could not see the face before him. Two eyes alone gleamed from uncanny depths.
For an instant, the Russian’s power slackened. That was the sign that The Shadow had been awaiting.
Muscles bulged beneath the black, gripping gloves. With superhuman strength, The Shadow rose slowly and steadily from the floor, raising his massive foeman straight up in the air.
In wild fury, the Russian clawed the air. He wrested his right wrist free, and swung a savage thrust with the knife. The blow came too late. As his hand began its swing, Froman’s henchman was hurled upward and forward. His body somersaulted backward.
The knife-wielding hand was too late to break the terrific fall. The big Russian landed squarely on his skull. His body sprawled upon the floor, and his neck twisted crazily. His back rested flat on the stone base of the room. His face was turned almost directly downward.
The mania to kill had been the man’s undoing. Anxious to drive home the knife thrust, the would-be slayer had paved the road to his own death. His neck was broken. The fatal plunge had ended in instant destruction for the man who sought to oppose The Shadow.
THE SHADOW turned to Marcus Holtmann. The prisoner had reached the last throes of agony.
Froman’s inhuman scheme had accomplished its work. With glassy eyes, Holtmann stared toward the phantom who had arrived too late to save his life.
Death was clutching Marcus Holtmann; but in those last feverish moments of misery he realized clearly that the figure in black could be no friend of Frederick Froman. A hideous smile appeared upon Holtmann’s foam-flecked lips. With dying coughs he spat forth disjointed words.
“Moscow — Gostinny Ulitza — Prospekt—”
These broken names came in a delirium. The lips were growing feeble; words were no longer plain. The Shadow spoke, in low whispered tones that brought nods from the expiring man.
Holtmann’s eyes were closed; but his lips moved again, forming noiseless statements that the keen eyes of The Shadow read. Hushed questions came from the figure in black; words in English mixed with Russian terms.
The dying eyes opened and spread in momentary triumph. A wild cry followed, then a sudden spasm racked the poisoned man as he collapsed inert upon the floor. Marcus Holtmann was dead.
In dying, he had given his message. The facts that he had told to Frederick Froman were again revealed.
From barely coherent phrases, The Shadow had learned what Marcus Holtmann knew — the information that Froman had tortured to get and had killed to keep!
Rising, The Shadow strode silently across the dungeon and picked up his automatic. He surveyed the bodies on the floor; then moved Marcus Holtmann’s form so that it lay close to the dead Russian. With care, The Shadow fixed Holtmann’s hands so they stretched toward the other body. The fists of the poisoned victim were clenched.
The hand of The Shadow touched the knob upon the door. Before it turned the knob, the hand paused, and the eyes stared closely. Then the steel curtain rose. When it descended, silence pervaded the dungeon which death had visited.
The Shadow was a being of invisibility as he made his way upward through the house. Reaching the second floor, he entered a room away from the front. In the midst of darkness, The Shadow made his departure through a window that opened and closed without a sound.
Later, two hands appeared beneath a light above a table. The fire opal on the long white finger glowed in mysterious fashion, like a blinking eye staring from Promethean depths.
Upon the table appeared a slip of paper that listed the sailing schedule of the steamship Bremen, leaving New York on the following morning.
The right hand jotted a single word: “Moscow.”
The light clicked out. A low, mocking laugh swept through the inky room. Its tones were answered by the shrouding walls.
Death had intervened tonight, but not in time to thwart The Shadow. Single-handed, this amazing master was setting forth to frustrate the schemes of crafty brains.
Twelve days was the time that Frederick Froman had set, The Shadow had heard tonight. Twelve days until some fiendish plan would be perpetrated!
Before the fatal date, The Shadow would be there.
He was leaving for Moscow on the morrow!
CHAPTER VI. THE NEXT NIGHT
AT half past eight the following evening, Frederick Froman descended the steps of his home and looked up and down the street. He saw a cruising cab, and hailed it. As he entered the vehicle and gave an address to the driver, Froman did not notice a man on the other side of the street.
This individual was a well-dressed young man who might have been taken for a chance passer-by, but as soon as the cab started toward the nearest avenue, the young man became suddenly active. He threw a searching glance at the blank windows of Froman’s house; then walked hurriedly along the street in the direction the cab had taken.
Harry Vincent, the agent of The Shadow, was still on watch. His plan to follow Froman was well calculated. It was a comparatively short distance to the nearest intersection. The cab had encountered a red light, and was still waiting to make a left turn, when Harry arrived at the corner.
As Froman’s cab swung down the avenue, Harry hailed a passing taxi and took up the pursuit before the other vehicle was out of sight.