“That we shall eliminate The Shadow to-night?” Zubian’s features took on a fiendish smile. “I am sure of it, Carleton! My plan cannot fail! Gats Hackett is perfection in the role to which I have assigned him. With one bold stroke we are ending the career of the only enemy whom we fear. Whatever organization The Shadow may possess means nothing without him at the head. His agents will be useless tools, with no master hand to control them.
“After to-night” — Zubian’s eyes were glowing in anticipation — “we are as free as air! Your great hopes will be realized, Carleton! The money that you have spent perfecting an organization will come back to you a hundredfold. We can press matters at Devaux’s; then, with you established as our leader, we can gain millions!”
“You fear nothing, then,” observed Carleton. “Nothing, after to-night—”
“Nothing at all!” declared Zubian, in a decisive tone. “Such weaklings as Vincent and Mann can be forgotten. Should they try puny methods of revenge, after learning that Lamont Cranston is dead, Gats can wipe them out with little trouble.”
CARLETON’S eyes shone with admiration for the cunningness of Zubian. He realized that he had chosen a man of amazing craft; that Zubian was stepping in where Gats had failed.
Yet more than that, he was pleased at Zubian’s desire for cooperation. The fact that Zubian was using Gats Hackett’s services as the culmination of his scheme to kill The Shadow was proof that in the future the band would work in harmony.
As originator of this group engaged in supercrime, Carleton was the instigator of The Shadow’s doom. Zubian was the crafty one who had put theory into practice. Gats was the man on the firing line. After to-night, they could indulge in mutual congratulation.
“The Shadow” — Zubian was speaking in ironic tones — “is famous for his power to escape from traps. Let him elude the one that I have set to-night! A moving, rapid trap that will close with unexpected suddenness. A trap that offers no outlet; that places its victim in a hopeless position!
“I have used strategy, Carleton. I have planned a way so drastic that not even a superman like The Shadow can manage to evade it. This will be startling — we shall hear of what has happened, for the newspapers will report it to-morrow. The most startling of all assassinations — that is the scheme which I have devised.
“Gats is confident of his men. They believe in him. They do whatever they are instructed. They know that to-night’s job is important; yet they do not know the identity of Lamont Cranston. Only Gats knows that; and he, unlike other gangsters, is not intimidated. Revolvers are his specialty; he fears no one when he handles them.
“You told me of the pursuit he started on Long Island. That convinced me not only of Gats Hackett’s courage; it also indicated his fierce spirit of revenge. He is anxious to settle scores with The Shadow. I know of no man whom I would more willingly trust with the mission that I have assigned to Gats to-night.”
Felix Zubian leaned back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. With cold assurance, he stared toward Douglas Carleton through clouds of tobacco smoke, and smiled the evil elation that dominated his treacherous spirit.
Here, in the comfortable seclusion of the Cobalt Club, this master plotter was seated with his superior — the man who seemingly commanded him, yet actually relied upon his greater knowledge.
Felix Zubian had made good his boasts. He had become The Shadow’s shadow. To-night, he expected that part to end. He gave indication of his thoughts as he glanced at his watch and spoke again to Douglas Carleton.
“About five minutes more,” remarked Zubian quietly. “Then Cranston’s car will be within the trap. That will mean the end. Hence” — he smiled derisively as he lifted a glass that lay upon the table — “I propose a toast which shall reach an immediate consummation.”
Zubian’s eyes were glittering as he raised the glass to his mouth. His lips parted as he hissed these final words:
“Death to The Shadow!”
CHAPTER XIV
UNDER THE RIVER
LAMONT CRANSTON’S imported limousine was rolling along a downtown street in Manhattan. Stanley, the capable chauffeur, was driving at easy gait toward the entrance of the Holland Tunnel, the under-river vehicular tube that led to New Jersey.
A wisp of smoke curling from an opened rear-window; a dull, glowing spot that poised above the back seat; these were indications that Lamont Cranston was enjoying a late-evening cigar while riding homeward.
All was darkness in the depths of the car. The illuminated cigar tip gave no sign of the man behind it. Seemingly unawake, Lamont Cranston rested on the cushions of the tonneau. His left hand furnished the only other spot of glow. There, upon the third finger, gleamed the fiery iridescence of The Shadow’s girasol.
The left hand touched an object beside it, a small suitcase, which lay open on the back seat. The hand felt a mass of folded cloth; then the coldness of invisible steel. The hand remained there, moving no more, as the big car swerved toward the dipping entrance of the tunnel.
Traffic was only fairly heavy at that hour. Two cars were entering the tube at the lane on the left; a truck was disappearing in the darkness at the right. These vehicles had shot into place almost as the limousine had arrived. Stanley, whose wont was to drive slowly, chose the lane where traffic moved less rapidly. He followed the path of the truck, some fifty yards ahead.
At the same time, a car moved in from the left. It ran side by side with the limousine, then forged ahead and gained steadily until it neared the truck.
Stanley was maintaining the regulated distance; hence as the car in the left lane moved farther on, another car came up to take its place, running at an angled space behind the limousine.
The under-river passage leveled, and the cars sped onward, their tires sloshing with an eerie tone. Despite the illumination of the tunnel, the place held an oppressive touch that made the moving cars seem dim and spectral.
To Stanley, this effect meant nothing. Driving through this tunnel was a matter of everyday routine. He saw no significance in the fact that the car in the lane on the left was now almost beside the truck fifty yards ahead.
Although the car — a large sedan — had previously been moving more rapidly than the truck, now it slackened its space to crowd close to the big vehicle. The pair formed a moving blockade. Such a sight was not uncommon in the tunnel.
Stanley’s eyes saw nothing unusual, but they were not the only eyes that were watching from the limousine. Lamont Cranston, leaning forward from the rear seat, was watching straight ahead.
His left hand was busy drawing something from the open case beside him. His head turned suddenly to peer through the rear window toward the car that was close behind, though in the other traffic lane.
ONLY a man of amazing instinct could have sensed danger ahead. There was no evidence to indicate a menace coming; nothing but keen intuition could have grasped the fact.
A low, soft laugh came from the hidden lips of Lamont Cranston. The man half raised himself in the back seat. Something black enmeshed him; the folds of a somber garment fluttered toward the floor.
Then the pallid face of Cranston disappeared as the shadow of a hat brim settled upon it. Invisible hands raised clinking objects from the suitcase.
All was blackness in the rear of the limousine. A transformation had taken place, though even Stanley had not realized it. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!
The big car was nearing the center of the tube just as the change was completed. A black-gloved hand rested upon the handle of the right-hand door of the limousine. Amid the sloshing of the advancing cars, a hidden being was prepared for startling consequences!