The barrier raised still farther. The lithe form of The Shadow slipped through the space, and dropped noiselessly to the spiral staircase. The flashlight glimmered toward the door that led into the laboratory — the door at the head of the stairs.
Before entering that room, The Shadow had another purpose. His object was to explore the downward path; to gain full knowledge of this stairway’s purpose.
With the light beaming upon each succeeding step, The Shadow continued toward the ground. He stopped as he discovered the sliding door on the floor below. A brief inspection enabled him to open it.
The Shadow peered into the dim circular corridor that followed the interior contour of the first floor. The Shadow closed the door as he noted the metal flooring of the corridor.
The steps still led downward. The Shadow reached the bottom. He found the final door and opened it.
His discerning eyes beheld the dim, high-vaulted pit. They studied the huge, glittering machine that stood in the center of this great chamber. The Shadow looked toward the balcony that surrounded the pit.
A hollow laugh, chilling in its vague tones, sounded through the silence of that deserted room. The broken air waves caught the echoes which reverberated with a demoniacal cry from the walls where the balcony circled.
The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the metal floor. Here was the same danger that he had sensed before.
Then the master’s eye perceived the row of unlighted incandescents upon the huge machine. Red, green, and white, those bulbs had differing significance.
The portico — the inner passage — finally the balcony. Did The Shadow recognize those circles as the danger zones? The Shadow’s action was the only answer.
With firm stride, the tall figure moved from the cylinder that housed the spiral staircase. He crossed the pit and stood beside Professor Urlich’s massive contrivance of human destruction.
Again, The Shadow’s weird laugh shuddered through the pit. Not one of those three bulbs was illuminated. The Shadow knew that he had passed the zones of death.
Mysteriously, he lingered beside the huge machine, his gaze turning from the wheels and levers down toward the floor, where the current wire appeared.
Within the zones of death, The Shadow laughed. His hollow mockery was foreboding. Yet he made no move to return toward the hollow cylinder. He seemed to regard this place as the destination which he had sought — as the end of the trail.
On the floor above, Professor Folcroft Urlich still held The Shadow’s agents captive. While the master of darkness remained below, the master of silent death was planning the doom of The Shadow’s aids.
Who held the balance: Professor Urlich or The Shadow? Were their cross-purposes to meet before the victims died?
The scales of fate were trembling, while master minds prepared their methods.
CHAPTER XX. CARDONA ENTERS
WHILE strange events were occurring on Long Island, Larry Ricordo was making all haste toward Manhattan. The gang lord, fleeing town at Professor Urlich’s request, had neared his destination. He was mounting the steps from the East Side subway at Forty-second Street.
As a natural procedure, Larry Ricordo turned up Lexington Avenue to enter the Grand Central Station from the east. It was scarcely later than half past twelve. Plenty of time remained to catch the Chicago Limited.
Larry Ricordo seldom liked haste when it was unnecessary. As he moved leisurely through the midnight crowd along the avenue, his lips twisted scornfully. Even if the police were out to capture him, they stood little chance of getting him now.
Nevertheless, Larry Ricordo fondled the revolver in his coat pocket. One challenging word: the challenger would get the works. This was the attitude that the gang leader held as he entered the wide passage from the street.
Larry’s eyes were keen and cautious. Even in this thronged entrance, the gang lord did not trust entirely to his inconspicuous appearance. He prided himself upon his watchfulness. His boast to Professor Urlich was still strongly in mind.
The crowd spread as it reached the huge central concourse. Larry Ricordo, as he walked across the great expanse of floor toward a ticket window, was no longer one of a large throng. He was in the open — a single figure that could easily be spotted by watching eyes.
A man swung from the wall and walked swiftly after the gang leader. Larry Ricordo was not aware of the man’s approach until the stranger was close beside him. It was then that Larry turned to recognize a face that seemed familiar.
The man made a sudden leap upon the gang lord. That action meant more than recognition. Larry Ricordo knew his assailant for a detective. Wresting free, Ricordo whipped his big revolver from his pocket.
Another man had sprung up behind the gang leader. The second detective made a quick grab for Ricordo’s arm. Larry fired once, his shot aimed upward as a hand seized his wrist. The detectives were flashing their own guns. Two more men were springing to their rescue.
Shouts of men; screams of women — these were heard as people scattered for shelter.
LARRY RICORDO’S revolver roared again. A detective went down with a bullet in his shoulder. The others struggled ferociously. They were trying to get their man alive, to prevent gunfire in this open space, where hundreds of people stood in danger of stray shots.
But Larry Ricordo was a fiend who balked all capture. He sent one detective sprawling on the floor; another after him. One of the downed men fired upward and missed. Larry, an evil snarl on his lips, dropped the fourth, who still struggled with him.
Spinning across the floor of the concourse, the murderous gang leader leaped to meet a fifth, who blocked his path. He swung his huge revolver to deliver a death shot. This time the gang lord failed.
The last antagonist did not falter. His revolver was in his hand, and before Larry could shoot to kill, this detective fired point-blank into Ricordo’s body.
The gang leader staggered on; a second shot, delivered coolly at close range, sent him sprawling to the floor.
Rolling upon his back, clutching at his wounded side, Larry Ricordo saw the face of Joe Cardona above him. The ace detective had stepped in where the others had failed. It was the swarthy sleuth who had finally felled Larry Ricordo.
With futile clutch, Ricordo grasped for his revolver, which had fallen beside him. True to his boast, the gang leader intended to go out fighting. His weakening fingers fumbled; a moment later, Cardona had kicked the weapon out of reach.
Detectives came to aid Cardona. Other persons rushed up to help the wounded men whom Ricordo had dropped. Through it all, Joe Cardona never desisted from a purpose which had steadfastly filled his mind for the past half hour.
There was a reason why he had sought to capture Larry Ricordo alive, rather than dead.
“Ricordo!” Cardona was staring squarely into the gang lord’s face. “Ricordo! Who’s the guy in back of this!”
Ricordo coughed. Blood appeared upon his lips. An evil leer followed the crimson. Coughing, gasping, Larry Ricordo spat defiant words at his questioner.
“Try — try to find out!” he challenged, in a broken snarl. “Try to — to make me squeal. You — you got me — but that’s all!”
Cardona pressed back those who were crowding around. He knew that Ricordo was dying. In the last minutes of life, the gang lord would have to talk. Cardona, acting on a hunch, played his final trump.
“You know why we got you?” he demanded. “I’ll tell you why! We were tipped off that you were taking the Chicago Limited. Tipped off half an hour ago. We want the bird who gave the tip-off. Do you know him?”