Before he could swing the gun into play, a sudden expression of anguish appeared upon his face. He slumped back into the corner of the car. He pressed his hand against his side.
The parting shots fired by Cardona’s plain-clothes man had not been in vain. The wounds which Jukes had received had spelled his doom, although he had at first been almost oblivious to them.
His urge to kill The Shadow had sustained him despite his serious condition. Now, his strength was sagging. The Shadow plucked the gun from his hand and held it before his eyes.
“Answer me!” hissed The Shadow. “Answer me — or die!”
An ugly leering smile came over the features of Professor Jukes. Even in this last moment, the evil leader of the Silent Seven gloated in triumph.
He did not fear The Shadow. A new enemy was conquering him, and that enemy was death. His head dropped forward. A sighing gasp came from his lips. His hands fell to his side.
The Shadow leaned over the leader of the Silent Seven. He placed his hand against the man’s forehead.
The car stopped before a traffic light.
The Shadow opened the door and slipped silently to the street. The limousine moved onward, carrying the dead body of Professor Jukes, and The Shadow’s hope of rescuing Harry Vincent!
CHAPTER XXII. THE POWER OF THE SEVEN
CLYDE BURKE rubbed his eyes and looked about him. He was dressed and sitting in a reclining chair.
His head no longer throbbed; all images of objects about him were clear and well defined.
He began to remember the events which had passed. He recalled various awakenings, and clearly recollected the last visit of the physician.
The doctor had said that he was virtually well; but had insisted that he rest a while longer. Clyde had dressed, and had been placed in this chair. A few scattered thoughts had worried him at the time, but he had yielded to the doctor’s orders to forget his worries.
His mind reverted to the encounter in front of Paget’s apartment. How long ago was it? A day? A week?
Time seemed strangely vague.
Suddenly a terrifying thought dominated the young man. What had become of Harry Vincent? Clyde closed his eyes and pictured the entrance to a warehouse on Sixty-ninth Street. That was the spot where Harry had disappeared — and he, Clyde Burke, had not reported it!
Good fortune favored his desire for duty. Clyde was alone in a lounge room. He remembered walking here from the ward, with a nurse supporting him. He rose unsteadily and entered the corridor.
There was no one in view. He walked along and passed a desk where a nurse was writing a report. He managed to go by unseen. He found a stairway and went down. A door at the right attracted him. He pushed it open, and found himself in a short corridor on the first floor. There was an open door that led to the ambulance driveway.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Clyde Burke left the hospital.
He was weak when he reached a taxi stand. He entered a cab and gave an address to the driver. He closed his eyes and rested.
After interminable moments, the cab stopped. Clyde entered the lobby of an antiquated hotel, where he made his way to a public phone booth that was virtually out of sight in a secluded corner.
He dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed a number. When he heard the ringing of the bell at the other end, he hung up the receiver. His nickel tumbled into the coin return.
Clyde used it again and called the same number. After a few rings, he again hung up and retrieved his coin. Then he waited.
At the lunch counter in the Grand Central Station, the silent attendant had noticed a ringing of the phone in the booth opposite. He heard its sudden termination, and kept on serving a customer until it rang again.
Then he left the counter and entered the back room. He dialed a number on the telephone.
Clyde Burke’s weary voice answered the call.
“Burbank,” said the attendant.
“Burke,” came the reply.
“Report. Where is V.?”
Burke’s voice was unintelligible for a moment. Then it became suddenly coherent. He poured out the story of Vincent’s pursuit of Rodney Paget.
“You’re hurt?” questioned Burbank tersely.
“Just out of the hospital — and they don’t know it,” came Burke’s reply.
“Can you get to the Metrolite Hotel?”
“Yes. I’m feeling better now.”
“Go there, then. Stay in V’s room.”
Burbank hung up the phone. He dialed another number. There was no response. He went back to the counter and returned a few minutes later. He dialed again. This time there was an answer.
“Burbank,” he said.
“Report,” came the voice.
Burbank made sure that no one was near by. Then he gave the information that he had received from Clyde Burke. He condensed it into terse, essential details.
“Good!” came the voice. “Be ready!” The receiver clicked at the other end.
TWELVE minutes later, a cab pulled up at the corner of Sixty-ninth Street and Ninth Avenue. The passenger paid the driver before he left.
He hurried from the cab and strode rapidly westward. He crossed the street and stopped in the shadow of the warehouse. He became strangely obscure as he approached the entrance. He seemed to be avoiding any watchful eyes.
The window across the street was open; and the man on duty was alert. He raised his gun as he saw a shadow appear on the pavement beneath the light at the warehouse entrance. He lowered the weapon when he saw that he had been deceived by a mere shadow which disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
A man was in the passageway, moving silently along toward the turn. It was The Shadow, feeling his way through the darkness, a creature of the night garbed in his cloak of sinister black.
The Shadow reached the wooden steps. He stopped short as his foot touched the boards. He tapped the wood with the toe of his shoe. He seemed to wonder why wooden steps had been inserted in this cement passageway.
Up he went, step by step. As he reached the top, he sank downward and clutched one of the steps as he placed his weight upon the landing. The boards sagged beneath him. The Shadow laughed softly.
He let the trap open and his flashlight came into play. It revealed the space into which Harry Vincent had fallen, two nights before. The Shadow slipped into the pit and landed with catlike skill. He turned his flashlight upward to observe the trap as it closed above him.
He turned off the light and stood in the darkness, waiting. He expected an attack, and he was not disappointed. A doorway opened and two men came in. They expected to find a half-stunned victim.
Instead, they were met by a powerful onslaught that came from the darkness.
One man gasped as he was struck by the butt of an automatic. The other sank beneath a driving fist. The Shadow laughed as he turned on his light and surveyed the men he had defeated.
He drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket end locked them on the man who had passed into oblivion from the blow of the automatic. The other was groggy, but not unconscious. The Shadow prodded him with his revolver.
The fellow opened his eyes and raised his hands at sight of the automatic.
“Up!” ordered The Shadow. “Lead the way. Take me where you took the last man who came here — two nights ago.”
The man obeyed. He walked ahead and opened an artfully concealed door. This revealed a dim passage.
With The Shadow’s automatic reminding him of his helplessness, the prisoner was sullenly obedient. He knew that his captor would brook no trickery. He turned through various passages, up steps, until, by an air shaft, he arrived at an automatic elevator.
The man entered, and The Shadow followed. They ascended, The Shadow’s torch filling the car with light. The elevator stopped. The man walked into a small, barren room that had no outlet. He stopped.