The Shadow's Shadow s-23

by Maxwell Grant

  It was Gats Hackett, watching from the sedan, who gave a quick order when he saw The Shadow's car pull out from the drive across the way. He knew that by all rights and all odds, Zipper Marsh was the occupant of the coupe; at the same time, he was anxious to make sure.

  "Get after him," he growled.

  The chauffeur responded. The sedan took up the pursuit of the coupe. When they reached the drive, Gats saw that the man ahead had increased his speed. Then the chase began. From the beginning it favored the sedan. Though filled with passengers, the big car had the advantage because it was built for speed. Had the course been along an open road, Gats and his crew would have overhauled their quarry within a quarter of a mile.

  But the man in the car ahead did not give them the advantage of the open road. He turned the coupe into a side road, then swung another corner, doubled back on his course, and followed these maneuvers with a new series of twists that thwarted all efforts to overtake him. Every time Gats' big car swung a corner, its occupants saw the coupe turning one ahead.

  To Gats Hackett, this crafty flight was maddening. The longer it continued the angrier he became. He growled futile orders to the driver. He cursed violently as he leaned from the window of the sedan, both guns unlimbered for action.

  Suddenly, as the driver of the sedan responded to a new turn that threw his passengers sidewise, Gates uttered a loud oath and exclaimed a thought that had sprung to his mind.

  "That's not Zipper Marsh up ahead!" he cried. "He wouldn't handle a car like that! He couldn't!"

  A grunt of understanding came from Douglas Carleton. If Zipper was not at the wheel of the coupe, only one other man could be!

  "I played the right hunch," exclaimed Gats. "Follow that car—get it— it's driven by a guy we want!"

  THE driver growled his response, and shot the big car onward toward the turn where the coupe had just disappeared. The constant distance between the two cars, the unexpected twists—both sufficed to make gunfire useless. Gats Hackett wanted closer range. He wanted the open road.

  "Zipper would run for it," growled Gats. "He wouldn't dodge. This guy, even if he is The Sha"—the gang leader caught himself—"no matter who he is, he can't keep it up all night! He's bound to strike a through road soon. Then we'll get him!"

  "We'll get him, all right!" responded the chauffeur.

  On and on, through silent, foggy streets and roadways, the persistent chase continued. At last, when they turned a sharp corner, Gats cried out his disgust when he saw that the coupe had gained a full block by its last maneuver. It was turning a corner far ahead.

  "Hurry up!" shouted Gats. "He'll get away from us."

  "Not now," retorted the driver grimly. "This is his finish. He hits a through road three blocks ahead. He can't miss it. We've got him now."

  The sedan whirled forward; as it turned the corner on its outer wheels, Gats Hackett uttered a new shout—this time one of exultation.

  The sedan had gained!

  Up ahead, the lights of the coupe reflected the stop sign of the through road! Here was opportunity at last!

  What had delayed the coupe? It should have maintained its distance, yet it had perceptibly decreased its speed. That fact, to Gats Hackett's way of thinking, left no doubt as to the outcome.

  In contrast to the muffled oaths and wild activity that dominated the interior of the sedan, there was no sound nor visible action within the coupe. The man at the wheel—so huddled and obscure that he seemed scarcely to be alive—was watching in the mirror above the windshield.

  He was approaching the through highway; and now his mind was occupied with the car behind him as much as it was with the road ahead. A black-gloved hand stretched out to open the door beside the driver's seat. The knob of that door was toward the rear of the car.

  While the left hand did this work, the right guided the coupe on its final turn—a leftward swing that clipped close to the fog-dampened bushes that overhung a battered curb. The coupe came almost to a stop as a car shot across its path, following the main road. The door opened wider; and burning eyes peered backward toward the onward speeding lights of the pursuing sedan.

  The coupe slowly completed its turn. The gear shift moved into high. A low laugh, weirdly muffled in the closeness of the car, sounded vague and sinister. The door slammed shut; the coupe headed directly along a straight stretch of broad paved road, and shot forward with a burst of speed.

  THE course lay down a little hill. The motor roared and the car whirled wildly away, as though impelled by a maddened hand. The sedan spun around the corner, a scant fifty yards behind!

  Gats Hackett was leaning from the window on the right, urging his driver to greater speed. Faster, faster—the distance was narrowing! The speedometer on the sedan passed the mark of eighty miles an hour. The coupe was hurling itself ahead, but it could not outstrip the breakneck speed of the pursuers, now that the chase was on the open road.

  The fleeing car was wavering; it was bearing toward the right as the sedan came up to it.

  The light coupe could not hold the road with the firmness of the sedan. Gats Hackett realized that fact as he came close enough to fire. The coupe's own speed menaced it as much as did those threatening guns which the gang leader wielded.

  Now was the time for action! The odds were with Gats, shooting from behind. He wanted to anticipate a broadside encounter. His big revolvers spat flame.

  Gats grinned as he heard the roar of his pet smoke wagons. One shot - two —four—six—they were riddling the skewing coupe.

  Then the pace did its work. The fleeing car swerved, skidded crazily across the road, and launched itself toward a fence beyond a narrow ditch.

  It never reached the fence. The front wheels caught the ditch; the light car buried its nose in the turf, and the rear end leaped upward as though propelled by a blast of dynamite.

  Gats delivered his final shots as the sedan sped by. He cried to the driver to stop. The sedan skidded and came to a halt. Gats leaped from the car, his smoking revolvers grasped in his tough hands. His action was a signal to the others.

  It seemed impossible that any man could be alive in the shattered wreckage of the overturned coupe; but to Gats Hackett, that was immaterial. He wanted to see his victim; to learn that his surmise was true; to know that he—now greatest of all gangdom—had brought doom to The Shadow!

  They were at the coupe now—the entire mob—with Douglas Carleton as eager as any gangster. Gats Hackett pounced upon the upper door of the coupe— for the smashed car had plunged upon its side. He wrestled with the door; it broke from its hinges.

  With a cry of elation, Gats flashed a torch into the wrecked coupe. The wheel was broken; seats were crushed; the interior was a mass of shattered glass.

  Yet that scene of destruction brought no joy to Gats Hackett. His shout died away. Douglas Carleton, rising beside him, demanded the explanation.

  In reply, Gats could only motion with the gun that he held in his right hand, while he waved the torch that occupied his left. Carleton started unbelieving.

  The coupe was empty!

  Where was the man who had driven the fleeing car? Where was The Shadow?

  With a wild oath, Gats leaped to the ground. Hurrying here and there, he made a fruitless search, in the vague belief that the driver of the coupe had been thrown out when the crash had occurred.

  Then, when this frantic task had ended, Gats, inspired with new understanding, led a mad dash back to the sedan.

  He knew the truth now, basing it on the strange behavior of the coupe when it had slowed for the final turn.

  The Shadow had slipped from the coupe at the top of the hill. He had shifted to high, and pulled the throttle open as he had dropped to safety. He had turned the car straight down the hill, and it had maintained its course almost to the bottom of the firm, flat stretch of road!

  Gats ordered the driver to turn back up the hill. His henchmen had piled into the sedan along with Carleton. They were going back, but Gats k
new, in his evil heart, that it would be no use.

  Precious minutes had been lost. The Shadow would be gone. He had foiled his crew of wild pursuers, and had vanished into the night!

  CHAPTER IX. THE CONFERENCE

  THE strange escape of The Shadow was not the only aftermath of the affray at Adolph Grayson's home.

  In fact, the pursuit of the coupe was the one feature of the night's excitement that never reached the newspapers. The finding of an overturned car on the side of a Long Island road attracted very little attention.

  The Grayson robbery, however, made a front-page story. The fusillade of shots that had rung out during the night had brought alarm to those who lived in the vicinity. They had summoned the police. The result had been the capture of the gangsters wounded by The Shadow.

  These men had little to say. In fact, they knew little. The only one who had recognized The Shadow had been Zipper Marsh, and he had not lived to reveal what he had learned. The previous death of Dobie Wentz—former crony of Zipper Marsh—seemed to prove the theory that the battle had been started by rival gangsters who had sought to thwart Zipper Marsh's plans.

  As a startling sequel to the robbery came the recovery of the stolen jewels and documents which had been taken from the safe in Grayson's home. Through prompt action, Detective Joe Cardona had regained every item that had been stolen.

  The newspapers gave the sleuth credit for this; and Joe maintained a discreet silence so far as details were concerned. The ace detective knew the value of keeping silent at crucial times, and this was an occasion which demanded it. For Joe Cardona was totally in the dark regarding the recovery of the pilfered wealth.

  He had received a mysterious telephone call the morning after the burglary. That call had led him to a hotel frequented by gangsters. There he had entered a room that had evidently been occupied by Zipper Marsh. In the dead gangster's hideout, Joe had discovered the property that belonged to Adolph Marsh.

  Cardona had arrested no one. None of the frequenters of the hotel appeared to be connected with the case. None of them could offer information. Some were gangsters whom Cardona recognized, others were characters who might have been regarded as suspicious; yet none could be linked with Zipper Marsh.

  Why had the stolen goods been left at Zipper's hideout, of all places? That was something Cardona could not answer. But in the back of his head, the shrewd sleuth had a theory. In all New York, there was one man only who never did the obvious. That man was The Shadow.

  To mention The Shadow's name would have been folly. Cardona had been reprimanded by the police commissioner for such action in the past. Officially, The Shadow did not exist.

  There were many competent police officers who did not share the official verdict. Cardona was one of these. He knew the power of The Shadow. More than once had The Shadow saved him from disgrace as well as destruction. The Shadow was one person in New York who never craved publicity. So Joe Cardona took it when it came his way. He accepted it as part of the game.

  THE Grayson affair made good news copy for reporters; it also afforded interesting reading for Douglas Carleton. He perused the evening newspaper when he reached Stanford Devaux's home after dinner.

  Learning that Virginia was indisposed, he spent his time in Devaux's living room, reading, while his future father-in-law was engaged with Shelton Milbrook in the upstairs study.

  Between the lines, Carleton saw the name of The Shadow. What Cardona suspected—namely, that The Shadow had played a part last night—was something that Carleton definitely knew. They had missed a prize last night— he and Gats Hackett—when they had failed to capture the occupant of the coupe.

  The spoils of Adolph Grayson's safe would have been a worthwhile acquisition. But the real loss had been the failure to slay The Shadow.

  The Grayson property was trivial, compared to the stakes for which Carleton was playing. Across the path of his newly chosen career still loomed the formidable shape of that unknown antagonist.

  Carleton threw the newspaper aside, and sat moodily staring at the blank wall. His meditation was interrupted by the arrival of Devaux and Milbrook. Virginia's father greeted Carleton affably. Milbrook, too, seemed friendly.

  "Sorry Virginia is not feeling well to-night," observed Devaux. "The doctor says that she will have to stay in bed for several days."

  Carleton nodded gloomily.

  "I did not intend to stay here long to-night," he remarked. "So, under the circumstances, I think I shall go downtown now."

  "Why not ride down with me?" questioned Milbrook.

  "All right," agreed Carleton.

  The two men left in a taxi. They said very little during the ride. Carleton was sullen and morose. Milbrook was affable, but taciturn.

  The only discussion of importance between them was the matter of Devaux's interest in uncut diamonds.

  Milbrook did not seem inclined to give much information on this subject, and Carleton did not press him.

  Carleton alighted from the cab at the hotel where Milbrook lived. He said good night to his companion, and strolled toward Broadway.

  He walked up the bright thoroughfare and turned into a side street, where he entered the lobby of the Gargantuan Hotel. Here he ascended to the twentieth floor, and approached a door at the end of a corridor. Taking a key from his pocket, Carleton knocked, thus causing a resonant sound.

  THE door opened, and the young society man entered to join Gats Hackett and Felix Zubian. The pair were evidently expecting his arrival. Carleton helped himself to a drink which Gats supplied. Then he dropped into a chair and looked questioningly toward his companions.

  "Did you read the newspapers?" he asked.

  Gats joined Zubian in a nod.

  "Nice wind-up to last night's doings," vouchsafed Carleton.

  "It shows us where we stand," observed Zubian.

  "It means we've got to get The Shadow," growled Gats. "He's a mean baby. We had things fixed right—and he made a get-away. I've never seen a guy so lucky."

  "Lucky?" questioned Zubian, in his suave manner. "Just what do you mean by luck?"

  Gats offered no reply.

  "The Shadow is dangerous," declared Zubian. "That is quite apparent. Last night's episode is valuable. It shows that he cannot be overcome by ordinary methods. He has luck, as you term it, Gats. I call it strategy. To overcome strategy, one must meet it with strategy."

  "Yeah?" quizzed Carleton. "How?"

  "We must trust our own efforts—not those of others. The Shadow is undoubtedly a menace. Let us consider last night as a test. Zipper Marsh was not equipped to meet The Shadow. We may be, if we prepare."

  "Well, we've put him wise -"

  "We have not," interrupted Zubian quietly. "He has learned nothing except that some one was behind the note from Dobie Wentz. He will attribute that note to gangsters opposed to Zipper Marsh—not to your crowd, Gats."

  "Maybe you've figured it right," retorted the gang leader, "but what are we going to do about it?"

  "Find out who The Shadow is, to begin with," suggested Zubian.

  Gats Hackett snorted his disdain.

  "Guess you think that's easy," he growled. "Well, you'd better guess again, Zubian. There's been plenty of smart blokes trying to spot The Shadow. They've never got anywhere.

  "Take it right now—Squint Freston is trying to spot him. How far has he got? Squint's the smartest spotter in New York—and what's more, he's got a head-start, trailing The Shadow's stools—Vincent and Mann."

  "Yet The Shadow still eludes him."

  "Right. You can't get The Shadow by laying low. He's wise to that sort of stuff."

  Silence fell over the trio. Then Douglas Carleton aroused himself from his lethargy and asserted his authority.

  "We've got to get The Shadow," he announced. "If you fellows can't do it, we'll find some one who can.

  There's too much at stake to let The Shadow step in and queer it.

  "I have plenty of work for both of you to do—soon.
In the meantime, let's clear the way. You had your chance, Gats; but you fell short. What are you going to do about it?"

  GATS HACKETT glowered. He walked over to the table to take a drink of liquor. He paused suddenly, and laid down his glass. His glower changed to an evil leer.

  "What am I going to do about it?" he demanded. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do about it! I'll tell you how to get The Shadow."

  He studied the questioning gazes of the other two; then continued with his formulating plan.

  "I got somewhere, didn't I?" he inquired. "I got a message to The Shadow, didn't I? He was too smart—or too dumb—I don't know which - to wait until two thirty. He must have got into Grayson's place ahead of Zipper Marsh. That gave him a chance to shoot his way out. But I'll get him in a place where he can't get out. I'll tell you how, too!"

  Gats swallowed his drink, placed the glass on the table, and walked forward to speak in an impressive tone.

  "How about those two birds that work for shim?" he demanded. "How about them, eh? Vincent and Mann—a couple of dummies is the way I figure them. All right; we'll grab them off and make them squawk. They'll tell us who The Shadow is!"

  "Perhaps," interposed Zubian dryly. "Perhaps they will tell—if they know."

  "If they know!" snorted Gats. "I'll make them know! I'm not called Gats for nothing. Besides that"—his face wore a malicious scowl— "I've got a few things I can use as well as my smoke wagons. I've given you the lay. Grab off Mann and Vincent. That's the ticket."

  "It might work," declared Carleton.

  "It will work," asserted Gats. "If those stools don't squawk, I'll hang onto them. Let The Shadow wonder where they are. That'll make him hustle. When he begins to step, like he did last night, we've got a chance to nab him in the open. Maybe we won't slip the next time!"

  "What do you think about it?" inquired Carleton, turning to Zubian.