It is in the course of alteration now."
"Good!" exclaimed Carleton. "Then you think -"
"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!
Events began a few seconds later. The truck ahead came to a sudden stop as the driver jammed the air brakes. Simultaneously the car that was almost beside it halted with the same promptness. As though governed by a signal, t
he moving blockade became a standing one!
Competent driver though he was, Stanley had not expected this. The gap between the limousine and the truck closed as the big car hurtled forward. Realizing the danger, Stanley jammed the brakes to avoid crashing into the truck. His action was just in time. The limousine came to a grinding halt less than fifteen feet to the rear of the truck.
Even as he stopped the car, Stanley heard the voice of Lamont Cranston, giving a firm command.
"Drop to the floor! Lie there!"
The voice came not from the rear seat, but from the running board on the right!
As Stanley obeyed the injunction, he heard the rear door on the right close with a slight slam. Then came another sound, the direct sequel to Cranston's warning.
The car in the left lane had swept forward like the limousine, coming to a stop directly beside Cranston's vehicle. As it pulled up from the rear—this touring car that followed—a man leaned from the driver's seat and opened fire with a pair of revolvers.
The sordid face of Gats Hackett gleamed amid the flashes of the .45s as he emptied his smoke wagons into the unprotected rear seat of the limousine.
Twelve shots sounded their terrific roar throughout the echoing lanes. Each bullet was fired by a master hand. Gats Hackett, shooting steadily from close range, covered every possible spot within the interior of the car.
Whistles broke out shrilly as the tunnel police responded. Gats had expected that. He knew what was about to happen.
The car ahead of his shot forward. Gats Hackett's driver followed it, while the gang leader still leaned outward, grinning his derision back at the stalled limousine.
Other events were happening. Up in the truck on the right lane, the driver was shifting into gear. His hand became suddenly motionless. He tumbled backward, unconscious. Then a hand gripped the lever, and the truck, like the cars, began a mad flight toward the Jersey end of the tube.
Traffic was open ahead; for cars had passed out of sight during this terrific interlude. But in the rear, all cars were stopped, their drivers fearful to proceed.
The limousine did not move. Police were approaching it. A uniformed man opened the front door to find Stanley crouching on the floor.
"Were they after you?" demanded the officer.
"I—I—don't know," gasped Stanley. "Look—look in back. Mr. Cranston— is he—is he still alive?"
The policeman yanked open the rear door of the limousine, and turned his flashlight inward. One glance showed him the bullet-riddled interior. No man could have lived through that volley of shots.
There was no sign of a human being—nothing was there but an empty suitcase.
"Nobody here," growled the policeman. "Looks like they didn't get the guy they were after. Come on; drive along with me."
He clambered into the front seat, and Stanley started the limousine slowly onward.
The chauffeur was dumfounded. His wits were slowly returning as he voiced a plausible explanation.
"I guess—guess all that shooting must have made me goofy," he declared. "I didn't have anybody with me to-night. This car belongs to Mr. Cranston. I left him in town. But I was scared—mighty scared when I heard those shots. I couldn't help thinking of Mr. Cranston -"
"Lucky you didn't have him with you," returned the officer grimly. "He wouldn't have had a snowball's chance, I'm telling you. The back of the car looks like an army had been working on it."
MEANWHILE, far ahead, cars were scurrying from the tube. The shots had not been heard there.
The startling unexpectedness of a gun volley in the midst of the Holland Tunnel had nonplused the police.
When the alarm reached the Jersey side, the officers were too late to intercept the final vehicles that shot free from the tunnel. Two automobiles, a touring car and a sedan, sped from the left lane, so close together that they made a tandem; then they spread apart and ran side by side.
A moment later, a heavy truck hurtled forth on the right. It plowed after the cars that had gone before.
Up in the sedan, Gats Hackett was glancing backward.
"Keep going, boy," he shouted to the driver. "Louie's coming with the truck. Don't wait up for him.
Say—we finished that bozo, didn't we? You know who he was?"
The driver grunted a negative reply.
"The Shadow!" informed Gats. "That's who I just snuffed out. The Shadow— that was him in the limousine."
"Whew!" exclaimed the driver.
The gasp was echoed from two gunmen in the back seat. They had seen Gats Hackett do the work.
They were confident that a dead man lay in the rear of the bullet-riddled limousine.
The lights of the truck were far behind as the leading cars reached a drawbridge. The touring car shot across; the sedan followed. Scarcely had it passed the center of the bridge before a whistle sounded. The bridge was opening.
"Good enough!" exclaimed Gats. "That'll stop any cops. Louie's stuck back there, but I guess he can get out of it. He looks like a dumb truck driver. He won't squeal."
Gats was right about the truck. It had stopped before it reached the drawbridge. Its front seat was dark; and no one saw what happened there.
A figure slid away from the driver's seat; then drew a huddled form upward and across the steering wheel. A moment later a black form slipped from the truck and edged toward the side of the road, unseen in the darkness.
The draw was open for twenty minutes. While traffic was still stalled, Stanley came up and put the limousine in line behind the other waiting cars. He had been sent on after answering questions put by the tunnel police. It had been agreed that Stanley was innocent. He was returning to Lamont Cranston's home.
The drawbridge opened. The huddled man at the wheel of the truck was stirring. Louie, as Gats had referred to him, opened his eyes and looked around. He rubbed the back of his head, where a dull ache annoyed him.
Louie could not remember what had happened. He had stalled the truck in the tube as he had been instructed. He had heard the cannonade let loose by Gats Hackett. Then had come blackness, brought on by a sharp, hard blow.
It seemed only a moment ago that he had lost consciousness in the tube; now he was facing a drawbridge! Still rubbing his head, Louie drove the truck forward, wondering what the explanation to this might be.
In the limousine, Stanley looked back, fancying that he had heard the door open and close. He shook his head seriously. This terrible experience had shattered his nerve.
What had happened to Mr. Cranston? Stanley could not guess. Perhaps his employer was dead, back in the tunnel. Yet Stanley felt that he had done the right thing to act bewildered. If his master had escaped, he probably did not want to be connected with the terrible affair.
Like the truck, the limousine crossed the drawbridge. Stanley drove along a series of roads, and entered a driveway. He stopped in front of his master's mansion. Here, he decided, it would be best to report to Richards, Cranston's trusted valet.
Sorrowfully, Stanley alighted and opened the rear door, so that the bullet-riddled interior could be seen.
A figure stirred and moved wearily. Two arms stretched. A tall man stepped from the car, carrying a closed suitcase in his hand. He gave the bag to Stanley. The chauffeur nearly dropped it in his amazement. He was staring at Lamont Cranston!
"Home already, Stanley?" questioned the millionaire in a languid tone. "Really, I can scarcely believe we are here. I must have slept all the way!"
Stupefied, Stanley followed his master into the house, and set the suitcase on the floor. His mouth was open in complete dumfounderment. Here was Cranston, unperturbed, calmly come from the limousine.
Stanley could not understand it. Had he been dreaming?
He went back to the car, where he stared at the bullet-ripped cushions. The chauffeur had never undergone so incredible an experience in all his life. It was beyond explanation.
For Stanley did not know that in reality he was the servant of two masters. One
of them was the real Lamont Cranston; the other was an impersonation of Cranston—The Shadow!
CHAPTER XV. THE NEXT STROKE
ON the second day after the bold attempt on Lamont Cranston's life, Felix Zubian and Douglas Carleton again met in conference; but on this occasion, Gats Hackett was with them, and their meeting place was the gangster's room in the Gargantuan Hotel.
It was shortly before five when the three assembled; and the greetings which they exchanged showed that any previous tendency toward ill feeling had been forgotten. Zubian had gained a high respect from Gats; and, similarly, the gang leader had won Zubian's esteem.
Both realized that the fiasco in the Holland Tunnel was no fault of the other. The Shadow—otherwise Lamont Cranston—had escaped by a display of genius that could not possibly have been anticipated by his enemies.
It was Gats who brought up the subject of that affair, within a few minutes after the conference had begun.
"He slipped us all right," admitted Gats. "But I thought for sure we'd gotten him. When I loaded that limousine full of lead, I figured The Shadow was all washed up. We made a perfect get-away.
"When the truck came along with Louie, I thought that was the wind-up. Then Louie tells me what happened under the river; how some guy raps him on the noodle and puts him to sleep. I knew the answer. That meant The Shadow."
"The newspapers bore out your story," responded Zubian quietly. "No talk of a dead man. Just a bullet-riddled car. No interview with Lamont Cranston. According to the servants, he had left home for parts unknown."
"The only thing I can't figure," declared Gats sullenly, "is why The Shadow didn't give Louie the works.
He might have taken a few shots at me, for that matter."
"Not that night," objected Zubian. "The minute you fellows went after Lamont Cranston, he was wise.
Remember—he lays low. He wasn't going to do anything that would be hung on Cranston. That identity is ended. Lamont Cranston has not appeared at the Cobalt Club since the affair in the tunnel."
"Do you think he's trying to make us believe that he is dead?" questioned Carleton.
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