Gats Hackett laughed through the iron grating. The other gangsters leered.
Gats was triumphant. He was waiting to see the end of Rutledge Mann, confident that Harry Vincent would speak after that ordeal had ended.
The Shadow? Where was he now? Nowhere from which he could possibly intervene!
CHAPTER XVIII. THE TWELFTH MINUTE
THE hand of the death clock was nearing the top of the dial. Soon the ordeal would be ended—terminated by the death of Rutledge Mann.
The chubby-faced prisoner was bearing up. It was Harry Vincent who was undergoing the strain.
Hopeless though the task seemed, Harry was striving to reach the switch, tugging in futile fashion at the strap which restrained him. By that action alone, he could keep his mind from the horrible death which awaited Rutledge Mann.
Never before had Harry undergone such a terrible ordeal. Wavering thoughts made him falter. He had always done The Shadow's bidding; ever before, he had known which choice to take. Now, for the first time, he wondered.
Where did duty lie? To save the life of Rutledge Mann, or to maintain his silence?
Had Mann pleaded for deliverance, Harry would not have hesitated. But Mann, like a true agent of The Shadow, was meeting this terrible test. He was ready to accept death. Under the circumstances, Harry was unable to force himself to yield.
Gats Hackett was glaring through the grille on the right. To him, this tragic scene was glorious. The gangsters behind the iron on the left were grinning, like monkeys clinging to the bars of a cage.
It was an orgy of fiendish crime that had brought sordid satisfaction to Gats. Here, in a former hideout of the Hudson Dusters, he was introducing a hideous torture of Chinese invention.
He felt sure that if Harry Vincent did not cry for mercy, the result would be the same. After seeing Rutledge Mann's gory head, Harry would break down under quizzing.
"They talk about the third degree," grinned Gats, to the man beside him. "This has got the bulls stopped.
How about it?"
The doom-marking hand had reached the eleventh minute. Gats was gleeful. Nothing could thwart him now.
A dozen men were in readiness here. Ten more were stationed outside, covering the entrances to this underground den. Let The Shadow come! He would find Gats Hackett prepared!
WHILE those thoughts were passing through Gats Hackett's evil brain, events were happening outside the garage. Two men stationed at the top of a flight of stone steps were talking while they watched.
Their conversation ended as one fell suddenly from the stroke of an automatic butt. His comrade leaped up, only to sink back and fall head-first into the stone stairway.
Struck down by an invisible hand from the darkness, these guardians had failed to protect the gateway!
Some one was passing their fallen forms now— some one who could not be seen—a strange being who moved through the dark with a swishing haste!
Inside, Gats Hackett was watching the dial. The twelfth minute was here! It was a matter of seconds, now. Fifty—forty—thirty—
Harry Vincent, his eyes glued to that terrible dial, was struggling madly to break loose from the restraining strap. He could not do it.
Gats Hackett laughed; then the sound died on his lips.
An unexpected commotion had broken loose among the gangsters who were staring through the opposite grille. A dozen men were clustered there; to the surprise of Gats, they began to fall away at this crucial time!
Then came the beginning of a battle.
Some one was in that mob! The bright flash of an automatic burst forth. Then came a quick succession of rapid shots.
Startled gangsters were dropping as an unexpected enemy blasted them with lead! Revolvers were flashing in return, but the men who wielded them were falling!
Thirty seconds—twenty seconds—ten seconds—five seconds! The time element had decreased during that sudden fray. Now, one man alone stood at the opposite grille—a being whose form made Gats Hackett shudder!
The Shadow!
The muzzle of an automatic was thrusting its round-circled nose through the bars. Flame spat from the deadly barrel. The shot was aimed a foot behind Harry Vincent, whose mind had never turned from that futile endeavor to reach the control switch.
Three quick shots—split seconds apart. They sent forth a trio of timely bullets—messengers of lead that covered a vertical line.
Those bullets were aimed at the strap that held back Harry Vincent!
As the single hand of the death clock almost touched the fatal mark, the strap parted behind Harry Vincent. Toppling forward, Harry threw his hand against the control switch. It sprang from left to right.
The hand on the dial stopped, almost upon the final point!
Exhausted, Harry collapsed sidewise and fell upon the floor, while Rutledge Mann stared upward, his eyes now opened.
Deliverance had come! Brought by The Shadow, it had enabled one brave man to save the life of another!
NOW came revolver shots. The Shadow was fighting with the surviving gangsters, who had gained opportunity by the brief respite.
Flinging down each automatic in turn, The Shadow pulled forth new weapons without a moment's loss.
His pistol shots were deadly. His bullets found the hearts of men who were about to slay him. Revolvers were falling from helpless hands, dropping through the grille on the stone floor.
Gats Hackett had drawn his smoke wagons, ready to kill The Shadow. But that vague form offered no opportunity. It was lost amid a crew of staggering gangsters. It would be folly for Gats to slay the men who were fighting his own battle—for even now they still held a chance against The Shadow.
Then Gats saw other targets. Harry Vincent, prone upon the floor! Rutledge Mann, helpless in the pillory beneath the blade of the guillotine! They must die as Gats had planned!
Up came the big revolvers; but Gats raised them too late. The gang leader fell back as a bullet came from the opposite gate, and ricocheted against one of the narrow bars where Gats was standing.
Only by a chance freak had the bullet missed. With a wild dive, Gats hurled himself to safety into a corner of the room behind him, out of sight behind a projecting wall.
Another shot sounded. The gangster who had been standing beside Gats dropped from The Shadow's bullet. The fight at the other gate was ended. The Shadow had triumphed.
Gripping his huge .45s, Gats cursed himself for his mistakes. It was too late to go back now. That grilled opening was covered—by The Shadow! Even with his own amazing aim, Gats knew it would be futile to offer his body as a target to a man who was awaiting him.
There was a sharp clang. Gats knew its meaning. The Shadow had broken through the opposite gate. All his enemies were downed. His agents would be freed. With The Shadow, they would come this way.
Gats was alone—with no one to aid him in the defensive struggle!
Governed by mad fear, Gats Hackett turned and dashed away to safety. He found a small flight of stone steps that led to another exit. He stumbled upward.
Terror had gripped his fiendish spirit. Behind him came a new sound - a weird mockery that chilled the gang leader's veins.
The laugh of The Shadow!
Loud, eerie, and taunting, that laugh resounded through the stone-walled rooms like a ghoulish cry of doom. It was the laugh that meant death to those who heard it—a long, gibing burst of merriment that awoke invisible echoes and rolled on with maddening tones that seemed to grip the fleeing gang leader in a spectral grasp.
Gats Hackett hurtled through a door and staggered against a gangster who was coming below. This was a watcher who had heard the muffled blasts of the terrible fray. He recognized his leader; then he heard the wild tones of The Shadow's mirth.
The sound was pursuing Gats!
"Scram!" cried the gang leader, totally bereft of his former bravery. "Scram! It's The Shadow!"
The second gate was clanging. Other gangsters were coming up from outside. Hea
ring the laughter no longer, they piled down the steps to meet the enemy. As they surged into the gloom of the stone-walled hideout, they were met by long bursts of fierce-tongued flame.
Nothing could have stopped The Shadow then. Conqueror of one baffled horde, he was on the way to further victory. The last of the gangsters fired wildly in return. They were dropping one by one. Their shots were useless. In the semidarkness of the new battleground, The Shadow was everywhere and nowhere.
Two men alone remained. They scrambled back toward safety. One fell; the other reached the steps and leaped upward. A final bullet clipped him as he sprang. He landed headlong on soft earth, and moved no more.
Victory belonged to The Shadow. Not one man of those who had sought to thwart him now, remained unscathed. Wounded were among the dying; dying were among the dead.
One alone had escaped; for one alone had given way and trusted only to flight. That one was Gats Hackett. Scurrying like a terrorized rat, the two-gun gang leader was running for his life.
His evil mob wiped out, Gats thought only of his own safety. He had heard the triumphant laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX. NEW STRATEGY
IN his battle underground, The Shadow had scored a mighty victory. The results of his triumph became apparent during the days that followed. In one fierce thrust, The Shadow had dealt a heart blow to the forces that sought to conquer him.
No one recognized this more fully than did Felix Zubian. He, the master schemer who had dubbed himself The Shadow's shadow, knew well that measures of violence would not suffice to overpower this unconquerable foe.
Gats Hackett's mob was wiped out. That ended the gang leader's value for the present. Gats, after a conference with Squint Freston, had promised to obtain new recruits. The process would not take long; already a few gunmen had come into the fold. But until a mob as formidable as the other had been assembled, it would be futile to incite The Shadow to new combat.
Where was The Shadow?
Zubian did not know. Moreover, The Shadow had followed victory with strategy. His agents—the two whom he had rescued—were gone, and no clew to their whereabouts remained. Harry Vincent was not at the Metrolite Hotel. He had left no forwarding address. Rutledge Mann's office was closed. From now on, The Shadow was working single-handed, ready to strike from the dark. His hand was more sinister than ever before.
Douglas Carleton was frantic. He saw The Shadow as a greater menace than he had previously supposed him to be. His only comfort was the knowledge that he and Zubian had managed to remain under cover. The Shadow's war had been with Gats Hackett.
Nevertheless, Carleton held the fear that The Shadow might learn his connection with Gats Hackett. That fear was disturbing. Douglas Carleton had come to dread The Shadow.
Only Felix Zubian retained his composure. Suave and serene in the seclusion of the Cobalt Club, he planned new strategy; for by strategy alone could The Shadow's power be offset.
Summarizing the past, Zubian knew too well that open attack would fail. Subtlety was the only course.
Somehow, he must trap The Shadow in a snare that would be above suspicion. To do this, Zubian decided that he must resume his former role; that he must become The Shadow's shadow once more.
In his observations of the pretended Lamont Cranston, Zubian had performed some excellent spy work.
He had ascertained facts pertaining to Lamont Cranston. He had divulged only one; namely, that Cranston had made it a practice to drive home every night via the Holland Tunnel. That fact had been utilized to no avail. Now, Zubian intended to use others.
DURING the days that Zubian had shadowed him, Lamont Cranston had paid occasional visits to a little office in a building on a side street, near Times Square. This office was occupied by a curio dealer named Hawthorne Crayle, an old recluse who was something of a curio himself.
Zubian had not determined Cranston's connection with Crayle. He was convinced, however, that it did not involve the work of The Shadow. Zubian had visited Crayle's office himself, and felt positive that Cranston went there merely to inspect some of the rare objects that Crayle offered for sale.
It was obvious now that The Shadow had done more than merely subordinate the identity of Lamont Cranston. Considering the situation, Zubian decided that the phantom of the night must have adopted a completely new identity. After all, the personality of Lamont Cranston had been an assumed one.
Probably The Shadow had new characters that he could take on!
If so, he might be anywhere even here at the Cobalt Club. It would be possible, Zubian knew, to begin a new investigation that would lead to a discovery of this new identity. But such a course might lead to disaster. The Shadow was wary now. He would soon suspect any efforts that might be made to trace him.
Thus reasoning, Zubian's mind reverted to the subject of Hawthorne Crayle. It was probable that the new man who had replaced Lamont Cranston would still pay visits to the curio dealer's office. There, at least, he would suspect no followers.
So, in keeping with his policy of striking at the weakest point in an opponent's armor, Zubian decided to concentrate his efforts on watching what happened at Crayle's.
The little office was located on the fifth floor of an old building, and it was the only occupied office on that floor. The building had been condemned, and no new tenants were taking the vacant offices.
Zubian had no difficulty whatever in stationing himself out of sight across the hall from Crayle's. He used an empty office as his hiding place, and scratched a peephole in the white-painted glass panel that filled the upper portion of the door.
Watching from this vantage point, he could see every one who entered and left the curio dealer's place.
Beginning at nine o'clock in the morning, he maintained a constant vigil throughout the day.
On the first day of observation, Zubian noted that when Crayle left the office, he posted a little note in the corner of his door. Zubian stepped from his hiding place to observe the notice. It bore the statement: Will return at 2:30.
Upon his return, Hawthorne Crayle removed the notice from the doorway.
Crayle was an old, stoop-shouldered man, whose parchment face was expressive only because of the thick-rimmed spectacles which adorned it. Through these spectacles, Crayle peered with owllike eyes and methodically tore up the paper that had announced the time of his return.
The same procedure took place on the second day that Zubian watched. When the old man returned, Zubian continued his patient vigil, and was rewarded half an hour afterward.
For the first time in these two days, an interesting visitor came to the curio office. Zubian was elated as he recognized the features of a man whom he had seen at the Cobalt Club—Henry Arnaud.
It seemed incredible that this could be the same person who had formerly assumed the features of Lamont Cranston. Yet Zubian, more convinced than ever of The Shadow's amazing abilities, came to the immediate conclusion that Lamont Cranston and Henry Arnaud must be one and the same!
It was possible, of course, that two members of the Cobalt Club might visit the same curio dealer; nevertheless, Zubian now recalled that he had never seen Arnaud at the club until after the time when Cranston had disappeared.
It was with new elation that Zubian watched through the peephole and listened for any conversation that he might hear.
Henry Arnaud remained in Crayle's office for some twenty minutes. Then Zubian saw him come to the door, accompanied by the old curio dealer.
"You must come back to-morrow," crackled the old man. "Come back then, Mr. Arnaud. That shipment will be here in the morning. If you come after two, I shall have some beautiful rarities to show you."
"I shall be here," responded Arnaud, in a calm, even voice.
LEAVING the old building, Zubian racked his brain. Here was opportunity! By strategy, he could accomplish what he had failed to do before.
What was the best course?
This building made a perfect spot for a killing.
Zubian knew what Gats Hackett would recommend—a crew of gangsters lying in wait.
But Zubian decided that such a course would be too crude. The Shadow had encountered such traps before. He seemed to possess an uncanny sense of detecting the presence of lurking gunmen.
No—newer and more effective measures must be used. Guns should be there, of course, but not where The Shadow could suspect them.
Zubian, back at the Cobalt Club, was thoughtful as he smoked a cigarette in a secluded corner of the grill. At last a plan began to form itself in his scheming mind. An evil smile flitted across his suave countenance.
Walking out into the lobby, Zubian assured himself that Henry Arnaud was not present. Then he went to the telephone and called Devaux's home. Douglas Carleton was there, and, in cryptic tones, Zubian made an appointment for the evening.
When Carleton joined Zubian at ten o'clock, the young clubman seemed peevish and disturbed. Zubian asked the reason. It developed that Carleton was troubled about affairs at Devaux's.
"It's that fellow Milbrook," he explained.
"Milbrook and the girl?" questioned Zubian.
"Well—that's annoying, too," declared Carleton. "Virginia and I are not on good terms at all. In fact, the engagement would be ended if it were not for old Devaux. He sides with me.
"I told him that I regard Milbrook as a rival. So he is helping out. He sees to it that Milbrook and Virginia never have a chance to talk together. If they did—well, an elopement might be the result."
"Milbrook comes there every evening?"
"Certainly. To talk about diamonds with Devaux. Milbrook wants to make a sale; but Devaux won't look at the diamonds until he feels ready. So Milbrook is keeping them down in the safe of the diamond syndicate's office.
"If Devaux renigs, the diamonds will go elsewhere; but so long as the old man is interested, Milbrook is holding onto the goods."
"How long will Devaux hold out?"
"He's a good staller," said Carleton, with a wan smile. "He is pretending to be disinterested, to make Milbrook become anxious. He told me so, and I advised him to hold matters indefinitely. But that can't last forever.
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