The Plot Master s-71

by Maxwell Grant

  WITH Hildrow, in Washington, The Shadow had lingered while playing the part of Stollart.

  The trip to the island, once begun, had required a full hour because of its winding, changing

  course and the bad roads encountered.

  More time had elapsed at the cottage. There had been another interval after the crash. A

  clouding sky was bringing dusk when The Shadow and Dadren reached the end of the

  jagged road and stumbled to a better though little-traveled highway.

  To the left was the way by which The Shadow had come with Hildrow. That was the road

  which the plotter must have taken. Despite the time lost by the changing of a tire—The

  Shadow and Dadren had seen the old shoe lying near the jagged road—Hildrow must by

  now be nearing the capital.

  Instead of taking the course to the left, however, The Shadow, leaning heavily on Dadren,

  urged the commander to the right. Again, The Shadow had made a clever deduction.

  There were no houses along that road to the left. It was miles to the nearest habitation. Yet

  Hildrow must have kept close contact with the secluded island. There was no telephone line

  into Korsch's den, therefore, the contact point must be somewhere else close by.

  Pete's arrival was a further indication of that fact. The man who had come in the sedan

  probably had headquarters only a short way off. The road to the right offered the one

  solution.

  The Shadow and Dadren traversed half a mile. The Shadow was making rapid progress,

  despite Dadren's protests. The road kept curving to the left; The Shadow knew that it must

  miss the river, which twisted in the opposite direction. But he was looking for lights, not for

  water. He spied them through the increasing dusk.

  A short bend had brought them into sight of an old roadhouse, which formed the center of a

  little settlement. This must have been Pete's headquarters. The Shadow knew that a

  telephone would be available.

  As they plodded on, The Shadow spoke to Dadren. The commander nodded as he heard

  the instructions. They were almost at a dilapidated garage when The Shadow gave his final

  reminder.

  "Call Marsland first," he said, in a steady whisper. "Then Releston. Then come into

  Washington."

  "But you are not leaving -"

  The Shadow stopped Dadren with a warning motion. They were close to the garage.

  Standing in front was an antiquated roadster, that shook from the explosions of its running

  motor. One light alone was gleaming from the front of the car. The driver had stepped into

  the garage to purchase a new bulb.

  "Proceed," ordered The Shadow. "Make the calls from the roadhouse."

  He shifted his arm from Dadren's shoulder and swayed for a moment. Dadren paused; he

  caught the flash of The Shadow's compelling eyes. Nodding, Dadren turned and strode

  along the road.

  Shedding his weakness, The Shadow approached the roadster. Opening the door, he

  moved noiselessly behind the wheel, drawing his weak leg in after him. He closed the door

  softly.

  The owner of the car had come from the garage, talking with the proprietor. The man was

  holding the new bulb. He was about to step forward past the hood when The Shadow

  jammed the car in gear.

  The rattly roadster shot away from beside its astonished owner. Shifting rapidly to second,

  The Shadow gave it gas. Then into high. Its one lamp blazing through the increasing

  darkness, the roadster took the bend. Thanks to the twisting course of the road, The

  Shadow gained a speed that a swifter car could not surpass if it came in pursuit.

  EIGHT minutes after The Shadow had made off with the rickety roadster, Cliff Marsland

  strode through the lobby of a Washington hotel. The firm-faced agent of The Shadow was

  carrying a suitcase. He had received a call from Commander Joseph Dadren.

  Reaching a parking space a quarter-block away, Cliff handed in a ticket. He stepped into a

  mammoth roadster, a high-powered car of foreign make, and rested the suitcase in a wide,

  deep niche behind the seat.

  The motor throbbed. The lights came on. Cliff piloted the car to the street and headed for an

  avenue. The huge car sped forward, noiselessly increasing its speed. Cliff smiled grimly.

  This machine would roar when it reached the open road.

  Cliff was on his way to meet The Shadow. He had heard the route from Dadren. He would

  be on the watch for a one-eyed roadster that would be straining every bolt to gain its

  topmost speed.

  Then the transfer. With The Shadow, Cliff would head back for Washington. The Shadow

  would be busy with the suitcase while Cliff drove. It was anticipation of that coming ride that

  caused Cliff's smile.

  For The Shadow, traveling to frustrate crime, would order speed. This car was built for rapid

  travel. Whatever the game The Shadow had at stake, Cliff knew that the goal would be

  reached in record time.

  CHAPTER XXIII. HIGH WATER MARK

  A SOLEMN group was gathered in Senator Releston's office. In this quiet room of the large

  apartment, Releston was listening to comments that came from Vic Marquette. Harry

  Vincent, also present, was puzzled by the situation.

  "It's got me beat," admitted Vic. "I don't know which one of those birds was phony. It looked

  like both. No Commander Dadren at the Navy Department. Nothing down at that siding in

  Virginia. Fifty men on the job; they covered the entire territory around that station called

  Alora. They haven't found the shack; not even the siding, for that matter."

  "We have been hoaxed," agreed Releston. "But I cannot understand what has become of

  Stollart. Do you think that he has met with harm?"

  "Probably," declared Vic, "The whole mess is black as ink. Tougher than anything I've ever

  encountered. Suppose, for instance, that the first man here was really Dadren -"

  Vic paused as Smedley entered. The servant had come to announce that Mr. Eric Hildrow

  was calling. Senator Releston nodded.

  "Does he have an appointment?" he inquired.

  "He says so," replied Smedley.

  "He must have made it by telephone," mused Releston. "While Stollart was here. I leave all

  that to Stollart. I shall see him, Smedley."

  "But listen, senator," began Vic, "we've got other matters -"

  "I can make the interview short," interposed Releston. "We have discussed all points and

  have arrived nowhere. We can wait until Mr. Hildrow leaves."

  "But we ought to be here, Vincent and I."

  "That will be quite all right."

  Smedley returned with Hildrow. Pale-faced, almost weary of manner, the visitor shook hands

  with Releston. He seated himself beside the desk and refused a cigar that the senator

  offered him.

  "I always smoke these," declared Hildrow, smiling wanly. He drew a small case from his

  pocket and extracted a panatela. "Will you try one, senator? They are a special brand I

  picked up in Cuba."

  Releston accepted. Hildrow settled back in his chair. He began to mention shipping

  conditions; then looked about questioningly, noting Harry and Vic.

  "Mr. Vincent is my new secretary," explained the senator. "Stollart has gone on vacation.

  You have seen Vincent here before. Mr. Marquette is his assistant. Go on, Vincent. Arrange

  those files of the Congressional Record, as I told you."

  Harr
y took the tip. He went to a corner where the publications were stacked and began to

  make a pretense of sorting them. Vic came over to aid him. Hildrow resumed his talk.

  THE master plotter had played one card, a subtle suggestion that Harry and Vic would

  leave. Releston, unsuspecting his visitor's real purpose, had balked the game without

  knowing it.

  Hildrow had another card up his sleeve. It was a better bet if he played it right. He came

  quickly to the point that he was after.

  "Senor Danzola of Havana is a man of high intelligence," stated Hildrow. "He has an

  excellent connection with the steamship lines. He believes that the export of sugar cane has

  been retarded by certain persons in New York."

  "Did he name them?"

  "Yes. He stated that -"

  Hildrow paused. He looked over to the corner. Then, in a confidential tone, he leaned

  forward on the desk.

  "I do not like to mention the names that Danzola gave," he said, in a confidential tone. "I

  promised him that I would mention them to no one but you, senator."

  "Do not mind Vincent or Marquette."

  "On my previous calls," reminded Hildrow, with a disarming smile, "you usually talked with

  me alone. Not even Stollart, your regular secretary, remained with us."

  "Those Congressional Records must be filed," said the senator. "I must refer to them for a

  speech that I intend to prepare to-night. Suppose, Hildrow, that we postpone this conference

  until to-morrow."

  "I am leaving for New York, senator, this evening. I require only a few minutes to give you this

  important information. Could we retire to another room since your secretaries are busy

  here?"

  "Certainly," replied Releston, seeing an easy solution that would leave Vic and Harry

  guarding the vault. "We can go into the front living room, Hildrow."

  Releston arose. Hildrow repressed a smile. He shot a wary glance toward the corner, then

  got up from his chair to follow the senator. At that moment the telephone rang.

  "Answer it, Vincent," ordered Releston, pausing at the door. "Tell me who it is."

  Hildrow stopped beside the senator. Harry went to the telephone. He gave his name in brisk

  fashion, announcing himself as the senator's secretary. The voice that came over the wire

  stopped Harry short.

  THE speaker at the other end was Commander Joseph Dadren.

  Instantly, Harry stopped the exclamation that was coming to his lips. The presence of the

  stranger, Eric Hildrow, was the reason why he curbed himself. Yet Harry did not fully

  succeed in covering his surprise.

  Vic Marquette had noted it. The Secret Service operative was watching from the corner. So

  had Releston. The senator was stepping in from the door, eyes on Harry. He passed

  Hildrow, who was looking on in an apparently indifferent fashion.

  Brief, terse statements were coming from the commander. Harry was mentally registering

  each phrase. Then came the startling finish. The name of the master plotter.

  "Eric Hildrow."

  This time, Harry managed to repress his new surprise. With assuring words that ended the

  call, he replaced the double-ended desk phone on its stand. He had the instrument in his left

  hand; that side of his body was toward the door. Harry let his right hand drop to his coat

  pocket.

  "Hold it!" came a fierce warning from the door. "You're a dead man, Vincent, if you pull that

  gun! Up with your hands! Make it quick!"

  HARRY obeyed. He found himself facing Hildrow. The man's face showed evil in the light.

  Twisted lips were forming a snarl. The master crook had drawn two revolvers. One was

  trained on Harry. The other was swaying back and forth between Marquette and Releston.

  "All hands up!" ordered Hildrow. "Line over here. If it wasn't for the servants being around, I'd

  blot out the three of you. Make it fast, or I'll start the works anyway!"

  Three men followed the order. Herding the trio with the senator in the lead, Hildrow ordered

  the procession into the living room. No other alternative offered. The men marched forward.

  Hildrow forced them into the living room. The servants were on the other side of the

  apartment. Neither Smedley nor Williston appeared to make trouble, which was fortunate,

  considering Hildrow's threat.

  Ordering Vic and Harry to back into a corner, Hildrow covered them with one gun and

  motioned to Releston with the other. He snarled an order that none had expected.

  "Open the door of the closet," voiced Hildrow. "You'll find Stollart there. Release him."

  Releston obeyed. He found the missing secretary bound and gagged on the floor.

  Harry and Vic stared in amazement. Hildrow became impatient. He kicked the door to the

  inner hallway. It slammed shut. This was to offset discovery by the servants.

  Prompted by Hildrow's threatening voice, Senator Releston produced a pocketknife and

  managed to cut the cords that bound Stollart so tightly. The secretary came to his feet. He

  recognized that Hildrow must be his chief.

  The plotter barked an order. Stollart came to action. He frisked Harry Vincent and Vic

  Marquette, finding one automatic on each man. Hildrow ordered him to cover the two with

  the guns.

  Keeping an eye on Senator Releston, Hildrow went to the shelf that The Shadow had

  mentioned. Pocketing one revolver, he reached up and found the missing plans that The

  Shadow had left there.

  FROM far away—outside the Hotel Barlingham—came the whine of sirens. Stollart, his

  voice quavering, asked:

  "What's that, chief?"

  "A fire somewhere," returned Hildrow. "Keep those men covered, Stollart. Fire if they move

  an inch."

  The wailing noises were coming closer. Hildrow ignored them. Holding the plans in his free

  hand, the master plotter sneered his victory.

  "No need to open that safe, senator," he chuckled. "Those tracings are not needed. I have

  photostats. I do not care if a portion of the plans exist. I, alone, have the complete diagrams,

  now that I have gained these underlying sheets.

  "All that remains is to make sure Commander Dadren dies. That call that Vincent answered

  indicates that he is still alive. His rescuer— The Shadow— is probably dead. I shall trap

  Dadren.

  "But first, the lot of you will die." Nearer sirens blared as Hildrow paused. "Prepare for

  death, the three of you. I have stationed competent aids about this hotel. My get-away is

  assured. Then will come the final search for Dadren."

  Pocketing the plans, the master plotter deliberately drew his second revolver. Four guns

  were covering the doomed men. Hildrow seemed to relish his plan of murder. He had

  reason. For Eric Hildrow's fortunes—evil though they were—had reached high water mark.

  Despite the intervention of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST SETTLEMENT

  THE sirens which Eric Hildrow had ignored were not the whines of fire engines. While the

  master plotter had been gaining the missing plans, a dozen police cars had undertaken a

  most unusual chase.

  A huge roadster had entered the limits of Washington, traveling at a speed of nearly one

  hundred miles an hour. Its driver blaring a horn that sounded warnings a full block ahead, the

  car had roared along a broad avenue toward the business district of the capital.

  Traffic had be
en disrupted. Pedestrians had ducked for cover. At hurricane speed, the

  mammoth roadster had cleared a path before it. But in the wake of this foreign-built car

  came a deluge of pursuers.

  Motorcycle cops and patrol cars had taken up the chase. The big machine had outdistanced

  them. Its speed had decreased to eighty as it neared the center of the city; then had come

  another lessening of pace. Yet the most ardent pursuers had failed to catch up with it.

  New patrol cars, cutting in, had complicated the chase. By the time the big car was in sight

  of the Hotel Barlingham, it seemed that half the police of Washington were on its trail. Then

  the foreign roadster did an unexpected circuit about a circle. It cut along a street that led to

  the Hotel Barlingham.

  CLIFF MARSLAND was the grim driver of that roadster. Blaring his warning, he had cut a

  swath toward his goal. He was not the daredevil that Miles Crofton was. In an autogyro, Cliff

  would have admitted his inability.

  But Cliff was an accomplished driver. He knew this car. Like Crofton, he was inspired by the

  companion who rode with him. For beside Cliff sat a silent figure cloaked in black. During

  the early portion of the ride, The Shadow had donned a garb that he had taken from the

  suitcase in the car.

  The Shadow had regretted that he had not kept Miles Crofton in Washington. Crofton had

  brought the big touring car to the capital, to leave it with Cliff Marsland. The car had been

  there to serve The Shadow. For once, the cloaked warrior had not anticipated an

  emergency which had come.

  But Cliff Marsland had proven his ability in the pinch. He had cut away precious seconds

  during this roaring trip. A soft laugh came from hidden lips as The Shadow viewed the home

  stretch. Whining sirens from behind meant nothing. The goal lay half a block ahead. Cliff had

  made it in a time limit that Crofton would have envied.

  Cliff jammed the brakes and shot the roadster into the alleyway beside the Hotel

  Barlingham. As the big machine swerved, The Shadow raised a gloved hand and pressed a

  phial to his lips. Purple liquid showed by the dashlight as The Shadow lowered the tiny

  bottle.

  A strengthening elixir, included in the suitcase. The Shadow had reserved this dosage for

  the finish of the run. Already well recovered from his loss of blood, he was making final