The Plot Master s-71 Page 15

  Hildrow stared at the blinking countenance of Commander Joseph Dadren. The light was full

  upon the prisoner's face. Hildrow saw a puzzled look in Dadren's eyes as the commander

  stared at him.

  The prisoner knew that this was Hildrow. Korsch's reference to the chief was proof of that.

  But the astonishment that showed on Dadren's face was genuine. He had not expected

  Hildrow to be in this disguise.

  RISING from his chair, Hildrow stared across the desk. He examined Dadren's countenance

  at close range. The others stared in unrestrained interest. Like a man inspecting his own

  reflection, Hildrow was studying every detail of Dadren's face.

  "Guns down," ordered Hildrow, lowering his own revolver. "There's nothing to worry about.

  This is Commander Dadren, right enough. We still hold him"- a chuckle—"and Senator

  Releston will pay high to get him back.

  "Take him upstairs, Korsch, and keep a double guard. We thought you had fooled us,

  Dadren. You made a good guess, Stollart"- without turning, Hildrow was speaking to the

  man in the obscure corner—"but your hunch was wrong. The Shadow never located this

  hide-out -"

  Hildrow paused abruptly. Dropping back from the desk, he turned. With him swerved Korsch

  and the other members of the crew. Commander Dadren, too, was staring with blinking,

  astonished eyes.

  From the corner had come a hissing, warning laugh. Sinister mockery, it taunted men of

  crime. Turning to the source of that uncanny sound, Hildrow and his band found themselves

  faced by a pair of automatics in the hands of Stollart.

  No longer was the secretary playing a timorous part. He was not Stollart. He was The

  Shadow. Though he wore the pointed countenance of Stollart, his real identity was plain.

  Burning eyes were focused upon the men who stood in the path of the big automatics.

  NOT a gun hand rose. The Shadow's laugh and his blazing optics were too great a threat.

  Cornered killers shook.

  Then came the sneering, gibing whisper of The Shadow's voice. Scornful words came from

  his disguised lips.

  "This ends your game," pronounced The Shadow. "Your plots are finished. The end began

  when I entered Releston's, disguised as Commander Dadren. But that was only the first

  step.

  "I knew that Stollart was your spy. Alone with him, I took him from the picture. He lies

  helpless, bound and gagged, in the closet of Senator Releston's living room. Ten minutes

  was all that I required for a quick change.

  "Make-up was in my suitcase. Stollart's face was in front of me, staring up from the floor. I

  changed my disguise; instead of being Dadren, I became Stollart. I awaited your arrival."

  The Shadow was speaking straight to Hildrow. The master plotter stood half stunned by this

  revelation. He realized the supercraft of The Shadow.

  As Stollart, The Shadow had deliberately argued Hildrow into a false belief. He had talked

  Hildrow into bringing him here. Thus had The Shadow reached the big shot of the game;

  through Hildrow himself he had found Commander Dadren and has performed a rescue.

  Doom. Hildrow could see it. He expected no mercy from The Shadow. Hildrow, himself, had

  tried to murder The Shadow on Death Island. With tables turned, the crook knew that he was

  due to receive the punishment that he deserved.

  Startled minions stood quivering. Hildrow could expect no aid from them. The Shadow's

  laugh burst through the room; its triumphant mockery was ghastly amid those closed-in

  walls, where ghoulish voices hurled back echoes of the sardonic taunt.

  Then the door swung open. Framed in the portal stood a staring man whose right hand held

  a flashing revolver. It was the odd member of Korsch's crew, the fellow who had met Hildrow,

  that day in Washington.

  Stationed off the island, the man had come here for instructions. He had heard the echoes

  of The Shadow's laugh. Astonished, he had flung open the door. The leveled automatics told

  him who the enemy must be.

  "GET him, Pete!" blurted Korsch.

  Pete fired as The Shadow spun back into the corner. A bullet buried itself in the wall. Flame

  spurted from an automatic. The Shadow's answer found its mark. Pete slumped. But those

  shots brought conflict.

  Hildrow and Korsch came up with guns. The Shadow whirled toward the door as Hildrow

  fired. A bullet zimmed past The Shadow's shoulder. Before The Shadow could respond,

  before Hildrow could fire again, a form came flinging forward.

  Ferociously, Commander Dadren threw himself upon the arch-crook. He caught Hildrow's

  gun hand. The commander had cleared the desk with a headlong dive. His forceful attack

  bore Hildrow against the wall. The two men plunged to the floor, grappling.

  Korsch's shot came simultaneously with a spurt from The Shadow's left-hand automatic. A

  bullet whined through the doorway, passing an inch above The Shadow's head.

  The Shadow's aim, however, had not failed. Korsch staggered, clipped by the leaden

  missive from the .45.

  The other men, four in number, were clustered by a corner near the door. They, of all

  present, had been least ready. Unlike Hildrow and Korsch, they had not seen Pete arrive.

  Events had happened with split-second rapidity, too swift for them to follow.

  They were wheeling toward the door, however, when The Shadow neared it. Had the master

  fighter kept on through the opening, swinging guns might have found him for a target. But

  The Shadow, thoughts working with lightning speed, countered with the unexpected.

  Abruptly ending his mad whirl, he doubled his tracks. Like a human juggernaut, he hurled

  himself straight into the group of gunmen. With arms that swung like steel pistons, he used

  his automatics like a brace of cudgels.

  One weapon cracked the skull of an aiming foeman; another lost his revolver as a swinging

  automatic smashed his wrist. A third, aiming, dodged instinctively as he fired. His bullet

  buried itself in the ceiling.

  The fourth fighter, balked of aim as The Shadow came upon him, made a wild effort to

  grapple with this powerful foe. With the upward sweep of a powerful forearm, The Shadow

  hoisted this fighter from the floor and sent him spinning upon the fellow who had dodged.

  The man with the numbed arm dove for the door, unable to regain his gun. Of the two whom

  The Shadow had sent sprawling, one rolled over and took hasty aim. As his gun was coming

  up, one of the automatics was swinging down. The Shadow, moreover, was fading to the

  floor.

  Revolver and automatic loosed their belching tongues of flame. The two shots roared

  together. As a bullet singed the surface of The Shadow's shoulder, a big slug found the

  crook's heart. The Shadow, dropping clear to the floor, was face to face with the last of the

  four.

  The man pounced toward him. They gripped and rolled in a struggle that rivaled the fight

  between Hildrow and Dadren, over by the further wall. They came to a deadlock. The

  Shadow had dropped one automatic. The other, still held tight in his right fist, was beneath

  his foeman's arm.

  BLOOD was flowing from The Shadow's wounded shoulder. His adversary was powerful.

  The Shadow, for the time, could not fling him free. Staring over his enemy's shoulder, The

  Shadow saw Hildrow and Dadren come staggering from
behind the desk.

  Faces that looked alike; yet The Shadow could tell the real from the false. He saw Hildrow

  twist partly free, then send Dadren crashing against the wall. The commander sank halfway

  to the floor. Hildrow aimed to kill.

  With a mighty effort, The Shadow twisted the body of the man with whom he fought. As he

  swung the foeman as a shield, he pressed the trigger of his automatic. A bullet skimmed

  past Hildrow's neck.

  The plotter spun about. The involuntary move saved him. The Shadow, loosing another shot,

  could not turn his wedged gun soon enough to follow the moving target. But the bullet

  splintered woodwork less than a foot from the big shot's body.

  Hildrow sprang for the door to escape that moving gun muzzle. His only target was the body

  of his own henchman. He could not reach The Shadow. But the automatic, thrust past a

  human rampart, was dangerous.

  The Shadow fired again as Hildrow neared the door. With that effort, he twisted free from

  the man who grappled him. Hildrow had paused for an instant. A sizzling bullet; sight of The

  Shadow's burning eyes and a glimpse of the rising form—these were too much. Hildrow

  sped for safety.

  Turning quickly, The Shadow swung toward the man whom he had spilled, expecting final

  trouble from that foe. The crook, coming up from the floor, was aiming while he leered. The

  Shadow sought to beat him to the shot.

  A race that was almost instantaneous. One of those hazards which The Shadow had risked

  time and again. A contest that depended upon the last instant. Such was the quick, grim

  drama that came to an unexpected end.

  Commander Dadren, crawling from the wall, had plucked up a loose revolver. Resting on

  one arm, the commander had aimed for the rising gunman. Dadren's shot came in that tiny

  interval of time that yet remained.

  As the revolver flashed, the crook hunched. His gun arm wavered and his snarling face

  dropped. The flame from The Shadow's automatic stabbed through the pungent smoke that

  filled the room. The bullet sizzled just above the crook's drooping head.

  No need for another shot. The last foeman was plopping to the floor. Plucking up his second

  automatic, The Shadow wheeled toward Dadren, who was rising with a firm clutch on his

  smoking automatic.

  Nodding, the commander came to his feet. As The Shadow headed through the doorway,

  Dadren followed. The Shadow and the man whom he had rescued were hot on the trail of

  Eric Hildrow.

  CHAPTER XXII. PURSUIT DELAYED

  AS The Shadow and Commander Dadren reached the ground outside the cottage, they

  heard the roar of a motor. Eric Hildrow had gained his coupe. He was on his way to the

  bridge that led from the little island.

  Dashing through bushes, The Shadow spied a second car parked well across the clearing.

  It was Pete's sedan. Hildrow, in his mad flight, had forgotten it.

  The Shadow clambered aboard. Dadren leaped in beside him.

  The key was in the ignition lock. Hildrow had either been seized by panic or had counted on

  his last henchman to slay The Shadow. Perhaps both possibilities were correct. All that

  mattered was the pursuit which The Shadow took up at once.

  The tracks through the trees took a sweeping curve on their way to the bridge. It was a wide

  detour that The Shadow remembered. Ignoring it, he drove the sedan straight through a

  clump of bushes.

  The thicket crackled as the car ripped through on level ground. The wheels spun on a slimy

  spot, then took hold. Whining in second gear, the sedan jounced up a slight embankment

  and came crashing through more bushes, out to the traveled path. The Shadow shifted to

  high.

  The Shadow had clipped off a third of the distance to the bridge. Hurtling forward, the sedan

  was on the trail of the coupe. Dadren, hanging to the ledge of the window, had not noticed

  the blood that stained The Shadow's shoulder. He was blurting out the facts that he knew.

  "He'll head for Releston's," stated the commander. "We must stop him. His name is Eric

  Hildrow. He told me. Eric Hildrow—a pretended friend."

  THE SHADOW laughed softly as he heard the name. Hildrow had been listed among those

  who had visited Senator Ross Releston. Dadren's statement supplied the one point that The

  Shadow wanted. He knew his many-faced enemy by name, at last.

  The bridge. As The Shadow whirled the wheel despite his numbed arm, he gripped it with

  his weakened hand and yanked an automatic from the pocket of the coat that he was

  wearing.

  The sedan shot upward over the raised approach, like a ski-jumper on the take-off. It

  ploughed down upon the loose planking with terrific force. The reinforced bridge held. The

  Shadow, gun in hand, leaned from the opened window by the driver's seat.

  He took steady aim for the coupe which he now saw for the first time. It was on the far side

  of the bridge, within range of The Shadow's fire. Just as Hildrow's car reached the ground,

  The Shadow pressed the trigger.

  The coupe jolted with the shot. The Shadow had picked a rear tire. As the crippled car went

  bouncing onward, The Shadow aimed for the other wheel. The sedan was midway on the

  bridge. Commander Dadren delivered a chuckle as he also drew a gun. Another shot by

  The Shadow and the master marksman would have Eric Hildrow at his mercy.

  Just as the sedan had passed the center of the bridge, at the very moment when The

  Shadow's finger was about to press the trigger of the level gun, a terrific roar thundered

  upward from beneath the bridge itself.

  The center of the structure lifted. The end portions heaved, then tilted downward from the

  force of the explosion. The sedan went skidding on the shore side of the shattered bridge.

  A sidewise tilt would have plunged it into the Potomac, but for The Shadow's skill. His foot

  pressed the accelerator as his left hand dropped its gun and yanked the wheel. The sedan

  leaped forward as it crashed through the flimsy rail. It toppled on its side and crashed on the

  stony bank of the river.

  For a moment, the car seemed on the point of rolling back into the water. Then it stopped,

  tilted at a precarious angle. The Shadow turned the key; then opened the door and edged

  out.

  Commander Dadren followed. Both had escaped injury, it seemed. Then The Shadow

  slumped as his left leg gave beneath him.

  Commander Dadren saw the bloodstained shoulder. He realized for the first time that his

  companion had been wounded in the fight.

  Resting on the bank, The Shadow pointed weakly ahead. Dadren shook his head.

  The coupe had made an escape, despite its jouncing wheel. It was too late to overtake it on

  foot. It must be more than a mile ahead. The sedan was badly wrecked. Two wheels were

  broken; the radiator was driven back upon the motor. Rust-colored water was forming a

  slow, trickling rivulet down the bank of the Potomac.

  BACK in the office of the cottage, a man was leaning heavily upon the desk. His head was

  lowered; his eyes were glassy. But a leer showed on his hatchetlike face. It was Korsch.

  Though mortally wounded, Hildrow's lieutenant had revived for a final effort of evil. His left

  hand was supporting him. His right was dipped into an open drawer. There it still clutched a

  little lever.

&nb
sp; The bridge had been mined as an emergency precaution. Korsch, knowing that Hildrow was

  pursued, had pressed the switch that controlled the charge. Seeking to block The Shadow

  from the mainland, he had nearly succeeded in eliminating the master fighter.

  Korsch began to weaken. His fingers loosened from the lever. His right hand went to his

  chest; his left arm wabbled. A cough racked his frame; then Korsch toppled and went rolling

  on the floor. A final gasp; the lieutenant was dead.

  MORE than a mile beyond the bridge, Eric Hildrow had stopped the coupe upon the

  stone-jagged road. Feverishly, he was removing lugs from the left rear wheel. The man who

  had fled ahead was with him. His numbed arm was recovering; he was jacking the car while

  Hildrow worked to remove the ruined tire.

  Both had guns in readiness while they hastened to put on the spare. They were ready to

  take to the woods should The Shadow and Dadren appear. As minutes passed, Hildrow

  began to chuckle.

  "Korsch did it," he announced to his companion. "They're trapped in the sedan, both of

  them. Dead, perhaps. But we have no time to return and see. We'll be on our way inside of

  three minutes. More important work lies ahead."

  BACK by the shattered bridge, Commander Dadren had completed first-aid upon The

  Shadow's wounded shoulder. Though not serious, the wound had bled profusely. The

  Shadow had held up despite the weakening from loss of blood. The crash; an injured

  leg—those had been added to the wound.

  Endurance had failed at last. Commander Dadren, realizing the amount of blood that his

  rescuer had lost, was amazed that The Shadow could have kept on to the bridge. As he

  stared at the pale features which counterfeited those of Stollart, the commander was due for

  more astonishment.

  The Shadow's eyes began to burn. Dropping his right hand to the ground, he thrust his form

  up from a reclining position. He reached his feet and began to limp on his weakened leg.

  Despite the pain, he delivered a soft laugh.

  Resting his arm upon Dadren's shoulder, he raised his right hand slowly and pointed off

  through the trees. Dadren began to object. The Shadow would not listen.

  "Come!" ordered The Shadow, in a quiet, steady tone. "Take up the trail."