Part 9 (1/2)
The Dragon Clan had managed the impossible. They had captured The Shadow.
They'd needed the ambulance for a getaway only, a purpose which it filled to perfection. Neither the police nor The Shadow's own agents had thought of trailing an ambulance, working on an errand of mercy.
Small mercy for The Shadow!
In the solid-walled room where his captors flung him, The Shadow looked up into the glaring light to see the Black Dragon attired in his writhing costume.
The forced voice hissed: ”This is your finish, Shadow! You have found me, and the deed itself means death! You are helpless, so helpless that you can not even preserve the secret of your ident.i.ty!”
With that, the Black Dragon whipped away the slouch hat and looked at the face of Cranston in the light. There was just a trace of surprise in the sharp hiss that the Dragon gave. Then, planting the hat at an angle on The Shadow's head, the hooded man sneered: ”Perhaps I should also unmask. It would give you satisfaction to know who I.
am. That happens to be the reason why I shall not disclose my ident.i.ty.”
Wearily, The Shadow laughed. His tone carried a trace of Cranston's bored style.
”Quite unnecessary,” he said. ”You have made the whole thing very obvious.
I know who you are.”
The Dragon snarled in sudden derision. Turning about, he ordered his followers to s.h.i.+ft the light. When they did, The Shadow saw a square-walled room with a door at the other side. At the Dragon's gesture, a pair of pock-faced men lifted The Shadow and carried him to the door. The Dragon opened it, kicked a doorstop and let The Shadow watch the closet floor slide open.
Below was a pit, approximately twelve feet wide. From each of its four walls projected knifelike spikes, a few inches in length. The Dragon reached for a wire that ended in a switch. Pressing the switch, he produced an electric buzz; with it, the spikes issued slowly from the walls. When they had emerged a few inches, the Dragon turned off the current.
”A comfortable nest,” sneered the Dragon. ”In it, a person could survive about five minutes. By then the spikes will be fully extended, intermingling to cover the entire pit. It will not be a pleasant death. Or should I say - it would not?”
The Shadow studied the pit. Its interior measurements were about six feet by six. The Dragon's five-minute estimate was approximately correct.
With a sweeping motion, The Dragon ordered his men to cut The Shadow's bonds. They did so, then the Dragon personally supplied the quick shove thatsent the cloaked prisoner down into the pit. Grazing the spikes in one wall that he pa.s.sed, The Shadow knew that they were sharp.
”Five minutes,” the Dragon repeated. ”During that time, anything you care to say will be heard through a loud-speaker in this room above. Simply call me by name - my real name - and I shall stop the spikes. But remember” - the tone came harsh - ”no guesses are allowed. One false statement ends my offer!”
Unlimbering, The Shadow stood upright in the pit, his head six feet below the edge. He touched the spikes with his fingertips and gave an indifferent shrug. Reaching for his guns, The Shadow found that he no longer had them. The gesture pleased the Dragon. He beckoned to a man beside him and received one of The Shadow's automatics.
”I appreciate the suggestion,” scoffed the Dragon. ”After all, Shadow, if your guess fails you will have to accept the spikes. I shall then have no way of knowing how far you quailed at death. So I shall be generous, and give you this gun! Should I hear it fire, I shall know that your bravery is a myth.”
The Black Dragon kicked the doorstop in order to bring the floor shut. As the s.p.a.ce narrowed, he dropped the gun. Before The Shadow could catch the weapon, the floor was shut. There was a sharp clicking as hidden catches took hold within the wooden floor.
Swinging the closet door shut, The Black Dragon turned on the current that started the interlocking spikes. The first sound that came over the loud-speaker was the defiant laugh of The Shadow. Arms folded, the Dragon waited, his breath coming with a hiss.
THERE were less minutes than the five that he had promised. That period marked the time when the spikes would be fully home. The Shadow would have to speak before then or take the punishment of the stabbing points. So the Black Dragon waited only briefly, before he snarled through a microphone: ”All right, Shadow. Who am I?”
A laugh sounded in amplified tone. Then came The Shadow's reply: ”Commissioner Weston!”
With a fling, the Black Dragon threw aside the switch that alone could stop the spikes. Turning on his heel, he paused by the microphone for a final statement.
”A fatal jest, Shadow,” he said. ”Not knowing who I really am, you thought that you could taunt me or arouse my sense of humor. Your life will be very short from now on. You know it better than I, for you can see the closing spikes. Of course, you still have the gun I gave you!”
Striding across the room, the Black Dragon paused by the door and waited.
His head had a tilt that added greater realism to the open-mouthed hood. He was a dragon indeed, this creature, as he listened for the token that would brand The Shadow as a coward. So well timed was the estimate that the Dragon was uncoiling himself toward the door, his hands dropping like flapping scales, when the sound came.
A gun blast from the spiked pit!
One of the Dragon's followers moved toward the cord that terminated in the switch. With a snarl, the Dragon ordered the fellow back. That switch wasn'tto be touched until the spikes were home. Beckoning for other men to follow, the Black Dragon strode out through the door.
There was a clang from the ambulance as it took the Black Dragon to his next destination. More clangs, that faded in the distance. The last was echoing back when the buzzing ceased, telling that The Shadow, dead or living, was impaled upon four bristling batches of spikes. If The Shadow still lived, he wouldn't survive that hideous ordeal long.
Convinced of that, the Black Dragon had been free to leave. His departure, however, was spurred by a more positive belief. The Black Dragon was sure that he had heard The Shadow deliver a suicide blast, a thing which pleased the Dragon more. In any event, the decree of the Dragon was fulfilled.
Death to The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVI.
TWO KEYS TO CRIME.
EXCITEMENT still reigned outside the Greenwich Village apartment house.
Indoors, heavy footsteps were pounding up the stairs, denoting police who were coming to search the premises. Steve Trask was only half a floor ahead when he reached the door of Myra Reldon's apartment.
Outside the door stood Clyde Burke. Head tilted, the reporter was listening to the sounds from below. When Steve arrived, Clyde reached out a hand, took the breathless man's arm and steered him right into the apartment.
A moment later, Clyde was inside, too, closing the door behind him. The reporter said, ”Sit down. The police won't bother us. That broken elevator cable will worry them for a while.”
Steve couldn't have accepted Clyde's invitation unless he'd chosen a seat on the floor. Every chair in the room was overturned; some of them were broken.
The room looked like a hurricane exhibit.
Anxiety swept Steve's face.
”What about Myra Reldon?” he panted. ”Did... did they -”
”They didn't,” interposed Clyde.
He picked up a chair and planted it for Steve. ”Myra dodged them while the lights were blinking. She got into the other room and bolted the door just before we arrived to break up the party. Myra will be out in a few minutes.”
Clyde picked up two knives that were lying in a corner of the room, where they'd rebounded when they struck the fireproof wall. He handed Steve the souvenirs, then strolled to the window. Clyde beckoned and Steve came over.
Looking across rooftops and down between, Steve saw the cab that Clyde indicated. It was nosing from an alley a few blocks distant, timing its departure between the pa.s.sing of patrol cars. It was The Shadow's cab, leaving with the other agents.
Stout fellows, those. One, Harry Vincent, had impressed Steve by his clean-cut style, which seemed an equal measure of his fighting ability.
Another, Cliff Marsland, was more rugged in appearance, and as hard-fisted as he looked.
But the third, a diminutive man with wizened face, who answered to the name of Hawkeye, was by no means a supernumerary. To say that Hawkeye was a pint of human dynamite wouldn't be doing him justice. He packed a wallop more likeTNT.