Bells of Doom

CHAPTER XII THE SHADOW MOVES

THIS night was a gloomy one. The sky, heavily clouded, allowed no rifts for moonlight. Objects on the ground were blackened into total invisibility. The countryside about the town of Torburg was one continued blot of inkiness.

Off in a secluded patch of woods stood the old house that Harry Vincent had located. It was not even visible among the trees. The eyes that watched it were also hidden. The Shadow had stationed himself close to the deserted building.

The Shadow had pieced important facts. He knew that Willis Beauchamp was well guarded. It would take at least a squad of men to trap him in his residence. No corps of gunmen could be assembled within the limits of Torburg.

If called from outside, a crew of ruffians would need a meeting place. This house — The Shadow had prowled through it — showed signs of recent occupancy. The Shadow was positive that crooks were due to meet.

Midnight was approaching. Yet The Shadow lingered. Minutes ticked slowly by. Finally, a glimmer of light wavered from the road in front of the house. It became the glare of headlights. A car approached, jouncing along the rocky road. It swung into the driveway beside the house.

The Shadow waited until the lights were extinguished. Then he crept forward. He found a shuttered window and opened it. He rose from the ground and entered an empty room. He moved across to a door and pressed carefully.

A glow showed through the crack. Four men were gathered about the adjoining room, a kerosene lantern on the floor. They were talking in growled voices. The Shadow recognized them as a group of Manhattan mobsters.

“Say,” came a gruff tone, “this is a cuckoo lay. What’s Beef been doin’, using this joint as a hide-out?”

“Better ask him when he shows up,” came a response. “Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“Fat chance,” said the first mobster. “He won’t say nothin’. D’you think he’s been hangin’ out here alone?”

“Sure? Why not?”

“Well, Beef ain’t no big shot. You know well enough that he must be workin’ for some guy that’s runnin’ the wheels of the racket, whatever it is.”

“All right. That’s none of our business. Beef was wise, keepin’ us a long way off until he came for us today.”

There was a pause in the conversation. The Shadow knew now why the house had been deserted when he had first arrived. But where was “Beef,” the head of this assembled crew? The answer came — from a mobsman’s lips.

“Beef kept on ahead in the coupe,” said another ruffian, speaking for the first time. “Guess he had to go somewhere and get a tip-off from the big shot. Well — he ought to be back pretty quick.”

Another pause; then, from outside the house came the rumble of a motor. The noise ceased. A door clattered. Into the room stepped a husky, big-fisted man whose ruddy face added to his beefy appearance. This was the fellow that the crew expected.

“All set,” growled Beef. “Come along, get going. We’ll take the touring car. Leave the coupe here.”

“What’s the lay, Beef?” asked a gorilla.

“You’ll find out,” returned the leader. “I’ll tell you on the way. Listen, you mugs, we’re pinch-hitting tonight, in case something goes wrong. That’s all I’ve got to say right now.”

The big man swung toward the door. The others followed.

THE SHADOW made no move until they had departed. Then he crossed the room and reached the door that the crew had taken. He saw the lights flash from the touring car. He heard the starter. The machine swung along the drive.

The Shadow’s flashlight glimmered. It picked out Beef’s coupe, standing near where the touring car had been. Swiftly, The Shadow reached the car. A soft laugh came from his lips when he saw that the ignition key was in its lock. The Shadow had expected this. Beef would have had no reason to lock the car. The fact that the key was present meant a saving in time; it eliminated the few minutes that The Shadow would otherwise have required to fit a special key of his own.

The coupe shot forward. Lights out, it found the rocky road. The Shadow piloted the car by the feel of the front tires. Up along the road, he spied the glimmer of Beef’s headlights. That was sufficient. Guiding by that moving beacon, The Shadow kept his course.

The touring car swerved when it came to a highway. The Shadow arrived shortly afterward. The coupe sped amazingly along the road, closing the distance between the two cars. Like a phantom automobile, The Shadow’s machine was hidden in the dark behind the touring car; the sound of its motor was unheard by the men ahead, because of the roar of their own machine.

Close enough to use the glow of the touring car’s headlights; far enough behind to keep his presence unknown, The Shadow kept up the equal pace. He watched the touring car slacken as it neared a curve. He slowed the coupe and picked his way at a snail’s pace through the darkness.

The lights of the touring car were no longer visible. The Shadow learned this by peering through a cluster of saplings on the inner side of the road. A soft laugh came from within the coupe. The Shadow knew the reason.

The touring car had stopped to block the curve. It was awaiting the approach of a car from the other direction. The Shadow stopped the coupe and listened. He caught the murmur of a smooth-running motor; then, barely discernible through the thin trees, he saw the glimmer of arriving lights.

There was no time to lose. The Shadow shot the coupe forward. Still without lights, he took the curve. Then, from ahead, came the glare of focused headlights. An instant later, the blaze was blocked by the shape of the touring car, squarely across the road.

Revolvers barked from the touring car. Shots were aimed at a big machine that was coming along the road. Then came the shriek of brakes. The chauffeur of a huge limousine was bringing his car to a stop.

He was in time to avert a collision; but his natural action brought another menace. By stopping, he was making his car a perfect target for the five mobsters who had opened fire with their revolvers.

Doom for the chauffeur and whomever might be riding with him. Such seemed the natural decree.

But The Shadow could turn the hand of fate. His foot pressed the accelerator to the floor. As new shots flashed from the touring car, the darkened coupe came hurtling from the night, aimed squarely for the center of the mobster-manned machine!

BEFORE a single gorilla knew what was coming, the coupe reached its goal. It mashed the side of the touring car with terrific force. While wild shots blazed, the parked machine careened from its position. It hurtled over on its side; then turned turtle. The top collapsed as gorillas went sprawling upon the road and in the ditch.

The front of the coupe rose upward as The Shadow jammed the brakes and clicked off the ignition. Radiator was driven back to motor. The Shadow’s left arm warded off the glass that crashed in from the windshield.

Spokes broke from front wheels as the car came down. The coupe jounced upon its front axle. The car swiped sidewise; a rear wheel gave beneath the strain. Popping tires sounded as the coupe stopped at a crazy angle.

The limousine had stopped, half across the road. From behind it, came a following car — a sedan filled with men. The driver swerved to avoid the limousine. He made another sweep as he applied the brakes; then released the pedal to come out of a skid. The sedan shot clear past the tilted coupe.

The chauffeur had leaped from the limousine. Foolishly, he sprang forward into the lights of the car. A revolver barked. One mobster, only slightly injured by the crash, had fired. The chauffeur staggered; then fell to the ground.

The door on the lower side of the tilted coupe had opened. The Shadow, dropping to the road, moved quickly to the right, to avoid the lights of the limousine. His automatic was ready. He did not have to use it.

Men had clambered from the sedan that had swung beyond the wreckage. As the mobster fired a wild shot toward them, they answered with a volley. The crook made no response.

The Shadow, coming up to the side of the limousine, had quickly guessed the facts. He knew that this car must belong to Willis Beauchamp. Beef and his crew had come to stop it. The sedan was filled with sheriff’s men. It had tailed the limousine to give protection.

Was Willis Beauchamp in the car? Or had this flight from Torburg been a bluff? These developments were factors that had come about while The Shadow had been watching the house in the woods. The Shadow wanted the answer. He had time to gain it.

The sheriff’s men had stopped beside the wrecked cars. They were examining the bodies of the mobsters who had failed to survive the crash. Two of the officers were picking up the chauffeur.

The limousine was unscathed. The Shadow opened the door. His flashlight glimmered, in guarded fashion. The Shadow expected to find emptiness, or else a cowering man in back. He paused at the sight that actually greeted his gaze.

Slumped on the tonneau was the figure of a tall, elderly man. His hat had fallen from his head, revealing his shaggy mop of gray hair. His coat was open. The center of his shirt-front showed a dripping stain of carmine. This man — Willis Beauchamp — was dead.

LIKE Dunwell and Hosker, Beauchamp had been shot through the heart. Beef had spoken the truth to his mob. Their purpose had been to make sure that the victim died. But their foray had been unnecessary. Somehow — somewhere — a bold assassin had delivered death beforehand.

The door closed silently. The Shadow glided into the darkness behind the limousine, just as two men arrived to make sure that Beauchamp was all right. Excited shouts arose as the sheriff’s men discovered the dead body.

Those shouts reached The Shadow’s ears as his tall form was gliding up along the slope beside the road. But The Shadow did not pause. His course was taking him off across the hill, toward the distant bell-tower which, as yet, had not begun new clangs of doom.