Death Clew

CHAPTER XXII. THE BREAK

THE arrival of Ross Harlton was the final proof of Roscoe Wimbledon’s treachery. Lester Drayson, with Dudley Arment’s documents at hand, had launched the accusation against the master crook. The Shadow — speaking as Lamont Cranston — had driven home denouncing arguments.

Ross Harlton, here to use force in rescue of his chief, had brought opportunity to Roscoe Wimbledon.

The plotting president of World Wide Aviation had no chance to clear his blackened name, but Harlton’s unexpected aid offered him a way to freedom.

Of the five men who had cornered Roscoe Wimbledon, only Joe Cardona had a gun in readiness.

Warned of danger, the moment that he saw Lamont Cranston turn, Cardona swung to the door and aimed for Ross Harlton.

One prompt shot from the detective’s gun could end this attempt at rescue. The Shadow recognized that fact upon the instant. Playing the part of Lamont Cranston, he stood and watched, relying upon Cardona’s ability to down the foeman at the door.

Ross Harlton had picked Cardona as the man whom he must meet. He saw the revolver in the detective’s hand. Springing inward from the doorway, Harlton swung his gun in Cardona’s direction: He was too late to beat the detective to the shot. Cardona fired.

The shot went wide by inches only. Cardona, deviating his aim when Harlton lunged, missed his mark by a scant margin. An instant later, Harlton’s gun barked. Cardona dropped, a bullet in his shoulder.

Roscoe Wimbledon was yanking open a drawer at the left of the desk. From it, he was snatching a revolver. Trusting to Harlton for the present, the arch-crook grabbed his gun and sprang for a doorway at the far left corner of the room.

Commissioner Weston was drawing a revolver. He was the second enemy whom Harlton had to face.

The murderous technician swung to cover the commissioner. This time the odds lay all with Harlton. His aim was completed while Weston’s gun was half way from the commissioner’s pocket.

THE SHADOW was acting. The instant that he had seen Cardona drop, he knew what was coming. Yet in this crisis, The Shadow had not forgotten his part — that of Lamont Cranston.

As Cardona toppled, The Shadow sprang forward, directly toward the chair into which Commissioner Weston had tossed Lester Drayson’s revolver. As Harlton and Weston swung to begin their savage duel, the long arm of Lamont Cranston swept upward with a rapid aim.

Harlton’s finger was on the trigger. It never pressed to send the death shot toward Ralph Weston. The Shadow’s delivery was a split-second in advance. Drayson’s discarded gun was a puny .32 — but The Shadow used it with the same effect as a huge automatic.

The revolver barked. A bullet clipped Harlton’s aiming wrist. The technician staggered backward with a cry as his own gun fell from his helpless hand. An instant later, Weston’s gun blazed its belated message.

Ross Harlton sprawled on the floor, mortally wounded.

In those fractions of seconds, The Shadow had performed a double action. Not only had he fired the shot that saved Weston’s life; he was also on the move for the next event in the exciting conflict.

As he pressed the trigger of Drayson’s .32, The Shadow dropped sidewise behind the armchair from which he had seized the gun. The act was timely. Roscoe Wimbledon, wheeling from the far doorway, had aimed at the very instant of The Shadow’s shot. Wimbledon’s gun blazed. A bullet whistled across the chair, past the very spot from which Lamont Cranston’s tall form had made its sudden fadeaway.

As Wimbledon stood momentarily bewildered, the figure of Cranston bobbed up erect beyond the chair.

The hand that held the .32 swung for new aim, while Wimbledon stood flat-footed in the doorway. The master crook was a perfect target. The Shadow’s finger was on the trigger of the revolver.

Then came unexpected aid. Harkin, arriving at the door of the library, was just in time to see Lamont Cranston rising to new aim. With Wimbledon the target, the servant acted to save his crooked master.

The Shadow had turned with back toward the door. Harkin, leaping furiously, landed upon his shoulders and clutched wildly at the aiming hand.

The revolver spat flame too late. The servant had destroyed the aim. The Shadow’s bullet found its lodging place in the door frame above Wimbledon’s shoulder. As Harkin bore Cranston’s body toward the floor, Wimbledon, seeing opportunity, aimed low to deliver a return shot.

AGAIN, The Shadow acted. The instant that Harkin fell upon him, the master fighter sought to bring quick end to the attack. His right hand dropped the revolver; it rose, with the left, to grip Harkin by the neck.

Knees on the floor, The Shadow lunged his shoulders forward. Harkin’s body described a huge somersault that catapulted him over The Shadow’s head. Sprawled, almost in a seated posture, the servant landed on the floor. He was the shield when Roscoe Wimbledon fired.

Just too late to clip the stooped form of Lamont Cranston, Wimbledon’s bullet found its mark in Harkin’s body. Catching the collapsing servant with his left hand, The Shadow snatched for the gun with his right.

Still shielded, he was seeking opportunity for another shot at Wimbledon.

Had Wimbledon held his ground, he would have become The Shadow’s prey. Another attack caused the crook to resort to flight instead. While Lester Drayson and Dudley Arment had taken shelter — Drayson in a closet and Arment behind a desk — Commissioner Ralph Weston was turning in response to Wimbledon’s shot at Cranston.

Weston opened fire in a hurry. His bullets peppered the doorway. Wimbledon, unable to aim toward two enemies at once, decided to leap for shelter. He slammed the heavy door in back of him. Weston, pounding forward, reached the barrier just as the lock turned.

Two policemen came dashing into the library. Weston’s chauffeur had heard the shots. He had given an alarm. The commissioner ordered the bluecoats to take up the pursuit. They hurried in chase of Wimbledon.

While Drayson and Arment, coming from hiding, were giving first aid to Joe Cardona, Weston seized the telephone and put in a call to headquarters. Hardly had he finished with his orders when one of the policemen arrived back in the library.

“He’s made a get-away, commissioner,” informed the officer. “Out through the back — he drove off in a car that was parked out there.”

“Harlton’s car!” exclaimed Weston. He turned to Lamont Cranston, who was examining the wound of the servant, Harkin. “Where can Wimbledon have fled? How can we stop him?”

“Harlton came from the Universal testing field,” remarked Cranston. “There are ships there. Wimbledon is a skilled pilot—”

“We’ll call the testing field!” declared Weston. “We’ll stop Wimbledon before he can take off—”

“The field has been closed,” interrupted Cranston. “There are watchmen there; but I understand that the telephone has been disconnected.”

“Come along!” Weston seized Cranston’s arm. “We’ll start there in my car. Call headquarters” — this was to the policeman — “and tell them where I’ve gone. Order out cars — and planes and—”

EAGER for the chase, Weston dragged Cardona with him. The commissioner was talking excitedly as they reached the street.

“The testing field is out on Long Island!” he exclaimed. “Further than the regular airport. It will take Wimbledon half an hour. Come with me, Cranston—”

The commissioner paused abruptly beside his car. Lamont Cranston was wavering. He had clapped his right hand to his left shoulder. His face seemed pale by the light of the street lamp.

“What’s the matter?” questioned Weston. “Are you wounded, Cranston?”

“Slightly,” came the weak reply. “That shot of Wimbledon’s — it must have grazed me—”

He stopped; then waved to a uniformed chauffeur. It was Stanley. Leaving Weston, Cranston half staggered toward his own car.

“Go ahead, commissioner,” he called, as he leaned on Stanley for support. “My chauffeur will get me home — or to a hospital—”

Weston hesitated as he saw Stanley aid Cranston into the millionaire’s limousine. Two patrolmen were alighting from a car. Weston waved one into the house; he told the other to accompany him.

“All right, Cranston,” he shouted. “Take care of yourself, old man. I’m going after Wimbledon.”

The commissioner’s car shot away. Lamont Cranston’s limousine followed a few moments later. A soft laugh sounded from the interior. A firm voice spoke through the speaking tube. Stanley was startled by this evidence of his master’s recovery. The chauffeur, like the commissioner, had not detected that the wound had been feigned.

“To the airport, Stanley,” came Cranston’s order. “Long Island. In a hurry.”

Black garments came from the bag. Heavy automatics clicked. The Shadow’s laugh came in a weird, reverberating whisper.

The regular airport was nearer than the testing field. Lamont Cranston’s private plane was at the airport.

The Shadow, despite his delayed start, could be in the air as soon as Roscoe Wimbledon.

While Police Commissioner Ralph Weston was hurrying in pursuit; while orders were out to have police cars take up the chase and for police planes to follow with their own pursuit, The Shadow was turning to a plan of his own making.

Should Roscoe Wimbledon, master of theft and murder, escape the closing meshwork of the law, he would find another foe to bar his path to safety.

The Shadow, relentless when he dealt with men of crime, was on his way to block the arch-crook’s flight.