Death Clew

CHAPTER XXIII. ABOVE LONG ISLAND

A COUPE came to a jolting stop in front of a heavy gate. Headlights, cutting a swath through the metal bars, revealed the flat acreage of the Universal Aircraft testing field.

Roscoe Wimbledon had arrived at the destination which The Shadow had declared. Fortune had favored the fleeing crook. Not only had he evaded all pursuit; he had reached his goal before the police had managed to get there.

The automobile horn honked raucously. A sleepy watchman appeared beyond the gate. Again the horn; the watchman seemed to recognize its tones. He opened the barrier. The coupe rolled through.

After closing the gate, the watchman came back to the car. He could not see its occupant in the dark; he took it for granted that Ross Harlton was in the coupe. He climbed on the running board as a hand beckoned.

“Where are the pursuit planes?” came a voice. “Take me to their hangar.”

“Who are you?” demanded the watchman. “You’re not Mr. Harlton.”

“I’m Roscoe Wimbledon,” retorted the man at the wheel. “Harlton couldn’t come with me. Hurry — show me the hangar.”

“Over there, sir. Third on the right.”

The coupe started forward. Since government tests had revealed faulty ships, this testing field had been closed. Ross Harlton, technician for World Wide Aviation, had been allowed admission since the new owners had taken over Universal.

Harlton’s inspection had been largely confined to the Paraguayan planes which Washington had condemned. It was natural that Roscoe Wimbledon, president of World Wide Aviation, should come here to view the faulty ships.

Yet the watchman could not understand the reason for so late a visit. A second watchman also appeared as the coupe pulled up in front of the hangar. The first man’s explanation that this was Roscoe Wimbledon was satisfactory to the second.

“Open the hangar!” ordered Wimbledon. “Show me the plane that Harlton has ready for a test!”

The watchman obeyed. The lights came on. A trim, one-seated plane was ready for flight. Wimbledon snapped another order:

“Bring it out!”

Reluctantly, the watchman obeyed. One of them voiced an objection as he aided in the wheeling.

“You can’t go up in this ship, Mr. Wimbledon. The field lights are disconnected. Mr. Harlton can’t even make a test until he gets word from Washington—”

“My company owns this field,” snapped Wimbledon. “I’ve received the government permission. I’m testing this ship tonight. Spin the propeller!”

WITH these words, Wimbledon clambered into the plane. He found a loaded machine gun in readiness.

He muttered in satisfied fashion as he examined the controls. This ship, fuelled and ready for flight, had been arranged by Ross Harlton. It had been planned to carry two in case of emergency. Wimbledon, alone, was taking it tonight.

“Spin the propeller!”

As the watchmen hesitated on the ground, a whining siren sounded beyond the gate. The lights of a car showed through the bars. Pursuers had arrived.

“Police!” cried the first watchman.

“Say — maybe they’re after you — maybe you aren’t Roscoe Wimbledon—”

“I’m Wimbledon!” came the snarl. “Spin that propeller.”

“You can wait,” growled the watchman. “Stay here, Jack. I’ll let the cops in. Watch this guy.”

“You bet I will, Mac,” responded the second watchman. “Beat it to his gate.”

Wimbledon arose from the pilot’s seat. He clicked a flashlight. Its glare showed Jack’s running form. With a growl, Wimbledon aimed his revolver and fired. Jack stumbled to the ground and rolled over, wounded.

“You’re next!” snarled Wimbledon as he swung the light on Mac. “Spin that propeller or I’ll drill you!”

Raising his hands, the watchman sprang to the front of the plane. He feared Wimbledon’s threat. He seized a blade of the propeller. Shots burst from beyond the gate. The range was long; but the fire of the police gave Mac new impetus. They were firing at him as well as Wimbledon. He wanted to get clear of the mess.

The motor roared. Mac leaped aside and flung himself flat upon the ground as the trim pursuit plane started across the testing field.

Wimbledon was familiar with the controls. The ship took off within fifty yards. Going away from the gate, heading into a helpful breeze, Wimbledon was freeing himself from the clamoring pursuit of the police below.

Circling to gain a course, Wimbledon saw lights approaching in the air. A glaring searchlight found the rising monoplane. A police plane was sweeping up to challenge the escaping crook.

Wimbledon opened fire with the machine gun. The drilling sound of the weapon was music above the roar of the plane. Wimbledon snarled gloatingly as he saw the police plane skid into a bank. They had not expected this opposition.

A second police plane was approaching. Again the rat-tat-tat of the machine gun. The second ship swerved. Like the first, it was sweeping away to escape the fire. Wimbledon, his hands on the controls, swung to the straightaway course he wanted.

He knew that the police planes would follow. His fire had not crippled them. But he knew also that they could never catch this ship in which he was fleeing. These Paraguayan ships, despite their cheapened construction, had been built for speed. That was the only test which they were sure to stand.

WIMBLEDON and his henchmen, Gleek and Harlton, had agreed that other faults would pass unnoticed until after delivery. In their swindling of the Universal Aircraft Corporation, they had confined their efforts to other points of plane construction. Wimbledon was glad of it now.

Clear air showed a path to safety. Miles from New York, Wimbledon could land at some lonely spot and continue his escape unthwarted. The Canadian border was a possible goal. As the ship sped forward, Wimbledon snarled his elation.

Then came a roar from the left. Wimbledon heard it despite the rumble of his own motor. The beam of a searchlight clipped downward from the sky.

Another ship!

Swooping in from the direction of the Long Island airport, this challenger seemed determined to cut off the fugitive’s flight. A swift monoplane, capable of equaling Wimbledon’s speed, this was a menace greater than the police who had dropped behind.

Wimbledon opened fire. He realized that it was no use. The daring pilot of the other ship was heading straight for the pursuit plane. Unless Wimbledon took some other action, this suicidal drive would lock the two ships in midair!

FROM his seat in the approaching plane, The Shadow was hurtling squarely into Wimbledon’s fire. He knew what the result would be should Wimbledon persist to handle the machine gun. Only seconds remained before the moment when the two ships would join in a double plunge to the ground below. But The Shadow was unyielding in his course. His keen brain told him that Wimbledon would lose his nerve.

A weird laugh sounded from The Shadow’s hidden lips. The machine-gun fire had ended. Wimbledon, grabbing the controls, was taking heroic efforts to avoid a crash. The pursuit plane seemed to hurtle in the air as Wimbledon threw it into a sidewise roll to avoid The Shadow’s swoop.

The maneuver was successful. The pursuit plane seemed to lurch upward as the nose of The Shadow’s ship approached it. Twisting above the attacker, Wimbledon’s roll continued as The Shadow passed.

The Shadow banked. Staring from his ship, he could see the finish of Wimbledon’s roll. This maneuver, carrying tremendous strain, was more difficult than the stunt which had carried a naval aviator to doom in one of those condemned planes.

Struts snapped as Wimbledon’s twist neared its end. One wing of the pursuit plane broke loose from the body of the ship. The other wing remained. Going into a crazy spin, the crippled plane shot downward toward the ground.

The Shadow saw the climax of the plunge. The one-winged plane crumpled as it landed in an open field.

Searing flames flared upward as spattered gasoline produced a holocaust. The Shadow’s sweeping ship straightened to its course as police planes came zooming toward the wreckage.

Again, a weird laugh sounded as The Shadow’s swift monoplane took course back toward the airport.

The tones that sounded with the thrumming of the motor were notes of strident triumph.

Roscoe Wimbledon, crook and murderer, had hurtled to deserved doom. His crash was of his own making. He had paid the penalty for his scheme that had brought ill-gotten wealth.

The burning plane was a pyre; The Shadow’s laugh a parting knell. The Shadow had dropped the final curtain upon a murderer’s career.