The Crime Master

CHAPTER XX MASTERS MEET

TEN o’clock. All was quiet on the street in front of the massive Impregnable Trust building. Then came a rumble as a truck rolled along the thoroughfare. Stopping, a hundred feet past the bank, the big vehicle backed into the open door of a garage.

A second truck arrived. Like the first, it performed the turntable maneuver. A third truck came a few minutes later. Silence again prevailed until a fourth truck appeared upon the scene.

This machine stopped abruptly. Squarely in front of the Impregnable Trust Company, the driver alighted and went to the rear. He opened a door. From inside the truck came a dozen men. They approached the big building.

These arrivals worked rapidly. Their task completed, they scrambled back into the truck. The lumbering vehicle moved forward for one hundred feet. Then came a tremendous blast.

With a flare that was followed by rocketing echoes, the entrance of the Impregnable Trust was blown clear.

A gaping hole replaced metal doors. The truck moved backward. It stopped short of the smashed entrance. A dozen men sprang to the street. At the same time, three trucks came rolling from the garage. One faced in the same direction as the truck in front of the bank; the others headed opposite.

Alarms were clanging. Massed raiders seemed disdainful. Waiting for a signal, they were ready to advance. These were The Crime Master’s reds. They knew that greens and blues were everywhere about. They did not fear the arrival of the police.

An order. Men moved forward. Their next work, in the bank, would be to blow the vault. Then the platinum, handled by a dozen stalwart gorillas, would be on its way to the waiting truck.

A muffled shot. A zimming bullet winged the gangster who had given the order to advance. While the underlings stared, their leader collapsed at their feet. Astounded, the ruffians paused. One man, turning, gave a sudden exclamation. A second report; he fell.

The others wheeled. They were at the mercy of the hidden sniper. They saw whence the shots had come. A wreath of smoke was curling from between two tires in a stack that stood before a store across the street. Revolvers flashed. They barked.

Zipping bullets seared through the rubber tires. The leaden messengers were flattened by the thick rims within. An automatic responded. Shots came in quick precision. As mobsters dropped, their fellows dashed for the safety of the truck.

SAFE in his improvised pill-box, The Shadow had covered the center zone of crime. Once again, he was defying The Crime Master’s hordes; this time from a security which they could not shake.

The stack of tires — a natural sight in front of any store — had completely passed suspicion. Through the narrow slit, on a level with his eyes, The Shadow could spy forth while he fired with his single hand. His right arm, resting at his side, was not needed. New automatics were within reach of his left hand; at any time, a lowering of his body could bring him beneath the space that served as loophole between the steel rims of the tires.

Whistles blaring, sirens shrieking — gunfire roared from blocks around. Police, held in readiness at distant locations, were smashing in through cordons of mobsmen.

The Shadow had arranged their attack. They were breaking down The Crime Master’s blockades. In a few minutes, they would be here, in this very block, where impotent raiders were unable to rush the door that they had shattered!

Suddenly, one of the trucks by the garage lumbered forward. It was moving away from The Shadow. From its interior came the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun. The truck stopped at the far end of the block. Like an armored tank, it resisted the advance of the police.

The blocking truck was beyond The Shadow’s range. But as the hidden fighter watched, impervious to scattered shots that struck his pill-box, a second truck came rolling toward the corner.

Police cars were coming from the distance. As the truck rolled up to meet them, the first rattle of its machine gun began. The men in this truck knew nothing of The Shadow’s presence. They did not know why the raid on the bank had ended so abruptly. They were to learn.

An automatic spoke. The gunner of the machine gun dropped. Another leaped to take his place. The automatic snapped forth new reports. Savagely, a gangster leaped to the gun and swung it toward the stack of tires.

Bullets sped from the belching muzzle of the machine gun. Lead rattled against steel tire rims. The pill-box was withstanding the fire. Crouched low, to avoid the danger of the loophole, The Shadow waited. He had diverted fire from the advancing police.

Sharp cries: gangsters turned their rapid-fire weapon on the law. They thought that they had quelled the sniper. They were mistaken. Again, The Shadow’s automatic blazed from the opening. The new gunners fell.

A roar. The last truck, its driver informed of the trouble, was moving from the front of the garage. The man at the wheel was crouched as he drove his big machine toward the stack of tires where The Shadow lurked.

The Shadow saw the move. The truck had a hundred feet to come. The automatic ceased its fire. Unhindered, the mammoth truck lurched forward. Its front wheels jounced upon the curb. It smashed into the stack of tires; hurtling onward, it carried them through the plate glass window of the accessory store.

Glass — woodwork — bricks — all went with a crash as The Shadow’s pill-box was scattered. Clear into the building; the truck flung tires before it as it came to a stop inside the store. It had passed the spot where the pill-box had been set; in the wake of the truck, a dozen mobsters were coming forward.

They stopped short. They saw the rising floor of the elevator car, coming up beneath Harry Vincent’s improvised grating. The foremost mobsters were too late. As the opening closed, they heard the weird cry of The Shadow — a mocking laugh of triumph.

The moment that the truck’s attack had started, the fighter in the pill-box had released the car on which he stood. His body, passing between the bars, had descended to the safety below the level of the street.

Mobsmen were doomed. Police cars had arrived. Vainly, gorillas leaped to the machine gun. Bullets stopped them. Speeding onward, two police cars approached the distant truck from the rear. They arrived while the machine gun was being twirled toward them. They silenced the gunners before the men had time to open with a deadly spray of bullets.

The Crime Master’s minions had failed. Flanked, scorched with enfilading fire, blocked on all sides, they had no chance. Inspector Klein had set the machinery in motion. The Shadow’s strategy had guided the law to victory.

THE CRIME MASTER was in his paneled room. Seated at his checkered table, he was chuckling expectantly as he studied the pieces which he had not yet moved. Groggy, in chairs close by, were Cliff Marsland and Ralph Weston. Old Ganford Dagron had ordered them brought here, half-drugged, that they might witness his triumph.

“Any reports, Henley?”

The Crime Master’s question was an eager snarl. Henley, who had entered a moment before, shook his head.

“Not yet, Master,” he replied. “It is too soon. Woodling has not returned.”

“Half an hour has elapsed,” croaked Dagron. “I shall not have long to wait.” He turned and leered toward Weston. “You, commissioner, will learn how puny the law can be.”

Chortling, The Crime Master produced a slip of paper and wig-wagged it in front of Weston’s half-closed eyes. It was the check that the commissioner had given Woodling the night before.

“You are a fool,” sneered Dagron. “To think that you could bribe one of my trusted men. My servants — like myself — love crime. Money! Bah! I have all the wealth I need. They are entitled to their share.”

The old man tore the check to bits and threw the pieces on the floor. A buzzer sounded beside his table. Dagron’s face gleamed.

“Woodling has returned!” he exclaimed as he pressed the button to unlatch the door.

With Henley, The Crime Master gazed toward the clicking barrier. It opened. A snarl came from Dagron’s lips; Henley emitted a stifled gasp.

It was not Woodling, returning with news of triumph. It was another, whose very arrival was proof of disaster. Caught unaware, The Crime Master and his servant could not make a move.

There, in the doorway, stood a figure cloaked in black. A raised left fist held a looming automatic. Burning eyes showed beneath the brim of a slouch hat.

It was The Shadow. Following the clue of Weston’s disappearance; knowing that Ganford Dagron might well be The Crime Master, he had come in hope of uncovering the super fiend.

Victor in the fray against The Crime Master’s minions, The Shadow, master foe of crime, had trapped The Crime Master himself.