The Plot Master

CHAPTER XII FROM THE NIGHT

CLIFF MARSLAND was helpless. Backed against the front wall of the car, he was standing with arms pinned behind him. The fake brakeman, the pretended salesman, were the pair who held him at bay. The second bandit — the fellow whom Cliff had slugged — had not removed his mask.

This man was Wenshell. He and Hasker had led the expedition. The others — all disguised — were crooks who had served with Wenshell’s fake air circus. Gangsters all, Eric Hildrow had relied upon them to pull this coup.

Death to Harry Vincent. Such had been Hildrow’s order. The others — Cliff Marsland and the two men who had intervened — could wait. Wenshell did not know that Cliff was with Harry. The two men from the back of the car sat cowed in chairs, covered by revolvers. Wenshell looked on approvingly while Hasker aimed his revolver for Harry’s heart.

Wildly, Cliff Marsland struggled. Curbed, he resorted to a momentary subterfuge. To turn Hasker’s attention, he shouted a warning that the man thought came from Wenshell.

“Look out!” cried Cliff. “Look out for the door of the platform!”

Instinctively, Hasker turned his eyes in that direction. So did others, including Cliff. Then The Shadow’s agent stared, as amazed as the others. His wild cry had become a prophecy. The door of the platform was swinging inward.

THEN, from the blackness of the night appeared a looming form. A figure with a cloak that wavered in the wind; burning eyes that glowed from beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat. Beneath those eyes were the looming muzzles of mammoth automatics. Guns that were held in black-gloved fists.

Cliff had heard that thump on top of the car. He knew its meaning. The Shadow had arrived in his autogyro. Entrusting the controls to the hands of a skilled pilot, he had ordered a landing on the rear car of the speeding train.

The ship must have taken off immediately; but The Shadow had remained. Gripping the roof of the observation platform, he had swung downward and inward to the platform itself. Too late to join the train at the last stop, he had overtaken it by air!

The Shadow could have fired from darkness. Such was not his choice. Viewing the scene within, he had stepped into sight that he might draw the aim of desperate marksmen. The Shadow’s scheme worked.

Hasker swung his revolver upward. So did Wenshell. Leaders of the crew, crooks at heart, these two knew the menace of the black-cloaked stranger from the night. Both sought to fire.

Hasker failed. As Wenshell’s revolver barked, The Shadow’s automatics flashed tongues of flame. With those shots, the cloaked avenger did a fading sweep to the side, timed to a lurch as the train took a curve.

Wenshell’s bullets shattered the windows at the back of the car. Hasker, clipped by an opening shot, sprawled forward upon Harry Vincent’s senseless form. Then a skimming slug found Wenshell’s heart. The second crook dropped.

Four others were yanking guns. Cliff Marsland was forgotten. His automatic had been wrested from him. He was a nonentity now, so far as the other crooks were concerned. But Cliff was ready to aid The Shadow.

He gave no thought to the men beside him. The swinging train might disturb their aim. Those close to The Shadow were the ones that Cliff wanted. As guns roared, Cliff sprang forward, just as the foremost crook went down.

That was the one who had worn the woman’s disguise. Cliff landed on the rogue who had played the part of the old gentleman. He landed on the fellow and caught his gun arm just as the crook was about to press the trigger. They sprawled together on the floor, struggling for the revolver.

The path was opened. Brakeman and salesman fired shots that whistled close to The Shadow’s form. The automatics gave their answer. The two crooks went sprawling.

Cliff had a strangle hold on his adversary. A swing of the train turned the tables. Clawing fingers gripped Cliff’s throat. Choking, Cliff heard a final shot from the rear of the car. Hands loosened as the crook rolled dead.

STRUGGLING to his feet, Cliff saw The Shadow step out through the opened door. He caught the strident cry of a mocking laugh; then the sound cut short as the door swung shut. It was followed by a hissing noise. The Shadow had pulled the bell-cord, out on the darkened platform.

The half-dazed men who had aided Cliff and Harry, were coming to their feet, along with Cliff. Harry had opened his eyes. Two snarling crooks, mortally wounded, were trying to rise from the floor. Then the train conductor came bounding in from the passage, followed by a trainman.

A wounded crook aimed for the conductor. Cliff landed on the fellow. The trainman took care of the second.

As the express slackened its speed, Cliff was giving brief words of explanation. The masks worn by Hasker and Wenshell supported his statements.

A train robbery had been thwarted. The fake brakeman; the disguises of the others — all were fitting testimony. Harry Vincent was joining with Cliff Marsland. The two strangers were giving their story.

“Some one from the observation platform—”

The conductor started back as he heard these words. He wanted to learn the identity of the mysterious rescuer. He was too late. Before he could reach the door, a figure dropped from the platform of the slowing train.

CROUCHING upon the roadbed, The Shadow watched the rear lights of the train as they dwindled. The Northern Express came to a stop. A brakeman was alighting with his lantern, coming back along the track.

But The Shadow, too, was on the move. Gliding from the roadbed, he pressed his way through a mass of bushes and reached an open hillside. He waited there, watching the distant train. He heard the blare of the whistle. It was the signal calling in the brakeman.

The conductor had evidently ordered the train to proceed to the next town. The locomotive chugged. The Northern Express moved on.

The Shadow stooped toward the ground, planted an object there and touched a fuse.

A vivid flare burst forth as The Shadow stepped away. A greenish fire illuminated the rough ground. A ball of light shot upward and burst into a pyrotechnic display. A second followed; then a third. After that, the green fire flared, wavering.

From high above, the autogyro came swishing down through the night. Miles Crofton, the pilot, had followed along the right of way. Hovering, he had turned off the motor. The autogyro made a landing beside The Shadow’s flare.

The black-cloaked figure appeared ghoulish as it stepped into the realm of light. Rising to the cockpit behind the pilot’s seat, The Shadow dropped beneath the path of the slowly revolving blades that turned above the strange machine.

Miles Crofton waited at the controls. This man knew the prowess of The Shadow. Crofton had once been tricked by men of crime. The Shadow had rescued him from a hopeless situation. A daredevil, a stunt flier, Crofton had since been ready to do The Shadow’s bidding.

That landing on the moving train had been the greatest feat of Crofton’s career. Yet he knew that The Shadow had inspired it. Nerved by the thought of the part that The Shadow had elected to play, Crofton had succeeded in his task.

He did not know what had happened aboard the Northern Express. He knew only that The Shadow had returned. The whispered laugh that Crofton heard was proof that the cloaked master had accomplished his design.

WHILE blades turned lazily, while the propeller continued its slow spin, The Shadow rested deep in thought. Again he had delivered a thrust against the master plotter whose name he did not know. Henchmen of crime had been defeated. Harry Vincent still held the all-important plans that Commander Dadren had given him. He had done his part well.

The Shadow was considering the next move. With it, he was calculating upon what his enemy would do, once he had learned of the defeat which his underlings had suffered. Again, The Shadow laughed. Then, leaning forward, he hissed his order to Miles Crofton:

“To Washington.”

The pilot nodded. The motor roared. The autogyro wabbled on rough soil. Its wheels bounced from the ground. Rising, the ship whirled forward, gaining speed with altitude.

Far below, The Shadow could spy the gleaming headlights of the Northern Express, stopped at a small station. Then the autogyro had left the toylike train far behind.

Speeding into Washington, The Shadow was due to arrive before his agents. When Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland reached their destination, he would be there to meet them. The Shadow, triumphant, was ready to offset the next stroke that came from Eric Hildrow.