The Plot Master

CHAPTER XXII PURSUIT DELAYED

AS The Shadow and Commander Dadren reached the ground outside the cottage, they heard the roar of a motor. Eric Hildrow had gained his coupe. He was on his way to the bridge that led from the little island.

Dashing through bushes, The Shadow spied a second car parked well across the clearing. It was Pete’s sedan. Hildrow, in his mad flight, had forgotten it.

The Shadow clambered aboard. Dadren leaped in beside him.

The key was in the ignition lock. Hildrow had either been seized by panic or had counted on his last henchman to slay The Shadow. Perhaps both possibilities were correct. All that mattered was the pursuit which The Shadow took up at once.

The tracks through the trees took a sweeping curve on their way to the bridge. It was a wide detour that The Shadow remembered. Ignoring it, he drove the sedan straight through a clump of bushes.

The thicket crackled as the car ripped through on level ground. The wheels spun on a slimy spot, then took hold. Whining in second gear, the sedan jounced up a slight embankment and came crashing through more bushes, out to the traveled path. The Shadow shifted to high.

The Shadow had clipped off a third of the distance to the bridge. Hurtling forward, the sedan was on the trail of the coupe. Dadren, hanging to the ledge of the window, had not noticed the blood that stained The Shadow’s shoulder. He was blurting out the facts that he knew.

“He’ll head for Releston’s,” stated the commander. “We must stop him. His name is Eric Hildrow. He told me. Eric Hildrow — a pretended friend.”

THE SHADOW laughed softly as he heard the name. Hildrow had been listed among those who had visited Senator Ross Releston. Dadren’s statement supplied the one point that The Shadow wanted. He knew his many-faced enemy by name, at last.

The bridge. As The Shadow whirled the wheel despite his numbed arm, he gripped it with his weakened hand and yanked an automatic from the pocket of the coat that he was wearing.

The sedan shot upward over the raised approach, like a ski-jumper on the take-off. It ploughed down upon the loose planking with terrific force. The reinforced bridge held. The Shadow, gun in hand, leaned from the opened window by the driver’s seat.

He took steady aim for the coupe which he now saw for the first time. It was on the far side of the bridge, within range of The Shadow’s fire. Just as Hildrow’s car reached the ground, The Shadow pressed the trigger.

The coupe jolted with the shot. The Shadow had picked a rear tire. As the crippled car went bouncing onward, The Shadow aimed for the other wheel. The sedan was midway on the bridge. Commander Dadren delivered a chuckle as he also drew a gun. Another shot by The Shadow and the master marksman would have Eric Hildrow at his mercy.

Just as the sedan had passed the center of the bridge, at the very moment when The Shadow’s finger was about to press the trigger of the level gun, a terrific roar thundered upward from beneath the bridge itself.

The center of the structure lifted. The end portions heaved, then tilted downward from the force of the explosion. The sedan went skidding on the shore side of the shattered bridge.

A sidewise tilt would have plunged it into the Potomac, but for The Shadow’s skill. His foot pressed the accelerator as his left hand dropped its gun and yanked the wheel. The sedan leaped forward as it crashed through the flimsy rail. It toppled on its side and crashed on the stony bank of the river.

For a moment, the car seemed on the point of rolling back into the water. Then it stopped, tilted at a precarious angle. The Shadow turned the key; then opened the door and edged out.

Commander Dadren followed. Both had escaped injury, it seemed. Then The Shadow slumped as his left leg gave beneath him.

Commander Dadren saw the bloodstained shoulder. He realized for the first time that his companion had been wounded in the fight.

Resting on the bank, The Shadow pointed weakly ahead. Dadren shook his head.

The coupe had made an escape, despite its jouncing wheel. It was too late to overtake it on foot. It must be more than a mile ahead. The sedan was badly wrecked. Two wheels were broken; the radiator was driven back upon the motor. Rust-colored water was forming a slow, trickling rivulet down the bank of the Potomac.

BACK in the office of the cottage, a man was leaning heavily upon the desk. His head was lowered; his eyes were glassy. But a leer showed on his hatchetlike face. It was Korsch.

Though mortally wounded, Hildrow’s lieutenant had revived for a final effort of evil. His left hand was supporting him. His right was dipped into an open drawer. There it still clutched a little lever.

The bridge had been mined as an emergency precaution. Korsch, knowing that Hildrow was pursued, had pressed the switch that controlled the charge. Seeking to block The Shadow from the mainland, he had nearly succeeded in eliminating the master fighter.

Korsch began to weaken. His fingers loosened from the lever. His right hand went to his chest; his left arm wabbled. A cough racked his frame; then Korsch toppled and went rolling on the floor. A final gasp; the lieutenant was dead.

MORE than a mile beyond the bridge, Eric Hildrow had stopped the coupe upon the stone-jagged road. Feverishly, he was removing lugs from the left rear wheel. The man who had fled ahead was with him. His numbed arm was recovering; he was jacking the car while Hildrow worked to remove the ruined tire.

Both had guns in readiness while they hastened to put on the spare. They were ready to take to the woods should The Shadow and Dadren appear. As minutes passed, Hildrow began to chuckle.

“Korsch did it,” he announced to his companion. “They’re trapped in the sedan, both of them. Dead, perhaps. But we have no time to return and see. We’ll be on our way inside of three minutes. More important work lies ahead.”

BACK by the shattered bridge, Commander Dadren had completed first-aid upon The Shadow’s wounded shoulder. Though not serious, the wound had bled profusely. The Shadow had held up despite the weakening from loss of blood. The crash; an injured leg — those had been added to the wound.

Endurance had failed at last. Commander Dadren, realizing the amount of blood that his rescuer had lost, was amazed that The Shadow could have kept on to the bridge. As he stared at the pale features which counterfeited those of Stollart, the commander was due for more astonishment.

The Shadow’s eyes began to burn. Dropping his right hand to the ground, he thrust his form up from a reclining position. He reached his feet and began to limp on his weakened leg. Despite the pain, he delivered a soft laugh.

Resting his arm upon Dadren’s shoulder, he raised his right hand slowly and pointed off through the trees. Dadren began to object. The Shadow would not listen.

“Come!” ordered The Shadow, in a quiet, steady tone. “Take up the trail.”

WITH Hildrow, in Washington, The Shadow had lingered while playing the part of Stollart. The trip to the island, once begun, had required a full hour because of its winding, changing course and the bad roads encountered.

More time had elapsed at the cottage. There had been another interval after the crash. A clouding sky was bringing dusk when The Shadow and Dadren reached the end of the jagged road and stumbled to a better though little-traveled highway.

To the left was the way by which The Shadow had come with Hildrow. That was the road which the plotter must have taken. Despite the time lost by the changing of a tire — The Shadow and Dadren had seen the old shoe lying near the jagged road — Hildrow must by now be nearing the capital.

Instead of taking the course to the left, however, The Shadow, leaning heavily on Dadren, urged the commander to the right. Again, The Shadow had made a clever deduction.

There were no houses along that road to the left. It was miles to the nearest habitation. Yet Hildrow must have kept close contact with the secluded island. There was no telephone line into Korsch’s den, therefore, the contact point must be somewhere else close by.

Pete’s arrival was a further indication of that fact. The man who had come in the sedan probably had headquarters only a short way off. The road to the right offered the one solution.

The Shadow and Dadren traversed half a mile. The Shadow was making rapid progress, despite Dadren’s protests. The road kept curving to the left; The Shadow knew that it must miss the river, which twisted in the opposite direction. But he was looking for lights, not for water. He spied them through the increasing dusk.

A short bend had brought them into sight of an old roadhouse, which formed the center of a little settlement. This must have been Pete’s headquarters. The Shadow knew that a telephone would be available.

As they plodded on, The Shadow spoke to Dadren. The commander nodded as he heard the instructions. They were almost at a dilapidated garage when The Shadow gave his final reminder.

“Call Marsland first,” he said, in a steady whisper. “Then Releston. Then come into Washington.”

“But you are not leaving—”

The Shadow stopped Dadren with a warning motion. They were close to the garage. Standing in front was an antiquated roadster, that shook from the explosions of its running motor. One light alone was gleaming from the front of the car. The driver had stepped into the garage to purchase a new bulb.

“Proceed,” ordered The Shadow. “Make the calls from the roadhouse.”

He shifted his arm from Dadren’s shoulder and swayed for a moment. Dadren paused; he caught the flash of The Shadow’s compelling eyes. Nodding, Dadren turned and strode along the road.

Shedding his weakness, The Shadow approached the roadster. Opening the door, he moved noiselessly behind the wheel, drawing his weak leg in after him. He closed the door softly.

The owner of the car had come from the garage, talking with the proprietor. The man was holding the new bulb. He was about to step forward past the hood when The Shadow jammed the car in gear.

The rattly roadster shot away from beside its astonished owner. Shifting rapidly to second, The Shadow gave it gas. Then into high. Its one lamp blazing through the increasing darkness, the roadster took the bend. Thanks to the twisting course of the road, The Shadow gained a speed that a swifter car could not surpass if it came in pursuit.

EIGHT minutes after The Shadow had made off with the rickety roadster, Cliff Marsland strode through the lobby of a Washington hotel. The firm-faced agent of The Shadow was carrying a suitcase. He had received a call from Commander Joseph Dadren.

Reaching a parking space a quarter-block away, Cliff handed in a ticket. He stepped into a mammoth roadster, a high-powered car of foreign make, and rested the suitcase in a wide, deep niche behind the seat.

The motor throbbed. The lights came on. Cliff piloted the car to the street and headed for an avenue. The huge car sped forward, noiselessly increasing its speed. Cliff smiled grimly. This machine would roar when it reached the open road.

Cliff was on his way to meet The Shadow. He had heard the route from Dadren. He would be on the watch for a one-eyed roadster that would be straining every bolt to gain its topmost speed.

Then the transfer. With The Shadow, Cliff would head back for Washington. The Shadow would be busy with the suitcase while Cliff drove. It was anticipation of that coming ride that caused Cliff’s smile.

For The Shadow, traveling to frustrate crime, would order speed. This car was built for rapid travel. Whatever the game The Shadow had at stake, Cliff knew that the goal would be reached in record time.