The Plot Master

CHAPTER XXIV THE LAST SETTLEMENT

THE sirens which Eric Hildrow had ignored were not the whines of fire engines. While the master plotter had been gaining the missing plans, a dozen police cars had undertaken a most unusual chase.

A huge roadster had entered the limits of Washington, traveling at a speed of nearly one hundred miles an hour. Its driver blaring a horn that sounded warnings a full block ahead, the car had roared along a broad avenue toward the business district of the capital.

Traffic had been disrupted. Pedestrians had ducked for cover. At hurricane speed, the mammoth roadster had cleared a path before it. But in the wake of this foreign-built car came a deluge of pursuers.

Motorcycle cops and patrol cars had taken up the chase. The big machine had outdistanced them. Its speed had decreased to eighty as it neared the center of the city; then had come another lessening of pace. Yet the most ardent pursuers had failed to catch up with it.

New patrol cars, cutting in, had complicated the chase. By the time the big car was in sight of the Hotel Barlingham, it seemed that half the police of Washington were on its trail. Then the foreign roadster did an unexpected circuit about a circle. It cut along a street that led to the Hotel Barlingham.

CLIFF MARSLAND was the grim driver of that roadster. Blaring his warning, he had cut a swath toward his goal. He was not the daredevil that Miles Crofton was. In an autogyro, Cliff would have admitted his inability.

But Cliff was an accomplished driver. He knew this car. Like Crofton, he was inspired by the companion who rode with him. For beside Cliff sat a silent figure cloaked in black. During the early portion of the ride, The Shadow had donned a garb that he had taken from the suitcase in the car.

The Shadow had regretted that he had not kept Miles Crofton in Washington. Crofton had brought the big touring car to the capital, to leave it with Cliff Marsland. The car had been there to serve The Shadow. For once, the cloaked warrior had not anticipated an emergency which had come.

But Cliff Marsland had proven his ability in the pinch. He had cut away precious seconds during this roaring trip. A soft laugh came from hidden lips as The Shadow viewed the home stretch. Whining sirens from behind meant nothing. The goal lay half a block ahead. Cliff had made it in a time limit that Crofton would have envied.

Cliff jammed the brakes and shot the roadster into the alleyway beside the Hotel Barlingham. As the big machine swerved, The Shadow raised a gloved hand and pressed a phial to his lips. Purple liquid showed by the dashlight as The Shadow lowered the tiny bottle.

A strengthening elixir, included in the suitcase. The Shadow had reserved this dosage for the finish of the run. Already well recovered from his loss of blood, he was making final preparation for the ordeal that lay ahead.

The roadster jammed to a stop in the darkness of the alley. The roaring trip had been made through lighted streets. Evening had settled. It was gloomy in this spot. The Shadow could be distinguished only by his soft laugh.

Cliff saw a shape glide across the alley. He spied a man standing by a service entrance to the hotel. The fellow looked like a watcher. Cliff heard the man growl a challenge. He saw the fellow flash a revolver.

Then came a stroke from the dark. The guard thudded to the pavement. A black shape blotted out the illumination of the service entrance. Then The Shadow was gone.

Cliff smiled tensely. The Shadow had anticipated this. He had given Cliff the tip in whispered words. Cliff knew what to do. He had his alibi for the police. He needed it, too, for they were here.

SOME had spotted Cliff entering the alley; others had doubled back; more had gone around the block. The roadster was the center of a glare of headlights. None opened fire, now that the machine was stopped. But they came piling in, a dozen of them, ready with revolvers. A powerful flashlight showed Cliff Marsland.

“Climb out of there,” came a gruff command. “What was the idea, you doing ninety down the avenue?”

“An emergency,” returned Cliff, coming peacefully to the street.

“Yeah?” The officer grunted. “Well, spill your alibi. We’re ready for a laugh, after that chase.”

“Look across the street and you’ll see it,” stated Cliff.

One of the cops turned a flashlight in that direction. The glare showed a hard-faced rowdy laying flat on the sidewalk. Two cops hurried in the direction. Others turned to Cliff.

“I drove this car,” stated Cliff, quietly, “in behalf of Commander Joseph Dadren, of the United States Navy. I brought him here to prevent the murder of Senator Ross Releston.”

Exclamations from the cops. One growled his disbelief in the statement; but another joined with Cliff.

“Say,” put in the second officer, “Senator Releston does live here. This is the Barlingham.”

“Who knocked out the guy across the street?” demanded a policeman.

“Commander Dadren,” responded Cliff. “He chose this entrance because he believed that others, on the avenue and further street, would be more heavily guarded. Thugs are about, to cover the murderer.”

The easy tone impressed the officers. The one who had supported Cliff was quick to give a suggestion.

“If this fellow’s right,” said the cop, “we’re dubs to be standing here. A couple of you boys watch him. I’m taking a look for these thugs he spoke about.”

Two officers took Cliff in charge. The rest set off on the run. Two headed through the service entrance. The others circled the hotel in both directions to cover the main doors. Cliff Marsland settled back in the seat of the roadster.

UPSTAIRS in the Hotel Barlingham, two men were standing in the sixth-floor hall. One was Marling; the other, a crook. Hildrow’s chief lieutenant was troubled. He had heard the sirens coming closer. He had heard their whines reach a finish.

“Sounds like a fire,” he said. “I wonder if it’s here.”

“It might be,” returned the underling. “Say, if it was in that corner apartment—”

“I’m taking a look,” broke in Marling. “Listen: If we get in a tight place, make out we’re fighting a fire. There’s an extinguisher, over past the elevator. Be ready with it.”

Marling sneaked toward the main door of Releston’s apartment. He drew a revolver with one hand; a key with the other. The key was a duplicate of one that Stollart had sent. Marling unlocked the door into the waiting room. He entered softly and locked the door behind him.

The aiding mobster was standing with one hand on the fire extinguisher, which was of the heavy, cylindrical type. He was ready to lift it from its place, if Marling should give the word. Anything might have happened in that apartment where the chief had gone.

A shade of blackness fell across the extinguisher. The gunman wheeled. He was too late. From the stairway had come a form cloaked in ink-hued garb. The Shadow was springing upon Marling’s aid. A chopping left arm descended. An automatic thudded against the mobster’s head.

The fellow toppled. His hat rolled on the floor. His gun clattered; The Shadow stopped it with a quick motion of his foot. For one brief instant The Shadow listened.

He had seen Marling enter the waiting room. He knew that Hildrow must be inside. Marling would surely lock the door behind him. Time out to pick the lock would be time lost, despite The Shadow’s swiftness at such work. For the climax would be in that extending living room, where bolted doors could resist advance.

The Shadow gazed straight toward the door that led from the hallway directly into the living room. He knew exactly where the bolts were located. A foot above the knob. Strong bolts, but an old door. Not too formidable.

A soft laugh sounded in the hallway.

Turning, The Shadow brought the big fire extinguisher from its place on the wall. With strength regained, he came sweeping down the hallway, an avalanche in black. Powerful arms swung forward as The Shadow reached the door that led to the living room.

The fire extinguisher crashed the barrier with the driving force of a battle-ax. Straight for the bolted side, a super stroke delivered by a being of mighty will. Wood yielded to metal.

The Shadow’s terrific blow shattered bolts and woodwork. Ripped free, the door swung open on yielding hinges. The Shadow had struck it from an angle; the fire extinguisher, released, went hurtling through into the room beyond.

ERIC HILDROW turned as he heard the crash. Both revolvers unlimbered, the evil plotter was on the point of murder. A one-man firing squad, he had just delivered his final scornful speech to the men huddled helpless in the corner.

The big extinguisher was bounding straight toward Hildrow. Dropping back as he turned, the big shot avoided its path. Knowing that a menace lay behind, he aimed for the shattered doorway.

Hildrow’s revolvers spoke. Aiming for blackness, the crook found a living target. The Shadow, lunging through the door, had sprawled upon the floor. Hildrow’s lower gun clipped that same right shoulder. The Shadow rolled backward.

Hildrow fired again, a wide shot, as the left hand of The Shadow whipped into view. Then, as Hildrow came bounding upon his wounded prey, The Shadow’s automatic flashed. At close range, into an approaching target, its work was perfect.

Eric Hildrow seemed to poise in air. Then, crumbling, he rolled forward upon The Shadow’s prostrate form. Dead, the master plotter lay bulky upon the living avenger who had slain him.

In turning on The Shadow, Hildrow had instinctively relied on Stollart. The secretary, however, proved to be a poor man in the pinch. That was due, in part, to a quick cry from Harry Vincent that came as Hildrow launched his attack on The Shadow.

“Get Stollart!”

Vic Marquette followed Harry Vincent. Together, they sprang upon the hesitating secretary. Stollart staggered back against the wall, his arms driven upward. Harry wrenched an automatic from his clutch. Vic delivered a punch and grabbed for the other gun.

Harry turned quickly. The door from the inner hall had swung open. Marling was on the threshold. Harry knew he must be an enemy. The Shadow’s agent aimed; but Marling was beating him to it.

A roar from the floor. The Shadow, writhing from beneath Hildrow’s body, had swung his good arm upward. He was expecting Marling. His flashing automatic was directed toward that inner doorway.

Marling wavered; he tried to hold his aim. Then came Harry Vincent’s shot, straight for the lieutenant’s body. Mortally wounded by The Shadow’s slug, Marling succumbed upon the instant when Harry’s well-aimed bullet reached its mark.

Echoes subsided. Then, from below in the hotel, came muffled shots. Gunfire on the streets. A weary laugh from The Shadow. The police, deliberately drawn hither by Cliff Marsland’s mad race, were fighting Hildrow’s band.

All remaining aids had come with Marling. The Shadow had foreseen such action. Racing toward his goal, he had summoned the law to take care of these lesser foemen. The last of Eric Hildrow’s evil cohorts were encountering their doom.

WHEN Commander Joseph Dadren arrived at Senator Ross Releston’s apartment, he found the gray-haired statesman seated at his office desk. Releston greeted Dadren with a smile. On the desk lay Dadren’s plans, with the necessary tracings superimposed upon them.

“All is complete,” declared the senator. “Our enemies have been eliminated. Marquette, of the Secret Service, is here.” Releston turned to introduce Vic. “He and I shall keep the plans until to-morrow. Then we can send them to the Navy Department under proper guard.”

“But I intended to take them!” exclaimed Dadren.

“Unfortunately,” smiled the senator, “you cannot do so. You are wounded, commander.”

“Wounded?”

“You are supposed to be. But another person has undergone that trouble for you. The person who rescued you, commander. He came here, also, to deal with Eric Hildrow.”

“A serious wound?” inquired Dadren, anxiously, as he began to understand.

“The same shoulder,” replied Releston. “A bad wound, but one that should not prove serious. We thought it best, commander, to tell the police that you were the wounded man.

“There was a complication about a car coming through Washington at ninety miles an hour. That was settled easily, because the driver said the car was yours. Our patient — let us call him Commander Joseph Dadren — is resting comfortably under the care of his secretary, Harry Vincent.”

“And the physician says—”

“That commander Dadren will be up and about within a week. Inadvisable, however, to move him. The police were satisfied, when I explained about the plans. They removed Eric Hildrow’s body, together with others that were about the hotel. Stollart is in custody.

“Let me suggest, commander, that you leave to-night for Cedar Cove. Keep your arrival quiet. Remain there until you hear from me. Then you can return to Washington.”

Commander Dadren smiled as he shook hands with Senator Releston. He walked out talking with Vic Marquette, while Releston put the completed plans in the big vault.

THE next morning, Harry Vincent entered a secluded room of the apartment to speak to the convalescent who was propped in a chair by the window. The one to whom Harry talked looked much like Commander Joseph Dadren. For The Shadow, foreseeing complications, had donned his former make-up while riding into Washington with Cliff Marsland.

Harry had learned the details of Dadren’s visit from Vic Marquette. He related the story to this patient by the window. Stern lips that looked like Dadren’s emitted a soft, whispered laugh.

The last touch had been delivered. The Shadow’s triumph had been gained. But his part remained unknown, save to those few whom he knew would keep the secret of his hidden might.

Again, while his keen eyes peered toward the city beyond his window, The Shadow laughed.