The Plot Master

CHAPTER V THE CLOSED TRAP

WHEN Eric Hildrow had led the way into the house on Death Island, he had adopted one precaution. He had left a man on guard in the boat which the raiders had used to reach the isle. This fellow was waiting close beside the little dock that lay on the shore below the house.

The guard did not know what was taking place within. A dozen minutes had passed since Hildrow and the crew had left. At first, the watcher had speculated on how soon the raiders would return. He had been looking into the darkness that shrouded the big house.

Then his eyes had turned. He had heard a distant sound, high above the mainland. It was the rhythmic purr of an airplane motor. Staring at an angle toward the sky, the lone guard tried to make out the night flyer’s lights.

He saw no blinks in the darkness. That surprised him, for he had located the direction from which the plane was coming. While he still stared, the watcher heard the sound of the motor fade. Complete silence followed.

The man at the dock laughed gruffly. There was no landing place on Death Island; nor was there a field on the mainland anywhere near Lake Marrinack. He saw grief for any aviator who would attempt to bring a ship to earth hereabouts.

When the noise of the motor did not resume, Hildrow’s henchman decided that the plane must have been further away than he supposed. Flying low, it could have passed beyond the wooded stretches of the mainland.

The man’s verdict was completely wrong. The sound that he had heard was closer and higher than he had supposed. In fact, the throb of the motor had ended at a spot one mile above the skull-like cliff at the head of Death Island.

SHROUDED in absolute darkness, an autogyro was settling silently upon the island. With its windmill blades retarding its vertical drop, the ship was responding to the guidance of a master pilot.

Keen eyes were staring downward through the night. The Shadow, in response to the call received through Burbank, was coming to the aid of Professor Arthur Whitburn. Winging northward from a field near New York City, The Shadow had reached his chosen goal.

A clump of blackness in a shiny sheet of black. Such was Death Island, in the center of Lake Marrinack. Nevertheless, The Shadow’s keen eyes had discerned the blotty outline of his objective. With Death Island found, he had picked another mark.

That was the whitened roof of Professor Whitburn’s house. Tall trees held it in darkness during the beginning of The Shadow’s descent. But as he boldly dropped his flying windmill toward the center of the island, The Shadow caught the faint outline of the landing spot he wanted.

A soft laugh sounded by the controls of the autogyro. The tower at the back of the roof was plain, now that the view was closer. Piloting his ship with uncanny skill, The Shadow picked the space in front of the projecting tower. Like a winged creature from the outer spaces, the autogyro settled amid the trees and came to a perfect landing on the roof of the house.

The wheels rolled forward for a single turn. The ship wavered slightly, then remained still. Nosed almost against the house tower, the autogyro was resting in an area but little larger than its own dimensions.

Motion in the darkness. The Shadow was alighting from the ship. Invisible amid the enshrouding night, he moved forward to the square tower. In agile fashion, this mysterious visitor swung up toward the skylight that Professor Whitburn had left opened in anticipation of his arrival.

TIME had elapsed since Eric Hildrow and his ruffians had entered the house. Down in the hallway beside the outer door, Nuland and two others were holding Professor Whitburn and Stephen against the wall. Hildrow had left the prisoners with Nuland while he had made a trip with Polmore.

The two were returning. They arrived from a doorway that led to the cellar. Hildrow was smiling in his insidious fashion. He stopped to face Professor Whitburn and spoke in his sarcastic tones.

“Polmore has shown me your submarine chamber,” remarked Hildrow. “An interesting room, professor. I understand that you once conducted experiments with torpedoes from that spot. The machines there interested me, even though they are partly dismantled. I also noticed the periscope that you did not remove.

“But most of all” — Hildrow was leering villainously — “I observed that the chamber is practically airtight. Once you and Stephen are locked within that room, your doom will be assured. So, professor, I shall put your submarine chamber to a new use. It will become your tomb.”

Turning to Polmore, Hildrow put a question. Polmore nodded and brought an envelope from his pocket. Hildrow received the envelope and looked at Whitburn.

“A note,” remarked Hildrow. “from Polmore to Bragg. When Bragg returns to-morrow, he will report in your study, as usual. This message will tell him that you have left the island. Bragg will come to New York, to find you at the place designated in the note.

“Do you admire my cleverness, professor? You should. By permitting Bragg to return and leave unmolested, I shall create the impression that all is well on Death Island. I do not care to remain hereabouts with my companions. We shall leave immediately after placing you and your man in the submarine room.

“Ah, yes!” Hildrow leered as he caught a glimmer in the professor’s eyes. “You are thinking of something that you hoped I had forgotten. You had an idea that I had overlooked your cat. Bragg might suspect something if he found the animal here alone. Get the cat, Nuland; take it to the submarine room along with the men.”

WHILE Nuland headed toward the study, Hildrow motioned to the other men. They marched Whitburn and Stephen toward the cellar stairs, where Polmore pointed the way.

As the armed men descended with the prisoners, Nuland appeared with Quex. The tiger-cat was clawing at its captor.

“They have gone down, Nuland,” remarked Hildrow. “Put the cat in the room with them and wait for Polmore. He will give you further instructions. Do exactly as he orders.”

Nuland nodded while he was snatching the cat’s claws from his collar. Then he followed the path that the others had taken. Hildrow spoke to Polmore.

“I shall place this envelope in the study,” growled the plotter. “In the meantime, go down to that submarine room. Give Nuland the signal to kill Whitburn and Stephen. Shoot them down, and allow a couple of bullets for the cat.”

“They can’t escape from that room,” returned Polmore. “Just as you said, chief, they’ll suffocate.”

“I know they haven’t a chance. That does not matter. No one can hear the shots. Kill them; then lock the door. That gang of Nuland’s can stand some target practice. I want killers working for me.

“Watch the job, Polmore. It will do you good. You turned yellow to-night; but I can forget that fact. I shall have other work for you. I want you to be steeled. Proceed with the order.”

With that, Hildrow turned and strolled toward the study. Polmore watched his chief pass along the corridor. White-faced, the traitor stood beside the door. Unused to murder, he was hesitant about giving the grim command to Nuland.

Polmore was yellow. But in his yellowness, he gave thought to his own welfare. As he hesitated, he realized that his position with the chief was none too secure. Hildrow had deliberately ordered the secretary to start the massacre because he wanted to test Polmore’s mettle.

Realizing this, Polmore forced a fierce grin to his lips. Deliberately, the man adopted the attitude of a fiend. Self-encouraged, this tool began to share the evil nature that characterized Eric Hildrow. Polmore turned toward the cellar steps.

So intent was Polmore that he gave no thought to his surroundings. Mumbling furious words, he was staring straight ahead. He did not glance toward the stairway that led to the second floor. Hence he did not see the eyes that were burning from the dim steps.

The Shadow had arrived just after Hildrow’s departure. He had watched the flickering expression that had shown on Polmore’s face. Outside of that observation, The Shadow had, as yet, learned nothing. But his keen study of Polmore was sufficient to tell him that malice was afoot.

The menace had fallen upon the abode of Professor Arthur Whitburn. The old inventor was in danger. Polmore was on his way to complete some evil chain of action. Of that, The Shadow was certain.

As Polmore’s figure started down the cellar steps, The Shadow advanced from darkness. The dim light showed him as a fantastic figure. A being cloaked in black, with slouch hat pulled low upon his forehead. A spectral personage, whose glowing eyes showed vengeance, The Shadow was moving to thwart murder.

Whipping from the folds of the cloak, The Shadow’s hands produced a pair of mammoth automatics. With these weapons in readiness, the black-garbed avenger stalked forth on Polmore’s trail. Descending a flight of curving stone steps, The Shadow closed the gap between himself and Professor Whitburn’s treacherous secretary.

THE SHADOW paused when he arrived at the final turning point. A massive metal door stood open. Beyond it was the submarine chamber. Short steps led down into the pitlike room. A single ceiling light showed the grim scene.

Like victims in a medieval prison, Professor Whitburn and Stephen stood facing the firing squad. Two men were covering them, while Nuland stood ready with another gun.

Polmore had also drawn a revolver. On the lowest step, he was ready to issue Hildrow’s manifesto.

Slowly, The Shadow’s automatics came to aim. The cloaked rescuer was ready. The Shadow knew that Polmore’s command to kill would be the proper signal for his own attack. Stopped on the point of murder, men of crime would be most vulnerable.

“Give them the works!” said Polmore, suddenly. His voice sounded strained. “Kill them, Nuland! The chief said to kill them! Both of them — and the cat!”

The added statement came blurted from Polmore’s lips. Nuland, a professional killer, grinned as he heard it. About to repeat the order to his men — the pair were awaiting his word — Nuland turned to look at Polmore’s whitened face.

There was contempt on Nuland’s features as the man eyed the pale secretary. Then, on the instant, the expression changed. Purely by accident, Nuland had seen beyond Polmore. He had caught the outline of the blackened figure that stood in the doorway to the room.

“The Shadow!” Nuland shouted the name as he spied the burning eyes above. “The Shadow! Get him!”

With the order, Nuland aimed past Polmore. With gun on the move, the killer pressed the trigger for a first wild shot. That bullet was the last that he was to deliver. Hard on the bark of the revolver came the burst of an automatic.

As Nuland’s shot went wide, The Shadow’s zimming bullet found its mark. Nuland staggered. While echoes still resounded, his revolver went clattering to the stone floor. Then the man himself keeled sidewise and sprawled dead.

NULAND’S minions had turned with the shots. They were caught helpless, their guns lowered and unready. There were two, however, who acted without an instant’s delay. Professor Whitburn, amazingly agile, came springing upon one foe, while Stephen, close behind him, landed on the other.

At that instant, The Shadow whirled. He had not discounted Polmore. A coward at heart, the secretary was most dangerous in an emergency, for fear for himself could inspire him to frantic effort. At this moment, Polmore was profiting by Nuland’s failure.

Polmore had sprung away at the sound of the shots. Back against the wall, he had swung about to aim steadily for the figure in the doorway. He had The Shadow covered. He was out to kill. But his very deliberation proved his undoing.

As fierce eyes blazed upon Polmore, an automatic swung with them. A black-gloved finger pressed the trigger with split-second precision. Polmore wavered. His face became sickly as his numbed trigger finger failed to respond. With a croaking gasp, the traitor sank dying to the floor.

As The Shadow swung away from Polmore, he saw Stephen stagger. A killer had dealt the man a glancing blow with his revolver. That same killer was turning to get The Shadow. An automatic ended his attempt. Flame flashed from the muzzle of The Shadow’s left-hand gun. The would-be killer tumbled to the floor.

One enemy remained. That was the man upon whom Whitburn had sprung. The fellow had gone down beneath the professor’s attack. Brief seconds, however, had changed the tide. The old inventor had clutched the throat of his foe; now the grasp was loosening.

The Shadow could not fire. Whitburn’s body intervened. But the black-clad fighter came promptly to the rescue. Springing down the short steps, he crossed the room and wrested the professor away from the fighting crook.

Snarling, the man aimed up from the floor. The Shadow whirled upon him. The automatic dropped from The Shadow’s left hand; the gloved fist caught the crook’s right wrist and sent it upward. The killer’s revolver spat flame. Its slug sizzled past the brim of The Shadow’s hat.

A clawing hand caught The Shadow’s shoulder, before the avenger could deliver a shot with the second automatic. The Shadow grappled with the crook. Locked together, the two staggered halfway across the room.

Then Professor Whitburn, crouched by the wall, saw The Shadow slump. A gasp of alarm came from the old inventor.

The cry was premature. As Whitburn stared, The Shadow came up. Above him was the clawing, struggling form of the crook. The Shadow had gained a jujutsu hold. With a mighty lunge, he sent his enemy whirling across the floor. A scream; a head-first crash upon the floor; then the thwarted killer rolled over and over until he struck the wall.

While Professor Whitburn gazed in profound amazement, Quex, the cat, sat blinking upon a dismantled machine beside an old torpedo tube. Back with its master, the feline had scrambled there the moment that Nuland had released it.

The Shadow, with his final lunge, had whirled close to the machine where the cat was resting. He had dropped his second gun. As he reached to recover it, The Shadow heard the cat emit a snarling hiss. Whitburn, staring, saw the animal arch its back. But The Shadow looked toward the door.

AT the head of the steps stood Eric Hildrow, still wearing the disguise of Logan Collender. The arch-fiend had arrived to witness the annihilation of his minions. Gun in hand, Hildrow saw The Shadow.

Had he paused to aim, Hildrow would have met the same fate as his henchmen. But the plotter was too wary. As The Shadow’s gun came up, Hildrow leaped for cover, back behind the huge metal door that stood open beside him.

The Shadow fired. His first shot whistled through the doorway and nicked the stone stairway. Then, as The Shadow moved sidewise to gain new aim, the metal door came swinging shut.

Aiming with a momentary glimpse of Hildrow’s mustached face, The Shadow delivered a second shot. The bullet flattened against the steel of the closing door.

With that, the barrier clicked in place. As echoes died, the clatter of a closing lock came from the steel door. Then faint footsteps died from beyond the solid steel. Eric Hildrow was departing by the upper stairs.

The master villain had resorted to his original plan: Death by confinement, within the suffocating walls of the airtight submarine chamber. Bodies of his obliterated henchmen remained with those who still lived. That did not matter to Eric Hildrow.

The master plotter was departing, with Professor Whitburn and Stephen entombed. Quex, the cat, was also there; the note to Bragg had been placed upon the desk in the professor’s study.

But with the prisoners that he had originally doomed, Eric Hildrow had interred another living being. Deep in the cellar vault was The Shadow. The arch-enemy of crime was encased in a trap of death!