The Shadow's Shadow

CHAPTER XVIII THE TWELFTH MINUTE

THE hand of the death clock was nearing the top of the dial. Soon the ordeal would be ended — terminated by the death of Rutledge Mann.

The chubby-faced prisoner was bearing up. It was Harry Vincent who was undergoing the strain.

Hopeless though the task seemed, Harry was striving to reach the switch, tugging in futile fashion at the strap which restrained him. By that action alone, he could keep his mind from the horrible death which awaited Rutledge Mann.

Never before had Harry undergone such a terrible ordeal. Wavering thoughts made him falter. He had always done The Shadow’s bidding; ever before, he had known which choice to take. Now, for the first time, he wondered.

Where did duty lie? To save the life of Rutledge Mann, or to maintain his silence?

Had Mann pleaded for deliverance, Harry would not have hesitated. But Mann, like a true agent of The Shadow, was meeting this terrible test. He was ready to accept death. Under the circumstances, Harry was unable to force himself to yield.

Gats Hackett was glaring through the grille on the right. To him, this tragic scene was glorious. The gangsters behind the iron on the left were grinning, like monkeys clinging to the bars of a cage.

It was an orgy of fiendish crime that had brought sordid satisfaction to Gats. Here, in a former hideout of the Hudson Dusters, he was introducing a hideous torture of Chinese invention.

He felt sure that if Harry Vincent did not cry for mercy, the result would be the same. After seeing Rutledge Mann’s gory head, Harry would break down under quizzing.

“They talk about the third degree,” grinned Gats, to the man beside him. “This has got the bulls stopped. How about it?”

The doom-marking hand had reached the eleventh minute. Gats was gleeful. Nothing could thwart him now.

A dozen men were in readiness here. Ten more were stationed outside, covering the entrances to this underground den. Let The Shadow come! He would find Gats Hackett prepared!

WHILE those thoughts were passing through Gats Hackett’s evil brain, events were happening outside the garage. Two men stationed at the top of a flight of stone steps were talking while they watched.

Their conversation ended as one fell suddenly from the stroke of an automatic butt. His comrade leaped up, only to sink back and fall head-first into the stone stairway.

Struck down by an invisible hand from the darkness, these guardians had failed to protect the gateway! Some one was passing their fallen forms now — some one who could not be seen — a strange being who moved through the dark with a swishing haste!

Inside, Gats Hackett was watching the dial. The twelfth minute was here! It was a matter of seconds, now. Fifty — forty — thirty -

Harry Vincent, his eyes glued to that terrible dial, was struggling madly to break loose from the restraining strap. He could not do it.

Gats Hackett laughed; then the sound died on his lips.

An unexpected commotion had broken loose among the gangsters who were staring through the opposite grille. A dozen men were clustered there; to the surprise of Gats, they began to fall away at this crucial time!

Then came the beginning of a battle.

Some one was in that mob! The bright flash of an automatic burst forth. Then came a quick succession of rapid shots.

Startled gangsters were dropping as an unexpected enemy blasted them with lead! Revolvers were flashing in return, but the men who wielded them were falling!

Thirty seconds — twenty seconds — ten seconds — five seconds! The time element had decreased during that sudden fray. Now, one man alone stood at the opposite grille — a being whose form made Gats Hackett shudder!

The Shadow!

The muzzle of an automatic was thrusting its round-circled nose through the bars. Flame spat from the deadly barrel. The shot was aimed a foot behind Harry Vincent, whose mind had never turned from that futile endeavor to reach the control switch.

Three quick shots — split seconds apart. They sent forth a trio of timely bullets — messengers of lead that covered a vertical line.

Those bullets were aimed at the strap that held back Harry Vincent!

As the single hand of the death clock almost touched the fatal mark, the strap parted behind Harry Vincent. Toppling forward, Harry threw his hand against the control switch. It sprang from left to right. The hand on the dial stopped, almost upon the final point!

Exhausted, Harry collapsed sidewise and fell upon the floor, while Rutledge Mann stared upward, his eyes now opened.

Deliverance had come! Brought by The Shadow, it had enabled one brave man to save the life of another!

NOW came revolver shots. The Shadow was fighting with the surviving gangsters, who had gained opportunity by the brief respite.

Flinging down each automatic in turn, The Shadow pulled forth new weapons without a moment’s loss. His pistol shots were deadly. His bullets found the hearts of men who were about to slay him. Revolvers were falling from helpless hands, dropping through the grille on the stone floor.

Gats Hackett had drawn his smoke wagons, ready to kill The Shadow. But that vague form offered no opportunity. It was lost amid a crew of staggering gangsters. It would be folly for Gats to slay the men who were fighting his own battle — for even now they still held a chance against The Shadow.

Then Gats saw other targets. Harry Vincent, prone upon the floor! Rutledge Mann, helpless in the pillory beneath the blade of the guillotine! They must die as Gats had planned!

Up came the big revolvers; but Gats raised them too late. The gang leader fell back as a bullet came from the opposite gate, and ricocheted against one of the narrow bars where Gats was standing.

Only by a chance freak had the bullet missed. With a wild dive, Gats hurled himself to safety into a corner of the room behind him, out of sight behind a projecting wall.

Another shot sounded. The gangster who had been standing beside Gats dropped from The Shadow’s bullet. The fight at the other gate was ended. The Shadow had triumphed.

Gripping his huge .45s, Gats cursed himself for his mistakes. It was too late to go back now. That grilled opening was covered — by The Shadow! Even with his own amazing aim, Gats knew it would be futile to offer his body as a target to a man who was awaiting him.

There was a sharp clang. Gats knew its meaning. The Shadow had broken through the opposite gate. All his enemies were downed. His agents would be freed. With The Shadow, they would come this way. Gats was alone — with no one to aid him in the defensive struggle!

Governed by mad fear, Gats Hackett turned and dashed away to safety. He found a small flight of stone steps that led to another exit. He stumbled upward.

Terror had gripped his fiendish spirit. Behind him came a new sound — a weird mockery that chilled the gang leader’s veins.

The laugh of The Shadow!

Loud, eerie, and taunting, that laugh resounded through the stone-walled rooms like a ghoulish cry of doom. It was the laugh that meant death to those who heard it — a long, gibing burst of merriment that awoke invisible echoes and rolled on with maddening tones that seemed to grip the fleeing gang leader in a spectral grasp.

Gats Hackett hurtled through a door and staggered against a gangster who was coming below. This was a watcher who had heard the muffled blasts of the terrible fray. He recognized his leader; then he heard the wild tones of The Shadow’s mirth.

The sound was pursuing Gats!

“Scram!” cried the gang leader, totally bereft of his former bravery. “Scram! It’s The Shadow!”

The second gate was clanging. Other gangsters were coming up from outside. Hearing the laughter no longer, they piled down the steps to meet the enemy. As they surged into the gloom of the stone-walled hideout, they were met by long bursts of fierce-tongued flame.

Nothing could have stopped The Shadow then. Conqueror of one baffled horde, he was on the way to further victory. The last of the gangsters fired wildly in return. They were dropping one by one. Their shots were useless. In the semidarkness of the new battleground, The Shadow was everywhere and nowhere.

Two men alone remained. They scrambled back toward safety. One fell; the other reached the steps and leaped upward. A final bullet clipped him as he sprang. He landed headlong on soft earth, and moved no more.

Victory belonged to The Shadow. Not one man of those who had sought to thwart him now, remained unscathed. Wounded were among the dying; dying were among the dead.

One alone had escaped; for one alone had given way and trusted only to flight. That one was Gats Hackett. Scurrying like a terrorized rat, the two-gun gang leader was running for his life.

His evil mob wiped out, Gats thought only of his own safety. He had heard the triumphant laugh of The Shadow!