The Shadow's Shadow

CHAPTER VIII INTO THE NIGHT

THE car which The Shadow had appropriated was a trim, four-passenger coupe, ideally suited for the purpose required by Zipper Marsh. It was not a speedy vehicle, and for that very reason it was adapted to an unsuspicious get-away. As it rolled from the driveway by Adolph Grayson’s home, its lack of haste added to its innocent appearance.

But those who viewed the departure of the car were not deceived. A sedan filled with listening men had heard the muffled shots preceding The Shadow’s quiet get-away. They had hoped to hear such shots, but they were puzzled by the silence which now existed.

It was Gats Hackett, watching from the sedan, who gave a quick order when he saw The Shadow’s car pull out from the drive across the way. He knew that by all rights and all odds, Zipper Marsh was the occupant of the coupe; at the same time, he was anxious to make sure.

“Get after him,” he growled.

The chauffeur responded. The sedan took up the pursuit of the coupe. When they reached the drive, Gats saw that the man ahead had increased his speed. Then the chase began. From the beginning it favored the sedan. Though filled with passengers, the big car had the advantage because it was built for speed. Had the course been along an open road, Gats and his crew would have overhauled their quarry within a quarter of a mile.

But the man in the car ahead did not give them the advantage of the open road. He turned the coupe into a side road, then swung another corner, doubled back on his course, and followed these maneuvers with a new series of twists that thwarted all efforts to overtake him. Every time Gats’ big car swung a corner, its occupants saw the coupe turning one ahead.

To Gats Hackett, this crafty flight was maddening. The longer it continued the angrier he became. He growled futile orders to the driver. He cursed violently as he leaned from the window of the sedan, both guns unlimbered for action.

Suddenly, as the driver of the sedan responded to a new turn that threw his passengers sidewise, Gates uttered a loud oath and exclaimed a thought that had sprung to his mind.

“That’s not Zipper Marsh up ahead!” he cried. “He wouldn’t handle a car like that! He couldn’t!”

A grunt of understanding came from Douglas Carleton. If Zipper was not at the wheel of the coupe, only one other man could be!

“I played the right hunch,” exclaimed Gats. “Follow that car — get it — it’s driven by a guy we want!”

THE driver growled his response, and shot the big car onward toward the turn where the coupe had just disappeared. The constant distance between the two cars, the unexpected twists — both sufficed to make gunfire useless. Gats Hackett wanted closer range. He wanted the open road.

“Zipper would run for it,” growled Gats. “He wouldn’t dodge. This guy, even if he is The Sha” — the gang leader caught himself — “no matter who he is, he can’t keep it up all night! He’s bound to strike a through road soon. Then we’ll get him!”

“We’ll get him, all right!” responded the chauffeur.

On and on, through silent, foggy streets and roadways, the persistent chase continued. At last, when they turned a sharp corner, Gats cried out his disgust when he saw that the coupe had gained a full block by its last maneuver. It was turning a corner far ahead.

“Hurry up!” shouted Gats. “He’ll get away from us.”

“Not now,” retorted the driver grimly. “This is his finish. He hits a through road three blocks ahead. He can’t miss it. We’ve got him now.”

The sedan whirled forward; as it turned the corner on its outer wheels, Gats Hackett uttered a new shout — this time one of exultation.

The sedan had gained!

Up ahead, the lights of the coupe reflected the stop sign of the through road! Here was opportunity at last!

What had delayed the coupe? It should have maintained its distance, yet it had perceptibly decreased its speed. That fact, to Gats Hackett’s way of thinking, left no doubt as to the outcome.

In contrast to the muffled oaths and wild activity that dominated the interior of the sedan, there was no sound nor visible action within the coupe. The man at the wheel — so huddled and obscure that he seemed scarcely to be alive — was watching in the mirror above the windshield.

He was approaching the through highway; and now his mind was occupied with the car behind him as much as it was with the road ahead. A black-gloved hand stretched out to open the door beside the driver’s seat. The knob of that door was toward the rear of the car.

While the left hand did this work, the right guided the coupe on its final turn — a leftward swing that clipped close to the fog-dampened bushes that overhung a battered curb. The coupe came almost to a stop as a car shot across its path, following the main road. The door opened wider; and burning eyes peered backward toward the onward speeding lights of the pursuing sedan.

The coupe slowly completed its turn. The gear shift moved into high. A low laugh, weirdly muffled in the closeness of the car, sounded vague and sinister. The door slammed shut; the coupe headed directly along a straight stretch of broad paved road, and shot forward with a burst of speed.

THE course lay down a little hill. The motor roared and the car whirled wildly away, as though impelled by a maddened hand. The sedan spun around the corner, a scant fifty yards behind!

Gats Hackett was leaning from the window on the right, urging his driver to greater speed. Faster, faster — the distance was narrowing! The speedometer on the sedan passed the mark of eighty miles an hour. The coupe was hurling itself ahead, but it could not outstrip the breakneck speed of the pursuers, now that the chase was on the open road.

The fleeing car was wavering; it was bearing toward the right as the sedan came up to it.

The light coupe could not hold the road with the firmness of the sedan. Gats Hackett realized that fact as he came close enough to fire. The coupe’s own speed menaced it as much as did those threatening guns which the gang leader wielded.

Now was the time for action! The odds were with Gats, shooting from behind. He wanted to anticipate a broadside encounter. His big revolvers spat flame.

Gats grinned as he heard the roar of his pet smoke wagons. One shot — two — four — six — they were riddling the skewing coupe.

Then the pace did its work. The fleeing car swerved, skidded crazily across the road, and launched itself toward a fence beyond a narrow ditch.

It never reached the fence. The front wheels caught the ditch; the light car buried its nose in the turf, and the rear end leaped upward as though propelled by a blast of dynamite.

Gats delivered his final shots as the sedan sped by. He cried to the driver to stop. The sedan skidded and came to a halt. Gats leaped from the car, his smoking revolvers grasped in his tough hands. His action was a signal to the others.

It seemed impossible that any man could be alive in the shattered wreckage of the overturned coupe; but to Gats Hackett, that was immaterial. He wanted to see his victim; to learn that his surmise was true; to know that he — now greatest of all gangdom — had brought doom to The Shadow!

They were at the coupe now — the entire mob — with Douglas Carleton as eager as any gangster. Gats Hackett pounced upon the upper door of the coupe — for the smashed car had plunged upon its side. He wrestled with the door; it broke from its hinges.

With a cry of elation, Gats flashed a torch into the wrecked coupe. The wheel was broken; seats were crushed; the interior was a mass of shattered glass.

Yet that scene of destruction brought no joy to Gats Hackett. His shout died away. Douglas Carleton, rising beside him, demanded the explanation.

In reply, Gats could only motion with the gun that he held in his right hand, while he waved the torch that occupied his left. Carleton started unbelieving.

The coupe was empty!

Where was the man who had driven the fleeing car? Where was The Shadow?

With a wild oath, Gats leaped to the ground. Hurrying here and there, he made a fruitless search, in the vague belief that the driver of the coupe had been thrown out when the crash had occurred.

Then, when this frantic task had ended, Gats, inspired with new understanding, led a mad dash back to the sedan.

He knew the truth now, basing it on the strange behavior of the coupe when it had slowed for the final turn.

The Shadow had slipped from the coupe at the top of the hill. He had shifted to high, and pulled the throttle open as he had dropped to safety. He had turned the car straight down the hill, and it had maintained its course almost to the bottom of the firm, flat stretch of road!

Gats ordered the driver to turn back up the hill. His henchmen had piled into the sedan along with Carleton. They were going back, but Gats knew, in his evil heart, that it would be no use.

Precious minutes had been lost. The Shadow would be gone. He had foiled his crew of wild pursuers, and had vanished into the night!