“Instructions received.”
FIVE minutes after his call to Burbank, The Shadow stepped aboard Moe’s cab, which was parked some distance from Powlden’s residence. The Shadow had come from the empty house; once in the darkness of the cab, he gave instructions to the driver.
Moe pulled away and started cross-town.
Forgetting the present situation, The Shadow had cause for satisfaction in the report received through Burbank. A few weeks ago, The Shadow had learned through an investment broker, Rutledge Mann, that Philo Dreblin had been discharging secretaries on an average of one in two weeks.
Such an unusual procedure demanded investigation. The Shadow had sent instructions to another agent, Harry Vincent, to apply for a position as Dreblin’s secretary. A few days ago, Harry had reported that the job was as good as gained.
Then had come three murders, timed one to an hour. At the finish, The Shadow had met Hiram Caffley, manufacturer of ferroluminum. The Shadow had already known that Philo Dreblin was the maker of a similar alloy called calthite.
The news of a new product, Duro Metal, which Caffley had been out to buy, seemed to concern Dreblin also. The Shadow, however, had avoided any visit to Dreblin’s, knowing that soon his agent would be stationed there. He had learned from Burbank that tomorrow would mark the beginning of Harry Vincent’s duty.
Tonight, The Shadow had detailed Harry to another task. Moe’s cab was driving slowly toward the rendezvous. Moe came to a stop on a secluded avenue beside a silent, looming warehouse.
A few minutes later, a second cab rolled up and parked ahead of Moe.
The Shadow had already alighted in the darkness. His voice spoke in a whisper from beside the newly arrived cab. Harry Vincent climbed from the driver’s seat and went to Moe’s cab. With him, Harry carried a box that looked like a large suitcase.
The lights were still burning on the cab that Harry had brought. The Shadow was beside that vehicle; but away from the glare.
Opening the box in Moe’s cab, arranging an apparatus in the darkness, Harry looked toward the cab ahead. He saw no sign of a living form; he was momentarily startled to hear a whisper from the window beside him. Silently, The Shadow had returned.
“Ready?” came the whisper.
“Ready,” replied Harry.
The Shadow’s agent pressed a switch. The cab ahead started forward, motor throbbing heavily. It neared the corner. A whisper sounded in the darkness. Harry pressed another switch.
The cab turned the corner. Harry waited, knowing that The Shadow had gauged the speed of the departed vehicle, now gone from sight. A whisper sounded. Harry clicked a switch.
“Await signals,” came the whisper.
“Instructions received,” responded Harry.
A slight swish in the darkness. Harry sensed that its direction was toward the corner that the driverless cab had turned. But as he peered into the blackness, Harry could see nothing.
Harry’s only course was to await The Shadow’s signals. He would be ready when they came. What would follow, Harry could not guess. But as he waited, fingers on a ready switch, The Shadow’s agent knew that startling events were in the making.
For tonight, The Shadow was testing a new device that he had created to use against men of crime. Enemies were close at hand — that much Harry knew — and those lurking foemen were due for a surprise.
CHAPTER X
THE TRAP REVERSED
THE solitary cab had stopped on Ninety-first Street. Moving slowly past the warehouse, it had reached the place of rendezvous. Lights glimmering, motor idling, the vehicle was waiting near the curb.
Eyes were watching from the corner by the warehouse. The Shadow could see a slight area of illumination caused by the parking lights of the cab. Watching, he observed a hunched figure come shambling to the side of the taxi.
With one gloved hand, The Shadow held an earphone beneath the side brim of his hat. While he watched the man who had approached the taxi, he heard the fellow’s furtive whisper, brought by a radio hook-up:
“Who d’ya wantta see?”
The Shadow spoke into a tiny microphone. His answer was in a disguised voice that resembled Donald Powlden’s.
“Louie,” stated The Shadow. “Where is he?”
Watching, The Shadow saw the man by the taxi make a gesture toward the house. The hunched informant had spoken through the window of the cab; he had heard The Shadow’s reply from its interior.
“All right,” spoke The Shadow, in Powlden’s tone. “I’ll come on in.”
The hunched man started toward the house. He paused on the steps to look back, wondering why the door of the cab had not opened.
The Shadow, also, had turned. Moving swiftly through darkness, he reached the corner of the avenue, a few yards from his station. Past the turn, he blinked a flashlight.
Harry Vincent caught the signal from Moe’s cab. The agent pressed the switch. Around on Ninety-first Street, the empty cab began to move slowly forward. The Shadow returning rapidly to the warehouse corner, was in time to witness its departure.
Instantly, there came a hoarse cry from the steps of the house. A frantic signal from the hunched man as he saw the cab leaving. His alarm given, the fellow dived back into the house. The response to his call came from further along the street.
A glare broke from a parked touring car. The machine shot forward to meet the departing cab. Flashes of stabbing flame burst from its interior. With them came the echo-bringing rattle of machine guns, a terrifying tattoo that roared through the silent street.
The moving cab was riddled. Windows shattered; tires exploded. The taxi twisted, jounced to the curb, swung away and careened crazily across the street.
The touring car had passed the stricken vehicle; but the barrage still continued. Gunners had turned their weapons toward the rear. The taxi bounced up on the far curb and rammed squarely into a house wall.
An old, ramshackle vehicle, the taxi did a complete collapse when it hit.
Fenders and hood went spilling. Flat tired wheels rolled from their axles.
Flames burst from the motor, to envelop the old car.
THE touring car was speeding toward The Shadow’s corner, while its gunners jeered their elation at the quick havoc that they had produced. But as the car neared the avenue, a hoarse cry came from the driver.
The man at the wheel had swung a spotlight toward the wall of the old warehouse. By lucky chance, that glare had revealed a figure standing there. Outlined in the circling glow was the cloaked shape of The Shadow.
Machine gunners heard the driver’s cry. Swinging about, they sought to bring their weapons into play, while the driver, maddened by the sight of the spectral foe, wheeled the car straight for the spot where The Shadow stood.
To run down The Shadow was the driver’s hope. Leader of the murderous crew, the crook at the wheel had acted with promptitude in the emergency. If he could send The Shadow diving for cover, the “typewriter” men would have time to train their devastating guns.
The Shadow did not budge. Though the driving car was but a dozen yards distant and swinging straight for him, he chose to hold his ground. From his hidden lips came a burst of mocking laughter.
An automatic spoke from a gloved fist. A single shot, aimed with precision; The Shadow’s response to the emergency. The delivery of that bullet was a master stroke. The Shadow had fired directly toward the man behind the wheel.
The clipping bullet zizzed past the edge of the windshield. It found the body of the driver. The leader of the murder crew slumped sidewise from the wheel. His hands lost their grip.