All center lights, those four. There had been a dozen at the start; hence each side of the lodge front still boasted a blazing quartet. The glares from the side showed three deputies rising from the ground to scatter. Those at the other side revealed Marquette and his trio as they ran for cover.
Rifles boomed pursuing shots; but The Shadow’s automatics spoke as well. Steadily, like a marksman engaged in target practice, he was pinging the remaining searchlights, bringing blank darkness as a cover for fugitives who would have otherwise been doomed.
One of Vic’s deputies staggered; another managed to help him to his feet. Then the last light blinked out at that side of the house. The Shadow aimed for one lone orb of light; the last one at the other side. A whistling slug from his automatic produced the final clatter.
Already, riflemen had begun a loophole fire for the terrain from which The Shadow’s automatics flashed.
Steel bullets were digging up the turf; some shots but inches wide of the hidden target whose exact location was guesswork on the part of the men within the lodge.
But with the last light gone, The Shadow ceased his fire. Fleeing men were lost in blackness. So was he.
Rising, he quickly withdrew from the danger spot that sharpshooters still sought blindly.
The sedan had passed the distant gate. Rifle shots told that the crooks in the lodge were starting a barrage to cover the spot where others would emerge. Then the firing ceased. The Condor had recognized its uselessness.
The whole lawn afforded shelter for deputies, who could lie there and let the crooks waste ammunition.
There was no way by which The Condor could stop those saved men who had fled.
Firing ended, scattered men crept toward that path to safety. Covered by darkness, their way was clear.
They were free to join their comrades. Six men, led by Vic Marquette, were saved from doom.
The Condor had been warned. A surprise attack had boomeranged; its authors had been routed. But The Shadow, covering the wild retreat, had prevented simple defeat from becoming absolute disaster.
CHAPTER XXI. DEEP STRATEGY
BEYOND the turn below the gate to Mountview Lodge, Sheriff Brock stood in the glare of automobile headlights. About him were grouped the thirty members of his posse. Harry and Hank were with the sheriff; Marquette had arrived with the rescued deputies.
Two men had been clipped by bullets. They were being carried to a car while Brock, his voice a heavy boom, was telling his followers the course that he intended.
“There’s thirty of us,” Brock declared. “I reckon we’re four to one against those inside that place. We’ll have another thirty men inside the next hour. Hank will get them after he takes those wounded fellows to the Southbridge hospital.
“I’m leaving the big gate open. We’re spreading off the road. We’ll watch along that fence. The moment anybody tries to leave that lodge, we’ll see them move.
“Move up there, men. Keep watch. We’ll have the word pass along if there’s any trouble. Right here below the gate is where I’ll be. This is where Hank will bring his reinforcements.”
Wounded men were aboard their car. Big Hank took the wheel and drove away. Deputies advanced; then spread in obedience to their leader’s order. Marquette talked with the sheriff. Harry stood a few paces away, beside an empty touring car.
A soft whisper brought The Shadow’s agent to the alert. The sound came from the car. It was a command in The Shadow’s strange, sinister tone. Harry heard the words, then whispered his understanding. He walked away and approached Brock.
“How about it, sheriff?” he questioned. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I went down to Paulington and told the burgess what has happened? He might send some men back with me—”
“That is an idea,” broke in the sheriff. “You’re right; the burgess ought to know what’s happened. Take one of those cars and head for town.”
Harry chose the touring car. He turned it about in the narrow road and swung off down the slope. He had followed The Shadow’s first order. Now came the whispered word from the rear of the open car:
“Report!”
Briefly, Harry recited the facts that concerned Carl Lieth and the detective’s surprising treachery. He told of Corey’s capture; how the man had been brought to Dowden’s office. The Shadow’s laugh came as a token of weird mirth.
A hissed voice gave instructions. Listening, Harry stared wide-eyed along the road that he was following.
He was amazed by the orders that The Shadow delivered. Yet he could do nothing but nod his assent.
The touring car was nearing Paulington. Harry drove slowly through the streets of the town and parked behind the old hotel. He heard a slight swish as The Shadow alighted; then he glimpsed the momentary outline of a cloaked figure. The Shadow was crossing the street; his figure blended with a blackened area.
Harry went into the hotel. He nodded nonchalantly to the clerk; then entered the solitary telephone booth and put in a call to a hotel in Southbridge. He gained connection with Clyde Burke and gave the reporter brief instructions.
That done, Harry called Burgess Dowden. He told what had happened at Mountview Lodge. He said that the sheriff could use a few picked men. The burgess promised four. Harry arranged to meet them in the hotel in fifteen minutes. His call finished, he sauntered to the street.
MEANWHILE, events were happening in the Paulington jail. A small, decrepit structure, the jail stood opposite the railroad tracks. The lone jailer kept vigil in a little office at the side of the building. He was there tonight, staring stolidly from the window as he jingled a chain of keys.
The jailer could see the railroad lights from his window. Suddenly a strange blackness obscured them.
For a moment, the jailer’s fat face showed perplexity; then he realized that the darkness was a reflection from the room itself. Some strange shape had come up beside him.
The jailer turned. He saw burning eyes — unreal eyes — from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Then gloved hands gripped his throat. The jailer subsided under pressure. Limply, he rolled to the floor. The Shadow’s form stood above him.
Finding handcuffs in the jailer’s pocket, The Shadow used them to clamp the man’s wrists. He gagged the fellow with his own handkerchief; then used the jailer’s belt to bind the limp ankles. Hoisting the fat-faced man, The Shadow propped him in the corner; then extinguished the light.
The jailer, recovered, blinked at sight of a flashlight’s glow upon a desk. He fancied that he saw a white hand, writing something on a sheet of paper. Then glovelike blackness obscured the hand; the flashlight was extinguished.
The Shadow appeared in the lighted hall outside the little office. He watched the front door open cautiously. Harry Vincent stepped into view. Harry saw The Shadow and approached. The Shadow gave him the jailer’s keys; also, a sealed envelope. A gloved finger pointed toward the rear of the jail.
Harry nodded and marched in that direction.
A door barred progress. Harry found the right key and unlocked it. He stepped into a lighted cell room.
There were only two cells there; of these, but one was occupied. Corey’s face was that of a trapped rat as it showed white through the bars.
The Shadow had remained outside. Yet he was watching, listening, ready to note the result of this interview between his agent and the prisoner.
“HELLO, Corey,” greeted Harry, quietly. “Listen: “I’ve got a proposition for you.”