The heavy bumper had served as a powerful battering-ram. The quick application of the brakes, immediately after the smash, had kept the coupe from overturning also. The sedan had toppled away; The Shadow had only to swing his car along the main drive.
Damaged only superficially, the coupe was capable of taking up the pursuit of the captured girls.
A few hopeless shots sounded in the wake of The Shadow’s car. Some gangsters had escaped with but slight injuries. They were vainly trying to prevent The Shadow’s chase.
Nothing could withstand the indomitable purpose of the black-garbed avenger. His only handicap now was the time element. The stolen car with the kidnaped girls had gained a valuable start.
Whirling along the maze of narrow drives, The Shadow picked his course with keen intuition. He sensed that the flight would be toward the Sound — not along the main highway a mile from the stone gates.
WITHIN a few minutes, he was skirting the calm waters of Long Island Sound, speeding madly along the narrow road which he had so quickly discovered. There was no sign of the big car; but The Shadow kept on, at a pace which surely meant he must be gaining.
The road turned sharply away from the Sound. A moment later, the headlights of the coupe showed a byroad leading toward the water.
The brakes took hold, and none too soon. Not more than twenty yards ahead, a red-lighted obstruction showed across the center of a curve. The coupe shot backward to the side road. The firm hand at the wheel turned the trim vehicle toward the Sound.
Jouncing and swerving from side to side, the coupe plunged along the bumpy road. It reached a downward grade, and coasted toward the whiteness of a little dock that jutted out into the placid water. The headlights revealed the Cathcart car near the end of the dock.
The muzzle of an automatic peered from the window beside the driver’s seat as The Shadow brought the coupe alongside the stolen car. With gun ready to meet any attack, The Shadow opened the door of his car and stepped to the dock.
His caution immediately ended. Those sharp eyes that peered from beneath the slouch hat could see that the big car was empty.
This was the end of the pursuit. The fleeing gangsters had been fortunate. Their route had not been too long; their gap of time had been sufficient. They had reached the appointed spot soon enough to escape with their prisoners before the arrival of The Shadow.
A vague splotch of blackness glided along the surface of the white-painted dock as The Shadow moved to the extreme end. Keen eyes stared at the waters beneath. They saw the rippling wavelets that remained as proof that a boat had cleared from this spot not long before.
The Shadow listened, and to his ears came a low, incessant murmur that would have been inaudible to the average man. It was the distant thrum of a smooth-powered motor craft — some mystery ship that had come here by special order to await arrival of the expected prisoners.
Tonight, The Shadow had fought with crime. Both odds and fates had been against him. He had encountered the unexpected at every turn. The scheme of a master plotter had succeeded; but The Shadow had taken heavy toll.
Two girls had been captured; three faithful servants had been murdered. Those who had perpetrated the deeds had sought also to end the career of The Shadow. In that, they had failed. Slaughtered and wounded mobsmen remained as mute testimony to The Shadow’s might.
Gloom would fill the bad lands when news of this episode filtered there. The gang leader who had acted upon the bidding of a man higher up had succeeded — but he had lost his mob in the effort. Only luck had prevented The Shadow from annihilating the entire crew of mobsmen and rescuing the captured girls.
What was the motive of this kidnaping? What boat had lain here in readiness? Who was the man behind these strange events?
Those were facts that only The Shadow could divine; and the low, sinister laugh that rippled above the darkened waters was proof of The Shadow’s purpose.
An evil scheme had succeeded tonight. It was but one of many crimes. To The Shadow belonged the task of solving this mystery, and ending the career of the master plotter.
CHAPTER XII
THE SHADOW LISTENS
AT eight o’clock the following evening, Maurice Traymer entered the magnificent apartment house where Anthony Hargreaves lived. Traymer was a lone visitor tonight. No lecture was scheduled until the morrow.
Maurice Traymer was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Hargreaves apartment, for the young society man represented the elite. What he lacked in wealth, he made up in social position. It was Traymer’s close association with Hargreaves that had inspired Professor Sheldon’s derogatory remarks concerning the self-made millionaire.
It was nearly an hour afterward when Traymer came from the apartment house. He summoned a taxicab, and gave the driver an address. Within a few moments the vehicle was rolling southward along Park Avenue.
Traymer threw a glance from the rear window as his cab passed the first corner. He saw that the street was clear behind him, and he settled back upon the seat with a suave smile. He did not, however, notice what occurred just after the cab had passed the corner. Another taxi started from the curb. It had been waiting there.
Several blocks along, Traymer’s cab turned eastward. The other taxi followed some distance behind. When Traymer alighted from his vehicle, the second cab had stopped in the rear, and the society man did not observe it as he stepped to the curb.
The rest of Traymer’s progress was made on foot. His destination was an old hotel east of Park Avenue — a building which had long since lost its prestige. The dilapidated lobby was a lounging place for idlers who were easily recognized as men of the underworld.
Maurice Traymer approached the desk and spoke a few words to the solemn-faced clerk. The man picked up a telephone and uttered a few low monosyllables. He nodded, and Traymer ascended the stairway. The elevator was not in operation.
TRAYMER’S destination was the second floor. He stopped before a closed door and knocked. The door opened inward, and Traymer found himself confronted by a stocky, beefy-faced man, who was attired in a garish dressing gown.
Recognizing his visitor, the man stepped aside, and Traymer entered. The door closed behind the pair.
“Hello, Norbin,” said Traymer quietly.
“Hello, Traymer,” growled the fat-faced man.
Traymer and Norbin took chairs. The society man drew a cigarette from his case and lighted it. He looked about for an ash tray in which to deposit the burned match.
“Throw it on the floor,” said Norbin.
Traymer complied. He noticed that the floor was strewn with cigarette and cigar stumps as well as burned matches. This was a contrast to the furnishings of the room, for there was nothing cheap about those arrangements.
Fine items of furniture, expensive Oriental rugs — these constituted the appointments of Norbin’s abode. The arms of mahogany chairs were nicked where careless persons had scratched them with knife blades. The beautiful rugs were scruffed and marked with many burns.
“Looks funny, eh?” questioned Norbin, as he saw Traymer’s moving gaze of inspection. “Well, it doesn’t bother me. This swell layout was the wife’s idea. She and I broke up three or four months ago. So I just let the junk lay. She used to fuss so much about scratches on tables, and cigarette butts laying around, that I just let things ride after she went.”
With this brief expression of his sentiments, Norbin arose and kicked a light table across the room. He grinned as he saw the ornamental piece of furniture smash against the wall; then he strode to the door, opened it, and peered into the hall. Satisfied that no one was outside, he returned to his seat.