THE chauffeur lurched forward as Michaels drew him back. Fighting desperately, Michaels tried to kick the gun away from Blake’s hand. He failed.
The millionaire seized the automatic and lifted it with a cry of triumph. Simultaneously, Otto gained his desired opportunity. The grip on his wrist relaxed. He shoved the muzzle of his gun against Michael’s side. He pressed the trigger, holding it to discharge the entire volley of ten shots.
As the chauffeur acted, Michaels hunched his body to the side. The muzzle of the automatic slipped so that the side of the barrel lay against his body. The bullets ripped his coat as they emerged.
Continuing his swing, Michaels revolved Otto in a semicircle. The muzzle of the bullet-spitting automatic swung across the room. Blake was covered by its turning path.
The millionaire’s triumphant cry became a horrible gasp. He fell to the floor.
Otto’s eyes, staring over Michaels’ shoulder, saw what had happened. A look of horror appeared upon the chauffeur’s face. His strength gave out. Michaels flung him away and made a dash for the door.
Only Herbert blocked his path. The butler had picked up a heavy cane belonging to his master. He had no chance to use it. Michaels landed a punch upon Herbert’s jaw and the butler collapsed.
The departing man crossed the living room and reached the door. Blake’s speedster was standing in the driveway.
With a mocking laugh, Michaels leaped into the waiting car. He sped down the driveway and turned into the street. He went by two cars that had pulled up beside the curb.
“Stop him!” came cries. The shots had been heard. The witnesses knew that the man in the speedster was escaping.
A sedan shot from a side street and took up the chase. The man at the wheel of the speedster saw it in the mirror. He increased the speed of his car and whirled toward the highway that led to New York.
He had gained on his pursuers before he reached the open road. A clear path lay ahead of him. His escape seemed certain.
THE mirror in the speedster revealed the face of the driver. The elderly face of Blake’s visitor had undergone a change. It seemed governed by a grim pleasure.
The lips carried a thin, determined smile. The keen eyes glanced toward the mirror and sparkled. The lights of the sedan were far behind.
The speedster turned a curve. The eyes that showed in the mirror became suddenly alert. They were staring straight down the road.
In the speedster’s path was an open drawbridge! A boat was coming through a channel from the Sound.
Brakes screamed. The speedster lurched as firm hands swung the wheel to the left. Still traveling at high speed, the driver turned the car into a side road that led from the highway.
The front wheels struck a deep ditch in the road. The car swerved and crashed through a fence. Two tires exploded as the speedster turned on its side and hung precariously above the edge of the channel.
The sedan arrived less than a minute later. It skidded as the driver turned it across the road, narrowly escaping the fate of the roadster. It halted a few feet from the overturned car.
Then came the sharp rat-tat-tat of a machine gun as steel-jacketed bullets sprayed the body of the wrecked speedster.
A man started to leap from the front seat of the sedan. An exclamation from the back of the car caused him to return.
Men were rushing from the drawbridge. There was no time to delay. The sedan shot backward. It turned and whirled up the road down which it had come.
The rescuers reached the speedster. They looked inside, expecting to find a bullet-riddled body. Instead, they were amazed to find the car empty.
A police motor cycle and sidecar arrived when the drawbridge closed. The uniformed officers made a quick inspection of the wrecked car. They heard the excited descriptions of those who had seen the accident. One policeman remained on duty while the other rode away to report.
Other policemen arrived later. They seemed to have taken an unusual interest in the overturned car.
They remained on the scene until two o’clock, when Inspector Timothy Klein arrived. The official made a careful survey. When he left, half an hour later, he left two policemen on duty.
“Watch every one who comes or goes,” were the inspector’s instructions.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW ACTS
IT was late the next afternoon. Two men were in a small boat near the drawbridge. They were dragging a channel. A policeman, on shore, watched their work.
The wrecked speedster had been removed. Still, the police vigil was maintained. The dragging had begun in the morning, when the first watchers had been relieved.
It was a gloomy, cloudy day. Darkness was arriving prematurely. A damp fog was settling above the channel. The opposite shore was invisible in the haze.
Two hands appeared between the pilings that supported the inner edge of the bridge. They were long, thin hands that appeared white and weak.
A haggard face came through the opening. Two sharp eyes glanced along the bank of the channel. They saw the broad back of the man in uniform.
A figure emerged from the pilings. A man swam slowly toward the far side of the bridge. Coming noiselessly, he reached the bank and dropped out of sight.
The man’s hiding place had totally escaped the search of the police. He had reached it through the water, picking a spot where the bank sloped behind the pilings and formed an artificial cave beneath the approach to the bridge.
The man climbed the bank beyond the bridge. He was scarcely visible in the thickening fog. He dragged himself wearily toward the highway, then turned and moved slowly along the bank away from the bridge.
He found a small, leaky rowboat. After a quick glance in all directions, he entered the boat and began to row it noiselessly across the channel. He passed by an anchored barge, silently and almost invisibly.
There was no sound — not even the dripping of his oars.
The rower rested; then resumed his progress. He reached the opposite shore. He turned back to the highway and came to a cigar store. A sign on the door said “Telephone Booth.”
The man peered into the store. The one clerk was busy with a customer. The man slipped through the door and entered the telephone booth unobserved. The clerk did not notice his presence until he noticed the closed door of the booth.
NEITHER Herbert nor Otto would have recognized the man who was telephoning. He bore but little resemblance to the visitor who had pretended to be James Michaels of Chicago.
Pale, wet, and bedraggled, his air of dignity was gone. He seemed a weary, furtive man; yet, despite his condition, he looked younger than the elderly personage who had visited the home of Wilbur Blake.
The man called a taxicab office. He summoned a cab, giving the address of the cigar store. He learned that a cab would arrive in ten minutes.
He waited in the booth until he saw the clerk step to the rear of the store. Then he slipped silently to the street, dropping a coin for a copy of the Morning Monitor as he went out.
The cab arrived and the driver entered the store. He was surprised to find no passenger. Returning to his cab he saw a face at the window. It was partly obscured by an opened newspaper.
“I was waiting outside,” said a quiet voice. “Drive me into the city. I shall give you the address later.”
The taximan obeyed. He sped along the highway and crossed one of the mammoth bridges that connect Manhattan with Long Island.
“Turn left,” came the word from the back of the car, as the cab reached an avenue. The driver obeyed.