Four feet being the height of the concrete rail that lined the sloping roadway, Jericho simply dropped Jud across the rail. It was a very easy landing for Jud because the ground was soft and sandy on the other side. Of course the ground sloped downward too, so it was Jud's fault as much as Jericho's that the landing didn't mark a stopping place.

What Jud did was coast about eighty feet down into the junkyard. kicking up plenty of dust ahead of him, which helped slacken his slide. But by the time Jud arrived there, the men in the old cars were gone and The Shadow's agents were speeding to the chase along the road that led through the woods on the other side of the ravine. Back at the reviewing stand, all this made an interesting panorama for a gentleman named Lamont Cranston who was hemmed between a congressman and a county judge and therefore couldn't leave. Everybody was excited about the strange catastrophe that had occurred up by the concrete bridge; that was, everybody except Cranston.

With the calculating eye that was The Shadow's, Cranston was giving his agents about four miles in which to overtake the junkyard fugitives and usually The Shadow's calculations were correct.

This time they weren't.

The caravan had taken a twisty route through those oddly arranged back streets of Stanwich. The drivers knew the route by rote and were making the most of it. Apparently they expected pursuit and were acting accordingly. They had gained ground when they reached the superhighway and headed away from the town.

Those battered looking trucks and cars were anything but junkers. Their tires had no treads, but they were stout enough to stand the gaff. The caravan opened up to a speed that was really high, but it couldn't outdistance its pursuers. The Shadow's agents were riding in cars that were really geared to speed and the drivers were the sort who were inclined to bash their accelerator pedals right through the floorboards.

Only by dint of a considerable head-start did the fugitive caravan manage to reach the only goal within a dozen miles, a place where the big superhighway converged with another in an elaborate clover-leaf pattern involving underpa.s.ses, ramps, circles, bridges and all the other nightmares that confront the modern motorist.

Apparently the fugitives had some artful plan of dodging all around these runways to shake off pursuers, for they went up an incline, veered the wrong direction, cut across a bridge and down the other side. Crofton and Labrue kept right after them until it became obvious that this game of hide-and-seek wasn't leading anywhere. Coming to a fork in the clover-leaf fashion, The Shadow's drivers split their paths and took different directions.

The pa.s.sengers in The Shadow's cars were ready with drawn guns for the climax that seemed sure to come. Around one of these bends, perhaps down in an underpa.s.s, the caravan was going to find itself boxed. Then would come quick battle that should result in a solid mop-up.

The moment arrived. Two pairs of powerful headlights gleamed eye to eye as they swung in from the curve of an incline. One car was whipping down from a fork, the other scooting up from beneath an underpa.s.s. Then, as suddenly as they had met, the drivers gave the brakes.

Screeches accompanied swerves as two cars literally twisted alongside each other. From those two cars stepped men who eyed one another in what could only be termed stolid astonishment. Separate courses had led to a reunion of The Shadow's own agents.

The missing caravan had vanished as though its vehicles were composed of thin air. Somehow, somewhere in the maze of the elaborate clover-leaf, the fugitive cars had sped away in some fresh direction, leaving the pursuers nonplused.

A strange singular ending to that mad chase from the town of Stanwich.

Something that even The Shadow might doubt when it was told him!

CHAPTER V

COMMOTION had quieted in Stanwich. The parade had gone its way and completed its appointed route with the ruins of the old brick warehouse far in its wake. Along with other dignitaries, Lamont Cranston had reviewed the affair and heard talk of the near catastrophe that had almost marked its progress.

However, that hadn't spoiled the revelry in Stanwich.

There would be investigations and all that, but the loss of the old warehouse didn't matter, considering that its contents were all confiscated goods that might have been junked anyway. n.o.body had been seriously hurt and already a theory was being voiced to explain the occurrence. It was the old business of rhythmic vibration. Probably the rumble of the tanks had been timed to the old building's sway and was therefore responsible for its crash.

They were talking about it, though, in Stanwich, after the parade was over.

One man who was voluble on the subject was Leo Trobin, the cab driver who had brought Jud Mayhew from the station.

Leo was working the night shift and was therefore on hand at the Apex garage, talking to a couple of other cabbies and a few odd loungers.

"Funny thing," opined Leo. "I drove a guy up from the depot just tonight and he was talking about buying over that old building. Came here special just to look at it. Kind of funny too that there weren't any explosions after the thing caved. There was supposed to be a lot of fireworks stored there. Guess they just got smothered."

A stolid-faced foreman was answering a phone call for a cab. He turned toward the group and Leo moved out of sight behind a pillar, beckoning a drab-faced lounger to follow him.

"Stick here, Jeff," Leo told the lounger. "I don't want Kromer to shove me out on a job - not yet. He goes off duty in about ten minutes, Kromer does. It won't matter after that."

Another cabby was anxious enough for the job that Kromer, the foreman offered. Staring stolidly, Kromer seemed to be wondering where Leo was; then, with a shrug, he went back to his regular duties.

Watching this, Jeff gave a short nod in Leo's direction, meaning that Kromer was none the wiser. n.o.body else counted with Leo and Jeff, which was why they didn't notice a little man standing nearby.

To all appearances, this fellow was just one of the local hangers-on, but he happened to be an out-of-towner. He was Hawkeye, the keen-eyed spotter who had put The Shadow's agents on the track of the cars that fled the junkyard.

Having accompanied his comrades on their futile chase, Hawkeye was back in Stanwich hoping to make amends.

Hawkeye was looking for someone who might be conversant with the junkyard situation and Jeff filled the bill. The drab-faced lounger didn't spend much of his time at the Apex Garage. Hawkeye had seen him driving to and from the junkyard in a ramshackle car, on several occasions.

This liaison between Jeff and Leo was all the more pointed, considering Leo's mention of a fare who had looked over the old brick warehouse. Having checked facts with Harry Vincent, Hawkeye had an idea that Leo's pa.s.senger was the very man who had inquired for Sark and had later encountered Jericho; namely, Jud Mayhew.

Five minutes and another cab call again found Leo lacking when Kromer gave a brief look for him. The stolid foreman was beginning to show annoyance on hischunky face; in fact, he was so annoyed that he stayed on duty after the next five minutes were gone. Then came another cab call and this time Leo promptly stepped into sight.

"Guess it's my turn, Kromer," spoke Leo, cheerily. "How come you were pa.s.sing me up?"

Glowering, Kromer said gruffly: "Didn't see you anywhere around."

"Yeah?" Leo's tone was sarcastic. "I've been here all along. Ask Jeff if I.

haven't."

Jeff supplied a corroborating nod.

"What's it for?" queried Jeff. "Somebody taking the last train out?"

"What else would it be?" Kromer demanded. "Hop over to the hotel right away; the guy says he's got a lot of luggage. Only the next time stay in sight.

Then I can go out and eat when I'm supposed to."

Without waiting for apologies, Kromer stalked out, which was exactly what Leo wanted. Jumping to the wheel, Leo backed his cab out through a door where Jeff's jalopy was waiting. Kromer not being around to witness that procedure, Hawkeye was the only observer. Keeping neatly behind the doorway, Hawkeye saw Leo and Jeff empty the contents of a five gallon can into the cab's gas tank.

"That's good for seventy-five miles that Kromer won't know about,"

chuckled Leo. "He's too dumb to know that I've rigged the meter."

"Don't forget my cut," reminded Jeff, "or there won't be any more coming from where that came from."

Piker stuff, this, but Hawkeye decided to report it to The Shadow. The fact that Jeff was bootlegging gasoline that came into the junkyard might have some slight bearing on larger matters.

More important, though, was the call that Leo was answering. Over at the Stanwich Arms, Alban Sark was standing in his seventh floor room, staring out across the lighted town toward the blackened vacancy that marked the site of the missing warehouse.

On a table beside Sark was an ash-tray filled with smoldering cigarette b.u.t.ts. Sark could have rigged them as an alibi, but he hadn't. The man with the heavy forehead had not been at large when the warehouse crashed. Sark had stayed in his room all evening.

Right now, Sark's face, white against the darkened window pane, looked like a death's head in its own right. How worried Sark might be, he alone knew; but his pallor was to some degree artificial, for his lips, when they moved, simply phrased a scornful sneer. Bulging forehead, jutting chin, eyes that looked as hollow as his grin, gave Sark an expression that resembled a mask, which it was so far as any human sentiments were concerned.

When Sark's mind worked, it was in an inhuman way, as his cold, hard stare revealed. Then, suddenly those features darkened with a pained look that was partial evidence of some hidden fear, for Sark himself wheeled quickly around.

Sark didn't like the way his expression clouded. It was as if some other figure had approached behind him to block off the room lights that caused the reflection in the window.

For the moment, Sark saw blackness, like that of a fading figure. Perhaps his own eyes, with their whitish glisten, were subject to peculiar optical effects like those of persons who studied his picture too long. Sark's handwent to his pocket; the flex of his wrist muscles told that his fist was gripping a gun. But before Sark could draw the weapon and aim it toward the gloom near the doorway, the door itself flung open.

In contrast to blackness, Sark saw green, the uniform of a bell-boy.

Letting his hand relax, Sark drew it from his pocket and gestured toward a stack of suitcases near the door.

"Take them down to the lobby," ordered Sark, in a short-clipped tone.

"Have them ready when the cab comes. Page me as soon as it arrives."

The bell-boy nodded. then asked: "What name?"

Sark's lips straightened, which was their method of forming a smile.

Squarely in the light, his cold face revealed its peculiar contours. His forehead bulged as he tilted his head forward; then came the thrust of his chin, to match it.

Instead of giving the name of Hubert Rudland, this man of devious ways announced his own: "Alban Sark."

As he p.r.o.nounced the name, Sark ushered the bell-hop from the room, bags and all, tucking a dollar bill into the pocket of the green uniform. Sark added a smile, free of charge, but the bell-boy didn't see it. The smile was not at all a nice one.

In his turn, Sark didn't see what happened in the room behind him. From the s.p.a.ce behind the open door emerged a figure cloaked in black, the living embodiment of the shape that Sark had half attributed to his own imagination.

That figure was The Shadow.

Silently, swiftly, The Shadow moved across the room and reached a connecting door. When Sark turned from the hallway, there wasn't a visible trace of his cloaked visitor. That didn't entirely satisfy Sark; hand to gun pocket, he closed the door to the hall, as though expecting to find someone lurking behind it.

All Sark found was vacancy, which proved the wisdom of The Shadow's opportune shift.

Satisfied that he was quite alone, Sark was in no hurry to leave. Looking at his watch, he saw that there was ample time before the cab arrived, so he took a chair beside the telephone table. Sark's eyes now were on the telephone as though he expected it to ring, which it did, quite suddenly.

Sark made a quick pounce for the instrument, but when he answered the call, his tone was steady.

"Ah, Ludar," spoke Sark, reprovingly, "you are calling a trifle late...

Yes, I should have left by this time... What? You have just found out? That is singular. You should have known all along that they would do it..."

There was a pause, while Ludar's voice came earnestly across the wire, though it was heard by Sark alone. Then: "I stayed here to watch," Sark informed, "and I saw what happened... Yes, exactly as I expected it... Of course they are fools. What else could I do but agree?"

Another pause, with Ludar doing the talking, after which, Sark gave a short, hard laugh.

"You are telling me my turn is next," declared Sark. "That is funny, Ludar, very funny... Of course I guessed. Why not?... Yes, I have made the properarrangements. I have a suitable subst.i.tute... No, Ludar, do not worry. I am safe and so are all my doc.u.ments..."

Two doors were doing tricks behind Sark's back. One was the door to the connecting room, which Sark did not suspect at all. It was closing, proof that The Shadow was leaving on some other mission. The door to the hallway, however, was doing just the opposite. Sark hadn't locked it when he closed it; now that door was coming open.

"Later, Ludar, I shall call you," Sark was saying. "Yes, when I am back in New York... Of course you can reach me if you come there at the right time...

But now, time is short. Good-bye, Ludar..."

The hallway door went shut and its click was drowned by the clatter of the telephone as Sark replaced it. All that Sark gave the door was a slight glance, along with a shrug. He moved in that direction, but only to press the light switch, enveloping the room in darkness. Then Sark returned to his post beside the window.

Outside Sark's door, a figure was moving away rapidly, headed toward the elevators. But it wasn't the figure of The Shadow. This listener who had caught the closing moments of Sark's conversation with Ludar, was the trim red-haired girl who answered to the name of Gail North!

CHAPTER VI.

"PAGING Mr. Sark!"

Gail North heard the call as she stepped from the elevator and immediately she was alert. When Gail went alert, she was reminiscent of a c.o.c.ker spaniel of the reddish variety.

At least such was the opinion of Margo Lane, whether it was flattering or not. All evening, Margo had been watching Gail go quivery whenever anyone faintly resembling Sark appeared from the elevator. Now as before, Gail suddenly relaxed.

Of course Margo didn't know why. Since leaving his listening post at Sark's, Cranston had been quite too busy to inform Margo regarding details that he himself could handle as The Shadow. So Margo was not only puzzled, but due to be more so.

"Mr. Alban Sark!" bellowed the bell-hop. "Cab is ready for Mr. Alban Sark!"

Rather than lose more time, the bell-boy picked up Sark's bags and started out to the street. Gail strolled nonchalantly across the lobby and took an obscure chair, thus puzzling Margo all the further. Along with being puzzled, Margo was bothered by the fact that neither Harry nor any of The Shadow's other agents was anywhere around.

But if Harry Vincent wasn't handy, Jud Mayhew was. All nicely brushed, Jud showed no signs of the slide that Jericho had given him. Popping to his feet, he looked like any other guest at the Stanwich Arms. Jud was thinking very swiftly, not just in terms of Sark, but of those bags that were going out.

Sark wasn't any more important than the contents of those bags, if as important. Jud was wondering just what Sark would do if those bags disappeared in their entirety. More than that, he was wondering what Sark could do, which certainly could not be very much, particularly if he missed the train on which the bags went.

So Jud strode straight out through the lobby, following the route of the bags. Finding the bell-boy out front, Jud gave him an imperious gesture; then, recognizing the cab as Leo's, Jud added loudly: "Get those bags into that cab! One of us will take the train. In any case, we want the bags to be there."

It sounded logical enough to the bell-hop and spurred him into putting the bags into the cab. Jud waited on the deserted hotel steps, watch in hand, and gestured for Leo to pull further ahead, in order not to interfere with any other cabs that might arrive.

This was hardly necessary but it proved good showmanship. Leo responded and the bell-boy went back into the hotel, thinking that Jud, whoever he was, had been invested with full authority by Alban Sark.

Immediately Jud decided to take advantage of that usurped authority. He came down the steps, intending to enter the cab. To do so, he had to stride through a plot of darkness. That was as far as Jud went.

Out of blackness came a solid figure that whisked Jud off his feet and half precipitated him through the air into the waiting clutches of a pair of men who sidled in from darkness to receive him. That pair consisted of Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. They rushed Jud clear across the street and into the powerful paws of Jericho who dumped him into a car that had Chance Lebrue at the wheel.

It was all so swift that Jud hardly knew what happened, while Leo in his cab knew nothing at all about it. The man who took in the most of that fast moving picture was Alban Sark.

From his seventh floor window, Sark was staring straight down to the sidewalk. He saw Jud step into the darkness beside the waiting cab; then witnessed his flying recoil, the way he was snagged by a pair who hustled him across the way to the darkness that obscured another car.

This was something that Sark had expected, for his chuckle came in a lowered ba.s.so. Leaving the window, Sark strolled from the room, out to the elevator.

Downstairs, Gail North had captured a considerable eyeload of the disaster that had overwhelmed Jud. Meddling into business that didn't entirely concern her seemed to be one of Gail's specialties, for she came full tilt from the lobby door, intent upon tracking down Jud's captors. Dashing around the corner, Gail watched the car turn a corner further down the street, but she hadn't any car of her own in which to follow.

After running a block or more, Gail turned back dejectedly, realizing how silly she had been. Whoever Jud was, he hadn't gone away with those precious bags belonging to Sark; they were still in the waiting cab outside of the hotel.