THE SALAMANDERS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "
The Shadow
Magazine," April 1, 1936.

In the dead of night a flaming monster rears its drooling head and bellows
forth its challenge with searing breath! It was a terrible menace
The Shadow

sought to overcome as he went forth to combat the dragon of Fire!

CHAPTER I

FIRE OF DOOM

"FIRE! Fire!"
The shouts rose hoarsely on the midnight air. The glare of rising flames
showed wild-eyed men as they dashed to spread the alarm.
Madness had gripped the town of Riverport; excitement of a sort that the
little Southern city had never before known. The crackling blaze that had come
into sudden life was a threat that promised great disaster.
The fire had started in the Capital Hotel - the principal structure that
adorned the main street of Riverport. The blaze had arisen like a living
monster coming out of hiding.
A burst of flame; smoke pouring bodily through ground-floor windows; then
demonish tongues of fire, lapping upward, crackling on to fury.
The Capitol Hotel was a fire trap.
"Fire!"
Faces were answering the shouts. White faces peered from upstairs windows.
Staring eyes saw the flickering reflections of the flames. Faces disappeared
from sight. Occupants of the hotel were hastily preparing for escape.
The wail of a fire siren split the night air. The alarm had been given.
The clanging of bells told that Riverport's fire engines were emerging to fight
the flames; Those engines were coming to a hopeless task. Nothing could stop
that fire. The flimsy, wooden walls of the old frame hotel were perfect fuel
for the devouring flames.
Within the burning building, commotion reigned. Men were dashing about,
pounding upon doors, shouting through corridors. Their one hope was to arouse
their fellow guests, then make a dash for safety. There was no time to linger.
Nevertheless, in all that bedlam, there was one man who acted with
calmness. He was the occupant of Room 408. His name was Harry Vincent. Aroused
by a hammering upon his door, Harry had shouted his response. Out of bed, he
was donning his clothes by the light of the fire that other buildings reflected
through his window.
There was a reason for this man's precision, his ability to avoid the
panic that had overtaken others. Harry Vincent was an agent of
The Shadow
. He
was a man trained to remain calm in the face of danger.
Though he knew that speed was necessary, Harry had other thoughts than
those of escape. He was remembering the mission that had brought him to the
city of Riverport, to register at the Capitol Hotel.
Chester Woldorf.

THE name drummed through Harry's brain, more vividly than the clanging of
bells, or the wailing of the shrieking siren. Woldorf was the cause of Harry's
presence here. Like Harry, Woldorf was a guest at the Capitol Hotel.
Harry had seen Woldorf in the lobby last night. He knew the man's room
number: 411, almost across the hall from Harry's own room. Woldorf had retired
at eleven o'clock. He had left a call for seven in the morning. Harry had left
a call for the same hour.
Harry had guessed that Woldorf would take the eight o'clock train to New
York. It had been Harry's plan to do the same. Woldorf, for some reason not yet
determined, was a man who feared a threat.
That fact had been learned by
The Shadow
. Threats indicated crime; The
Shadow, always at war with men of evil, had delegated Harry to take up
Woldorf's trail.
Bells were clanging from the street below. Water from fire hoses was
fizzing uselessly, drowned by the increasing crackle of the flames. The light
of the fire had become a ghoulish, crimson glow. The glare outlined Harry
Vincent as he yanked open the door of his room.
Dressed, Harry was ready for departure. An overwhelming cloud of blackish
smoke greeted him in the corridor. Harry was prepared for it. Burying his face
in the bend of his elbow, he groped his way across the hall. His free hand
found the knob of Woldorf's door.
Smoke had cleared partially, thanks to the draught created when Harry had
opened his own door. The flames had not reached this floor. There was time to
make sure that Woldorf had heard the alarm. Harry pounded furiously upon the
door of Room 411.
There was no response. Smoke thickened as it floated along the corridor.
Holding his breath, Harry backed away, then launched himself like a
battering-ram against the door of Woldorf's room. Shoulder first, he splintered
the rickety barrier. Stumbling, Harry caught himself before he sprawled upon the
floor.
Smoke had followed Harry's charge. Clutching like a shroud of doom, it
was filling Woldorf's room. The opened window sucked smoke outward. Flickering
flame light became dim, but the glow remained enough for Harry to view the
room. Steadied by the broken door,
The Shadow
's agent gazed in horror.
On the floor, beside the bed, lay an upturned figure clad in pajamas.
Harry saw a pale face, with lips half opened, fishlike beneath a droopy
mustache. Below was a mass of crimson, splotched and streaked across the front
of Woldorf's pajama jacket.
That blotted mass of crimson was Chester Woldorf's lifeblood. The man had
been stabbed in the heart!

A CRACKLING drilled Harry's numbed brain. Yellowish flicker weaved across
the inner walls of the room. From somewhere came the muffled crash of falling
beams. Harry turned about toward the corridor.
The fire had reached this floor. Brief minutes would make the room a trap.
There was no aid for Woldorf - no time to search for clues. Harry had gained
enough. He had learned what some assassin had sought to cover; namely, that
Chester Woldorf had been murdered before the fire had begun in the Capitol
Hotel.
Springing from the room, Harry chose a direction away from the flames.
Smoke had lessened. Though he was choking, Harry knew that he would be safe if
he could reach a stairway or a fire escape.
Smoke destroyed the lighting effect of the flames. It was only by pressing
his hand along the wall that Harry found the stairway he wanted.
Harry stumbled as he struck the first steps. He caught himself against a
rail beside the heated wall. A fist clamped his arm; he heard a gasped voice
beside him:
"Steady, friend. Take it easy. We'll get out this way."
Harry coughed his thanks. He turned his head as they descended. The
flickering flame light from a stairway window showed the features of the man
whom he had encountered. Harry took the fellow for another guest who had
blundered toward this path to safety.
The man on the stairway was sallow of countenance. His hair was dark; his
eyes, bulging, carried a blackish glitter. Seeing the man's profile, Harry
noted a solid, out-thrust jaw.
As the man's face turned and grinned toward him, Harry observed a hardness
of the lips that was matched even by the wrinkles of the furrowed forehead.
"We'll make it."
The hard-faced man spoke raspily, as they reached a landing and continued
downward.
"Easily," returned Harry. "The smoke has thinned. We are almost to the
second floor."
"We're there. Keep your head down. it's going to be smoky the rest of the
way."
The hard-faced man was right. He and Harry continued their descent
blindly, clutching to the rail. Harry took a false step as he reached the
bottom. His heel clanked stone. He knew that he had struck a side exit on the
ground floor of the hotel.
Blinking in the smoke, he saw his companion. Ruddy light from the interior
of the burning hotel showed the hard-faced man stumbling toward another flight
of steps.
"Hold it!" coughed Harry. He sprang across to block off his companion.
"Don't go any farther! Those steps lead down into the basement!"
The hard-faced man no longer wavered. He straightened. His grin was livid
as he saw Harry, arms outstretched, at the very top of the stone steps. A
hoarse gasp came from Harry's lips. At that instant, Harry knew who this man
must be.
The hard-faced man was the murderer of Chester Woldorf!
Harry's cry told what he knew. It was all that the hard-faced man wanted.
Before Harry could bring his arms up, his leering companion swung a tough,
swift fist. The punch clipped Harry's jaw.

WITHOUT an outcry,
The Shadow
's agent tumbled backward. Slugged clear of
the top step, he went tumbling, rolling to the bottom of the stone stairs.
Leering, the hard-faced man saw the final crash. Rolling over twice, Harry
Vincent lay still and helpless, deep in the basement of the doomed hotel.
Smoke enveloped the prone body. The hard-faced man turned about. As he
stumbled toward the exit, it was wrenched open. Rescuers from outside grabbed
the murderer and helped him to the outside air. Coughing, two firemen clattered
inward and stared through thickening smoke.
"See if there's any others," ordered one. "Maybe down those steps -"
"There's nobody there. That's the basement."
Smoke had totally obscured Harry Vincent's unconscious form. The opening
of the outside door had brought the smoke upward. Peering through the dense
smoke, the firemen saw nothing. They stood, shouting at the exit. They heard no
answering calls. While they waited, the finish came.
Fire crackled wildly from above. Walls trembled. Beams burst with a roar.
Downward, a flaming mass, came the whole interior of the old hotel. As the
firemen leaped to outside safety, the walls crumbled.
From a blazing framework, the hotel was transformed into a pitlike
furnace, where flames rose rampant and sparks soared high into the night.
The bed of that furnace was the basement where Harry Vincent had sprawled.
No human being could have lain there and survived.
Crushing timbers, ablaze from end to end; masses of flaming woodwork; an
entire ruin that crackled anew like a mammoth bonfire - such was the remains of
the old hotel.
Survivors had scattered. Other buildings were ablaze. The fire had reached
an office building; it had swept to a garage in back of the hotel. Automobiles
were being removed by frenzied owners. Puffs of flame formed twenty-foot
torches as gasoline tanks ignited.
Firemen were everywhere, working like madmen to save other buildings.
Riverport's small police force was on hand. Tumult reigned as the holocaust
continued. Volunteers were joining in the fight against the flames.
The ruins of the Capitol Hotel were forgotten by all men except one. He
was the hard-faced murderer, the last to grope his own way out from the
interior of the hotel fire, alive. A block away, he was standing beside an
automobile. His face showed an evil gloat, his dark eyes surveyed the spreading
flames.
The hard-faced man was pleased. He had slain Chester Woldorf. He had
removed Harry Vincent - the only man who had learned that Woldorf was murdered.
All evidence of crime lay buried in that fire-seethed pit that had once been
topped by the old Capitol Hotel.
The murderer's leer showed that he expected no reckoning. In that, the
gloating killer was to find himself mistaken.
Crime would soon receive its challenge from
The Shadow
.

CHAPTER II

THE LONE TRAIL

SMOLDERING ruins marked the business section of Riverport. The spreading
hotel fire had not been curbed until dawn. Twelve hours more had passed; at
last the fiery pit had cooled sufficiently for searchers to approach it.
Just outside the fire-devastated area was an undertaker's establishment
that had been called into service as a morgue. There, searchers were bringing
whatever objects appeared to be human remains.
They had made few finds. The principal exhibit at the morgue was a
typewritten list of guests who had been at the hotel.
This list had been prepared by a hotel clerk who had a good memory. The
hotel register had been lost in the fire. One clerk, who had gone off duty
earlier, had perished in the blaze. As near as could be guessed, there had been
about a dozen victims. The names of the survivors had been checked with a red
pencil. The other names stood barren on the list.
Among the persons who studied the list of names that afternoon was a tall,
calm-faced stranger who had arrived at Riverport on the later afternoon train.
Though distinctive in appearance, he had attracted but little attention, for
his quiet manner rendered him inconspicuous.
This arrival was
The Shadow
.
In New York,
The Shadow
had read of the holocaust at Riverport. There had
been no word from Harry Vincent. Though the newspapers had classed the fire as
accidental,
The Shadow
was sure that it had been designed.
Two names - unchecked in red - showed on the list to prove
The Shadow
's
belief.
One was the name of Chester Woldorf. Though the public did not know the
fact, Woldorf had been a man of considerable wealth - a shrewd speculator who
had kept his affairs strictly to himself.
Woldorf had moved out of sight some months ago, to bob up at intervals in
unexpected places. He had shown by his actions that he feared some menace. That
was why
The Shadow
had decided to learn more about him.
The other name was that of Harry Vincent.
Fire had struck the hotel where Woldorf was located. That, in itself, was
significant; yet
The Shadow
could concede that Woldorf might have perished
through an accident. But with Harry also named on the death list, the aspect
changed.
Harry, alert and on duty, ready for any emergency that might arise, would
have learned of the fire soon enough to leave the doomed hotel.

THERE was only one answer. Something had happened to Woldorf. Harry had
investigated. He had met with trouble before he left the hotel.
Walking from the morgue,
The Shadow
approached the ruins of the hotel. A
small group of men were clustered at one corner. Their discussion told that
they were officials who had taken charge of the search.
The Shadow
paused close
by the cluster. Unnoticed in the settling dusk, he listened to the conversation.
"Some of the victims may have blundered into the basement," one man was
saying. "A couple of firemen told me they found one fellow who nearly stumbled
down there."
"That sounds likely," came the comment, "except that there haven't been
many human remains picked up."
"There won't be. That fire lasted long enough to burn them to a frazzle.
It was hot enough inside that fire to melt that old safe that was in the hotel!"
"Who says that? A safe won't melt!"
"This one must have. There's no sign of it. Nobody could have lugged it
away."
"What was in it? Anything important?"
"No. Old Millick, who owns the hotel, says the safe didn't count for much.
It wasn't often that folks put things there while stopping at the hotel."
The speakers moved away.
The Shadow
gained an immediate deduction. One
hotel clerk had survived the fire, to give from memory, the names of registered
guests. The inclusion of Woldorf's name was proof of that clerk's honesty.
But there had been a second clerk - off duty - who had presumably died in
the blaze. It was possible that Woldorf had given the dead clerk valuables for
deposit in the hotel safe. To
The Shadow
, the absence of a safe amid the ruins
was a matter of high importance.
Could that safe have been removed during the fire?

The Shadow
's answer was yes. His decision, however, was modified to suit
the circumstances. The safe could not have been carried away openly. It must
have been removed in some secret fashion.

STARING across the ruins of the hotel,
The Shadow
saw the grayish-white
outline of other crumbled walls. They represented the garage that had adjoined
the Capitol Hotel. Skirting the smoldering pit,
The Shadow
reached the site of
the garage.
Between the hotel and garage was an elongated pit, half filled with
debris. A man in overalls was poking about with a long stick, dislodging chunks
of charred wood and stone.

The Shadow
approached the man and spoke an affable greeting. When the man
looked up,
The Shadow
made a casual inquiry.
"Was this the storage tank," he questioned, "where they kept the gasoline
for the garage?"
The searcher shook his head.
"The storage tank was up there, sir," he replied, pointing to the remains
of the garage. "This was the cellar of an old annex that used to run back from
the hotel. They tore it down a couple of years ago."
"And left the cellar covered over?"
"Yes, sir. 'Twouldn't have done for gasoline storage. Too close to the
hotel. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered much, though. The hotel burnt like a
tinder box as it was."
In the dusk, the man noted that
The Shadow
was well dressed. He looked
like a stranger who might have been a guest at the burned hotel. The man
questioned:
"You had a car, sir? In the garage?"

The Shadow
nodded.
"Maybe it was saved, sir," informed the man in a hopeful tone. "You'd
better inquire down at the Southern Garage, just past the depot. That's where
they took what cars they could."

The Shadow
headed for the Southern Garage. Strolling toward that
destination, he checked his new information. The old cellar in back of the
Capitol Hotel had existed as an unseen route from the hotel to its garage.
Through that underground passage, men could have easily carried the missing
safe.
To do so, they would have been forced to dare the flames. A dangerous
task; one so formidable that it seemed almost impossible. The hotel had burned
with amazing rapidity; and the interval of action had, therefore, been brief.
These facts pointed definitely to a scheduled fire. They were bringing The
Shadow along a trail that showed crime.

ARRIVING at the Southern Garage,
The Shadow
entered to find a crowded
floor. Cars were jammed into every foot of space. No attendants were about. The
Shadow pressed his way between crammed automobiles and found an office.
There, a grimy-faced man was seated at a battered desk, going over account
books. He looked up as
The Shadow
entered.
"Good afternoon," greeted
The Shadow
, quietly. "You are the manager here?"
"Yes, sir."
"I came for my coupe," remarked
The Shadow
. "It was brought here from the
garage at the Capitol Hotel."
"You were in the fire, sir?"

The Shadow
made no response to the manager's question. Instead, he merely
continued his statement.
"Unfortunately," he said, "I no longer have the owner's card. Of course, I
can identify the car. It was a green coupe, with a New York license -"
"I know the car, sir. It's right inside the front door. You can drive it
out without any trouble -"
The car in question was Harry Vincent's. It actually belonged to The
Shadow; hence his statements were correct. The garage manager took them at
their face value. Riverport was a town where most men were accepted at their
word.
The manager accompanied
The Shadow
from the office. As they pressed their
way between stored cars,
The Shadow
made a quiet comment.
"Odd that you have no trucks stored here."
The garage manager turned quickly. He had reached the side of Harry's
coupe; an overhead electric bulb showed a troubled look on the man's face.
"Why did you say that, sir?"
"For no special reason," replied
The Shadow
. "I suppose that few trucks
choose the route through Riverport?"
"There was a truck here," declared the manager, biting at his lip. "It
came from the burned hotel garage last night. The men who brought it wanted
storage here; I told them that there was no space. They kept the truck outdoors
until early this morning."
"And then?"

The Shadow
's query was impressive. Almost in spite of himself, the garage
manager answered. His tone was cautious.
"I overheard one of the truckmen making a telephone call," he stated. "He
was in my office, without permission. He was telling some one that he would
bring the truck on to Westhampton, about fifty miles from here.
"He was arranging storage at Westhampton, sir. To keep the truck there all
day, in a garage. He said something about driving on to New York tonight. It
sounded like they didn't want that truck to be seen by day. Right after that,
the truck left here. It wasn't daylight; they had time to reach Westhampton
before dawn. Maybe I'm suspicious, sir, but -"
With an amazing spring,
The Shadow
leaped into action. Coming from the
front of the coupe, he interrupted the garage man with a wide, swinging left
arm, that sent the astonished fellow sprawling to the running board of Harry's
car.
His right hand jabbing upward,
The Shadow
stopped a swinging arm that was
coming downward. A huge, sweatered thug had sprung from behind a parked car.

A MASSIVE monkey wrench in his clutch, the hoodlum had delivered a vicious
swing for the garage manager's head. Only
The Shadow
's swift intervention had
prevented the crushing blow. With one stroke,
The Shadow
had hurled the garage
manager from the path of the deadly bludgeon, had caught the thug's arm in the
middle of its drive.
The attacker writhed. With a harsh oath, he wrested his sweatered arm free
and took a sweeping sidewise swing at
The Shadow
's head. The wrench whisked
space. Dropping,
The Shadow
ducked the sweep by a clear inch.
Bobbing up, he drove a hard fist straight across the thug's arm before the
attacker could recover and ward off the punch.
Knuckles landed just beneath the thug's chin. An ugly gargle told how deep

The Shadow
's fist had driven into the attacker's windpipe. The thug thudded
floorward, his head cracking against the coupe's bumper.
The garage manager came to his feet and blinked.
The Shadow
was stepping
aboard the coupe; the thug was lying senseless on the stone floor.
"Inform your local authorities," ordered
The Shadow
, quietly. "You will
have ample time. That fellow will not recover within the next fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir."
"Say nothing about the truck that went to Westhampton."
The Shadow

pressed the coupe's starter as he spoke. "I shall investigate the matter."
"I understand."
The garage manager was impressed by the hawk-visaged stranger who had
saved him from a murderer. He thought that
The Shadow
must be a Federal agent,
who had trailed the missing truck to Riverport. He saw no connection between
the hotel fire and the truck.
The coupe rolled from the garage. It swung toward the road that led to
Westhampton. The garage manager scurried forth and dashed toward the local
police station, which was less than two blocks away.

AN approaching pedestrian had stopped short when he saw the coupe pull
from the garage. Lost in the dusk, this arrival watched the tail-light twinkle
as
The Shadow
turned the corner toward the Westhampton road. Still watching,
the pedestrian spied the garage manager's hasty exit.
With a growl, the man from the dusk hurried into the garage. Electric
lights showed his features. He was the hard-faced man who had steered Harry
Vincent into the flaming basement of the Capitol Hotel.
Dark eyes showed an ugly glint as they saw the thug flattened on the
floor. Hard lips uttered a savage curse. Striding to the fallen thug, the
hard-faced man raised the fellow's shoulders and growled:
"Broddy! What happened here?"
Questioning Broddy was useless. The thug was senseless. The hard-faced man
moved rapidly between the packed cars. He reached the office, seized the
telephone and quickly gave a number. He was holding a watch when the response
came. In choppy tones, the hard-faced man snapped orders:
"Car due at seven ten. Coupe with New York license. Handle it, then wait."
Smashing the receiver back on its hook, the hard-faced man hurried out
into the garage. He shoved an arm under Broddy's shoulders and hoisted the thug
into the back seat of a parked touring car. Springing to the wheel, he drove
from the garage.
As he took the turn at the corner, the hard-faced man saw figures emerging
from the police station. The garage manager was bringing two of Riverport's
policemen. They were coming on a vacant quest. They would not find the stunned
thug whom
The Shadow
had left upon the garage floor.
Like Harry Vincent,
The Shadow
had crossed the path of a dangerous
murderer. Driving full speed for Westhampton, hard on the trail of the missing
truck,
The Shadow
was heading into unexpected disaster. The chance arrival of
the hard-faced man boded ill for
The Shadow
.
The lone trail had suited
The Shadow
for the present. It had promised him
a chance to encounter enemies who dealt in crime. But the encounter which The
Shadow sought would be gained much sooner than he believed.
Peril lay along
The Shadow
's lone trail.

CHAPTER III

THE BROKEN TRAIL

THE road from Riverport to Westhampton was a lonely highway. For miles, it
followed the river gorge between the two towns. Sharp curves impeded continual
speed but the lack of traffic on the highway partly offset that disadvantage.

The Shadow
had left Riverport at ten minutes of seven. He was managing an
average of fifty miles an hour. Fifteen minutes out of Riverport had carried
him slightly more than a dozen miles along his way.
Hands firmly clutching the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, The
Shadow observed the contour of the highway. Every curve was different; yet all
bore one point of similarity. To the right were rugged, towering slopes; to the
left a guard rail that fringed the river bank.
The rail was one that had been built to stand a severe test. Taut wires
ran between stout wooden posts, fixed deep beside the left shoulder of the
highway. In all that monotony of posts, the ordinary observer would have seen
no change. To
The Shadow
, however, differences were apparent.
Certain posts had weakened. Though they remained upright, there were
tell-tale depressions at the base, sure signs that freshets had washed away
supporting soil. Those posts needed strengthening supports.
The Shadow
made a
mental note of that fact. Curiously, his observation was to serve him well
before his trip was ended.
Except for those infrequent weaknesses, the guard rail was strong enough
to resist the onslaught of a ten-ton truck. It needed to be strong. The river
that lay below was deep and blackly sinister.
This gorge was narrow; its waters were slow, for the river was dammed some
miles ahead. Fully thirty feet of depth lay below the dark surface of the river.
Mile after mile,
The Shadow
saw no other cars. He was traveling at the
highest speed that any car could maintain along this winding road. At a
fifty-mile-an-hour average, there was a chance that he might reach Westhampton
soon after the departure of the mysterious truck. Inquiries; new clues; then

The Shadow
would resume pursuit. He was confident that a trail could be picked
up at Westhampton.
The clock on the coupe's dashboard showed seven ten. It was the exact
minute mentioned in the hard-faced man's telephone call. Timed almost to the
second,
The Shadow
whizzed past an obscure side road that led upward to the
right, through the ravine of a little stream.

THOUGH his headlights were pointing ahead,
The Shadow
was conscious of a
small house nestled at the outlet of the dirt road. His momentary glimpse gave
him the impression that the house was deserted.
The impression was justified. Supposedly, that house had been vacated a
month before. Tonight, however, it was occupied. Peering eyes were stationed at
a blackened upstairs window, to note
The Shadow
's coupe as it whirled past.
Observers saw the New York license plate.
The hard-faced man at Riverport had made a perfect estimate of the time
interval. He had done better than produce a haphazard guess. He had been
familiar with the river road; he knew the maximum speed that its curves
allowed. He had assumed that whoever had departed in the coupe would be riding
at the fastest possible clip.
Gripping the wheel of the coupe,
The Shadow
swung hard as he finished a
leftward curve. The road swung to the right; then left again, to a jutting
point that hung above the river. The turn was one that required brakes. Safety
signs showed twisted lines to indicate the sharpness of the turn. The right
side of the road was a mass of mixed rocks.

The Shadow
's foot moved to the brake pedal. There it halted, momentarily.
His ears had caught a muffled boom, dimly heard despite the closed window of
the coupe.
It was a blast from the jutting hillside straight above.
Almost coincident with that muffled blast,
The Shadow
's keen eyes saw a
quivering of the rocks to the right side of the road. Stones rocketed to the
highway.
Some drivers would have applied their brakes, to stop short of the falling
stones. Others might have preferred to run the gantlet, hoping to get past
before the hail of stones increased. To
The Shadow
, both courses were hopeless.
He knew the meaning of that blast. Those stones were the forerunners of a
man-made avalanche. A wall of rock had loosened. Already, high above, a stretch
of massive stone was dropping to overwhelm the coupe.
There was no escape for any car upon this stretch of road. Neither a halt
nor a burst of speed could carry
The Shadow
free in the brief moments that
remained.
Instinctively,
The Shadow
chose a course entirely his own; one that was
based upon previous observation.
A quick foot left the brake pedal. It drove the accelerator to the
floorboard. Swinging the wheel hard to the left,
The Shadow
launched the coupe
straight for the nearest guard rail, at the river side of the road.
No time to learn if that rail was held by loosened posts. Chances were
that the supports had weakened; for here, the gorge was steepest. Conditions
favored
The Shadow
. Speed, plus luck, should serve him. His hope was that the
rail would meet a test that would prove too severe.

CABLES twanged as the coupe struck. They bellied outward like the string
of a bow, threatening to resist the strain. One post gave way. Its yield was
sufficient.
The rear of the coupe lurched upward; as the wires sagged, carrying over a
dangling post,
The Shadow
's car catapulted into a huge somersault toward the
river, thirty feet below.
As the car dived toward the gleaming water, a terrific roar sounded from
above. Tons of rock crashed upon the highway, shattering the concrete paving as
if it had been flimsy pasteboard.
A mammoth cliff had been blasted loose, along a stretch of fully sixty
yards. Dynamite, drilled deep into the rock, had accomplished its devastating
work in the space of three brief seconds.
As
The Shadow
's car hit the water, a landslide followed. Rocks buried the
ripped guard rail. Scattering stones poured into the river, adding to the
splash of the coupe. The downpour lasted for a dozen seconds; then came a
sifting trickle of powdered stone and loosened dirt.
A feeble gleam showed dimly from the bottom of the river. The glow came
from the lights of the coupe, sunk at a depth of more than twenty feet. The
gleam ended. In its overturn, the coupe had nosed in toward the river bank.
Stones and mud blanketed the headlights.

The Shadow
was still in the coupe.
Water had filled the interior of the car. Gripping the wheel,
The Shadow

could feel the pressure about him. One deep breath, gained before the plunge,
still served him as he waited. Half a minute of this ordeal would mean that the
landslide had lessened.
Stones thumped the coupe, but their landings were puny. Slowed by the
water, the chunks of rock had no effect. The coupe was intact. It afforded
complete protection while
The Shadow
remained within it. The danger that faced

The Shadow
was the possibility that the entire car would be buried by debris
from the road.
That, however, was unlikely.
The Shadow
preferred to chance it. Too early
a departure from the car might bring him up into a delayed downpour of stone.

The Shadow
waited a few more seconds, then gripped the handle of the door to
his right. The coupe had tilted on its left side. It was imbedded among rocks;
but the right door was clear.

BRACING his feet upon the lower door,
The Shadow
pressed his shoulder
upward. The door forced open, against the pressure of the water. The car itself
was filled with water; that rendered
The Shadow
's task possible.
Crawling through the half-opened door,
The Shadow
gave an upward push. His
body shot toward the surface; those final seconds seemed interminable. Suddenly,

The Shadow
's head bobbed clear.
Propelling himself with hard strokes, he made sure of his self-rescue by
swimming away from the bank where overhanging rocks still threatened to plunge
upon him.

The Shadow
found no current. He swam northward, along toward the portion
of the bank which he had followed in the coupe. Clear of the rock-shattered
area, he took strong strokes to the shore. Clutching clusters of tough shrubs,

The Shadow
climbed the bank and reached the guard rail.
As he gripped the lowest cable,
The Shadow
heard the purr of a motor. He
saw a red light turning on the road. A touring car was swinging about; it had
come from the direction of Riverport and had stopped when it had reached the
fallen mass of rock.
The Shadow
edged down the embankment completely out of
view from the road.
A moment later, a powerful searchlight glared above
The Shadow
's head. It
formed a glaring path toward the river.
The Shadow
watched the beam sweep
across the waters.
The searchlight's rays scoured the surface of the river, pausing near the
very spot where
The Shadow
's coupe had performed its plunge.
The searchlight clicked off.
The Shadow
heard voices at the guard rail. He
distinguished words that came in a rasped tone. A voice said:
"That was the fellow we were after, all right. He'll give us no more
trouble. Come along back to the house. We'll clear out by the dirt road."
Men boarded their car. Weaponless,
The Shadow
had no way to deal with
these murderers who had sought his life. Beyond the guard rail, he was unable
to gain the road in time to board the rear of the departing car.
Rising to the guard rail,
The Shadow
watched the headlamps of the touring
car as they weaved their way back along the road. The lights diminished, then
blinked from view.

ON foot,
The Shadow
followed. He had an objective; that house which had
been mentioned. There, even should he find no clues,
The Shadow
could remain
for the night. Crooks would be gone before he arrived.

The Shadow
had been balked in his pursuit; nevertheless, he had thwarted
criminals in their attempt to eliminate him. He had heard the voice of one man
who must certainly be a leader of the crooked band.
The Shadow
would recognize
those rasped tones when he heard them again.
Beneath the towering slopes beside the lonely road, a grim laugh quivered
in quiet night air. Fierce, strident, that mirth was heard only by the one who
uttered it.
That laugh was
The Shadow
's new challenge. It boded ill to men of crime.

CHAPTER IV

CROOKS AGREE

WITH his hearing of the voice beside the guard rail,
The Shadow
had formed
a mental picture of the man who had spoken. He had visualized a hardened face
with stony lips and sharp, glinting eyes. The image that
The Shadow
composed
was accurate.
The man who had sneered his evil glee was the hard-faced rogue who had
steered Harry Vincent into trouble - the same man who had visited the Southern
Garage in Riverport. He had followed
The Shadow
's car after his telephone call
ahead to warn the others.
That man of crime had left no trail. When morning came, he was far from
the deserted house near Riverport. In faultless attire, a cane beneath his arm,
he was riding in an elevator to the fiftieth story of a Manhattan skyscraper.
With a cigarette pursed between his sallow lips, he looked like a New York
business man en route to his office.
When he stepped from the elevator, the hard-faced man went directly to an
office that bore the legend:

GREAT AMERICAN POWER COMPANY

The door was the entrance to a suite. The hard-faced man entered a large
reception room and spoke to a girl who was seated at a desk. His lips were
eased into a confident smile; his tone held but a slight touch of its harshness
as he announced:
"I have come to see Mr. Huxley Drune."
"Your name, please?"
Politely, the hard-faced man tendered an engraved card. The girl read it;
then picked up a telephone. She pressed a button and received a response.
"Good morning, Mr. Drune," said the girl. "Mr. Gordon Colgarth is here to
see you."
Words came across the wire. The girl hung up and nodded to Colgarth.
"Go right in, sir," she said. "Mr. Drune's office is straight ahead."

HALF a minute later, Colgarth was closing a door behind him. He turned to
face a gray-haired man who was seated behind a large, flat-topped desk. Windows
beyond showed a panorama of New York's sky line. Withered of face, the gray
haired man studied his visitor solemnly. Colgarth delivered a hard smile.
"Hello, Drune," he greeted. "Here's the bacon."
Approaching the desk, the hard-faced man produced a slender stack of
papers and planked them in front of Drune. The gray-haired man thumbed the
papers slowly. His withered face displayed a satisfied smile. Drune laid the
papers aside.
"Good," he asserted, in a cold crackle. "Woldorf was worthwhile. You had
trouble, though."
"Not much," returned Colgarth. "There was a chap who looked like he was
covering Woldorf. I ran into him while I was leaving the hotel - right in the
middle of all the smoke and fire."
"You left him there?"
Drune's crackled query was significant; his face showed an expectant
gloat. Colgarth returned a hard grin.
"Better than that," he declared. "I gave him to the Salamander's."
Drune leaned back and chuckled.
"The truck left yesterday morning." continued Colgarth. "I met it at
Westhampton and kept it there until night. I went back to Riverport to see how
matters were."
"And found them satisfactory?"
"Not quite. Some meddlesome stranger found out about the truck. He slugged
Broddy and headed for Westhampton in a car. I was lucky enough to head him off.
I telephoned ahead and they gave him the blast. That was your idea, Drune,
having that charge set in the hill. It proved useful."
"I read about it," chortled Drune, tapping a newspaper on his desk. "Down
in Riverport, they think it was a new disaster. A landslide. No lives lost."
"There was one lost," put in Colgarth. "They'll never guess it, though.
That car was bowled down into the river underneath twenty tons of rock!"
Drune had swung about in his swivel chair. He was staring through a side
window; his face appeared reflective. Colgarth expected a question. Instead
Drune turned around. He picked up Woldorf's papers.
"We needed these," clucked Drune. "They are worth the trouble that we took
to get them. Woldorf had ambitions. He could never have realized them. This
stock gave him full control of one holding company; but that was all."
"Worth a full million," inserted Colgarth. "That's pretty good money."
"Only a trifle. With other securities, with options, this should be worth
ten millions. But Woldorf could never have secured the other stocks that he
needed."
"While we can."
Drune nodded as he replaced the papers on the desk.

"WE had three objectives," he asserted. "Woldorf's holdings were the
first. They have been gained. Next will come our acquisition of the securities
held by Lincoln Breel."
"Which will be easy," stated Colgarth. "The Salamanders worked perfectly
at Riverport. They can do as well here in New York."
"After that," continued Drune, "we must obtain the securities that belong
to the Cruikshank estate, in Sheffield. That means a bank robbery, Colgarth."
"We can handle the Sheffield National Bank. Everything is arranged, Drune.
The torches will be ready. The dynamite will be on the railroad siding. We know
that we can count on the Salamanders. There can be no trouble interrupting -"
Drune raised his hand in interruption. Solemnly, he shook his head.
"Remember, Colgarth," he asserted, "one job is not enough. We must hold
all the securities that we need. We must control every company involved. That
accomplished, we shall have a fifty-million-dollar proposition. I can make
Great American Power dominant. You say there can be no trouble. There was
trouble."
"Only from some dub who found out about the truck. He knows nothing else."
"Why did he suspect the truck at all?"
Drune's query was a sharp one. It made Colgarth wince. The hard-faced man
had no answer. His eyes showed alarm.
"I shall tell you why," asserted Drune, his crackly tone harsh. He leaned
across the desk and glared at Colgarth. "Because he traced everything, step by
step. He knew that Woldorf was in danger. He learned that the safe could have
been removed from the hotel. He went to find out about the truck."
Drune leaned back. Colgarth protested.
"That can't be!" he exclaimed. "No one could be wise enough to -"
"No one?" queried Drune, with a quick interruption. He chortled an ugly
laugh. "Do you call
The Shadow
no one?"
"
The Shadow
?"
Colgarth blurted the name. His hard lips quivered, then gained their stony
front. Drune watched the man's fists tighten.
"You're right, Drune!" rasped Colgarth. "It was
The Shadow
! I should have
known it, the way he handled Broddy! But I finished him.
The Shadow
is through!"
"So others have thought," reminded Drune. "They have invariably found
themselves mistaken."
Rising, the gray-haired man exhibited hunched shoulders. Tightening a
clawlike fist, he pounded hard upon the desk. The words that came from his dry
lips were emphatic.
"Be sure of nothing, Colgarth!" pronounced Drune. "Nothing where The
Shadow is concerned! Unless you see him dead, an absolute corpse, you can not
be sure that he is gone. Even then, he should be cremated; his ashes scattered
to the winds.
"You say
The Shadow
is buried in that river bed? Bah! He is as much alive
as you or I! Earth, water, even fire - those are mere elements.
The Shadow
can
conquer them. Those tons of rocks - that - river -"
Drune paused. His eyes showed shrewdness.
"Earth - water -" he repeated the words slowly. "They would not suffice.
But fire might. Very well,
The Shadow
shall have fire. We shall see, if he is
still alive, whether or not he can withstand the same ordeal as our
Salamanders."
"You're taking too much for granted, Drune," scoffed Colgarth. "I admit
that the meddler could have been
The Shadow
. It was also possible that he
escaped death. Nevertheless, we can forget him.
"The truck has reached New York. Every trail has been covered.
The Shadow

- if he lives - cannot even guess the secret of the Salamanders. They are ready
for their next duty, here in New York. Then to Sheffield, where my estate will
be our final headquarters. The spoils are ours, Drune. Fifty millions will
belong to us."
Drune was smiling sourly; his elbow was on the desk, his chin in his hand.
"We must cash those millions, Colgarth," He reminded. "Do you think we can
accomplish it?"
"You yourself have arranged the method, Drune. It will be a simple matter."
"While
The Shadow
lives?"
New alarm registered on Colgarth's hard face. Drune raised his head.
Wagging a forefinger, he drove home his message:
"Sooner or later, Colgarth,
The Shadow
will divine our game. We
accomplished crime in Riverport. We shall succeed here in New York and at your
home city of Sheffield. With the Salamanders to aid us, our work is purely
mechanical.
"But
The Shadow
will remain a menace, if we permit him to stay at large.
Even if we proceeded too rapidly for him to overtake us, our venture will be
threatened later. We have only one logical course, Colgarth."
"And what is that?"
Drune chuckled as he heard Colgarth's question. Tilting back in his chair,
the power magnate spoke sagely.
"
The Shadow
will seek a trail," he predicted. "Very well. He shall gain
one - a trail that shall lead him straight to the scene of our next crime."
"To Breel's house?"
"Yes. Where disaster will overwhelm
The Shadow
. You tried earth and water,
Colgarth. I shall use fire."
Colgarth's eyes shone in admiration of his evil partner's scheme. Then a
question rasped from his lips:
"How can we bait
The Shadow
?"

IN answer, Drune opened a drawer of the desk. He produced a letter.
Holding it between his hands, he eyed Colgarth and stated:
"Chester Woldorf had an office here in New York?"
"Yes," returned Colgarth. "In the Greystone Building. His name, however,
was not listed."
"
The Shadow
, nevertheless, should find that office."
"Yes, if he is as good as he is supposed to be. But
The Shadow
will find
no clues there. You removed them, Drune."
"I shall replace one clue."
Chuckling, Drune held up the letter. "Chester Woldorf wrote to Lincoln
Breel," he reminded. "That is how we learned that Woldorf intended to be at
Riverport."
Colgarth nodded.
"Breel replied to Woldorf's letter," continued Drune. "This letter came
from Breel. Woldorf never received it. I found the letter, unopened in
Woldorf's office at the Greystone Building."
Another nod from Colgarth.
"Very well," concluded Drune, in a precise tone. "I shall replace the
letter where I found it.
The Shadow
, when he discovers the office, will read
the letter."
A pause; then Drune added:
"
The Shadow
will come to Breel's."
Colgarth stroked his hard chin; anxiously, he inquired:
"Will that be before or after we make our stroke at Breel's?"
"Neither," returned Drune, with a savage chortle. "We shall hold crime
until a definite moment. We shall await a signal; then we can make our thrust."
"And that signal?"
"Will be
The Shadow
's own arrival. All will be prepared for that
occurrence. Our torches will be ready; our watchers posted -"
"And the Salamanders?"
"They will be at their station. Everything will move as scheduled,
Colgarth. We shall gain our spoils; and with that gain,
The Shadow
will be
destroyed."
Leering, Colgarth thrust his hand across the desk. Drune received it with
an iron grip. The pact was made. Partners in crime had agreed upon their plan.
Colgarth departed. Soon afterward, Drune strolled from his office. Clad in
hat and coat, the power magnate paused in the reception room. In a dry tone, he
told the girl there that he would return within an hour.
In his pocket, Huxley Drune was carrying the letter that he had shown to
Gordon Colgarth. Drune was on his way to plant the missive that would seal the
Shadow's doom.

CHAPTER V

THE TRAIL REGAINED

LATE that same afternoon, a pedestrian stepped aboard a taxicab near Times
Square. In level tones, he ordered the driver to take him to the Greystone
Building. Glancing over his shoulder, the taxi driver caught a glimpse of an
impassive, hawk-faced passenger.

The Shadow
had returned to New York. Hours of investigation had produced
the result that Huxley Drune had expected.
The Shadow
had learned of Chester
Woldorf's office at the Greystone Building.
As he rode along,
The Shadow
studied report sheets. Aided by competent
agents, he had gained some facts concerning Chester Woldorf. The man who had
died in the Riverport hotel fire was something of a mystery figure in financial
circles.
Wall Street men had known Woldorf. They had guessed that he had money, but
had finally classed him as a speculator. Only
The Shadow
had divined Woldorf's
real purpose.
The Shadow
knew that Woldorf had been acquiring securities that
would give him control of important holding companies.
The dead man had posed as a speculator merely to cover his real
activities. He had succeeded, in that game, so far as the public was concerned.

The Shadow
knew, however, that crooks had learned of Woldorf's true capacity.
Men of crime had slain Woldorf to gain his holdings. But of what sort were
those holdings? Oil - mines - shipping - manufactures - power?
Any one might be the answer. So might a host of others.
The Shadow
knew
only that Woldorf had sought mastery of some specialized field, that the dead
man, though shrewd, had been honest in his efforts.
There was a chance that the riddle of Woldorf's purpose could be answered
through a visit to the office that had been Woldorf's mailing address in New
York.

ARRIVING at the Greystone Building,
The Shadow
entered the lobby in a
leisurely fashion. Apparently, he was unconcerned with persons about him.
Actually, he was eyeing every face.

The Shadow
noted the man behind the cigar stand. As he made a purchase and
paused to light a cigar, he observed the elevator starter; also the operators of
all the cars that were waiting with opened doors. Well did
The Shadow
know that
Woldorf's office might prove to be a trap.
Satisfied that no agents of crime were watching,
The Shadow
entered an
elevator and rode to the eighth floor. When he stepped from the car, he waited
a few moments, then chose a stairway that led up to the ninth.
Reaching the corridor above, he studied various closed doors. Sure that no
lookouts were posted, he approached a door that bore the number 906.

The Shadow
produced a ring of skeleton keys. His first choice was the
right one. Probing the lock of 906,
The Shadow
was rewarded by a slight click.
He turned the key and entered the office. Closing the door behind him, The
Shadow pocketed the keys and produced a heavy automatic pistol. He laid the
weapon upon a near-by desk, in case of trouble.

The Shadow
doubted that there would be a surprise attack in this
well-tenanted office building. Nevertheless, he was prepared for any emergency.
Daylight was fading. The windows, however, still produced sufficient light
for
The Shadow
to make a search without betraying his presence by turning on the
electric lights. There were two places that called for inspection. One was the
desk; the other, a small filing cabinet.
Five minutes was all that
The Shadow
required to complete his preliminary
search. In that time, he found nothing of consequence. The desk drawers
contained pencils, blank stationery and paper clips. The filing cabinet held
nothing but steamship circulars and railroad time-tables.
Either Woldorf or some other person had cleared this office of all
telltale contents.

The Shadow
removed the drawers from the desk. Peering into the hollow, he
saw something white. It proved to be an envelope, stamped and postmarked, torn
open at the top. The envelope was addressed to Chester Woldorf, at this office.

The Shadow
removed the letter from the envelope. He unfolded it and read a
brief, scrawled note:

Dear Woldorf:
Sorry, but your plan does not appeal. Do not expect to hear
from me when you reach Riverport. Am leaving tonight for the
Adirondacks. Will be home in about ten days, perhaps sooner.
Sincerely,
Lincoln Breel.

Studying the letter,
The Shadow
promptly gained its full meaning. He had
been right. Chester Woldorf must have held control of important companies. To
strengthen his position, Woldorf had sought some arrangement with Breel.
A logical procedure. Every one knew of Lincoln Breel, wizard of finance,
whose contacts were many and whose methods were devious. Breel had lost
millions in a stock market crash.
He had gone into retirement, apparently soured with the world. But those
who knew Breel held their doubts. They claimed that despite his losses, he
still held wealth.

SOME day, it had been predicted, Lincoln Breel would come out from
retirement and begin a new campaign of finance. It was believed that Breel had
acquired key stocks that would give him dominance in certain fields of industry.
No one, however, had hazarded a guess as to Breel's particular specialty.
When it became known, it would arrive as a bombshell.
From one riddle,
The Shadow
had arrived at another. He still had no clue
regarding Woldorf's plans. He knew only that they must be identical with those
that Breel had undertaken. That, however, shifted the mystery from Woldorf to
Breel.
What Woldorf, dead, could not answer, Breel, alive, could. At present,
however, Breel was still absent from New York. The postmark on the envelope -
the date on the letter - both showed the correspondence to be eight days old.
Breel had stated that he would be home in about ten.
A soft laugh issued from
The Shadow
's disguised lips. A super-sleuth, The
Shadow had seen another meaning to this letter.
Chester Woldorf had never received it!
The deduction was plain. Had Woldorf received the letter, he would
certainly not have misplaced it. Nor would he have gone to Riverport, for the
letter stated that he would not hear from Breel when he reached that city.
Woldorf had written Breel. Convinced that the financial genius would be
interested in his terms, Woldorf had not waited for a reply by mail.
Who, then, had opened the letter?

The Shadow
knew the answer. Some man behind the game of crime. There could
be only one reason why the rogue had not kept it. He had planted it in this very
office as bait for just such an investigator as
The Shadow
.
Though
The Shadow
did not know the identity of Huxley Drune, he clearly
traced the super-crook's game. He knew exactly what Drune wanted. That was a
visit, by
The Shadow
, to the home of Lincoln Breel.
Pocketing the letter,
The Shadow
stowed his automatic beneath his coat. He
left the office and took an elevator on the same floor. He had no further need
to look for spies. He knew that the master crook would have posted none.
Watchers might have spoiled the bait.
In the lobby of the Greystone Building,
The Shadow
entered a telephone
booth and put in a call. He gave instructions over the wire. Facts were to be
assembled promptly; all available data concerning Lincoln Breel must be gained
by agents and sent through to their chief. With such at hand,
The Shadow
would
prepare his next move.

EARLY evening found
The Shadow
in his sanctum - the hidden abode that
served him as headquarters in New York. Beneath a bluish lamp, long-fingered
hands opened a six-by-nine mailing envelope. From this,
The Shadow
produced
papers.
Agents had done well. From Mann, an investment broker,
The Shadow
had
gained accurate facts concerning Lincoln Breel. The financial wizard's home was
a secluded brownstone mansion in a block on the West Side. Breel, it appeared,
had chosen that locality because the houses close to his were untenanted. Breel
had no love for neighbors.
It was known generally that Breel had gone to the Adirondacks, but no one
could give the location of his obscure hunting lodge. Breel had not returned
from his trip to the mountain region; but his arrival was expected. Breel was
accustomed to go and come as he chose, with no set announcement of his plans.
There were three servants at Breel's home; all were old retainers who had
been in his service for many years. Except for these employees, Breel lived
alone.
From Burke, a newspaper reporter,
The Shadow
had a report that tabbed
closely with Mann's. In addition, he found a photograph of Lincoln Breel. It
showed a heavy-browed face distinguished by a Vandyke beard.
The Shadow
studied
the flowing hair above the forehead; he noted every detail of the countenance.

The Shadow
had seen Breel in the past; he remembered the financier's
precise manner of speech in addition to these facial characteristics. The
photograph enabled
The Shadow
to improve his recollection of Breel's
appearance. A soft laugh whispered in the darkness above the shaded lamp. The
Shadow picked up the photograph, then clicked off the light.
Soon, a light glowed elsewhere in the sanctum. The illumination showed The
Shadow's hawkish features reflected in a mirror. Set against the looking-glass
was Breel's photograph.
The Shadow
opened a make-up kit.
Then began a remarkable process.
Dab by dab, feature by feature,
The Shadow
changed his countenance. Long
fingers pressed waxlike substance against the hawklike face. Molding his face,

The Shadow
built up the contour of his forehead. He added constructive touches
to his cheeks, filling them, tapering their shape to resemble the outline of
Breel's countenance.
The Shadow
's nose lost its hawkish aspect.
With spirit gum,
The Shadow
added a goatee that was a perfect replica of
Breel's. His final touch was a wavy wig that resembled the financier's flowing
hair.
This required rearrangement; artfully,
The Shadow
perfected the final
feature of his disguise. He lifted the photograph and compared it with his own
reflection.

DETAIL for detail,
The Shadow
's physiognomy matched the distinguished face
of Lincoln Breel. Had
The Shadow
chosen to visit Wall Street in this disguise,
Breel's own friends would have passed the word that the financier had emerged
from retirement.
Wall Street, however, was not
The Shadow
's goal. His destination was to be
Breel's own home, where servants, instead of friends, would believe that their
master had returned. As Breel,
The Shadow
saw opportunity for an investigation
that might lead him to men of crime.
Schemers would be watching for
The Shadow
. Unquestionably they were
covering Breel's home. Battle with a cordon of crooks would produce no material
gain for
The Shadow
. His desire was to enter the trap while watchers maintained
their vigil; to keep them lulled and waiting while he had time to learn all
that was possible concerning Breel's affairs.
Through this clever process of deception,
The Shadow
could arrive at
Breel's home openly. By fooling Breel's own servants he would be able to go
through the house as he chose.
The Shadow
was planning craft instead of stealth.
The light clicked off beside the mirror. A final laugh quivered through
the sanctum.
The Shadow
was departing amid total darkness; within the next hour
he would be at his goal.
The Shadow
had prepared a game to out-match the scheme
of his unknown foeman, Huxley Drune.
Well had
The Shadow
planned; but he had not yet learned the full extent of
Drune's machinations. Clever though his method was,
The Shadow
had chosen an
unfortunate method.
Due to circumstances unknown to him,
The Shadow
was adding to the danger
that awaited. In using craft instead of stealth,
The Shadow
was playing
straight into the hands of Huxley Drune.

CHAPTER VI

THE VOICE OF DEATH

IT was exactly nine o'clock when a taxicab stopped in front of Breel's old
mansion. All was silent on this obscure Manhattan street. One spot alone was
free from darkness. That was the top step of the brownstone flight that stood
in front of Lincoln Breel's home.
There, servants had turned on a brilliant light. The glare testified that
they expected their master hourly. The light was to
The Shadow
's liking. It
offered him an opportunity to display his guise to watchers from the darkness.
As the taxi rolled away,
The Shadow
ascended the steps. He was carrying a
suitcase; he placed it beside the door. Turning half toward the street, he
removed a pair of gloves and began to reach in his pockets as if searching for
a key.
The glow from above the doorway shone directly upon
The Shadow
's face. It
showed the detailed features of Lincoln Breel. The Vandyke beard was
conspicuous in the light.

The Shadow
showed annoyance at being unable to find his key. He thrust his
gloves into his pocket. He shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the door.
With short jabs, he pressed the doorbell, in impatient fashion.
Eyes were watching.

The Shadow
had almost felt their presence. With sidelong gaze, he had
spotted a vacant house across the street, where shuttered windows tilted
outward at a trifling angle. Behind those shutters were men of crime, noting
the arrival of the pretended Lincoln Breel.

The Shadow
gave no inkling of his knowledge. He had chosen to play the
part of an unsuspecting man returning to his home.
The front door opened. A servant eyed
The Shadow
, then bowed in welcome.
Entering,
The Shadow
handed the suitcase to the servant, then turned to another
menial who had also arrived at the door. The second servant helped
The Shadow

take off his coat.
"Carry that suitcase upstairs, Yocum," ordered
The Shadow
, in a precise,
but short-clipped tone. "Place it in my study."
"Certainly, Mr. Breel."
"And you may go, Tobias," added
The Shadow
, to the second servant. "I
shall be in the strong-room, where I do not wish to be disturbed."
The second servant bowed and departed.

THE SHADOW walked to the rear of the hall. Reaching an alcove, he paused
before a heavy door. This time, when he reached into his pocket, he produced a
set of special picks.
In the report concerning Breel,
The Shadow
had not only learned the names
and descriptions of the financier's servants; he had also gained facts
regarding the house.
Breel had a strong-room on the ground floor. It housed a large safe that
probably held Breel's private fortune. The second-floor study was a room
wherein Breel received occasional callers.

The Shadow
expected a task with the strong-room door. The fact that Breel
was willing to leave the house in charge of his servants was proof that both
the strong-room and its safe would be formidable.

The Shadow
had deceived the servants completely with his disguise; but he
had dismissed them abruptly because he did not want them to watch his efforts
at the door of the strong-room. He knew that they would wonder why he did not
unlock the door immediately.
Picks clicked softly within the lock; but the door did not yield. The
Shadow had encountered a formidable obstacle. This barrier required patience.
Once in the strong-room,
The Shadow
would have time to dally with the safe. For
the present, however, he had to remember the servants. Their possible suspicions
could not be disregarded.
Close against the door,
The Shadow
continued his probe. One pick was
working. Deft fingers pressed. The pick failed to hold. Carefully,
The Shadow

started to repeat his maneuver. He stopped abruptly as he heard a faint sound
from upstairs. It was the ringing of a telephone bell.
Stepping from the alcove,
The Shadow
listened at the foot of the stairs.
He heard the voice of the two servants. Yocum had met Tobias in the upstairs
hall.
"A call for Mr. Breel -"
"He is in the strong-room, Yocum."
"I shall inform him."
"The master does not wish to be disturbed."
"But the call may be important, Tobias."
"I am repeating the order that was given me -"

The Shadow
thrust his face past the post at the bottom of the stairs. He
called up to the servants.
"Come! What is the trouble?"
It was Tobias who answered: "A telephone call, Mr. Breel."
"Very well."
The Shadow
spoke testily as he pocketed his picks. "I shall
answer it."

THE SHADOW showed no haste as he ascended the stairway. At the top, he saw
the open door of a lighted room and knew that it must be the study. In dignified
fashion, he walked past the servants. At the doorway, he turned and delivered an
impatient gesture. The servants went downstairs.
The study door was open, inward. Its base was blocked tightly by a rug.
Apparently, Breel seldom closed the door; but
The Shadow
decided to do so.
Chances were that this call would be for him.
Burbank,
The Shadow
's chief contact man, knew that his chief had gone to
Breel's. To talk with Burbank,
The Shadow
needed privacy.
Despite
The Shadow
's caution as he turned the knob, the latch clicked
sharply. The sound did not trouble
The Shadow
. The two servants had gone
downstairs; they could not have heard the sound.
A telephone was resting on a desk beside a curtained window. The receiver
was off the hook.
The Shadow
raised it and spoke in Breel's precise tone.
"Hello."
There was no response.
The Shadow
spoke again, in testy fashion.
"Hello... This is Mr. Breel..."
A harsh chuckle sounded from the receiver. It carried a gloating tone.
That chortle was issued by Huxley Drune.
Though
The Shadow
did not know the identity of the master foe, he
recognized at once that he was in direct contact with the criminal whom he had
sought to thwart.
Was this a message for Lincoln Breel?

The Shadow
had a way to learn. That was to continue his role of Breel.
Impatiently, he demanded:
"Come! Who is on the wire?"
Drune's answer was raucous in its glee. Avoiding all mention of his own
name, Drune expressed a fiendish challenge that marked him only as the foe that

The Shadow
sought.
"You found my bait," came Drune's triumphant crackle. "You are
The Shadow
.
You were crafty, to play the part of Lincoln Breel. But therein lay your own
folly. You,
The Shadow
, gave away your game. It was impossible for Lincoln
Breel to return to his home.
"Breel is dead. His life was ended three days ago, by my own hand. His
body lies buried deep beneath his hunting lodge. When you entered Breel's house
tonight, I knew you for
The Shadow
."
A pause; then with evil emphasis, Drune added: "You have served my purpose
well. You came as Lincoln Breel; you shall die as Lincoln Breel. Servants will
bear testimony to the fact that Breel returned to New York. You are trapped. I
heard the click of the door that locked your prison. Earth and water did not
doom you. Fire will!"

A CLICK followed Drune's prophecy.
The Shadow
was standing with a dead
receiver in his hand. He clattered it upon the hook. He swung toward the window
and hauled back the curtains. Massive iron shutters showed beyond the glass. The
Shadow knew that the master fiend had seen to it that they were clamped on the
outside.

The Shadow
reached the door. The knob spun uselessly in his hand. Another
of Drune's devices. Arranged for Breel but never used. Murder in the
Adirondacks had made it unnecessary in Breel's case. The self-locking door had
served to snare
The Shadow
.
The door was massive, heavy-paneled, as formidable as the barrier that
blocked Breel's strong-room on the floor below. It was an obstacle that no one
man could conquer bare-handed. It stood between
The Shadow
and the path to
safety.
For, already, shouts were proving Drune's prediction that fire would be

The Shadow
's foe. From below came the frenzied shrieks of Breel's servants.
They were giving the loud-lunged alarm in one wailed word:
"Fire!"

The Shadow
heard the cry within his prison.
Grimly, he faced the door that blocked escape.

CHAPTER VII

FOEMEN OF THE FLAMES

FRANTIC footsteps pounded on the stairs.
The Shadow
heard beating fists
against the heavy door. Voices of frightened servants shouted in confusion:
"Mr. Breel! The house is ablaze!"

The Shadow
waited until the hubbub subsided. Then, in loud, testy tones,
he answered:
"The door will not open. Smash it down."
"No time, sir!" It was Yocum who gasped the cry. "The fire is everywhere,
Mr. Breel -"
There were scudding footsteps. The other two servants were fleeing
downstairs. Yocum blurted something about getting aid.
The Shadow
heard him
dash away. With their last chance for escape, the servants had been forced to
abandon their supposed master.
A hissing crackle told
The Shadow
that the servants had not exaggerated
the menace. The odor of smoke was heavy through the crack beneath the door. The
Shadow realized that incendiaries had been posted in the empty houses that
adjoined this one. Paid "torches," they had fed the flames with oil.
Breel's house was doomed. Despite its stone walls, it was a fire trap,
with wooden beams, laths that would flame like kindling. Its fate would soon
match the destruction that had overwhelmed the hotel in Riverport.

The Shadow
had waited in hope that the servants might effect a rescue. He
had entered this house as Breel. He had intended to depart in the same guise,
to prove his contempt of Drune's prophecy. That chance was ended.
With quick hands,
The Shadow
plucked away his false beard. He tugged the
puttylike mold from his face. He whisked away the wig that topped his head.

THIS room contained no object that could be used as a battering-ram to
smash the door. Drune knew it: that was why he had fully depended upon the
trap. But
The Shadow
, himself, had dispatched a useful item to the room.
He turned to the suitcase that the servant had carried upstairs.
Deliberately,
The Shadow
placed the flat bag upon Breel's desk.
From the bag, he produced a black cloak that he immediately slid over his
shoulder. He lifted a slouch hat and clamped it to his head. A brace of
automatics went beneath his cloak.

The Shadow
then picked up thin, black gloves and laid them to one side.
From a little pocket at the side of the bag, he removed three small bottles,
which were separately packed.
One bottle contained a black powder that resembled graphite. Stepping to
the door,
The Shadow
poured a line of powder along the opening at the bottom of
the barrier. From the second bottle, he added a thin stream of grayish powder
that formed a weaving line through the black.
The last bottle held a colorless liquid. Uncorking it,
The Shadow
blobbed
the entire contents along the line of mixed powder. Wheeling, he crossed the
room. Crouched behind the desk,
The Shadow
muffled his head in the folds of his
cloak and waited. The intermission was brief.
A sudden blast shook the room. The air shivered as it compressed and
coughed a puffing echo to the explosion. When
The Shadow
arose, he sniffed a
pungent odor that was stronger than the oily smell of the fire.
The heavy door was loose upon its hinges, half-tilted into the room. It
was a barrier no longer. Springing to the door,
The Shadow
wrenched an opening.
He pressed outward into the upstairs hall.

The Shadow
had come prepared to blast his way into Breel's strong-room, if
all other devices failed and entrance would have proved necessary. Trapped in
the study, he had made use of the chemical powders that he had brought for
another purpose.
The Shadow
had offset the snare devised by Drune.
Had he escaped too late?
Volumes of smoke were pouring upward from the floor below. His head
muffled deep in folds of his black cloak,
The Shadow
groped his way downward.
He was taking the outlet that Breel's servants had utilized; but they had
gained a start before the fire had reached its present intensity.
Even through the black cloth of his cloak,
The Shadow
could see licking
tongues of flame, devouring the woodwork on the ground floor, gnawing at the
rails of the banister.
Outside, alarms were clanging; sirens had joined with a wail. Manhattan
fire engines were arriving; but even efficient firemen would be balked.
The flames were fed by oil.

THE ground floor was an inferno when
The Shadow
reached it. The whole
front of the house was ablaze with fire. Crackling from the other direction
told that the rear of the building was a furnace. One spot alone offered
temporary security. That was the alcove in the very center of the house, where
the door of the strong-room loomed.

The Shadow
retreated to that refuge. He placed his hand upon the knob of
the strong-room door. He wrenched. The door swung inward. Firelight, vivid
everywhere, gave
The Shadow
a complete view of the strong-room before blackish
smoke poured inward.
The strong-room was completely empty.

The Shadow
's laugh came strident amid the crackling of devouring flames.
His sinister mirth was significant.
The Shadow
had expected this discovery.
As at Riverport, a safe had been removed under the cover of a terrific
fire. The strong-room had been opened while
The Shadow
was still trapped in the
study. Drune's henchmen had come, carrying Breel's own keys. They had opened the
strong-room; they had removed the safe bodily.
Outside, clangor told that no criminals would have dared to leave by any
door.
The Shadow
knew their only route. They had come through the cellars, from
one house to another, until they had reached Breel's. Their only outlet was the
path by which they had arrived.
Beneath the stairway was a door, also protected in this alcove.
The Shadow

ripped the door open; he saw a stairway to the cellar: He, too, had a route to
safety. Through keen deduction,
The Shadow
had gained his chance for escape.
Stumbling through the smoke, he descended, yanking the door shut behind him.
Fierce flames hissed; a burst of fire swept the alcove. A wall tumbled;
blazing beams covered the very spot where
The Shadow
had been, but moments
before. Sizzling, crackling, the fire roared like an angry monster deprived of
a helpless victim.
Free from the fire's wrath,
The Shadow
had reached the bottom of the
steps. There was smoke in the cellar; from the cloudy mass, flames were rising
to consume wooden bins and boxes. The blaze, however, had not reached a high
intensity.
The stone floors offered pathways.
The Shadow
groped through sweeping
smoke. He knew that the cold air from some pathway was blowing the smoke in his
direction.
His head enveloped in his cloak,
The Shadow
continued through the smoke.
Despite his upraised arm, with its folds of cloth, he could sense the thickness
of the oily cloud about him. Suddenly, the atmosphere cleared.
The Shadow
had
passed through the smoke. He was near the outlet that he knew existed. The
Shadow dropped his arm; he stopped his progress instantly.
Off to the side of the cellar was an opening in the wall. It was a passage
leading to the house next door. Flames, shooting sparks, showed that the
adjoining cellar was ablaze. The outlet offered hazard. But it was not that
fact that caused
The Shadow
's halt.

FRAMED against the glow of the passage were enemies, perhaps the strangest
that
The Shadow
had ever encountered. Grotesque foemen stood to block The
Shadow's path.
They were men, attired in bulky garments that looked like diving suits.
Above their chunky shoulders were round helmets with glass fronts, through
which peered glaring faces. In this distorted scene, they had the appearance of
demons.
There were eight men in the group. Each was provided with a hose line that
came through from the adjoining cellar. Just as divers are equipped to fare to
the ocean's bottom, so were these interlopers protected against flames.
Massive gloves formed a portion of each uniform. With clumsy hands, these
brawny invaders were setting down a heavy iron box. It was Breel's safe, that
they had lugged from the strong-room on the floor above. The fireproof men had
heard
The Shadow
's approach. They had stopped their departure in order to meet
the lone pursuer.
They were human Salamanders, these foemen of the flames. Like mythical
creatures who could live in fire, they had no fear of the blaze about them.
Drune, the master crook had chosen fire as the cover by which he could
accomplish robbery. He had also devised equipment that enabled his henchmen to
do their work with safety and precision.
The Salamanders had removed the safe from the Riverport hotel. They were
carrying off Breel's strong-box in the same bodily fashion. They were capable,
however, of a different duty. They were ready to fight any one who tried to
block their work.
Odds were with the Salamanders. They could defy the flames.
The Shadow
,
unprotected against the roaring fire, was confronted by a double menace. The
blaze was behind him; the Salamanders stood in front. Moreover, they had
weapons, a sort more deadly than guns.
With clumsy hands, the human monsters were drawing pipe-like torches from
belts at their waists. Thick-gloved thumbs were fumbling with catches that
topped the strange weapons.
The Shadow
could guess that those pipes were
designed to issue withering blasts of flame.

FROM above, a crackle told that minutes of safety were few. The ceiling of
the cellar was yielding to the fire. Soon beams would topple, blazing. The
Shadow would be entombed in a fiery pit.
Already, the stairs from the ground floor were on fire.
The Shadow
could
see bright tongues amid the smoke as he turned for a quick glance over his
shoulder.
Venomously, two Salamanders were advancing; another pair were ready for
the march. Creatures of doom, they intended to drive back
The Shadow
at close
range; to force him to a corner where either flame or blowtorches would wither
him to death.
In coming from the upstairs trap,
The Shadow
had found another mesh, more
desperate than the one that he had left.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ODDS FAIL

EVEN in this moment of complete desperation,
The Shadow
chose a course. He
took the choice that no other would have accepted, a return to the flames.
Close-range battle with the Salamanders would have been suicidal. It was better
to dare the fire.
Whirling about,
The Shadow
plunged into the smoke at the front of the
cellar. Beams fell, blazing. Flames licked from the stacks of burning boxes.
The smoke, itself, was blinding. Yet
The Shadow
leaped forward, almost to the
toppling stairway.
Escape was impossible up the steps. They were a mass of flames. The
Shadow, however, had not intended flight. As he reached the front wall of the
cellar, he turned. From his cloak, he whipped a pair of automatics.
Smoke obscured the Salamanders; but they gave signs of their deliberate
advance. Long jets of flame roared from their blowtorches, jabbing through the
smoke, blindly seeking
The Shadow
as a target. Those singeing blasts did not
reach the wall beside the stairs.

The Shadow
had understood the reason for the prompt advance that the
Salamanders had made. Their blowtorches could work only at close range, within
a radius of about twelve feet.
The Shadow
, through his quick dart, had placed a
full twenty feet between himself and the icemen. Through that strategy, he had
gained short seconds in which to use weapons of his own.

The Shadow
jabbed shots with his automatics, firing toward the fiery jets
that sought him as a target. Somehow, his bullets seemed futile. The smoke -
the weaving firelight - all distorted
The Shadow
's vision. Dropping beams made
him shift as he fired.
Moreover, only two of The Salamanders had led the advance. Despite their
fireproof suits, they did not care to come beneath a mass of falling timbers.
Two thrusts of withering fire jets were advancing in the face of
The Shadow
's
shots. A few seconds more, those blasts would sweep
The Shadow
's wall.
Suddenly, one fire jet stopped.
The Shadow
had scored a hit. One
Salamander clipped, he aimed grimly for the other, pumping bullets through the
smoke. The jet ceased; then began again. The second Salamander was retreating.

THE SHADOW ceased his fire. He waited amid terrific heat, close against
the wall, one cloaked arm raised to protect his stinging eyes. He realized why
his shots had not been accurate. Blinding smoke had handicapped his vision.
Nevertheless,
The Shadow
had gained hope.
One Salamander down, the other had wavered. When
The Shadow
had ceased
firing, the surviving Salamander had been ready to believe that his torch had
found the victim or that
The Shadow
had succumbed to the flames. That
Salamander was returning to the others, to tell them that there was no need to
stay.
Huddled in the smoke,
The Shadow
lingered, undetermined how soon he should
proceed in the direction of the Salamanders. His decision was forced by the
blaze about him. A roar sounded in the cellar; the entire stairway gave. A huge
sheet of fire, the entire mass tumbled sidelong toward
The Shadow
. With it,
beams thundered downward. The whole front ceiling was in collapse.

The Shadow
took the only possible course. He hurried through the smoke,
toward the rear of the cellar, seeking the Salamanders in preference to the hot
flames. Spark-shooting woodwork crashed about him.
One burning beam glanced from his shoulder. Half staggering,
The Shadow

stumbled clear of the smoke and sprawled upon the stone floor. Rolling over, he
looked for the Salamanders.
They were through the opening to the next cellar. Five were lugging
Breel's safe; two were hauling away the prone Salamander whom
The Shadow
had
dropped with a bullet.
This pair saw
The Shadow
as he sprawled. They reached for their
blowtorches. They were too late.
The Shadow
had an automatic in his fist.
Dropping their comrade, the two Salamanders leaped beyond the five who
carried the safe, showing speed despite their clumsy garb.
The Shadow
fired
twice; again, his smarting eyes handicapped him. The Salamanders had shifted,
to present a broad side of the safe toward
The Shadow
. The bullets from The
Shadow's .45 were flattened as they clanged the steel surface.
Two cartridges were all that remained in that gun.
The Shadow
whipped up
his second automatic. He did not use it. As he aimed, a huge beam fell between
him and the Salamanders. Blazing sparks formed a curtain; smoke poured downward
and completely blocked the scene.
The seven Salamanders were gone.
The Shadow
was caught in a seething oven.
Even the stone floor was scorching. Flames from the adjoining cellar told that
the Salamanders had departed through another pit of roaring heat.

RISING,
The Shadow
followed. He stopped short at the opening in the wall.
The Salamanders had gone from sight. The next cellar was an inferno. Prompt
death faced
The Shadow
. For a moment, he stood motionless, ready to accept his
doom.
A peculiar hissing hissed steadily at
The Shadow
's feet. Blinking as he
peered downward,
The Shadow
saw the Salamander whom he had shot with a chance
bullet. The man's body was half beneath a burning beam. No longer bulky, the
grotesque figure looked pitiful.
Grasping the clothy shoulders,
The Shadow
dragged the Salamander to one
clear spot beside the wall. The rogue was dead; the reason for his deflated
uniform was explained. It involved that steady hiss.
The Salamander's suit was of asbestos cloth, much oversized. It was
rubber-lined; the air hose, also of asbestos, kept it inflated under ordinary
conditions.
The Shadow
's bullet had punctured asbestos and rubber; the suit had
emptied like a broken toy balloon.
Nevertheless, air was still issuing through from the hose. It was cool
air, that sizzled from the bullet hole. Off in another house, the Salamanders
had a portable air-cooling plant, that provided them with air, not only fresh,
but constantly cool. They were protected against heat as well as suffocation.
The helmet was a metal framework, covered with asbestos cloth. It had not
lost its bulk. Fumbling at the neck of the helmet,
The Shadow
found a tiny
lever. He pressed it the helmet came open.
The Shadow
saw a sweat-streaked face
that glared, even in death.
Tugging the helmet free,
The Shadow
pulled at the Salamander's uniform and
stripped it from the dead man's body. The fire was encroaching upon this last
spot of refuge. The heat was stifling; it was with difficulty that
The Shadow

managed to don the uniform and fix the helmet in place.
His hands were in clumsy gloves.
The Shadow
found trouble in clasping the
spot by the bullet hole. At last he gripped it and twisted asbestos and rubber
into one tight mass, which he held firmly with both hands. The fire suit
inflated. The air from the hose brought a terrific chill.
Keeping a firm hold on the punctured portion of the suit,
The Shadow

followed the route of the Salamanders. His eyes could see clearly through the
glass. He entered the next cellar and picked his way through a tumbled mass of
ceiling that threw up sparks as his asbestos boots encountered it.

The Shadow
reached another cellar by following the line of the hose. In
this house, the ceiling was still solid; but the cellar itself was filled with
oily, burning rubbish.
All seemed secure until
The Shadow
saw a motion of the hose ahead of him.
It was moving forward, rapidly. Doubled coils came snakily from behind The
Shadow and passed him with speed.
The Salamanders had reached their base - a cellar free of fire. They were
hauling in the loose hose to drag the body of the dead Salamander to them.

THE hose tightened suddenly. As
The Shadow
groped to another fume-filled
cellar, he could feel the steady pull. Suddenly, it stopped. Off ahead, the
Salamanders had begun to wonder.
The Shadow
knew the questions that perplexed
them.
Why had the hose pulled so easily, then suddenly offered resistance?
The Salamanders must have guessed the answer. Until this moment, The
Shadow had been conscious of a hiss behind his ears, the working of a safety
valve that prevented over-pressure from the air that was continuously pumping
through. That hiss ceased. The suit dropped loosely from
The Shadow
's
shoulders. The air supply had ended. The Salamanders had kept up pressure in
hope that their comrade was still alive. They had known, though, that he could
not march through to follow them. That was why they had tugged the hose. The
Salamanders at last knew the truth.

The Shadow
could not go on to meet them. Entrenched, the Salamanders would
be ready with scorching flame, once they had blocked the path. Without the air
supply, the asbestos suit would smother its wearer.
The Shadow
's one chance was
to try escape from this house, two doors away from Breel's.
Divesting himself of the Salamander's suit,
The Shadow
again groped
through the smoke. He was looking for a stairway, like the one at Breel's. He
found it and gained an unlocked door at the top. His path was lighted by a mass
of flames.
Drune's torches had seen to it that there would be fire here. They had
made a long route of fire to cover the movements of the Salamanders.
The blaze, though furious, formed a shell about the inner walls. The
woodwork had been oiled. The stairs to the second floor were greasy; but the
flames had not commenced to lick them. No longer encased in a Salamander's
outfit,
The Shadow
climbed the stairs in agile fashion.
His speedy action was necessary. As he reached the top of the stairs,
flames licked the bottom. With a roar, the fire came ripping upward, dashing
devastating tongues along
The Shadow
's trail.
Smoke was everywhere; but
The Shadow
found a doorway. He pressed into a
rear room of the house and saw an outlined window. With sweeping arm and
shoulder,
The Shadow
smashed the glass. Coughing, he crawled through to an
outside sill, lowered himself to full length and dropped to a courtyard beneath.
The entire block was burning. Fire engines were parked by a rear-street
hydrant when
The Shadow
reached it. Pausing in one sheltered spot that the
ruddy glow of flames did not reach,
The Shadow
looked along the street. He saw
a truck pull from an alleyway where there was no blaze.
The Salamanders had gone. There was no chance to overtake them. Creatures
of fire had escaped with their spoils.

AN old roadster came along the street. It stopped abruptly near where The
Shadow stood. Firemen shouted angrily at the occupants, who growled in return.
The firemen maintained that the roadster had no business coming through this
thoroughfare; the men in the car argued that they had no other route. The
roadster was ordered to turn about, to avoid running over a fire hose.
As the car backed up on the sidewalk, almost at the spot where
The Shadow

stood,
The Shadow
sprang forward to the rear bumper. The car had no rumble
seat. Its rear section was a large luggage compartment, with a knob at the
bottom.

The Shadow
opened the luggage compartment, while the driver still argued
with a fireman. Twisting forward,
The Shadow
wriggled into the ample space. He
let the container close above him but stopped it before the catch could lock.
The roadster jolted from the curb.
The Shadow
lay motionless within,
puffing the air that came from a crack at the bottom of his hiding place. Even
this poor source of air seemed tinged with ozone. It was reviving compared to
the smoke-filled atmosphere which
The Shadow
had just escaped.
The car rode a few dozen blocks, then jounced upward on a ramp and rolled
to a standstill. Growling men were climbing from the front seat.
The Shadow

could hear their muffled voices; but he made no move.
He had weakened from his ordeal. His only course was to rest. When the men
had gone, however,
The Shadow
wedged the top of the container higher, so that he
could gain more air.
This scarcely improved
The Shadow
's condition. He was in an atmosphere
tinged with the odor of gasoline. Bare walls, dimly lighted, proved that the
two men had left their car in a large public garage. Nevertheless, as he
waited,
The Shadow
experienced a slow return of strength.

AFTER fifteen minutes,
The Shadow
resolved upon departure. He crawled from
the roadster, steadied himself upon the stone floor. He carefully noted the
license number of the car; that done, he picked his way through clustered
automobiles and found a side door to a darkened alley. Stopping outdoors, The
Shadow took deep breaths that gradually eased the burning of his smoke-racked
lungs.
At last, a whispered laugh sounded in the darkness beside the silent
garage.
The Shadow
's tone carried a note of triumph.
The Shadow
had done more
than escape Drune's trap and the power of the Salamanders. He had found a trail
for the morrow.
One reason only, could have brought that roadster along the street where
fire engines were at work. The two men in the car were henchmen of the master
crook. Like others, they had been ordered to cover the departure of the truck
that carried the Salamanders and the spoils.

The Shadow
had ridden with minions of crime. He had marked their car; he
would remember this garage. When crooks came here again to get their roadster,

The Shadow
would be prepared to follow on their trail.

CHAPTER IX

THE THIRD CAMPAIGN

REPORTS Of the fire dominated the next day's headlines. Throughout New
York City, eager readers devoured newspapers as hungrily as the flames had
consumed the fuel of the night before. The blaze at Lincoln Breel's had been
one of the most startling in the history of Manhattan, excepting, perhaps, the
burning of the Capitol Hotel.
Only the heroic efforts of competent fire fighters had averted a
holocaust. Successive alarms had brought out hordes of fire engines. Roaring
flames had almost obliterated the block where Breel's house had stood; the
firemen had fought valiantly to prevent the conflagration from spreading
throughout the entire neighborhood.
It was obvious that the fire had been of incendiary origin. Flames had
begun in half a dozen houses almost simultaneously. Breel's home had simply
been the focal point.
What had been the purpose of the fire?
That was the baffling point. Insurance men were puzzled. The houses in
Breel's neighborhood belonged to half a dozen different owners; none were
heavily insured. The fire was classed as arson; but no one had acquired
monetary gain of any consequence.
The only theory that gained support was one which involved Lincoln Breel.
It was known that Breel had suffered financial losses in the past; also
that he had counted upon regaining his wealth. Probably, Breel had been working
on some scheme that might have brought him back to Wall Street.

ASSUMING that Breel's plans had failed, there was sufficient reason to
suppose that the financier was disappointed with life. Men sometimes find
curious ways to end a thwarted career.
Breel, always a man with dreams of grandeur, could have decided to imitate
the Vikings of old; to consign his own body to a self-made funeral pyre.
Fantastic though this theory was, there were facts to substantiate it.
Breel had been away from home. He had returned unexpectedly to New York.
No one knew of his activities just previous to his arrival at his house. Breel,
himself, could have been the incendiary who started the blaze throughout the
block.
The fire had begun immediately after Breel's arrival home, so the servants
said. Moreover, Breel had answered a mysterious telephone call. That pointed to
paid helpers; "torches," who might have aided Breel in his insane undertaking.
Most significant was the report that concerned the door of Breel's study.
The servants testified that Breel seldom closed that door; they added that it
had no key. Yet Breel had shouted that the door was locked; and the servants
had found it in such a condition. It seemed that Breel had deliberately cut
himself off from aid.
There was mention of a muffled explosion that had come soon after the
fire. That episode could well have marked Breel's suicide. It silenced the
objectors who claimed that no man would have consigned himself alive to flames.
The final theory held belief that Breel was dead, a suicide, before the fire
reached his study.
Breel had wanted no rescue. That was why the job had been so thorough.
Crazed, the financier had seen to it that no human aid could reach him.
Such stories intrigued the public. The morning newspapers began them; the
evening journals snatched up the theme and played it up with huge headlines. By
mid-afternoon, the later editions had dug up old stories of famous fires in past
years. They ran photographs of fire bugs who had previously alarmed New York.
Breel's picture was included with the others.
Any one might turn incendiary, so the newspapers claimed. They classed the
craze with kleptomania. Any man, thwarted in life, might turn hostile toward the
world and use fire to impress his hatred. The burden of the blame belonged to
Lincoln Breel.

TWO men were pleased most highly by the rumors that the press had
accepted. Fellow conspirators in crime, they were chuckling over a stack of
newspapers as they sat in an office high above Manhattan. Those connivers were
Gordon Colgarth and Huxley Drune. They had joined in conference at the power
magnate's office.
"It worked better than we planned it, Drune," commented Colgarth, in his
harsh tone. "Everybody has fallen for this crazy idea that Breel was
responsible for the fire."
"Absolutely," agreed Drune, dryly. "We should express our thanks in memory
of
The Shadow
."
"Why thank
The Shadow
? The idea was yours, Drune."
"To trap
The Shadow
, yes. But not to have him come there as Breel. That
was his own idea."
Drune paused to chuckle. Leaning on the desk, he added: "
The Shadow
's own
idea. A most clever one, to come as Breel. A plan, however, that worked doubly
to our advantage. No one will ever look for Breel's body up in the Adirondacks.
Nor will concern be expressed when Breel's safe is not discovered in the ruins
of his home."
Colgarth arched his furrowed brow in questioning fashion. Drune smiled and
spoke an explanation.
"Breel's supposed madness," stated the master crook, "has made every one -
the authorities included - believe that he possessed no wealth. Therefore, his
safe will not be regarded as important. We, alone, know the value of Breel's
holdings. In fact, we know their precise value, for we have them here with
Woldorf's securities."
From a desk drawer, Drune produced two bundles and thwacked them upon the
desk. Colgarth displayed an ugly grin as he eyed the double spoils.
"We are ready," declared Drune, "for our third campaign. We need the
stocks that are in the Sheffield National Bank, held there for the Cruikshank
estate. How soon will all be ready in Sheffield, Colgarth?"
"Everything is ready. We can stage the job tonight."
"You have covered every detail?"
"Right to the dot. Give me pencil and paper, Drune. I'll show you how it
stands."

RECEIVING paper and pencil, Colgarth drew four squares in a line,
numbering them from one to four. He tapped the first square in the row.
"This is the old garage," he stated. "It is empty, ready to be torn down.
The truck went in there this morning. The air-cooling system is hooked up. The
passage is finished, underground, straight to the foundations of the bank
building."
Colgarth moved his pencil and tapped the second square.
"This is the Sheffield National Bank," he said. "It is strongly barred;
but its interior is old. It will burn like tinder, once the fire starts. It is
protected by an elaborate sprinkler system that -"
"Which suits us exactly," interposed Drune, "provided that you have made
the right arrangements."
"I have," returned Colgarth, promptly. "The water tank on the roof has
been filled with gasoline. We did that job a week ago, at night. All that I
have to do is plant a potassium bomb, set to go off at the required hour."
"Its flare will be sufficient to start the sprinklers?"
"Yes. The bomb will be packed in combustible material. I tested one like
it. The heat will quickly melt the amalgam in the nearest sprinkler. That will
mean gasoline, not water. Every sprinkler in the place will open."
Colgarth had settled the matter of the bank building. He tapped the third
square in the row.
"This is the old depot," he remarked. "A sore eye to the citizens of
Sheffield. They have petitioned often for its removal; but the railroad has
kept on using it as a freight station. You should see that depot, Drune. Low
and flat, with wooden walls and platforms. A few sparks will ignite it."
Colgarth moved his pencil to the fourth square.
"A block of stores," he explained, "with cheap apartments on the floors
above. Well tenanted, as I should know, for I own the block. I couldn't risk
fixing the water tank; some one might smell the gasoline after the fire reaches
the apartment house. But Broddy and a crew put all the fire hydrants on the
fritz throughout that entire block."
"Won't that excite suspicion?"
"Not in Sheffield. My home city boasts one of the worst fire departments
in the State. Pipe lines are never inspected. The public safety department will
take the rap after this fire."

SUMMARIZING his statements, Colgarth lifted his pencil. Ignoring the first
square, he tapped those that were marked 2, 3 and 4, naming them in order:
"The bank. The depot. The apartment block. All in twenty minutes. Two
hundred tenants in those apartments. Picture the confusion, Drune. The bank
building will be forgotten. The whole one-horse fire department will be working
to rescue the people trapped in the apartments.
"Meanwhile, we can blast the bank's foundations. Our tunnel will carry us
straight into the vault. Leave it to me to grab those Cruikshank securities and
put a lot of phony stuff in place of the ones we need.
"I am a director in the bank. I have the necessary keys. The only list of
the Cruikshank holdings has been destroyed. No one will suspect a robbery has
been accomplished. Best of all, I shall not be seen about town while the fire
is under way."
"You will be leading the Salamanders?"
"Yes. We will bring the truck to my country house, five miles north of
Sheffield. You can await us there, Drune."
Drune nodded. He studied Colgarth's diagram. A question came to his mind.
"The dynamite," remarked Drune. "Where is it?"
"On a siding near the old depot," replied Colgarth. "It came in this
afternoon, in a steel box car. It won't be near enough to the fire to make
trouble."
"There is sufficient reason for its presence?"
"Yes. It is an advance shipment to a local quarrying company. They do not
know that it has arrived. The telegram was intercepted."
"Your men have taken dynamite from the car?"
"Broddy will handle that at dusk. He is in charge of the garage. He will
lift whatever amount is needed."
Drune considered further. He asked:
"Where are the Salamanders?"
"At the blast furnace," replied Colgarth, "off in the woods to the west of
town."
"On the road that leads past the airport?"
"No, that is south of Sheffield."
Drune nodded, as though recalling the terrain. He picked up the securities
stolen from Woldorf and Breel. He packed them in a briefcase.
"I shall go to Sheffield with you," decided Drune, looking steadily at
Colgarth. "There is one thing that you have forgotten. I had intended to stay
here in New York; but I think it best to accompany you and attend to the detail
that you omitted."
"What detail?"
"The matter of the prisoner whom the Salamanders brought from Riverport."
"He means nothing, Drune. He is helpless out at the blast furnace."
"Have you forgotten about
The Shadow
?"
Colgarth looked puzzled, and then snapped a logical question: "Why bring
up
The Shadow
? We finished him last night. How can he figure in this, Drune?"
"
The Shadow
has an organization."
"Maybe. Maybe not. He was alone when the Salamanders met him."
"True. That was because he was on a one-man job. But he has followers and
we must be prepared to handle them if they try something in the future."
"You think our prisoner was working for
The Shadow
?"
"Yes. You found him at Riverport."
"I have quizzed him. He claims to know nothing."
"More possible proof that he is an agent of
The Shadow
."

COLGARTH nodded slowly. The idea had not occurred to him.
"I shall quiz the prisoner."
Drune's cluck was harsh and ominous.
"Go to it," accorded Colgarth. "Suppose we meet at six o'clock and start
for Sheffield in my car? We can make the trip in two hours easy."
"When will you plant the box?"
"After we reach Sheffield at eight. The bank stays open until nine. I'll
stop off and leave it when I make a deposit. Then we can go to the blast
furnace."
"Don't forget the cover-up men."
"The ones still here in New York? Don't worry. I'll call them. If they
start before seven, they will arrive in time to join us."
Hands stretched across the desk. Men of crime joined hands in an evil
clasp. Plans for the third campaign were completed. Drune and Colgarth foresaw
a mutual mastery of wealth.
The pair had forgotten
The Shadow
. They believed that he occupied the
fiery grave that the public had conceded to Lincoln Breel. Because of that
belief, Drune and Colgarth had formed their plans too well.
Their last detail, regarding the cover-up men, had paved a route by which

The Shadow
could again oppose them.

CHAPTER X

THE THIRD CAR

IN their frenzied search for details that concerned the fire at Lincoln
Breel's, the New York newspapers had failed to gain a most important item. That
was not surprising, for the occurrence in question was one that seemed quite
detached from the conflagration of the night before.
A new man had taken a job as a car washer at the West Side Garage, which
was located near Eighth Avenue.
Car washers work principally at night, particularly in garages that depend
chiefly on overnight storage. The West Side Garage handled cars that belonged to
hotel guests.
Hence the new man, applying for a job early in the morning, had been told
to wait around until night. The West Side Garage had happened to need an extra
car washer. The manager was willing to give the new man a chance.
Old hands at the garage predicted that the new man would not last long.
All through the day, he had lounged about the door of the garage, smoking
cigarettes that hung downward from his droopy lips. His face was listless; he
seemed to lack the slight amount of ambition that even a car washer should
possess.
The regular employees circulated the rumor that the manager had been on a
"bender" the night before; that he was so bleary-eyed in the morning, he would
have hired any "punk" who had asked him for a job. Certainly, the dull
appearance of the new car washer bore out the theory that the manager had made
a poor choice.
By seven o'clock in the evening, the new man had become too lazy to even
light the cigarette that he had thrust between his pasty lips. He was leaning
against the wall beside the door, his shoulders slouched, his eyes half closed,
when two men entered and walked toward a roadster that was parked in back of a
coupe.

THE new hand gazed lazily about, to make sure that no other employees were
watching him. Slowly, he came to life; he shambled through the garage and came
close to the roadster. One of the two men was at the wheel of the light car.
The other was about to enter the coupe, in order to move it from the roadster's
path.
"I'll move that car," drawled the new employee. "Lemme handle it, bud."
"All right, punk," growled the man beside the coupe. "Get a move on. We
ain't staying here all night. We're in a hurry."
"You paid for the storage?"
"Sure. Over at the hotel. Here's the receipt."
The man flashed a sheet of paper. The car washer eyed it and nodded.
Listlessly, he entered the coupe and pushed aside a small satchel that was
lying on the driver's seat. He pressed the starter; the motor thrummed, then
stalled. His next trial brought another failure.
"Say," growled the man beside the car, "what do you want us to do? Shove
that crate out of the way?"
The starter whined again; this time the motor throbbed steadily. Gears
clashed; the coupe went jerking forward, to stall again near the garage door.
The man on the floor joined his companion in the roadster.
"What a dumb cluck," growled the man at the wheel. "Did you hear the way
he jammed them gears, Jing?"
"Yeah," responded the second man, gruffly. "But don't worry about that
goof. Keep an eye peeled to see who else is around."
"Nobody that I can see."
"Then get going. I'll take a squint along the street."
The roadster zipped from the garage. The driver gave a guffaw when he saw
the car washer still trying to start the coupe so as to reverse it to the place
where it had been. The roadster turned toward Eighth Avenue. Jing, watching the
lighted street, delivered an approving grunt.
"O.K., Sloopy. Nobody here to spot us."
"Sloopy" grunted in satisfied fashion. He slowed to make the turn into
Eighth Avenue.
Back at the garage, the shabby-dressed car washer had changed his tactics
with the stalled coupe. The motor thrummed instantly when he pressed the
starter. The trim car glided backward, then darted forward without a groan from
the changing gears.
Eyes gleamed as a firm hand meshed the gear into high. The coupe swung out
into the street. Its driver, no longer listless, spotted the roadster turning
left into Eighth Avenue.
There was a whispered laugh within the confines of the coupe; a token of
the driver's actual identity. The dull-faced, blundering car washer was The
Shadow.
This coupe was
The Shadow
's own. He had sent it to the garage last night.
Today, after talking himself into a job at the garage, he had found an
opportunity to move the coupe in front of the roadster. Thereby,
The Shadow
had
been ready at the right time.
He had looked over the two men who had brought him to the garage last
night. He had lulled them into thinking that they were unwatched. Finally, The
Shadow had taken up the trail of Drune's two minions.

THE trail led northward on Eighth Avenue. The roadster reached Broadway
and continued along that thoroughfare.
The Shadow
recognized that the two
crooks were bound for some destination outside of New York.
This was proven finally when the roadster neared One Hundred and
Seventy-eighth Street. It headed for the approach of the George Washington
Bridge.
Across that massive span, where lights twinkled high above the Hudson.
Into New Jersey, then along a main highway. All the while,
The Shadow
's car
continued with the same traffic that carried the roadster. Confident crooks
never guessed that the coupe was following them.
As yet,
The Shadow
had no definite knowledge of the final destination. He
believed that the cover-up men were on the way to some new scene of crime. How
far their goal might be from New York - how soon they would be needed in new
operations - these were matters impossible to guess.
Crime had first begun in Riverport, hundreds of miles south of New York.
Crime had then come to the metropolis. It was due to strike somewhere else.
Whether the third crime would be the last was something that did not
concern
The Shadow
. He was banking upon the one possibility that he could find
the new scene soon enough to balk the deeds of evil workers.
Twenty miles outside of New York,
The Shadow
allowed the roadster more
leeway. He knew this highway; there were no important side roads within the
next ten miles. Traffic had thinned considerably;
The Shadow
preferred to let
the crooks ride on without another car close behind them.
Coming to a small settlement,
The Shadow
slowed his speed. He observed a
gasoline station on the near side of a dirt road. Beyond was a lunch wagon. Its
lights showed the roadster parked in front. The crooks had stopped off for a
hurried meal.

The Shadow
pulled into the filling station. In drawled tone, he ordered
the attendant to fill the gas tank. Alighting from the coupe, he strolled into
the service station.

IN a manner that befitted his shabby garb,
The Shadow
shambled to a corner
where a pay telephone was located. There was no one else in the service station;

The Shadow
was free to make an important call. He gave the operator a Manhattan
number. Half a minute later, a quiet voice responded over the wire.
"Burbank speaking."

The Shadow
had reached his contact man. His conversation with Burbank,
however, did not concern the crooks whom
The Shadow
had followed. In whispered
tone,
The Shadow
gave an order:
"Report on shipment."
"Arrived from Texas twenty minutes ago," returned Burbank, in a methodical
tone. "Crofton has shipment at Newark Airport. Instructions awaited."
"Instructions," voiced
The Shadow
. "Transfer shipment to autogiro. Crofton
to remain ready for new call."
"Instructions received."
Leaving the service station,
The Shadow
paid for the gasoline and started
his coupe forward. He passed the lunch wagon slowly; as he guided the car with
one hand, he used the other to open the satchel beside him.
From it,
The Shadow
produced cloak and hat. Halting the car beside the
highway, he donned the garments. He then proceeded forward, his rate of speed
no more than fifteen miles an hour.
Cars were roaring past the slow-moving coupe.
The Shadow
watched each
automobile's approach in the mirror and checked again when the car had swished
past. Soon he saw one coming up behind him with the speed of a rocket. He
guessed that it was the roadster.

The Shadow
was right. He recognized the license number when the light car
whizzed past. Jing and Sloopy were making up for the time that they had lost by
stopping at the lunch wagon.

The Shadow
had turned on the bright lights of the coupe. He waited until
the roadster had swept past a bend; then he clicked his lights to dimmers and
jabbed the accelerator. The coupe showed an instant pick-up. Seconds later, The
Shadow had attained high speed.
He gained sight of the roadster's tail-light within the next two miles.
The crooks, had they looked back, could hardly have connected the car behind
them with the coupe that had been loitering along the highway.
The expedient of brightening and dimming the headlights, while simple, was
sufficient to lull the men ahead.
The Shadow
knew; for he had used the expedient
on other occasions.
It was necessary to stay closer to the roadster while connecting highways
were near at hand. The crooks kept to the main road; again,
The Shadow
gave
them leeway.
At intervals, he closed up toward them, sometimes with bright lights, on
other occasions with dim ones. The pursuit continued. The coupe's speedometer
registered the distance of sixty-one miles from the George Washington Bridge.
As
The Shadow
was closing in on the roadster, he saw its tail-light
slacken speed.
The Shadow
slowed; he watched the light bob from view. Moving
ahead, he came to an old highway that cut off at an angle to the right. The
coupe's headlights showed a sign that indicated the town of Sheffield as being
four miles away.

USING a road map by the glow of the dashlight,
The Shadow
formed an
immediate conclusion. The crooks had certainly headed for Sheffield, for they
had taken the direct route to that town. There was another turn off, a mile
farther on, not quite as short as this one.
The Shadow
decided to use the
second road.
He gave the coupe the gas. The car developed speed that it had not
previously showed. All during this chase,
The Shadow
could have passed the
crooks at any time, even though they had been driving the roadster to its limit.

The Shadow
covered the mile to the next road in a space of fifty seconds.
Jamming the brakes, he wheeled right; then opened up along a bumpy road.
Few drivers would have dared to travel over forty-five along this battered
highway.
The Shadow
urged the coupe to almost seventy miles an hour.
The lights of Sheffield showed ahead.
The Shadow
knew the town as a city
of more than thirty thousand inhabitants the focal point of a quarrying
district. Though a railroad center, Sheffield was isolated from the main
highways.

The Shadow
's road joined the one that the roadster had taken. As he
slackened speed,
The Shadow
knew that he had beaten the crooks to the town. The
road became the main street;
The Shadow
took time to study the business district
of Sheffield.
On his right,
The Shadow
saw a decrepit building that looked like an old
garage. Past the garage was a narrow street; then a pretentious old-fashioned
structure that bore the name "Sheffield National Bank" above its wide doorway.
A clock indicated a quarter of nine. The bank was open for late business.
The next building beyond the bank was a squatty stone-fronted structure
with a wooden superstructure that showed rows of grimy blackened windows.
Looming above the roof was the beginning of a long train shed, chiefly of
wood. A sign said "Freight Depot";
The Shadow
recognized that this had formerly
been a passenger station.
Through an alleyway next to the freight depot,
The Shadow
saw a line of
railroad tracks that ran parallel to the main street. Those were the yards of
the railroad that served the city of Sheffield.
Just after the freight depot,
The Shadow
came to a business block. This
consisted of one large building, at least thirty years old. It was constructed
of brick and wood. The ground floor showed store fronts, while the three
remaining upper stories served as an apartment house.
As he neared the end of the block,
The Shadow
saw an important cross
street. He decided to wait before he reached it, as the roadster was nearly
due. There was a vacant space by a fire plug. No policemen were in sight. The
Shadow pulled his coupe to the curb, turned out the lights, then watched from
the cover of darkness.

THREE minutes ended
The Shadow
's vigil. The roadster rolled up and passed
the coupe. Its occupants did not even glance toward
The Shadow
's car. As it
neared the crossing, the roadster pulled to the center of the main street. A
traffic light showed red; the roadster intended a left turn as soon as the
light changed.

The Shadow
eased the coupe from the curb. Another car had moved up in back
of the roadster.
The Shadow
joined the line. The light turned green.
The Shadow

swung left with the cars ahead.
Though he had gained no inkling of the fact,
The Shadow
had viewed the
scene of contemplated crime. He had studied the very buildings that had
appeared as squares on Colgarth's numbered diagram. Drune, the master of crime,
had given his approval to a campaign of destruction.
The Shadow
, alone competent
to forestall evil, had unwittingly left the very place where trouble was due to
break.
Nevertheless,
The Shadow
still had his trail. The roadster was heading
westward from Sheffield.
The Shadow
had lessened speed; but he was keeping the
car ahead in view. Caution was necessary. The roadster was taking to a highway
that lacked traffic.
The Shadow
let the other car ride ahead.
He still had a way to trail the roadster. The road was hilly, with curves.
By watching far ahead,
The Shadow
could see the tiny lights of the crook-manned
car. The gleam bobbed in and out from strips of woods.
The Shadow
checked each
reappearance of the lights.
There came a space of blackness. The lights did not reappear. Rounding a
bend,
The Shadow
saw a dirt road to the right. He caught the glimmer of a
tail-light, a path of brightness beyond it. The roadster had turned off to the
right.
Extinguishing his own lights,
The Shadow
made the turn. The wheels of the
coupe joggled roughly on the dirt road.
Guided entirely by the red spot ahead,
The Shadow
sped the coupe through
the darkness. His daring brought him close behind the roadster, just before it
took a bend in the road.
The Shadow
had reached a vantage point.
Close behind the roadster, he was able to drive by the glow of the other
car's lights. His coupe, however, had become invisible. Like a ghost car, it
was trailing the roadster; the blanketing darkness of the woods concealed the
coupe perfectly.

ALL was well for half a mile. The two cars crossed another dirt road;
forty feet behind the roadster,
The Shadow
was sure that the soft purr of the
coupe's motor had not been heard by the men ahead. When trouble came, it was
from an unexpected source.
The two cars had traveled no more than a hundred feet from the crossing
when a glare illuminated the road behind them. Brilliant headlights bathed both
the coupe and the roadster.
The Shadow
's machine was caught in the glowing beam.
A third car had suddenly entered the game, moving in from the crossing
that the two machines had passed.
The Shadow
's darkened coupe was trapped
between two automobiles.
The unknown presence of
The Shadow
was revealed!

CHAPTER XI

DEATH IN THE DARK

IN his dealings with dangerous adversaries,
The Shadow
preferred quick
action. Speedy in battle; accurate in marksmanship,
The Shadow
had frequently
conquered heavy odds when events moved swiftly. His greatest tests came when
emergency was slow to arrive. Such a condition gave foemen time to think.

The Shadow
had entered a snare that troubled him more than the trap at
Breel's. Almost at the end of a trail, his plans had gone wrong.
The Shadow
had
counted upon complete stealth tonight; he had been profiting by the fact that
crooks believed him dead. Without any warning, his actions had been exposed to
the enemy.
The roadster was going to a rendezvous. The men in that car had been
summoned to join their evil chiefs. The masters of crime had taken a
precaution. They had posted a follow-up car at the borders of their domain.
That third car, deliberately set to make sure the roadster was not followed,
had found the dark coupe upon the trail.
Given time for deliberation, the men in the third car would guess that The
Shadow was the driver of the coupe. Crooks had believed
The Shadow
dead on other
occasions. They were always prompt to recognize his return.
What action would the enemy take?
One course was immediately possible.
The Shadow
expected to see the third
car leap ahead to overtake him. That would mean battle with the trailers;
afterward a fight with the crooks in the roadster, who would come back to join
the battle. Such a happening would give
The Shadow
chance to deal with two
groups separately.
The third car; however, failed to close in upon
The Shadow
. It simply
matched the coupe's speed.

The Shadow
pressed the accelerator more firmly. He began to gain upon the
roadster. Instantly, the car ahead increased its speed. So did the machine that
was following
The Shadow
.
Trying other tactics,
The Shadow
slowed almost to a standstill. The
roadster slackened accordingly; the third car also rumbled at a snail-like gait.
The men in the roadster had noted the coupe by simply looking into their
mirror. The lights from the third car had given them a chance to see that they
were trailed.
Crooks were playing with
The Shadow
as a cat would play with a mouse. If
he sought to overtake the car ahead, the car behind would close in before he
could overwhelm the men in the roadster. If he waited for the car in back, it
would not come to him. Nor would the roadster flee and open the road ahead.

CALMLY,
The Shadow
resumed a normal speed. The other two cars matched him
with exactitude.
The dirt road was following an upward slope.
The Shadow
was content to
keep along it. He knew that he was being taken closer to his goal. That was
well for the present. Later, however, it could mean a definite trap.
Analyzing the situation,
The Shadow
knew definitely that there had been no
communication between the car ahead and the car in back. Nevertheless, the two
machines were acting in accord.
That meant one thing only. This precaution was a usual plan. Crooks had
their instructions in advance on how to act should followers appear in this
terrain.
The trap lay ahead. Where would it be?
There was a chance that it might lie at the rendezvous - the goal that The
Shadow sought. There would be other criminals there, to swell the numbers of the
band. At the same time, wise crooks would be wary about bringing an enemy
straight into their own camp. It was quite as likely that the trap would be
encountered before the end of the trail itself.
One mile had passed. The three cars were high upon the hillside,
continuing on beneath the trees.
The Shadow
could feel a rising urge for
action; one that he repressed. He realized well that the average man in his
position would be jittery.
He calculated that the crooks had counted upon that fact. Whatever the
trap, a clever schemer had devised it.
The Shadow
was confident that he would
recognize the snare when he encountered it.

HIS first inkling that the spot was close by came when the roadster
slightly decreased speed. The slope had lessened; the car ahead would logically
have gone faster. As
The Shadow
slowed slightly, he noted in the mirror that the
car behind was doing the same.
The roadster's headlights showed a slight turn to the right. As the car
passed it;
The Shadow
observed a road that went left from the curve.
Immediately afterward, the roadster jogged more speedily; the car in back,
however, slowed a trifle. A soft laugh escaped
The Shadow
's lips.
The crooks were giving him a chance to duck away. The roadster was going
to the right; if
The Shadow
went to the left, only the third car could follow.
That would mean a single group of enemies. The opportunity was the very sort
that would appeal to a man in a dilemma. In fact, the opportunity was too good.

The Shadow
knew that the crooks wanted him to go to the left.

The Shadow
had reached the fork. Deep ruts to the left offered inviting
tracks along which to guide his car. Lights were unnecessary. The road to the
left was bait. Nevertheless,
The Shadow
took it.
Had
The Shadow
stopped to take up double battle, crooks would have been
prepared. His policy was to draw them off their guard. By entering the trap, he
could accomplish that important act. Wisdom merely told
The Shadow
not to
venture too deep into the snare.
The roadster's lights had given
The Shadow
a forty-foot glimpse of the
rutted road. That was the full distance that he drove. He could feel the ruts
pulling the front wheels to the left, through absolute darkness.
The Shadow

estimated the distance before he halted.

SOFTLY opening the door of the coupe,
The Shadow
listened. He heard the
slight throbbing of a motor. The third car had extinguished its lights. It was
creeping into the road that he had taken. There was no sound of the coupe; no
flicker of light among the trees. The front car, too, had stopped.

The Shadow
knew what crooks expected.
They supposed that he was still in the coupe; that sooner or later, he
would turn on the lights. If he did that, enemies would surge upon him in the
darkness. Perhaps the trailing car would smash down upon his coupe.
If
The Shadow
lingered in the dark, crooks, too would have the benefit of
the gloom. They could attack, en masse, to overpower their lone prey.
There was a third course: to drive ahead in darkness.
The Shadow
knew that
his foemen must certainly recognize that such was possible. Therefore, he
decided that to drive ahead would mean a completion of the snare. Waiting in
their darkened car, crooks were hoping that
The Shadow
would push the coupe
onward, without benefit of lights.
Standing on the left running board,
The Shadow
reached across the wheel
and pulled the hand throttle on the dashboard. The coupe's motor quickened its
rhythm.
The Shadow
adjusted it to a moderate purr.
Pressing the clutch pedal with his left hand, he used his right to pull
the gear shift into low. He shifted his right hand to the clutch pedal. Slowly,
precisely, he let the pedal move upward from the floor.
The action brought the car into gear. With a slight jolt, the coupe moved
forward. The ground was level; the car reached a speed of five miles an hour.
There was no need to handle the steering wheel. The ruts were holding the coupe
to the road.
Swinging outward,
The Shadow
gripped the handle of the door. As the car
rode slowly ahead, he clamped the door shut noiselessly. He hung free, ready at
any instant to drop to the ground beside him.
He could see nothing; not even the opening of the road ahead, for the sky
was clouded, as dark as the overhanging trees.
The Shadow
had even extinguished
the dashlight. The interior of the coupe was a mass of solid blackness.
The road sloped slightly downward. The whining coupe moved faster. The
front wheels gave a sudden jounce. Instantly,
The Shadow
dived sidewise to the
ground. He struck sandy soil; his feet slid past an edge. Gripping at rocks,

The Shadow
checked his rolling. He could feel a swish; he heard a mechanical
screech as the rear wheels of the coupe lurched upward into the air.
An instant later, the car was gone. The sound of its motor had vanished.
Seconds seemed interminable; at last, from somewhere far below came the thwack
of a tremendous splash that brought long echoes from the steep walls of a stony
pit. The coupe had plunged a full eighty feet into the deep, stagnant waters of
an abandoned quarry.

The Shadow
was on the fringe of the cliff. He had acted instantly when he
had felt the warning. As he crawled to firmer ground, he could hear the throb
of an approaching motor. The men in the third car had heard the splash. They
were confident that the coupe's driver had gone with the car into the quarry.
They had moved up behind the coupe, knowing that its fall would tell them
when they had reached their limit. They wanted to peer down into the pit; to
assure themselves that
The Shadow
had made no miraculous escape from the
submerged coupe.

RISING from hands and knees,
The Shadow
was drawing an automatic. He
expected men to come on foot, with flashlights. He was preparing to give them a
surprise. Instead, the driver of the car was the one who unwittingly produced
the surprise.
The fellow suddenly switched on the lights, to spot the edge of the
quarry. Headlamps and tail-light were sufficient to show the outline of the
car, forty feet short of the quarry's edge.
The car was still coasting forward; the glare of its headlights showed The
Shadow. Instantly, the cloaked fighter sprang forward, straight for the radiator
of the sedan.
The front of the car afforded
The Shadow
his only possible cover. Shouts
were coming from the moving car; guns were bristling from windows. Revolvers
spat wildly in the night. Thuggish marksmen were too late. Five in number, they
saw
The Shadow
dropping in front of the moving car; the sedan's advance was
giving him better cover.
The unarmed driver snarled an oath. He saw a chance to beat
The Shadow
's
game. He had thirty feet in which to do it.
The Shadow
was only a few yards
away. Gripping the wheel in readiness for a sharp turn, the sedan's driver
jabbed the accelerator. The car lurched hard toward
The Shadow
.
Whipping from the path,
The Shadow
jabbed quick shots from his automatic.
He aimed for the steering wheel, to cripple the thug behind it. That crook out,
the sedan could not continue.

The Shadow
could again use the radiator as his entrenchment. In his
close-range aim,
The Shadow
was accurate; but his leap was delayed too long. As
his .45 zimmed its third quick shot, the fender of the sedan sideswiped him
before he could escape it.
Staggering,
The Shadow
reeled sidewise. He sprawled and lost his guns. He
was clear of the sedan's path; he lay flat on the road, was in darkness off to
the side. But bullets were biting the gravel all about him. The moment the car
halted, or turned,
The Shadow
would be a helpless target.
Savage shouts had sounded from the car as crooks stabbed wild shots that
were ineffective because of the sedan's motion. As
The Shadow
rolled to hands
and knees, groping to regain a gun, he heard shouts change to shrieks.
The sedan had not stopped; nor had it veered. The driver had slumped
without the knowledge of the marksmen who accompanied him. His foot had slipped
from the accelerator; but the car was in high-gear. On the slight downgrade, it
was rolling straight to the quarry's brink.
The thug beside the driver was grabbing for the steering wheel. He gained
it; the car swerved left on the edge of the cliff. A door burst open; one
frenzied crook made a dive for the ground. He was the wisest of the lot.
Though its left wheels held to solid ground, the sedan's right tires
slipped over the stony edge. The car was broadside to
The Shadow
; he saw its
lights topple away from him.
With a slow, outward motion, the sedan took a sidewise plunge. It was gone
from the brink, the lights obliterated. Long shrieks became trailing wails that
ended in a splash more violent than the thwack of the coupe.
The sedan had carried four crooks as cargo to the fate that they had
sought to bestow upon
The Shadow
. The fifth thug had escaped. He was crawling
from the brink.
Bare-handed,
The Shadow
surged forward to meet him.

PICKING the exact spot where he had seen the crook fall,
The Shadow
found
his foeman in the darkness. The man quavered hoarsely as
The Shadow
seized him.
Too jittery to offer resistance after his narrow escape from death, the
crook subsided to the turf. His thought of fight was gone. He feared the fate
that had overwhelmed the others. Whipping the fellow's belt from his waist, The
Shadow rolled the prisoner on his face and doubled his legs upward. With the
belt, he formed a figure 8 that bound the thug's wrists and ankles together.
Carrying the prisoner well away from the quarry,
The Shadow
placed him
against a tree. Producing a flashlight, he looked about for his automatics. He
found them, extinguished the light, then returned along the rutty road. The
Shadow expected to find others back at the fork.
A motor throbbed its presence.
The Shadow
recognized the jerky sound.
Sloopy and Jing were waiting; they had heard only the sounds of gunfire. Sloopy
was peering from beside the wheel, growling because he could not see through the
dark. The roadster's dashlight offered a small glow within the car.
"It was
The Shadow
," decided Sloopy, in a gruff tone. "Couldn't have been
nobody else. Thought they croaked him, though, at Breel's -"
A muffled cry from Jing. Sloopy turned. He saw gloved hands from the dark,
over the right door of the roadster, yanking Jing from the car. As Jing sprawled
outward, Sloopy caught the gleam of fierce eyes. A hoarse shout was Sloopy's
challenge:
"
The Shadow
!"
Yanking a revolver, Sloopy jabbed shots into the darkness - the darkness
where sounds of a scuffle told him that Jing was meeting disaster. Echoes
followed Sloopy's three shots. All was quiet beside the car. Leaning to the
right, Sloopy called out.
"You all right, Jing?" was his query. "Hope I didn't plug you, while I was
getting him. It was
The Shadow
-"
A dying groan answered from the ground beside the roadster. The tone was
Jing's. As Sloopy winced, a sinister laugh sounded at his very elbow, on the
left side of the car. Coughing an oath, Sloopy swung about. He was too late to
aim his gun.

VISELIKE hands gripped Sloopy's throat. Choking, the crook dropped his gun
He subsided, sidewise, to the seat beside him.
The Shadow
came aboard the
roadster. By the dashlight's glow, he bound and gagged Sloopy and huddled him
upon the seat at the right.
Jing was dead.
The Shadow
had twisted him toward the car. Sloopy's shots
had finished his pal. By rounding the back of the roadster,
The Shadow
had
completed his victory. Carrying Sloopy as a prisoner, he started the roadster
along the road to the right.
Should this road lead nowhere,
The Shadow
intended to question the man
beside him; to make the prisoner talk, a task that
The Shadow
could easily
accomplish.
One mile farther on,
The Shadow
skirted the side of a hill. He paused to
study a distant glow against the clouded sky. A puff of flame rose suddenly,
then disappeared. Darkness replaced the short-lived beacon.
This road led to a blast furnace.
The Shadow
had recognized the flare
from the far-off chimney. The furnace was one that worked at night; most
observers would not have given it second thought, for such plants were common
in this region.

The Shadow
, however, delved more deeply.
He was seeking a supercrook who used fire as the means to cover crime - an
evil master of death, who controlled the Salamanders as henchmen. A blast
furnace would be useful to those rogues as a proving ground for their devices.
The flare puffed anew. It was from somewhere along this old road. The
Shadow drove the roadster forward, toward the goal that living flames had
revealed.

CHAPTER XII

THE ORDEAL

THE puffs of flame that guided
The Shadow
were proof that something was
afoot at the blast furnace. Master crooks were at their isolated headquarters.
Drune and Colgarth had completed their plans for crime; while they awaited a
definite hour, they had found time for preliminary diversion.
The two rogues were seated in a small, stone-walled room that looked like
a crude office. They occupied battered chairs; near them was a desk, with a
telephone. A single incandescent light illuminated the chamber. Beneath the
glare, a prisoner lay propped against the wall.
He was bound hand and foot, that captive. Stolidly, he met the glaring
gaze of the men who held him helpless. His face showed grimness; his lips
remained unopened. He was ready to defeat all efforts that might be used to
make him talk.
The prisoner on the floor was Harry Vincent.
The Shadow
's agent had
survived the hotel fire at Riverport. His present plight, however, was as great
as when Gordon Colgarth had consigned him to the smoke-filled cellar.
Colgarth, himself, was emphasizing that particular fact. In harsh tones,
the hard-faced man was speaking to the prisoner.
"We know your name, Vincent," came Colgarth's rasp. "We know why you were
at Riverport, watching Woldorf. You were working for
The Shadow
."
Colgarth paused to see if he had scored a hit. Harry's expression did not
change.
"Why be a fool?" sneered Colgarth.
"
The Shadow
is dead. Look at these headlines." He picked up a newspaper
from the desk and pointed to large-typed words. "They say that Lincoln Breel
died in a New York fire. They lie. We rubbed out Breel days ago.
"It was
The Shadow
who died instead of Breel. He was finished by the same
men who carried you from the Riverport hotel. We figured we might make you
talk. That's why I shoved you down into the cellar. But
The Shadow
was
different. We took no chances with him."
Harry did not betray the worry that he felt. He had no recollection of how
he had been brought from Riverport. His hurtling trip into the hotel cellar had
left him senseless. He could recall traveling in a bumpy truck; a final arrival
in this stone-walled room. Since then, he had been a prisoner, confined to this
one place.
Did Colgarth speak the truth concerning
The Shadow
?

HARRY feared that the crook's words were correct. Harry knew
The Shadow
's
ability at disguise. He could picture his chief arriving at Breel's, not
knowing that the man whom he impersonated had been murdered days before.
"You gain nothing by silence," insisted Colgarth. "We're giving you a
chance, Vincent, because we don't want any interference in the future. You
worked for
The Shadow
, so it's a bet that there are others like you. We want to
know who they are.
"Maybe you're thinking that we didn't get
The Shadow
, that we want you to
squawk so we can find him. That's not the game.
The Shadow
is dead, I tell you.
He'll stay dead. You can't help him."
Harry remained unimpressed. Colgarth fumed. He was about to rasp new
statements when Drone stopped him with a waving hand. It was the gray-haired
magnate's time to speak.
Until this moment, Drune had said nothing. He had simply eyed Harry with a
cunning gaze. Drune's shrewd look had made Harry feel positive that the older
man was the senior partner of the criminal pair, more important - and,
therefore, more dangerous - than Colgarth.
When Drune spoke, his tones were a dry crackle, persuasive because of
their careful emphasis.
"Perhaps, Mr. Vincent," stated Drune, "we should clarify this situation.
We know your name, thanks to papers that were on your person. You, however,
have not heard ours. I am Huxley Drune, president of the Great American Power
Company, with offices in New York City.
"Possibly you have never heard of my company? That is not astonishing.
Great American Power has not as yet come into the limelight. It was founded
upon prospects rather than actual assets. Great American Power will be heard
from in the future."
There was an insidious touch to Drune's prediction. The master crook
paused to indulge in a dry smile.
"Our prospects," continued Drune, watching Harry steadily as he spoke,
"depended upon three acquisitions. First" - he tapped his left thumb with his
right forefinger - "important securities held by Chester Woldorf. We gained
those by removing the safe from the Capitol Hotel in Riverport."

HARRY stared. He had guessed why Woldorf had been murdered; but he could
not understand how the hotel safe had been lifted. He tried to connect it with
his own peculiar delivery from the fire. He wondered how any human being could
have braved the flame.
"Second" - Drune was tapping his left forefinger - "we needed securities
owned by Lincoln Breel. I, personally, saw to Breel's death at his lonely lodge
in the Adirondacks. Later, we set his home ablaze. We removed the safe that was
in his New York residence. We now possess Breel's holdings."
In satisfied fashion, Drune tapped his next finger.
"Our third and final acquisition," he stated, "will be securities that
belong to the Cruikshank estate. Those stocks are in the Sheffield National
Bank. We shall remove them tonight. I might remark that we shall encounter no
difficulty whatever."
Leaning back, Drune waved a hand toward his partner.
"This gentleman," he remarked, "is Gordon Colgarth. He is highly esteemed
in the town of Sheffield. He owns property in the city. He is a director of the
Sheffield National Bank. His residence is a country estate, with a delightful
old colonial mansion. It is located several miles north of Sheffield."
Drune's persuasive tone had become almost gentle. Colgarth blinked, then
showed a hard smile. Puzzled at first, he realized that Drune was using the
best tactics. By telling all, the master crook was making an impression upon
Harry.
Drune leaned toward the prisoner. Steadily, each word emphatic, he came to
the climax that he wanted.
"We have killed," announced Drune, "whenever necessity compelled us. We
have been ruthless, purely through policy. Tonight, one hundred or more persons
may perish. Useless persons, who will die only because their plight will divert
attention from our place of operations.
"
The Shadow
was a threat. Therefore, we slew him. Previously we had
permitted you to live, because we thought you might prove useful. Colgarth has
already expressed that fact. I need not dwell further on the past.
"The future concerns the three of us. Whether you live or die depends
entirely upon your own choice. Tonight, Colgarth and I shall possess all the
holdings that we need. Our wealth, through proper manipulation, will bring us
fifty million dollars.
"There will be a stir in Wall Street. One, however, that will excite no
suspicion there. The only person who might link our gain with crime are others
like yourself. Men who once served
The Shadow
. We are willing to grant you life
because we know that you can offset the efforts of such persons."
Tilting his head in a speculative fashion, Drune spoke pleasantly of the
future.
"You will live in comfort, Vincent," he declared. "Let us say in luxury.
You will be a prisoner, yes, but good behavior will grant you privileges. You
will, of course, provide us with the names of all persons who might make us
trouble.
"We shall watch such persons. If they do nothing against us, we shall
ignore them. If they trouble us, we shall let you warn them. Unless they
persist despite your warnings, we shall not harm them.
"They are your friends, Vincent." Drune lowered his gaze and smiled
benignly toward the prisoner. "You can be their benefactor, by keeping them out
of trouble. Your work accomplished, you shall have wealth - our gift, in return
for your cooperation."

DRUNE stopped. His withered face tilted to one side. His eyes beamed; his
lips showed a mild smile. Harry remained stolid. Colgarth showed impatience.
"What about it, Vincent?" queried the junior partner. "You've heard
Drune's terms. They're fair -"
Drune extended a restraining hand.
"Come, Colgarth," he suggested. "Let Vincent deliberate alone. We may
grant him a few minutes to make his decision."
Colgarth nodded. He followed Drune toward a door at the front of the room.
The two stepped through into a passage. Drune closed the door. He chuckled
softly as he and Colgarth stood in the darkness of the passage.
"That talk," remarked the master crook in a tone that was complimentary to
himself, "can be classed as the proper style of persuasion to be used with a man
of intelligence."
"You handled it great," whispered Colgarth. "There's only one question,
though."
"What is it?"
"Is Vincent going to be worth all that you promised him?"
Drune's reply was an insidious croak. To Colgarth, it signified more than
words. Drune was denoting evil pleasure. Colgarth awaited an explanation.
"So you fell for it?" chuckled Drune. "Well, Colgarth, if you swallowed my
story, Vincent probably will."
"You bluffed him?"
"Of course. Of what use is Vincent? Only to tell us the names of others."
"You mentioned that to him -"
"Certainly. All the while, however, I covered the most important fact."
"What was that?"
"The fact that Vincent and those others all come into the class that I
mentioned mildly - persons whom we must necessarily eliminate. Once Vincent has
told us the names of all who served
The Shadow
, we shall do away with them, one
by one."
"And Vincent?"
"He will be our final victim. Come, Colgarth; we have given him sufficient
time to consider my false offer. Let us enter and hear his reply."
Drune opened the door and stepped into the lighted office. He approached
Harry and smiled in kindly manner. Pleasantly, he put a question:
"You have considered?"

FOR the first time, Harry showed an expression. Looking up at Drune, he
delivered a contemptuous smile. Words were unnecessary on Harry's part. His
disdainful look showed that he had seen through Drune's false promise.
Instantly, Drune's manner altered. His smile changed to a demonish leer.
His eyes bulged from their sockets. His teeth showed fang-like, yellow and
ugly against the duller hue of his parchment face. Clenching his fists, Drune
turned to Colgarth, whose hard face showed harsh anger. Drune's game had
failed. He was ready to vent his spite upon the prisoner who had defied him.
"We shall do without Vincent's knowledge," snarled Drune. "His death will
mean one more meddler gone. We can meet the others as they come."
"Right," rasped Colgarth. He hauled forth a revolver and jabbed the muzzle
toward Harry. "I'll give him what's coming to him."
"Wait!" Drune's firm hand gripped Colgarth's arm. "This prisoner does not
deserve so comfortable a fate."
With a leer, he added: "The Salamanders saved him from death by fire. We
shall consign him back into the flames."
Bravely, Harry Vincent heard the promised fate. He was ready for his
ordeal, although he had no hope of aid. Harry believed
The Shadow
dead; his
chief, so he thought, had perished in a tomb of fire.
Despite the horror of such death, Harry felt triumph in the thought that
he was to end life like
The Shadow
, fighting against evil.

CHAPTER XIII

THE FIERY PIT

DRUNE snapped a command to Colgarth. The latter yanked open the door and
shouted a summons that echoed along the stony corridor. Harry heard the pace of
approaching feet. Two brawny, rough-clad men arrived. Colgarth indicated the
prisoner.
"Take him to the test room."
The men nodded. Harry was hoisted upon husky shoulders. Helplessly bound,
he felt himself being carried through the darkened passage. The men made a turn
at a corner. They came to a large door; one carrier kicked it open.
A fierce glow struck Harry's eyes; with it came a crackling roar. A blast
of heat swept from the doorway. As the men descended steps, Harry sniffed fumes
amid the burning temperature. His captors strode twelve paces forward, then
dropped Harry to the floor against a wall. His eyes were straight toward the
glow.
Directly in front of Harry was a pit thirty feet wide. It extended fifteen
feet to a wall. That pit was a bed of fire, an open furnace that matched all
descriptions of hellish depths. Coals were banked high, almost to the level of
a concrete curb that fronted the pit.
Looming from the wall at the left was a huge tube that evidently led to a
chimney. Harry heard a whirring sound; flames roared as a suction pump drew
them crackling toward the tube. Fumes and smoke were sucked upward; with them
went a terrific surge of flame.
Harry recognized that this must be a converted blast furnace. He guessed
that the sudden suction had carried a sweep of flames up through a tall chimney.
Such was necessary in order to free the room from fumes that no human
being could survive.

HARRY'S two captors had gone. Despite the pressure of the heat, Harry
glanced to the right. He saw that the right end of the pit ended a few yards
short of the wall. Harry saw grimy hands and bare, sweaty shoulders.
Stripped to the waist, three stokers were at work in a shallow pit. They
were hauling out ashes from beneath the fire.
Large cans of ashes were stacked at the right wall, on a level with the
path where Harry lay. It required tons of coal to feed the fiery pit. Harry was
puzzled as to the purpose of so large a bed of flame. He was to learn the reason
for it; but before the answer came, he was suddenly impelled to watch a
happening at the wall beyond the pit.
A short section of the wall was rising upward, like a curtain. Harry had
taken it for stone; he realized that it must be thin steel, fronted with
asbestos that matched the dullish color of the solid wall.
The raised curtain revealed a ledge of six-foot width. The ledge was some
four feet deep; behind it was a wall topped by a rail. Leaning over the rail
was Huxley Drune.
High above the flaming pit, Drune stood like a gloating sentinel. His
glare focused upon Harry; the prisoner saw the evil smirk that adorned the
master villain's lips.
Wavering fumes from the pit added distortion to Harry's view. He saw Drune
as a demon, the controller of the torrid depths where fire held its sway.
Drune's arms were waving in command. Stokers swung huge shovels, to hurl
streams of coal across the fire. Flames roared their welcome to the fuel.
Hungrily, they turned the coals into an added blaze. The suction outlet whirred.
Again, Harry saw a mass of fire shoot up through the chimney. Fumes
cleared and gave a better view of Drune. The fire master was delivering a new
signal.
Harry looked to the left. Coming through a door was Gordon Colgarth,
flanked by two of the strangest creatures whom Harry had ever seen. They looked
like undersea divers, clad in bulky suits with glass-fronted helmets. Each of
these underlings was trailing a long hose.
It was Harry's first sight of the Salamanders. He understood, at last, how
he had been carried from the toppling, fire-swept structure of the old hotel in
Riverport. These asbestos-suited workers were the servitors who made crime
possible for Drune and Colgarth. Harry guessed correctly that there must be
other Salamanders in the crew.
More than that, he understood the reason for the huge bed of fire that lay
before him. That pit was the practice ground wherein the Salamanders tested
their ability. The flames of the open furnace made as hot a fire as any that
the Salamanders might encounter when they marched forth to crime.
The Salamanders moved onward. Colgarth stopped. Reaching the spot where
Harry lay, the monstrous henchmen stooped and picked up the prisoner. Hoisting
him high between them, they turned toward the fire. Drune's hand was raised to
halt them. The Salamanders waited, holding Harry, stretched face upward. They
had raised him to arm's length.
Harry could see nothing but the high stone ceiling. He could feel the heat
of the furnace; he could smell its sulphurous fumes. He heard a whirred puff as
the suction pipe operated. For a moment, the heat lessened; the fumes were
gone. Turning his head, Harry, saw Drune's arm drop.
The Salamanders stepped squarely into the blazing pit.

THE crackle beneath Harry's back was ominous. Tongued flames were
sweltering, though their upward lick did not reach the prisoner, who was borne
seven feet above. Step by step, finding solid footing upon the live coals, the
Salamanders strode to the inner wall.
Lowering their arms, they placed Harry, face upward, upon a ledge. Six
feet above the fire, Harry lay like a victim upon the altar of a Moloch. Drune,
glaring down, represented the fiend who was prepared to deliver sacrifice to the
fire god.
Increasing fumes cleared as another blast roared up into the chimney.
Turning, the Salamanders marched out through the fire. They joined Colgarth at
the door, as he waved for them to hurry.
Harry saw the Salamanders removing their helmets. He guessed that they
were leaving with Colgarth upon their expedition of crime.
Stokers hurled new coals upon the fire. Flames licked the wall below the
ledge. The fire was ready for its victim. Drune reached to a niche beside him
and drew slowly upon a long, stout, wooden lever that was fitted into a steel
ring.
There was a grating sound by Harry's shoulder. Looking inward, the
prisoner saw the wall inch forward below the rail. It pressed slowly outward.
It encountered Harry's shoulder. Harry felt himself move toward the pit, while
hidden machinery clattered in response to Drune's slow, steady pull upon the
lever.
The fire master was gloating. Stokers showed leers upon their sweaty faces
as they watched Harry's slow approach to the flames. They were proper henchmen
for a fiend like Drune. The stokers took it that they were to have their reward
for long efforts with the fire.
Within the coming minutes, Harry Vincent was destined to lose his balance;
to plunge downward toward the white-hot coals. The fire was sufficient to burn
any unprotected human to a crisp within the time space of a dozen seconds.
Harry tried to buck the moving wall. The attempt was useless. He was at
the edge. One bound elbow was hanging over the fire. Strength left him as he
turned his face to the wall.
The fumes were bringing spasmodic gasps from Harry's lips. He managed
barely to turn upon his left side facing the wall. The move prevented him from
falling; but it meant only a short postponement of the final plunge.
Drune paused a moment with the lever to gloat at Harry's plight. The
stokers shouted glee that was drowned out by the fire's roar. Drune's hand
tightened on the wooden rod.
Triumphantly, he looked toward the stokers. Two of them were gesticulating
their mad joy. The third suddenly became rigid.
With a wild, unheard shout, the third stoker pointed across the fire. His
companions stopped their gestures to stare. Drune, his hand stilled upon the
lever, looked also.
At the door by which Colgarth and the Salamanders had departed stood a
figure of vengeance. The lurid, red-orange light of the fire showed
The Shadow
.
His black-clad form was weird against the reflected crimson that tinged the
wall. His eyes were burning with a glow that matched the fire's coals.
Gloved fists held automatics. One weapon was directed toward Drune's
balcony; the other covered the stokers at the end of the pit.

DRUNE snarled. The stokers dived away. Automatics spat bullets before a
crook could gain a gun. Slugs clanged the wide posts of Drune's protecting
rail. Other bullets sizzled the wall where the stokers had been. The three
underlings were taking to a doorway below, to get out of range from The
Shadow's covering guns.
Drune was alone. Twisting backward into a narrow outlet, he had found luck
with him. He had escaped
The Shadow
's first bullets. He was under cover in his
exit, except for his extended right arm, which bent from around a corner and
gripped the top of the long, wooden lever.

The Shadow
could not aim for Drune's clutching hand. It was protected by
the steel rail of the balcony. As his last deed before flight, Drune intended
to give the final tug that would thrust the wall six inches farther forward and
roll Harry Vincent into the fiery pit.

The Shadow
aimed between the rails of the balcony. He took the only target
possible, the wooden lever that projected upward in full view. Bullets whistled
in a swift barrage. They splintered the wooden rod, just as Drune gave his last
pull. The weakened lever failed. It snapped off in Drune's fist.
Promptly,
The Shadow
sidled to the left. He gained a new position - one
that gave him an angle from which he could pump bullets into the exit where
Drune had taken cover.
The master crook foresaw the maneuver. Too late to pull a gun of his own,
he took another course. He made a hasty scramble off through his outlet, just
as
The Shadow
gained the aim he wanted. A .45 spoke half a second too late.
Drune had gone to overtake the fleeing stokers; to make a dash for distant
safety.

The Shadow
looked toward Harry Vincent. He saw his agent prone and
motionless, on the very outward portion of the ledge. Though the pressing wall
had stopped, Harry was in a forced position.
The slightest waver of his body would cause him to lose his balance.
Groggy from the fumes, Harry was holding on to life through sheer instinct. At
any moment, he might lose his slender balance.
Rescue was imperative; yet between
The Shadow
and his agent lay fifteen
feet of roaring, fresh-coaled flames!

The Shadow
saw the ash containers at the end of the short passage that
fronted the fire bed. Swiftly, he dashed toward the containers.
One of those ash-filled cylinders was almost a two-man burden; yet The
Shadow hoisted it as easily as if it had been empty. He swung to the center of
the low front that ran along the pit. With a lunging motion, he tossed thick
ashes upon the fire.
Flames wavered; they lashed the sides of the ashy path and fought to lick
up through the surface.
The Shadow
hurled more ashes; these went farther than
the first. They spread halfway across the gap separating
The Shadow
from Harry
Vincent.
Another heave sent chunky ashes to a distance of twelve feet.
The Shadow

gave a final toss and sprayed the last contents to the far wall.
The chimney roared. Flames swept across the ashy path and formed a flare
as they roared through the suction tube. Again, the ashy path lay clear and
gray. Fumes had departed.
The Shadow
sprang across the low barrier and stepped
upon the path of ashes.

SLOWLY, each step steady, he found his footing in the furnace. Haste would
have spelled his doom. So would delay.
The Shadow
was using the process of the
Oriental fire walkers, who tread bare-footed through beds of flame. Their
secret was a burnt charcoal surface, with feet toughened by an alum solution.

The Shadow
had chosen ordinary ashes, with leather underfoot. His
protection was greater; but he was daring flames that no fire walker would have
been willing to engage.
Five steady paces. Eyes ahead.
The Shadow
saw Harry's body waver. Almost
pausing,
The Shadow
made three short strides, timing his steps to the minimum,
counting upon Harry's fall. Forward went
The Shadow
's hands.
As Harry, gasping, toppled from the ledge, strong arms were there to snare
him just below the brink. Gauging his approach to perfection,
The Shadow
had
gained advantage through Harry's sudden relax. He had no need to pause.
He had caught his falling agent tightly; turning,
The Shadow
swung Harry
across his shoulders. Stooped forward, he gazed toward the ashes as he retraced
his path to safety. .
The return was doubly dangerous. Fire had licked up through the ashes.
Certain spots were unsafe.
The Shadow
's strides were zigzagging ones. With the
burden of double weight, he needed absolute surety in footing. Any one of his
eight steps could mean doom for himself and the man he rescued.
Steady steps served
The Shadow
; but his deliberate progress produced
another sort of danger. At any moment, the suction tube was due to draw another
withering blast of fire across the failing path of ashes. The Salamanders had
not feared such puffs of flame; but
The Shadow
was not equipped to withstand
one. Each step made a blast more imminent.

THE SHADOW reached the front edge of the pit. He stamped a scorched shoe
upon the low stone barrier. With an upward, forward spring he swung his other
foot past the edge, down to the stone path beyond.
Quickly, he leaped entirely clear from the fire's edge and rolled Harry to
the solid floor beside the wall. Leaning back,
The Shadow
drew a lungful of
fresh breath. He had been forced to breathe with caution amid the scorching
fumes.
A tremendous roar came from the defeated fire. It was the expected suction
of the automatic chimney, four seconds too late to ensnare
The Shadow
. Flames
rose and ripped in one wild sheet that lashed across the path of ashes. The
chimney howled as it delivered a puff like those that had served
The Shadow
as
his beacon.
That surge of fire obliterated the ashy path; but its destroying force
found nothingness.
The Shadow
had rescued Harry Vincent. He had won his duel
with the flaming pit.

CHAPTER XIV

CRIME'S HOUR

NEW vigilance was
The Shadow
's move immediately after his rescue of Harry
Vincent. He had witnessed the full evil of Huxley Drune. He knew that the
supercrook might return once he had rallied his scattered squad of henchmen.
Standing above Harry Vincent,
The Shadow
drew the automatics that he had
replaced beneath his cloak. He looked toward the high-railed balcony, then to
the stoker's pit.
Satisfied that crooks were not returning,
The Shadow
put away one gun.
While he held the other, he raised Harry from the floor and started a journey
through the outer door. The furnace blasted a puffy roar as its conqueror
departed.
Cool air seemed frigid in the passage. The contrast was so staggering that

The Shadow
was forced to ease Harry to the floor. Two minutes passed, while The
Shadow watched the brilliant doorway, ready in case enemies should appear. The
air became reviving.
The Shadow
stooped beside Harry.
There was no need to cut Harry's bonds.
The Shadow
broke them with hard
tugs; for the cords had become scorched. Harry's hands showed blisters; so did
his neck; but his face had been away from the fire. His clothing, though
singed, had protected his body.
Harry's ordeal had been a long one; but he was showing signs of slow
recuperation. Producing a handkerchief,
The Shadow
ripped it in half and used
the portions to bandage Harry's hands. Slowly, Harry moved; finding himself
free, he tried to rise.
The Shadow
prevented him. He eased Harry against the
wall.
Whispered words reached Harry's ears. Tones of encouragement that came
like a voice within a dream. Harry realized that he had been rescued; he
recognized the tones as
The Shadow
's. It was unbelievable; so much so that it
stirred Harry to vague mutterings. His words became coherent.
"Drune," spoke Harry. "Huxley Drune - the man above the pit - he runs the
game. Gordon Colgarth - he met me in Riverport - he commands the Salamanders -"
Harry mumbled.
The Shadow
urged him to continue. In response to the
commanding whisper, Harry spoke again.
"Woldorf - Breel - both murdered" - Harry paused; his breath came in a
choke - "there will be other crime tonight. Sheffield - the bank - a hundred
people may die -"

HARRY'S tone subsided. He was sinking back with a tired sigh.
The Shadow

roused him violently. With a start, Harry tried to connect events.
"I was a prisoner," he recalled. "They kept me in a room like an office.
Chairs there - a desk - a telephone. They took me through a passage, to a pit
of fire -"
Harry gulped as he leaned forward. He could see the vivid glow from the
furnace room. He heard a puffing roar from beyond that door. His nerves began
to buckle. Harry sagged backward.
The Shadow
gripped him. The strength of that
clasp restored Harry's fading confidence. He rallied as
The Shadow
drew him to
his feet.

The Shadow
led the way along the passage. He reached the end away from the
furnace room. He guided Harry to the right; there was reason for the move.

The Shadow
had entered from the other direction, through a doorway that he
had found when he reached the building that housed the blast furnace. He knew,
therefore, that Harry must have been brought from the opposite end of the
passage.
The Shadow
wanted to locate the office that Harry had mentioned.
Using a flashlight,
The Shadow
found the door. He opened it, discovered
the hanging light and turned it on. He saw the desk; placing Harry in a chair,
he picked up the telephone. A few clicks of the receiver hook brought a
response from the operator. In careful tones,
The Shadow
gave a New York number.
Harry had told
The Shadow
where crime was due. It would strike in
Sheffield, with the Sheffield National Bank as its goal.
The Shadow
knew that
crooks would again use fire as their main weapon. Given time, he could offset
their stroke.
Burbank's voice came across the wire.
The Shadow
gave an order.
"Autogiro to leave at once," he instructed. "Make landing at the airport
near Sheffield, New Jersey. Await contact."
"Instructions received."

The Shadow
had made plans for the mysterious shipment that had come from
Texas. Crofton had by this time transferred it to the autogiro at the Newark
Airport. He would have the autogiro at the Sheffield Airport within the next
hour.
There was a chance that crime would strike before the ship arrived. The
Shadow must warn the authorities in Sheffield. He clicked the receiver to
recall the Sheffield operator. There was a half-minute delay; then the girl's
voice sounded.
"Hello..."
The line was dead.
The Shadow
clicked the receiver hook twice, then
jounced the telephone upon the desk. Drune's work. The master crook had rallied
his men somewhere outside. They had cut the telephone wire.

The Shadow
turned to Harry for more facts. Revived, the rescued agent gave
them.
"Colgarth left with two Salamanders," stated Harry. "The rest are probably
in Sheffield. Colgarth has a country house, several miles north of the town."

THE SHADOW nodded. He could picture the country estate as the new
headquarters. A stronghold to which Drune had probably headed, leaving crime to
Colgarth in Sheffield.

The Shadow
had not encountered Colgarth and the Salamanders; but he had
heard a car pulling away from one side of the blast furnace while he had been
stowing the roadster in the woods beyond the building.
It was time for quick action. First, to make sure that Drune was not still
about; after that, to reach Sheffield with the utmost speed.
The Shadow
had
formed an instantaneous picture of the situation. The old garage as
headquarters for the Salamanders; the Sheffield National Bank as the building
to be burned.
More than that, he recognized what Harry had meant by a hundred lives in
danger.
The Shadow
remembered the old freight depot; the apartment house beyond
it. As clearly as if he had Colgarth's diagram in front of him,
The Shadow
could
see the route by which the fire would progress.
The call to Burbank had been important; but it would be useless if the
blaze began too soon. The warning to the Sheffield authorities had been The
Shadow's alternate move; Drune had tidily balked it.
The Shadow
's deduction was
that crime would not be long delayed.

The Shadow
paused long enough to add new cartridges to his half-emptied
automatics. Producing an additional weapon, he handed it to Harry. With a sharp
order,
The Shadow
clicked off the light, then used his flashlight to lead the
way outside.
When they reached the chilly outdoors,
The Shadow
extinguished his torch.
Clutching Harry's arm, he drew his companion through the darkness. They groped
past trees;
The Shadow
found the roadster. He turned on the dashlight. Harry
saw Sloopy bound and gagged inside the car.
Without ceremony,
The Shadow
hauled the crook to the ground and rolled him
close beside a tree. He motioned Harry into the car, then took the wheel. The
motor hummed as
The Shadow
pressed the starter. The car swung toward the road.
"Prepare for Drune."
Harry gripped his automatic as he heard
The Shadow
's order.
The Shadow
was
driving with one hand, gripping a .45 with the other. He turned on the lights;
they showed the road ahead. Harry realized that if they encountered an ambush,

The Shadow
's plan would be to run it rather than delay the dash to Sheffield.

HARRY'S guess was right. Nevertheless, he had by no means pictured the
full extent of
The Shadow
's deductions.
The Shadow
was considering facts
unknown to Harry.

The Shadow
knew that Drune had remained with three henchmen; but they were
probably the poorest fighters in his band. Otherwise, they would not have been
delegated to their job as stokers. Furthermore, they had scattered when The
Shadow opened fire.
Knowing
The Shadow
's prowess, doubtlessly amazed by the fact that he had
reappeared, Drune would be too wary to attempt a hurried ambush with three
inferior underlings as his only backers. There were others upon whom Drune
would depend.
Drune and his minions, driving away in a car, would keep on until they
reached the crossing of the two dirt roads. There, they would expect to find a
sedan manned by five sure marksmen. Drune, knowing
The Shadow
's skill at
stealth, would naturally suppose that he had maneuvered past the sedan. The
master crook would not jump to the incredible belief that the sedan was at the
bottom of the old abandoned quarry.
Not finding the sedan, Drune's only move would be to deploy his three
stokers. The ambush would be a forced one, not at all to Drune's liking. Much
as he wanted to hold back
The Shadow
, he would be thinking of the security that
Colgarth's stronghold offered.
The roadster roared along the road. Harry gripped the braces of the raised
top. He could foresee a quick, sure ride through any early ambush. He did not
know that
The Shadow
was accomplishing another purpose. By his terrific speed,

The Shadow
was lessening the space of time that Drune would have for
preparations at the crossroads.
They whizzed past the rutted road to the quarry. Down the long hill; then

The Shadow
pressed the clutch pedal and turned off the ignition. He turned the
key on again, a few moments later, but the motor did not engage, for
The Shadow

still held the clutch pedal to the floorboard.
The lights went off; the roadster coasted silently in darkness. The last
glimpse along the road had shown
The Shadow
that they were past the bend,
rolling on a straight stretch to the crossing. Only the creak of the car's
springs gave token of the approach. Even that sound ceased as the roadster
struck a smoother piece of road, close to the crossing.
"Ready," whispered
The Shadow
. "Aim to the right. Thirty degrees forward.
Three shots -"
A pause.
The Shadow
was aiming similarly to the left. The roadster creaked
slowly onward.

The Shadow
gave the command:
"Fire!"
Simultaneously,
The Shadow
and Harry each discharged three rounds. The
shots ripped from each side of the roadster, just before it reached the
crossroad.

YELLS sounded from the left. A motor roared as its driver jabbed the
starter. Lights clicked into view. A tail-light formed a target less than fifty
feet away.
The Shadow
gave Harry a quick command:
"Join fire!"
Leaning across the wheel, Harry used his right hand;
The Shadow
fired with
his left. They were at the center of the crossroad, pumping bullets at the car
that had revealed itself.
The other machine had been waiting, headed away from the crossing. It shot
forward with terrific speed, darting madly toward a bend. There was not a single
answering bullet. The occupants of the car had chosen flight instead of battle.

The Shadow
did not halt. Instead, he threw in the clutch. The motor
throbbed;
The Shadow
drove the roadster ahead; increasing speed as he made for
the road to Sheffield.

The Shadow
had cracked Drune's ambush.
The master of crime had lain in wait, his minions ready with their guns.
Had they scented the roadster's approach, they would have spread among the
trees, to begin a desperate fire.

The Shadow
had decided that Drune's car would be headed away, ready for
flight if the ambush failed. He had called for fire to both sides, so the
enemy's car would surely be a possible target, on whichever road Drune had
chosen.
The shots from the night had totally surprised the crooks. Drune had
instantly supposed that his location was known. He had jumped to his other
plan; a speedy trip to Colgarth's. The absence of the cover-up crew in the
sedan had made Drune qualmish. He wanted a bigger band before he dared The
Shadow's power again.

The Shadow
had let Drune go. Quick shots had not been sufficient to stop
the master schemer's departure. Moreover,
The Shadow
had seen a double purpose
in Drune's flight. Drune wanted to draw
The Shadow
on a futile chase toward the
stronghold, so as to keep him away from Sheffield.
Drune knew that
The Shadow
alone could halt the progress of scheduled
crime.
The roadster was at the highway.
The Shadow
gave full speed along the
paved road. Roaring, quivering at every jolt, the light car was riding at its
limit. The steering gear was old; the wheel gave a warning shimmy click at
every heavy jolt; but
The Shadow
never slackened speed.

BOUNCING over a final hill, the roadster came in sight of Sheffield.
Neither
The Shadow
nor Harry noted the outspread twinkle of the city's lights.
Their eyes were captured by a greater glow.
A mammoth torch glared red against the sky. The light showed a mass of
billowy black smoke. It made a brilliant outline of the building from which the
fire issued. The hour of crime had arrived.
The Sheffield National Bank was ablaze. Sprinkled gasoline had done its
work. Flames were raging from the roof, licking the water tank that contained
gallons more of gasoline. Fanning winds were sweeping the flames toward the
freight depot. Even the breeze had favored schemes of crime.
The center of the little city lay full in the fire's path. Destruction had
begun despite
The Shadow
.

CHAPTER XV

THE DYNAMITE BOX CAR

IT was a five-minutes ride to Sheffield. Five mad minutes, at
The Shadow
's
furious clip. Not one second could be lost, for
The Shadow
knew the horror that
threatened.
The flames from the bank building had appeared with such suddenness that
the origin of the fire could not be held in doubt. Here was a holocaust more
terrible than that which had destroyed the hotel in Riverport; a blaze far
swifter than the fire in Manhattan.
It was nearly eleven o'clock, a late hour for Sheffield. The fire had
begun without a warning; its swift sweep was the sort that would produce chaos.
Panic was due in the doomed city. Only quick and efficient work could avert it.

The Shadow
intended to do his utmost, although he knew that the evil had struck
too soon.
His one preparation against this new thrust by fire depended upon his
autogiro's arrival. It was less than half an hour since
The Shadow
had called
Burbank. Crofton would not reach Sheffield within the next twenty minutes; he
would halt at the airport, a few miles south of town. By the time
The Shadow

could gain his ship, disaster would be completed in Sheffield.
Hence
The Shadow
swung straight into town, trusting to the bare hope that
he might gain some opportunity to organize whatever firemen he found. Sirens
were screeching when he arrived; two fire engines were clanging up beside the
burning bank.
The Shadow
sped to join them.
The only chance was to convince the fire fighters that their task was
useless; to send them scurrying to warn the people in the apartment house
beyond the depot. Soon the scorching flames would be there. Scores of lives
were at stake.
As
The Shadow
swung to the curb beside the fire engines, a horn squawked
from the corner. A red automobile skidded into view and rolled past the
roadster. A brawny, beefy-faced man jumped to the curb. He was Sheffield's only
fire chief, prompt on the job.
The fire chief turned to view the high-flung fire, which was licking the
posts of the squatty water-tank atop the bank. He was ready to stride to the
fire engines when a uniformed man came dashing toward him, waving and shouting.
The fire chief met the newcomer;
The Shadow
recognized that the second man
must be the chief of police. The two stopped right beside the roadster.

QUICKLY,
The Shadow
grabbed Harry's arm. He had been about to order his
agent from the car. On the point of discarding his cloak and hat,
The Shadow
,
too, intended to join the crowd that was gathering near the uniformed men.
Despite the shabby clothes that he wore beneath his cloak,
The Shadow
had
a persuasive power that would rally men to proper action. This meeting on the
sidewalk, however, promised some important consequences. The police chief
evidently had a message.
"Will the water tank stop it," he bawled, to the fire chief, "or is it
going to spread?"
"Chances are the tank is empty," shouted back the fire chief, above the
hideous noise of the flames. The sprinkler system can't be working! That may
mean the tank's empty!"
The fire chief had not guessed that the water tank was filled with
gasoline. Nevertheless, the man had spoken sense.
The Shadow
waited, despite
the loss of valuable seconds. He was sure that more news was due.
"If it spreads," put in the police chief, "it'll get the depot anyway."
"Sure it will," returned the fire chief. "What're you driving at?"
Neither had thought of consequences after the depot caught fire. They did
not realize the fate that was due the business block with its many apartments.
Nevertheless, the police chief had brought a real idea.
"We can clear away that depot for you," he shouted. "We'll do it while
you're fighting the bank-fire!"
"Go to it!" barked the fire chief. "Only you won't have more than half an
hour! How're you going to manage it?"
"Dynamite!" snapped back the police chief. "There's a carload of it back
of the depot! Inspected it this afternoon! We can use some of it to blast the
depot -"
"Get going! Thirty minutes is all you've got, chief!"
Harry Vincent pointed suddenly. The crowd was shifting; men were darting
suddenly across the street. The fire chief was turning toward the engines,
which were spraying futile streams of water against the bank building; the
police chief had dashed away to summon men. Neither saw the stir that Harry
indicated; but
The Shadow
had spied it.
The identity of the running men was positive. They were crooks who
belonged to Drune and Colgarth. Dodging out of sight, they were on their way to
block the police chief's plan. They would be the first to reach the dynamite
car. Their cunning chief had figured out a possible move like this.

The Shadow
urged Harry from the roadster, with quick instructions.
"Cover the garage," he ordered "Watch for Colgarth and the Salamanders,
with their swag. Use caution."

AS Harry leaped out and slammed the car's door,
The Shadow
swung the
roadster roundabout. He whizzed across the street, jouncing over a fire hose
while firemen shouted angrily.
As
The Shadow
reached the corner, he heard a clanging of bells; he gave
his car the gas; it shot forward, straight across the path of Sheffield's hook
and ladder truck. The front fender of the truck skimmed the rear bumper of the
roadster.
More shouts, as the hook and ladder swerved to a stop.
The Shadow
did not
pause. He swung his car straight through the alleyway between the bank building
and the freight depot.
Above the car roared a mass of flames; chunks of masonry crashed from
burning walls. Running the gantlet safely,
The Shadow
reached the far end of
the old train shed, in back of the depot.
As he sprang from the roadster,
The Shadow
heard a terrific roar above.
Glancing up, he saw the water tank topple. It burst into immediate blaze; fire
jetted to twice the previous height.

Still partly filled with gasoline, the tank had given the flames a
tremendous impetus. As a breeze swept across the burning bank building, the
fire became a tidal wave. A broad, crackling sheet, it swept downward to
envelop the old depot in its maw.
The flames had begun their spread. The fire chief's half an hour had
become a scant five minutes. The police would never have a chance to plant the
dynamite in time.

The Shadow
had reached the gleaming railroad tracks behind the depot. The
fire showed three policemen hurrying from the other side. Gunshots barked
suddenly from freight cars on a siding. The police stopped, stupefied, then
scattered for cover.

The Shadow
saw the dynamite box car. It was alone on a siding that led
into the old depot; but it was fifty yards away.
The Shadow
recognized the car
by the activity about it. A shifting locomotive had chugged up to the farther
end. Men were making a coupling.
They were crooks, who had boarded the shifter, to put it to quick use.
Word that the police were seeking dynamite had pushed the criminals to their
present task.
Men were leaping back, waving their arms; others were aboard the box car,
ready with guns should the police approach. The wheels of the shifting
locomotive were moving. The engine was ready for a swift trip from the yards,
with the dynamite box car attached.
Abandoning all cover,
The Shadow
sprang forward, an automatic in his right
fist. The crooks on the freight car did not see him coming; they were looking in
the direction of the scattered police squad. The first thug who saw
The Shadow

was one who stood beside the moving box car. He chanced to spy the cloaked
figure bearing down upon him.

THE thug whipped out a revolver; he started an outcry. He never used his
weapon; nor did his shout materialize. With a mammoth leap,
The Shadow
was upon
him. A cloaked arm drove a downward blow.
The Shadow
's automatic thudded on the
thug's skull.
As the crook fell, another challenger leaped toward
The Shadow
; this
second crook was quicker with his gun.
The Shadow
beat him by a split-second,
again without delivering a telltale shot.
He snapped a backhand sideswing that clipped the crook behind the right
ear. The thug slumped, his trigger finger nerveless.
Leaping across ties and rails,
The Shadow
reached the front of the moving
engine. The locomotive was increasing its reverse speed; it jounced, twisted,
as it clicked across switches.
The Shadow
grabbed the pilot rail as it jolted
toward him. He boarded the engine with a leap.
Back against the locomotive's boiler,
The Shadow
clattered along the
runway and reached the open cab. Without any attempt at stealth, he sprang into
view, to be met by two men who had heard his sudden arrival.
One was the crook at the throttle. He snarled as he saw
The Shadow
. The
thug was holding a revolver ready in case policemen should try to board the
train. He aimed quickly at the cloaked invader. This time
The Shadow
fired. His
own aim beat the crook's. The man sprawled to the floor of the cab.
The Shadow

whirled to meet the other thug, who was acting as fireman.
This brawny rogue was armed with a big shovel that he had used to stoke
the fire box of the switching engine. The shovel was descending with a
terrific, vicious stroke as
The Shadow
turned.
The Shadow
's left fist shot
upward, forward.
A shot could not have stopped that swing: but
The Shadow
's jabbing arm
accomplished the deed. Like a trip hammer, his fist swerved the crook's brawny
arm and clamped it to a standstill.
The thug snarled as he grappled for
The Shadow
's gun. Dropping the
automatic against the jouncing floor,
The Shadow
gave the crook a fast jujutsu
hold.
The struggle ended. The thug twisted upward, outward, lost his grasp, then
pitched headlong to the track beside the clattering locomotive. As the crook
thudded on the ties,
The Shadow
snatched up the .45 before it could bounce
away. He dived into the cab and pulled the air-brake lever.
The engine and the dynamite car came to a sudden halt out in the yards.
From the cab's window,
The Shadow
could see the flames that had caught the
freight depot, on the side nearest the bank. The fire was rising; once it
reached the top of the structure all would be over. The wind would sweep the
flames into the business block. Brief minutes were all that remained.
Firemen and police had just realized the danger, for
The Shadow
could see
tiny figures dashing toward the apartment building. The warning was belated.
Tenants would not know about the menace before the fire struck. The whole
block seemed doomed to immediate destruction, for the fire's intensity had
trebled.

The Shadow
tugged the throttle. The switching engine started forward.

RABID shouts came from the box car. Crooks upon it had supposed that their
pals had stopped the locomotive, figuring it far enough out in the yard.
This sudden start, that promised a return to the siding into the freight
depot was something they could not understand. Shouts were closer. As the
locomotive gathered speed, a crook appeared on the ladder steps of the dynamite
car.
He saw
The Shadow
at the window of the cab. The crook aimed;
The Shadow

fired first. The thug lost his hold and toppled sidelong from the ladder.
New shouts were raised. Revolvers tongued shots; automatics roared from
within the cab. Battle had begun amid this mad return. Shots were almost
useless, for the thugs were flattened on the car, and
The Shadow
's head was
bobbing at the locomotive cab. To
The Shadow
, the fray was mere by-play, to
keep the crooks from swarming to the locomotive.
The real result would come when
The Shadow
completed the bold, swift
course that he had undertaken. Every increased gain of the clattering
locomotive was to his liking, for it led to the new outcome.

The Shadow
was driving the dynamite car ahead of him, squarely into the
depths of the blazing depot!

CHAPTER XVI

THE SHADOW'S COURSE

CROOKS controlled the yards outside the old depot. Deployed over a wide
area, they had driven back Sheffield's few policemen. A dozen or more - all men
like Sloopy and Jing - these thugs were gloating as they watched the flames
surge up to the top of the depot. Roof and train shed were both ablaze.
It was the loud rattle of the shifting locomotive that made those
outspread thugs turn about. By the lurid glare of the fire, they saw the
dynamite car coming toward them, shoved by the fast-moving wheels of the little
engine.

The Shadow
had yanked the throttle wide. The shifter was driving its
one-car train forward at nearly a thirty-miles-an-hour clip.
The fire's vivid light showed the men who fired from atop the box car.
Other crooks leaped into action. Some vainly tried to throw switches before the
dynamite car arrived. Others, guessing that a foeman had captured the
locomotive, were prepared to open fire from the tracks.
As the dynamite car ran the last lap into the station, a figure swung
outward from the cab. A black shape struck the ground, staggered forward,
rolled, then came to a halt. Rising,
The Shadow
was ready with his guns.
No crooks offered fire. All were ducking to cover. Eyes were riveted by
the sight ahead.

THE dynamite car had reached the blazing train shed. The shifting engine
was hurling it onward. Crooks were leaping from the car, all except one. He
clung in terror, fearful of the drop at such high speed. That thug was doomed
to quick destruction.
Locomotive and car covered the length of the train shed in three seconds.
Outlined by the fire above, the dynamite car hit a wooden bumper at the end of
the track. The bumper was too frail to stop the impetus. The locomotive drove
the car straight onward; the bumper was pushed from the track.
The next obstacle was a thick brick wall, the buttressed inner end of the
old depot.
A sweep of fire had risen over the top of the depot, all along the roof
and train shed. A cataract of flame, it was ready to descend; to clear the roof
and swallow the whole depot in its clutches. Once that surge struck, the fire
would roar onward, unrestricted. The moment of the fire's triumph had arrived.
Full speed, the dynamite car crashed the thick brick wall. It smashed the
buttress; halted; then telescoped as the shifting locomotive drove squarely
through it.
All happened in a quarter of a second; yet
The Shadow
, watching, could
sense a distinct instant that formed an ominous lull.

A TERRIFIC explosion made the fire's roar seem puny. The fire that
thundered from the doomed box car was more vivid than the holocaust above.
Splitting to fragments, the steel car vanished. With it, the shifting
engine was shattered, twisted, broken into chunks of hot and jagged metal. The
concussion carried instantaneously. The ground trembled as the terrific blast
hurled the whole depot into fragments. Walls, roof and train shed went
scattering in every direction.
All portions were hoisted outward. The front of the depot hurtled to the
street. The rear of the train shed was blown into bits that scattered all over
the tracks in the yard. The unburned side of the depot was rocketed against the
walls of the business block; chunks of superstructure clattered the roofs of the
apartments.
The whole flaming side of the depot was lifted backward, as if swept aside
by a giant hand. The tidal wave of fire was carried with it, thrown against the
breeze, back upon the flames that rose from the Sheffield National Bank.
The huge roar of the mammoth blast was answered by the echoes of
clattering windows and shattering plate-glass from the business block. For
seconds, there was no other sound.
There was a sight, however, that held eyes amazed. Space had replaced the
old freight depot. Low fragments of masonry, a flattened surface of settled
debris were all that marked the spot where the structure had been.
Flames writhed, a mammoth, windswept torch above the bank building. Caught
anew by the breeze, they took their old direction. Gobbling downward, they
reached to the site of the old depot, hungrily seeking fuel which they could no
longer find.

The Shadow
's blast had isolated the fire. Nothingness lay in its path. The
flames could never reach the business block, where startled apartment dwellers
had awakened, to show their staring faces at every broken window.
One task accomplished,
The Shadow
had another. Darkness had blanketed the
spot where he stood, for the flames had suddenly exhausted after their last
surge. They had almost totally consumed the bank building; its ruins afforded
no additional fuel. Darkness served
The Shadow
.
Skirting wide through the freight yard, he circled hurriedly to reach the
old garage beyond the Sheffield National Bank.
The Shadow
knew that Colgarth
and the Salamanders must have timed their underground entry at the very outset
of the fire, for they had expected a complete holocaust that would divert
attention from them.
Harry was watching. Had he already seen the Salamanders emerge?

PAST the bank building,
The Shadow
cut straight toward the garage. He had
a hundred yards to go. Crooks from the freight yards had taken a shorter
course.
The Shadow
saw the cover-up men scurrying to give the alarm. He had no
time to battle with those underlings. His task was to stop the Salamanders
first.
Before
The Shadow
had covered thirty feet, the far door of the battered
garage burst open. A truck rocketed into view; it cut toward the main street.
The range was too great for
The Shadow
to halt the big machine; moreover, it
was driving off at full speed in the opposite direction.

The Shadow
saw a man spring out from beside a building and stab futile
shots at the escaping truck. It was Harry Vincent; he had thrown aside all
thoughts of caution. He was due for trouble before
The Shadow
could reach him.
Two thugs jumped into sight. They were cover-up men, the ones who had been
nearest to the garage and, therefore, the first to reach it. They grabbed Harry;

The Shadow
saw them drag him, struggling, off beyond the garage.

The Shadow
dashed onward. His cloaked shape was outlined by the waning
fire in the bank building. Crooks spotted their deadly foe and opened fire. The
Shadow gave them no regard. He intended to save Harry first.
An automobile flashed past an opening between two buildings. Thirty yards
distant; it was gone before
The Shadow
could aim to stop it. Covering crooks
were making a speedy getaway. Harry was again a prisoner; there was no chance
to overtake the men who held him captive.

The Shadow
twisted to a halt. He heard the whines of bullets dispatched by
the crooks who had tried to pepper him at long range. They had failed to find
their swift-moving target. They had opportunity for better aim when
The Shadow

stopped his dash; but they gained no chance to press their new advantage.
Close to the subsiding bank fire, the crouched crooks were visible to a
man.
The Shadow
had whipped out both automatics. He jabbed quick-spurted shots
as he turned in turret fashion. Each gun pumped alternately. As one arm drove
down, the other recoiled.
Three thugs sprawled in quick succession, while their pals fired wildly
toward
The Shadow
. Weaving, fading, he was an impossible target in that brief
fray. Surviving crooks dashed for cover.

The Shadow
followed.
He knew that they were heading for a car. The roadster had been crumpled
by the explosion.
The Shadow
needed another machine.

ROUNDING a building beyond the abandoned garage,
The Shadow
overtook three
crooks who were boarding a touring car. Two men dove away and fled past a close
corner when they saw
The Shadow
. The other tried to start the car; at the same
time, he peered wildly, gripping a revolver as he looked for his black-clad
adversary.

The Shadow
came in from the other side of the front seat. Dropping his
automatics, he pitched upon the thug. He caught the crook's throat with one
hand, the fellow's gun wrist with the other.
The thug choked as his hand lost its hold upon the weapon. Snapping the
man up from behind the wheel,
The Shadow
chucked him headlong over the door
beside the driver's seat. The rogue thudded against the paving and lay stunned.
Colgarth and the Salamanders had driven north in their truck; underlings
had taken the same direction in their car, with Harry as their prisoner.
Instead of following,
The Shadow
wheeled the captured touring car across the
street and swung southward.
Again,
The Shadow
was beginning a swift ride. He was bound for the airport
south of Sheffield. By this time, the autogiro had arrived.

The Shadow
preferred his autogiro for new pursuit.

CHAPTER XVII

DRUNE'S DECREE

HARRY VINCENT'S struggles had ceased as soon as he had been placed aboard
the crook-manned automobile. The thugs who had trapped him threw him into the
back seat, into the arms of another waiting pair.
Threats of slugging guns had quieted Harry. Discretion was preferable to
useless fighting. So long as he remained conscious, Harry would have double
opportunity; to seek a chance for escape and to learn facts for
The Shadow
.
The crooks were snarling as they drove along. With harsh epithets, they
promised tough times for Harry.
The Shadow
's agent maintained his composure. He
knew that these rogues would not harm him unless he made trouble. They wanted to
deliver him intact to Drune.
The car scaled a hill. It rode between brick gate posts and pulled around
in back of a sprawly mansion. In the darkness, Harry glimpsed white pillars as
they passed the front. He knew that this must be Colgarth's colonial residence.
The crooks jabbed revolvers into Harry's back. They forced their prisoner
from the car and marched him to the rear door of the house. One thug rapped
with the butt of a revolver. The door opened; an ugly-faced servant admitted
the group and conducted them to the front of the house.

HARRY saw Drune and Colgarth rising, startled, from a table in a large
living room. The pair had been sorting the securities taken in the bank raid.
Colgarth emitted a harsh exclamation to his henchmen:
"What brought you here?"
"Things went sour," growled a thug. "
The Shadow
blew up the freight
station and stopped the fire."
"So that was the explosion that we heard!" ejaculated Colgarth. "We
thought it was the gasoline in the water tank!"
"That burned first. Then
The Shadow
grabbed the dynamite car. After that,
he clipped about half of the cover-up crew -"
"So you fools came here! You gave him a sure trail -"
Drune waved an interruption. His eyes gleaming, the master crook had spied
Harry in the background. Drune turned to Colgarth.
"They were quite wise to come here," said Drune, dryly. "Look, Colgarth;
they have brought us an old friend."
Colgarth craned his neck. He saw Harry. His hard lips showed a vicious
grin. He snapped, "You frisked him?"
Nods indicated that the henchmen had deprived Harry of his gun. Colgarth
rasped an order:
"Leave him here with us."
Harry's captors departed. Colgarth drew a revolver and motioned Harry to a
chair.
The Shadow
's agent seated himself calmly. Drune and Colgarth buzzed in
conference beside the table; all the while, Colgarth kept watch on Harry. Nods
proved that the crooked partners were reaching a quick agreement.
The pair arose. Drune gathered up the stacks of securities, while Colgarth
waited. Then Colgarth covered Harry and ordered him toward the door. Harry
walked out into the hall, where the four thugs were waiting.
Colgarth buzzed orders to the leader of the four-man squad. The men
hurried off in different directions. Colgarth marched Harry to a kitchen. He
opened a door and pointed to a cellar stairs.
"Go down," ordered Colgarth.
As Harry descended, Drune turned on a light at the head of the stairs. At
the bottom, Harry found himself in a square-walled room, empty except for boxes
along the wall. While Colgarth kept Harry covered, Drune went ahead and entered
another section of the cellar. A light gleamed when Drune found the switch.
Colgarth moved Harry forward.
Drune was waiting for them. With a polite bow, he pointed to a lone chair
in the corner. It was an invitation for Harry to be seated. Harry accepted,
while Drune and Colgarth remained standing.
Drune's actions were more insidious because of the rogue's mock courtesy.
Harry remembered the previous fate to which the master crook had consigned him.
He expected something equally as undesirable as the fiery pit.
"We congratulate you, Mr. Vincent," crackled Drune, with smiling lips.
"Your escape from death was quite miraculous. We assume, of course, that your
chief,
The Shadow
, was responsible for your rescue. I presume that you were
with him when he so neatly uncovered my ambush at the crossroads.
"We have learned that
The Shadow
spoiled our plans for the complete
destruction of Sheffield. That, however, does not cause us concern. Our one
purpose was to divert attention while Colgarth and the Salamanders completed
their foray in the bank. They were quite successful.
"Even the subterranean blast, by which they shattered the foundation,
remained unheard during the roar of the fire. It was an expert job. Colgarth
completed in less than the estimated time. We have gained the final spoils that
we require. Our need for crime is ended."

DRUNE'S smirk showed satisfaction with the past. His eyes glared suddenly
as he began to speak of the future.
"We hold the wealth we want," declared Drone, "but we must protect it.
Since
The Shadow
lives, we shall be forced to evade him. Doubtlessly, you have
told him why we delivered death to Woldorf and Breel; also why we raided the
Sheffield National Bank to gain the holdings of the Cruikshank estate? The
Shadow has us at a stalemate. We cannot cash our wealth until we have settled
him.
"To do that, Colgarth and I shall disappear. We possess sufficient funds
to wage a relentless campaign against
The Shadow
. We shall fight from every
hiding place. Only
The Shadow
will know our identities; and no one will believe
him if he declares that Huxley Drune and Gordon Colgarth are criminals.
"For the world will class us as unfortunates. As unhappy victims, like
Chester Woldorf and Lincoln Breel. Colgarth, as owner of this mansion; I, as
his guest, shall presumably perish. For you, Vincent, I decree the fate that
you previously escaped: death by fire!"
In a trice, the whole cunning scheme flashed itself through Harry's brain.
He knew why Drune and Colgarth had buzzed in conference; why whispered orders
had been given to thugs. The underlings had been told to act as torches; to set
fire to the mansion.
Other fires had been attributed to incendiaries. The same would be the
case here. By this time, the authorities in Sheffield had guessed that the bank
fire was intentional. When Colgarth's home broke out in flames, common belief
would have it that criminals had done the work.
No one would ever suspect Colgarth of having any connection with crime.
Nor would Drune, a chance guest from New York, be considered a party to the
deed.
As an answer to Harry's thoughts, a crackling noise came from above. It
was the sound of fire, heard from the kitchen stairway. Crooks had started
blazes throughout the mansion. By this time they were taking to their car,
along with servants who were crooks like themselves.
The situation matched the one in Riverport. It was like the fire at
Breel's. Any person held here would be trapped. There was to be one victim in
this new conflagration. Harry was to be the man.
A wild impulse seized Harry. He tightened, ready to spring upon Colgarth,
on a chance that he could down the rogue and then battle Drune. If Harry died
by gunfire, it would be better than the flames. In another second, Harry's
attack would have begun.
Then came a sight that stopped him.

DRUNE had shrilled a crackly order. A door swung open in the far wall. Two
by two, a squad of men were entering. Six in all, they were garbed in puffy
suits of asbestos, with grimy faces glaring through the fronts of their helmets.
They were the Salamanders. They had been given word. They had come from a
passage, to take charge of Harry and hold him here while Drune and Colgarth
preceded them through a tunnel that led to safety.
Harry saw formidable, gun-like tubes, projecting from clumsy, thick-gloved
fists. They were the fire guns that
The Shadow
had encountered. Though Harry had
never seen them in use, he recognized that they were weapons. Rising from his
chair, he stood powerless.
Drune and Colgarth withdrew from the space between Harry and the
Salamanders. They stood close to the door of the tunnel. A terrific roaring was
apparent. By this time, the mansion must be entirely in flames. Soon the
flooring would collapse; blazing beams would drop. Then the Salamanders would
depart, leaving Harry to his doom.
Drune's chuckle sounded amid the fire's roar. Colgarth held his
hard-lipped leer. They were waiting, that pair, to enjoy Harry's plight. They
were secure, here in the cellar of the flaming house.
Master rogues believed that they occupied a spot where even
The Shadow

could not reach them!

CHAPTER XVIII

FROM THE SKY

COLGARTH'S mansion had burst into a complete blaze.
Viewed from the ground below the hillside, the fire produced the same
torch-like effect as the flames at the Sheffield National Bank.
Incendiaries had done a thorough job. They had spattered kerosene all
about the house. The men had started blazes on every floor.
As the fire roared away, a carload of crooks were looking back with glee.
Billows of smoke were reflecting the brilliance of fire tongues that lapped
from every section of the roof.
The fleeing men took a side road to avoid persons coming to the hill. They
knew that the fire must have been seen in Sheffield. A distant clanging, dimly
heard in the night air, told that fire equipment was coming toward the burning
mansion. Flames had practically ended at the Sheffield National Bank. Engines
were no longer needed there.
Colgarth's house was isolated. No witnesses were present to eye the early
stages of the fire at close range. Long wings that ran from the main portion of
the house were being rapidly consumed; for they were all of frame construction.
The center of the house still stood; but the fire raged most furiously in
that portion. Only the fact that the central walls were brick had kept them
from toppling as soon as the wings.
The ground floor was solid, well constructed, directly above the portion
of the cellar where Drune and Colgarth held Harry prisoner. The flames had
risen upward, consuming the upper stories with rapidity.
The wooden-shingled roof was dropping into the interior of the mansion;
but it was too light to complete the devastation. The ground floor would not
sag until the walls came inward. They were due to crumble when the upper
structure was completely gone.
Once the mansion became a shell, complete disaster would follow rapidly.
That time would be soon. The Sheffield fire engines would never reach the hill
in time to fight the flames.
Roads to the hill were roundabout. They handicapped all who sought speed
on the ground. There was another route, however, that offered direct course to
the burning mansion.
That route was the air.

A THRUMMING was audible, off above the town of Sheffield. The drone was
becoming louder, significant of rapid approach. It neared the lighted zone
above the burning house. Flames, enlarging, hurling their bright light upward,
showed the source of the zooming sound.
An autogiro was outlined in the sky above the mansion. It was
The Shadow
's
ship, arriving from the airport, its master at the controls. The autogiro seemed
to poise, motionless in the air, except for the whizz of the long-armed blades
that rotated atop the ship.
Slowly, the autogiro descended straight downward. It was temporarily
obscured by smoke that had risen hundreds of feet above the house.

The Shadow
had divined Drune's plan. He knew that both Drune and Colgarth
would want the world to think that they had died within their fire. There was a
chance that they might still be close at hand.
There was a greater chance that Harry had been left to perish in the
flames. That, more than thought of the supercrooks, inspired
The Shadow
to his
dangerous descent.
Witnesses, had there been any to view the scene, would have thought the
pilot of the autogiro mad. Seemingly,
The Shadow
was dropping himself into the
midst of destruction.
Smoke, twisted by the wind, uncoiled to show the autogiro hovering
directly above the flaming house. Less than a hundred feet intervened between
the dropping ship and the high tongues of the devastating flames.
Red light showed a peculiar feature of the autogiro.
Rounded objects were dangling below the ship's wheels. One loosened; like
a bomb, it descended toward the flames. At fifty feet, the bomb exploded with a
silent puff. A volume of powdery substance rained upon the flames. The effect
was instant. Blazing tongues succumbed; when they reappeared, their extent had
diminished by half.

The Shadow
released a second bomb. Again, the powder burst and scattered,
this time at a closer range. Flames withered. Only a few licks of fire lashed
in a final effort. From forty feet above the roofless mansion,
The Shadow

released a third bomb. Its effect was final.
The bomb puffed within the house itself. Powder blanketed every remaining
vestige of the fire. Smothered flames were gone. Brick walls stayed upright;

The Shadow
had arrived in time to prevent their fall.

FROM Texas,
The Shadow
had ordered these bombs of dust powder - the latest
and best devices invented for fighting the merciless oil-well fires. He had
foreseen battles with Drune and Colgarth, wherein fire would be used to cover
the evil work of the Salamanders.
The shipment had come promptly; but
The Shadow
had been forced to let it
wait in Newark while he located the scene of coming crime. Fire had struck in
Sheffield while Crofton was still flying out from Newark.
But the autogiro had reached the airport soon afterward. It had been
waiting for
The Shadow
, its bombs all prepared, when he had arrived to take
over the ship.
With smothering dust,
The Shadow
had conquered the new fire, the last
thrust in the schemes of Drune and Colgarth. Attacking from the air, he had
found the center of the flames. To insure success, he had dropped the autogiro
to the very level of the roofless walls.
There was no chance for the autogiro to soar upward. Dust had banished
heated air, to create a vacuum within the house walls. The space sucked fresh
air downward, through the open roof. The autogiro was caught in the vortex.
Like the pull of a magnet, the air itself drew the ship to its descent.
Blades spun madly, bending as they resisted the pull. Despite them, the
autogiro dropped within the flame-scarred walls of the ruined mansion.

The Shadow
had expected this descent; he had known that he could not
prevent it. He was working only to avert a total crash. He managed that task
well. Air had settled like a cushion within the walls.
The space was ample; the way was clear, for the upper stories had
completely fallen. The ground floor had not yet weakened; its only fault was
its irregularity, for it was heaped with masses of debris.
The autogiro quivered through the last twenty feet of the descent. It
struck at an angle; one wheel bounced upon a smoldering beam. For a moment, the
ship was toppling; as it rolled forward, it righted. Braking it,
The Shadow

halted the giro against the farther wall.

WITH a command for Crofton to remain with the ship,
The Shadow
leaped to
the baked house floor. Dust was everywhere; only a few patches of smoking wood
remained. There was light from the burning wings of the house. By the fading
glare,
The Shadow
saw the remains of doorways. At one spot, he saw a vacancy in
the floor itself.
Hurrying there,
The Shadow
spied a flight of steps; below, he saw the
glimmer of a light. The top steps were burned.
The Shadow
cleared them with a
leap. Stopping short, he saw a square-walled room, that was darkened.
The wiring for that first chamber came from upstairs; and the fire had
obliterated it.
The Shadow
could distinguish the shape of the room only by a
light from the opening beyond.

The Shadow
heard the buzz of voices. He had reached his goal. Drawing a
brace of automatics, he crept forward. Nearing the door in darkness, he saw
shapes in the other room. He recognized the baggy figures of the Salamanders.
Formed in a semicircle, they were holding their fire guns to cover a corner
that
The Shadow
could not see.
A crackly voice sounded. The ranks of the Salamanders opened. From between
the grotesque creatures stepped a gray-haired man whose withered face glared its
malicious triumph. He, too, was looking toward the corner.
Edging across to the other side of the door,
The Shadow
saw Harry Vincent,
facing the evil gaze of Huxley Drune.
The master crook had stopped. Easing back,
The Shadow
covered Drune. He
waited, unseen; for the Salamanders were staring in the same direction as their
chief.
The time for departure had arrived. Drune had stepped forward to crackle
the words that would sound his prisoner's doom. He was ready to fulfill his
decree of doom.
While Drune spoke,
The Shadow
watched.

CHAPTER XIX

THE FINAL FRAY

"THE fire has lessened," snarled Drune to Harry. "The walls have not
fallen as we had hoped. That last crash was not sufficient."
Drune was referring to the thump of the autogiro. He had heard it on the
floor above. He had mistaken it for an inward fall of bricks and masonry.
"Nevertheless," sneered Drune, "fire shall be your mode of death. My
decree stands. Blackened to a crisp, your body will be found. You will be
identified as Colgarth or myself."
Backing, Drune motioned to the Salamanders. The asbestos-clad henchmen
raised their fire guns. They opened ranks, that Drune might pass. Once he was
behind them, they would be ready for the order to blast withering flame upon
Harry Vincent.

The Shadow
started forward. He wanted the Salamanders to see him when he
attacked. They would remember that fight at Breel's. His presence would confuse
them, better than shots from the dark. An instant more would have brought The
Shadow's surprise attack.
A harsh cry intervened.
The shout came from Colgarth. Standing beyond the Salamanders, Colgarth
was holding a well-padded briefcase beneath his arm. It was the precious bag
that contained the stolen securities.
Colgarth, looking through the space between the Salamanders, had chanced
to glance toward the outer door. He saw
The Shadow
springing forward.
The Salamanders turned. They swung their heavy fire guns. Six in number,
they sought to use their ungainly weapons before
The Shadow
could down them
with his automatics.
The Shadow
opened fire as the Salamanders aimed.

THE SHADOW'S shots were speedy. The nearest Salamanders fell, like
toppling puppet figures. Slugs scarcely staggered them, because of their heavy
garb; but each one tumbled as his punctured suit lost its air. Every hit was
marked by the same phenomenon.
A suit withered, shriveled. Air hissed from the interior. Overloaded by a
heavy helmet, each stricken Salamander wavered back and forth, to fall with a
crash.

The Shadow
bagged three Salamanders in a row. Two made clumsy leaps for
the farther doorway. One of the six, however, held his ground. His thumb was on
the trigger of the fire gun. He had his chance to drive a blast of fire before
the next shot came.
It was Harry Vincent who stopped the Salamander's stroke. Unbound, Harry
had seized his chair from the corner. He was driving forward as the Salamander
thumbed the lever. Harry swung the chair downward, with terrific force, upon
the Salamander's helmeted head.
It was the force of the blow, not the result, that staggered the
Salamander. His helmet was sufficient protection to save his skull. Harry's
stroke, however, was terrific. It shattered the chair and sent the Salamander
reeling.
The fire gun puffed; a blast of flame seared forth. The Salamander's aim
was altered. The scorching fire lashed the wall, instead of
The Shadow
's
doorway.
As the Salamander rallied,
The Shadow
fired again. The Salamander's baggy
suit deflated. His clumsy thumb slipped from the lever. The weapon clattered
from his fists and struck the floor.
Drune was diving through the far door, barking to Colgarth to follow.
Colgarth obeyed; the last two Salamanders joined the flight. They knew that the
range was long for their fire guns. With their leaders in rout, the Salamanders
did not care to stay.

The Shadow
delivered one quick, stabbing shot, directly between the
Salamanders. He had aimed for the darting form of Colgarth, who was a few steps
nearer than Drune. A cry told that
The Shadow
had clipped the man with the brief
case; but Colgarth staggered onward.
Harry was leaping forward.
The Shadow
thrust forth an arm to hold him
back. One chance blast from a fire gun would have spelled Harry's finish. The
Salamanders must be met at long range.
By his action,
The Shadow
had saved his agent from a false move; but the
Salamanders profited. They were gone, following Drune and Colgarth, when The
Shadow turned in their direction.
"The tunnel!" cried Harry. "They're making a get-away -"

The Shadow
sprang forward, knowing well that crooks had fled for safety.
At the door, he halted, to rip quick shots along a gloomy passage. Those shots
would spur the flight of the Salamanders.
The Shadow
paused for a short
interval, then leaped through the doorway.

THE SHADOW saw a low, lighted tunnel, leading down through the slope. It
was a route that offered outlet somewhere down the hillside. The passage
turned, a hundred feet away. Drune was at the bend. He stood beneath a ceiling
light;
The Shadow
saw his hand upon a massive switch.
Drune was ready to inject a current that would dynamite the tunnel. It was
a piece of evidence, that passage, that crooks did not want the law to find.
Drune was waiting for the Salamanders. In clumsy flight, they were halfway down
the passage.
Colgarth had stumbled when the Salamanders passed him. He was closest to

The Shadow
; less than thirty feet into the tunnel. He had lost the briefcase in
his fall; he was groping for it as he rose.
The Shadow
dashed toward Colgarth.
The crook saw him coming.
Colgarth's right arm was dangling. He did not have a gun. Instead of
offering fight, he turned and scurried after the Salamanders, who had formed a
two-man file, still dashing clumsily, handicapped in their asbestos suits.
Drune saw
The Shadow
gain the briefcase from the floor where Colgarth had
dropped it. With a savage snarl the crime master tightened his hold upon the
switch.
In this moment, Drune cared nothing for Colgarth and the Salamanders. Nor
did he care about the rescue of his wealth. He had one incentive only; to
destroy
The Shadow
.
Within the dangerous sector of the tunnel,
The Shadow
chose the quickest
course. He had emptied one automatic; he had three shots remaining in the
other. Aiming the .45, he pumped three rounds above the shoulders of the
Salamanders. Every bullet found its lodgement in the stooped form of Huxley
Drune.
Reeling, clawing blindly at the wall, the chief of crime still sought to
pull the switch. Though mortally wounded, he held to life, seeking by one evil
effort to doom
The Shadow
with him. There was no time to linger; no way to deal
further with Drune.
Gripping the briefcase,
The Shadow
made long strides back along the
passage. As he reached the cellar, he flung the briefcase ahead of him; with a
dive,
The Shadow
rolled out into the room where Harry stood. Twisting to his
hands and knees, he stared through the tunnel.
The Salamanders, like
The Shadow
, had thirty feet to go, in order to reach
the other end. They had covered less than twenty. Colgarth, faltering, had
failed to overtake them. Drune, clawing blindly, collapsed against the wall.
As he sagged in a death throe, Drune found the switch and pulled it with
him. His gasped cackle sounded along the tunnel. Drune thought that he was
completing
The Shadow
's doom.

WITH a muffled roar, the walls and ceiling of the tunnel broke inward.
Mined for its entire length, the passage collapsed with a single blast. The
Shadow caught one fleeting glimpse of Drune, sprawling headlong. He saw
Colgarth and the Salamanders, still within the tunnel.
There were shrieks as the stony walls obliterated the view of the men.
Lights were gone; not only in the tunnel, but in the cellar room as well.
Pungent fumes stenched from the tunnel. Groping away,
The Shadow
clicked a
flashlight and opened the path for himself and Harry to reach the stairs.
Huxley Drune, master of crime, had failed in his final effort. Clutched by
death, he had done his best to finish
The Shadow
. All that he had accomplished
was the doom of his partner, Gordon Colgarth.
Both supercrooks had perished. With them had died the last of the
Salamanders.

The Shadow
had triumphed over fiends who fought by fire. He had conquered
murderers and their well-trained henchmen who could dare the wrath of
devastating flames. Through smothering their own element, fire,
The Shadow
had
shattered crime's last bulwark.

The Shadow
had forced the final battle. The menace of the Salamanders was
ended.

CHAPTER XX

THE DEPARTURE

WHEN
The Shadow
and Harry Vincent reached the floor above, they saw the
autogiro against a dimly flickering background. The burning wings of the house
were almost entirely consumed. Spurts of flame were only occasional, places
which the dust had hit lightly.
Harry saw Miles Crofton by the autogiro. He heard his fellow agent report.
Crofton had cleared a path across the ground floor. It was a rough one; but the
distance was great. It offered the ship a fifty-foot path to the farther wall.

The Shadow
and his agents boarded the autogiro. Crofton had rolled the
ship a dozen feet back from the nearer wall.
The Shadow
started the motor; he
waited while the propeller and blades gained top speed.
Outside, shouts told that people had arrived from Sheffield. A loud
clanging marked the progress of fire engines up the hill. Soon the burned
mansion would be entered.
The Shadow
did not care to remain.

BRAKING one wheel, he started the autogiro forward. It spun about because
of the unequal pressure. It gathered speed by the turn, swung clear about, the
ship rolling toward the wall at the other end of the house. It rolled freely,
its wheels jouncing hard, then left the roughened floor.
Ordinarily, the autogiro would have risen rapidly. Surrounding walls
impeded its lift. For a moment, Harry feared that the ship would crash the wall
ahead. The air within the pitlike building was too restricted for the last few
feet of rise.
Suddenly, the autogiro jolted upward. Its horizontal blades had cleared
the level of the roofless walls. The blades had clutched the outer air. They
hoisted the ship's wheels over the blackened surface of the threatening end
wall. The autogiro circled upward, to avoid tall, surrounding trees.
Astonished burghers from Sheffield stood gazing at the sight. Brief flames
from the wings of Colgarth's house gave them a view of the mysterious ship. They
were totally amazed, unready to believe their senses.
To them, the autogiro might have been a phoenix - that fabulous bird that
ancients claimed could rise from its own ashes, to soar away to a new
existence. They gaped as the ship vanished suddenly into the night.
Staring vainly, they heard its motor hum off into the distance. The
clanging fire engines arrived, to rouse the few witnesses from their stupor.
They began their tale, to listeners who scoffed their disbelief.
Firemen entered to search the ruins. They found the open path to the
cellar. Descending, they made a discovery that proved as amazing as the story
of the autogiro. They found the bodies of the four dead Salamanders, still clad
in their asbestos suits.
The fallen tunnel did not gain the attention of searchers. Its wreckage
had been complete. The tunnel's mouth looked like a side room of the cellar,
where debris had fallen. The foundations had failed to withstand the pressure
of the floor above.
The autogiro was forgotten in the surprise at the discovery of the
Salamanders. There would be no new facts uncovered regarding the ship's
presence in the vicinity of Sheffield. Crofton had landed at a deserted airport
which had long been no better than an emergency landing field. No witnesses had
seen the autogiro prior to its take-off from the ruins of the mansion.
Only
The Shadow
and his trusted agents knew the full story of the
conquest. Flying the darkened autogiro back toward Newark,
The Shadow
was
silent at the controls. On the floor beside him lay the briefcase that he had
risked his life to gain.
Later, he would examine its contents. The heirs of Woldorf and Breel; the
administrators of the Cruikshank estate - all would gain their rightful
property.

The Shadow
's agents heard a grim laugh from their chief. The tone was the
summary of the episodes that
The Shadow
had undergone. He had striven for final
conflict with the Salamanders. He had gained. Monstrous men who marched through
fire had perished with their evil leaders.

The Shadow
's laugh was an aftermath of talk that had once passed between
Huxley Drune and Gordon Colgarth.
The supercrooks had talked of three elements - earth, water and fire. They
had agreed that
The Shadow
could have survived the first two on the list. They
had applied the third. Fire had failed to doom
The Shadow
.
Yet the crooks had still believed that fire could protect them. They had
forgotten another element: air.
From the air had
The Shadow
come to gain his victory. To the air had he
returned.

THE END