The City of Doom
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "
The Shadow
Magazine," May 15, 1936

Back from the grave comes Doctor Mocquino, the Voodoo Master, to battle The
Shadow again in a terrific struggle to the death!

CHAPTER I

AT THE STEEL WORKS

THICK night engulfed the valley about the town of Hampstead. One area alone
showed brilliance; that was the central district of the little city, where rows
of street lamps shone and electric signs added their blinking brightness.
Near the town, a few specks of light showed against the hillsides; but
beyond was a blanket of blackness that seemed a shroud of doom. A stranger,
viewing the town from some near-by slope, could well have pictured the darkness
as a monster, about to swallow the city.
Nor would the thought have been too fanciful. Hampstead was a city touched
by terror - a town where disaster had already taken toll.
Men who passed upon the streets were melancholy. Smiles were forced when
friends exchanged their greetings. Though business was as usual, this was a
surface indication only. Secretly, every citizen of Hampstead held a horror of
the future.
Out where the railroad line reached the city limits, stood the long,
low-roofed buildings of the Hampstead Steel Works. There, quivering light
flickered from frosted windows, accompanied by the thrum and clank of machinery.
The steel plant was working to capacity. The night shift was on duty.
Two men were standing in a little office, staring through the glass panel
of a door that opened into the main furnace room. They were watching a crew of
men at work - a score of hardy laborers whose faces showed grimy against the
ruddy glare from open-fronted furnaces.
One of the observing men was the foreman of the furnace room. His companion
was the general supervisor of the steel plant.

"IT'S been like clockwork tonight, Mr. Harlin," declared the foreman,
solemnly. "Not a thing to trouble us. Every man's been right at his job."
Harlin nodded.
"I've been watching them, Steve," he told the foreman. "This department is
running as smoothly as every other one. But we can't be sure about anything."
"On account of those other troubles?"
Another nod from Harlin. The supervisor pulled a folded newspaper from his
pocket and tapped its headlines.
"This town is jinxed," he stated, seriously. "The people here know it. Our
local newspapers have tried to softpedal it; but they haven't in other cities.
Look at this sheet, Steve."
The foreman took the newspaper, studied it while the supervisor kept steady
watch through the window in the door.
"Whew!" Steve's utterance was spontaneous. "They sure made a big howdy-do
about those two wrecks in the railroad yards!"
"Why shouldn't they?" demanded Harlin. "Both were unexplainable. One would
have been bad enough; but a second one, at the same spot, is ten times worse.
Read what it says about the quarry company. They're shutting down."
"Afraid to bring in dynamite," nodded Steve. "On account of danger in the
yards."
The supervisor continued his watch, while the foreman devoured more news
from the out-of-town journal. Steve was mumbling in surprised tone, half to
himself, half to the supervisor.
"Eight men killed in those smashes! We thought it was only three. Here are
facts on that boiler explosion at the dye plant last week. Two men died along
with the engineer! Say, if this gets out -"
The supervisor snapped a query that interrupted the foreman's muttering:
"Who's on the ladle, Steve?"
The foreman laid the newspaper aside and stared through the square window.
A huge device shaped like a mammoth cheese-box was moving slowly through the
furnace room, suspended from an overhead track. Workmen had ceased their labors
while it approached. Harlin was eyeing the advance of the metal monster.
"Old Joe Grandy's handling it," declared the foreman. "Best man in the
place. Always holds up when he gets close to the pouring platform, so as to
check it for himself."
"Good!" approved the supervisor. "Grandy is reliable. Let's go out, though,
and watch while he lets the ladle ride."

THE two men stepped from the office. The mammoth ladle halted as they
approached it. They saw a stocky, gray-haired man climb down from a perch where
the controls were located. Spryly, he stepped to the pouring platforms, which
were at the side of the big room.
Checking those platforms was the foreman's job. It had been done;
otherwise, no order would have been given for the ladle to make its trip. But
old Joe Grandy took nothing for granted. His job was to tilt that ladle when it
reached the pouring platforms; to loose tons of molten steel from the great
cauldron that he controlled. Old Joe was making sure that the platforms and
their troughs were ready.
"Grandy's the right man," affirmed the supervisor, nodding to Steve, the
foreman. "We'll put his system in the regulations: Always stop the ladle short
of the pouring platforms; make final inspection, then bring up the ladle."
"That's what Grandy's going to do now," returned Steve. Then, with a laugh:
"Look how spry old Joe is! Shoving back those fellows who want to boost him up
to the controls! He can make the climb himself."
Workers by the pouring platforms had seen the foreman. They were signaling
that the second inspection had shown all in order. Others, beyond the pouring
platform were chatting as they stood beneath the bulk of the motionless ladle.
"Steve'" ripped Harlin, suddenly. "What's making old Grandy wait? Why don't
he move the ladle up to the platforms? That molten steel can't wait all night."
"He's ready to move it now," snapped back the foreman. "There he goes,
handling the controls. Only five feet more and -"
Steve's voice broke with a gasp. Rooted, he stood goggle-eyed; then his new
words came with a terrified shriek:
"Grandy's at the wrong lever! Look out - up by the platforms -"
The cry was too late. Old Grandy had swung away from the levers that
controlled the forward motion of the ladle. He had placed his hand upon another
rod; he was tugging it. The ladle was tilting; a yawning mouth was opening in
its side.
Nothing could have halted the deluge that came. Not even old Joe Grandy;
for he, least of all, seemed to realize his mistake. That was evidenced by the
fact that his back was turned toward the tilting cauldron, giving him no chance
to swing away to the safety of his perch.
Out from the mammoth ladle came a cataract of liquid steel, more terrible
than the flaming lava of a volcano. With its first gulp, the surge of molten
metal overwhelmed the unfortunate man who had released it. Grandy, a shriek upon
his lips, was plucked from the forward edge of his control perch. A bobbing
shape in a hissing, metallic wave, the gray-haired man was pitched to the floor
beside the pouring platforms.
As the wave struck, five other men were caught within its path. Roaring,
its own weight adding to the quick tilt of the ladle, the molten steel crashed
with the power of a Niagara, engulfing the doomed men below.
Not one of the five could scramble to safety. The cries that they managed
to utter were brief - a momentary recognition of the quick death which was
coming to them.
Steel scorched flesh, withering its victims before their bodies could sense
the pain of the terrific heat. A blast of torrid air swept through the huge
room, drowning the fumes of the furnaces. Then molten steel was everywhere,
pouring, spreading, seeking lower levels while men found their legs and ran
shrieking from the monstrous substance that sought them.

STEVE bolted forward. Harlin grabbed the foreman, hurled him back against
the office door. There was no help for the men upon the floor, except the aid
that they could give themselves. Harlin, above the level of the flow, held his
vantage point and shouted advice to the men.
Some heard the supervisor and heeded. They leaped for iron steps between
the furnaces; scrambled upward to levels of safety. Others did not hear.
Confused, they lost all sense of direction. Harlin saw three more workers go to
doom. Spreading steel caught their ankles, seemed to trip them as they howled.
They sprawled, splashing, into the hellish river that had gripped them.
A fourth man, farther away, stumbled at the foot of an iron stairway. He
could not follow Harlin's call; but a companion heard the supervisor's shout.
From the steps, the other worker snatched the last man to safety. The steel
lapped the base of the steps; its heat made the ironwork glow and quiver.
The supervisor sagged, weakened by his ordeal. Nine men had perished
including old Joe Grandy, whose slip had loosed the molten horror. The liquid
metal had reached its limits; it had lapped the fronts of furnaces, found an
emergency doorway. But that would be its farthest mark.
Steadying himself, Harlin managed to reach the office. He was looking for
Steve, to tell him that the steel would harden. There would be no more human
toll; but other loss would prove tremendous. Harlin found the foreman at the
telephone.
"I've called for ambulances!" gulped Steve. "Thanks, Mr. Harlin, for
hauling me back! I'd most certainly have jumped in there -"
The foreman buried his head in his hands; the supervisor found a chair.
"No use, those ambulances," he choked. "Not even hearses could find work
here, Steve! There'll be no bodies from that mess. They were swallowed alive,
Steve, lost in that steel! It happened - worse than I feared."
The clang of ambulances was already sounding. The wail of a huge siren was
rising from the steel works. As Steve arose and pressed open a window to relieve
the stifling atmosphere, he and Harlin could see the lights of automobiles
stopping on the highway that led into Hampstead.
Once again, stark terror had found this city of doom. The siren's wail; the
clang of bells; the shouts of men outside - all were proclaiming the horrendous
news.
Rescuers, yanking open a door, saw the seething spread of steel that
glistened in the glow of furnaces. They heard the calls of men who were isolated
in spots of safely - shouts that warned them to stay back and let the metal
cool.
The word passed in terrified tones. It stopped the arriving ambulances. It
came to squads of men from other portions of the plant and held them, in awed
groups, whispering the news of tragedy.
Those whispers reached the space where cars had pulled in from the highway.
Breathless men told others of the terror that had struck; how rescue would be
impossible for those who had felt the touch of living, burning steel.

WITHIN the window of a coupe, a silent listener caught those tragic
mutters. His eyes turned toward the building where the hellish stream had done
its work. The driver of that coupe had chanced to reach the outskirts of
Hampstead just as the steel plant's siren had broken loose with its banshee
screech of disaster.
A lone watcher among the throngs who huddled about the steel works - such
was the arrival in the coupe. Yet he, more than any other, held regret for the
tragedy that had occurred. He had come to Hampstead with a single mission: to
prevent disasters such as this. He had reached the town too late to halt the new
stroke of unexplainable deaths.
The silent watcher in the coupe was
The Shadow
. Master of crime detection,
he had divined the presence of an evil, unseen hand behind the horrors which had
come to Hampstead.
There was determination in the blaze of
The Shadow
's steady eyes. This
tragedy would be the last. No longer would destruction stalk through the city of
doom.

CHAPTER II

FROM THE DARK

Two hours had passed since the catastrophe at the steel plant. Lights were
glowing in the large furnace room, where workers were present, using electric
drills upon chunks of hardened steel. Outside, the glimmer of flashlights told
that guards were patrolling the vicinity of the plant.
There were lights in another building. They came from windows on the second
floor and marked the offices of the steel company. There was a downstairs door,
where a guard stood on duty, chatting with a companion.
"The big guns is upstairs," informed the guard, in an undertone. "They
showed up half an hour ago."
"Listening to Harlin and Steve, are they?"
"Sure. The coroner's there with them. Harlin looked pretty shaky when he
went up."
"He ought to. Seeing them fellows get swallowed by that steel must have
been kind of tough to look at."
With this comment, the guard's friend started away. The guard called after
him:
"See if you can find Travers over by the furnace. Tell him it's time I was
off the trick. Have him send over some fellow from his own crew."
Three minutes passed, while the guard paced back and forth in front of the
dim light that came from the doorway. There was a stir in darkness close by. The
guard wheeled, with the query:
"Who's there?"
"Came over to relieve you," responded a gruff voice. "Mr. Travers sent me."
The guard did not see the speaker; but took it for granted that he was the
proper man. He grunted a good night and walked away from the door. It was not
until he had passed a corner that a figure stepped into the light.
That form was cloaked in black. The arrival was
The Shadow
. He had heard
the conversation; he had taken advantage of it. He had bluffed the guard into
believing that he was the man sent as relief watcher.

THE SHADOW did not linger at the doorway. He knew that Travers's man would
soon arrive. He wanted the new guard to think that the old one had simply gone
off duty because his time was up.
The Shadow
's own work lay elsewhere.
Entering the doorway,
The Shadow
took to a darkened flight of stairs. He
ascended and reached a hallway that showed a narrow shaft of light from a partly
opened door. Edging in from darkness,
The Shadow
saw the interior of an office.
Officials were gathered about a table. With these company men was another
whom
The Shadow
knew must be the coroner. Harlin was seated at the far end of
the table. The supervisor looked pale; his voice came brokenly as he spoke.
"That's the whole story!" declared Harlin. "Just as I saw it, gentlemen.
Nothing was wrong mechanically. The mistake was a human one; and those kind are
bound to happen."
"We have your full report on Joseph Grandy," returned the coroner,
fingering a sheaf of papers. "I regard it as thorough, Mr. Harlin. We can accept
the statements of the foreman and three laborers that Grandy was in full
possession of his faculties."
"The most reliable man in the plant," stated Harlin. "Always sober and
conscientious. A loyal fellow, too, old Joe was. He didn't know the slip he'd
made; if he had, he wouldn't have been the first to go."
The coroner drew a penciled diagram from the papers. It was a sketch made
by Harlin, showing the position of the levers that controlled the big ladle.
"I think that this explains it," decided the coroner, with a nod. "With all
his carefulness, Grandy performed certain actions automatically. He was farther
forward than he realized. When he reached for the starting lever, he grasped the
tilting device instead."
"That's the way I saw it, coroner," assured the supervisor. "The diagram
bears out my explanation."
The coroner arose; he put Harlin's report into a briefcase: then passed
carbon sheets across the table to the supervisor. Other men were rising; The
Shadow saw them pause. One of the officials had a query.
"Tell us this, coroner," he asked, in troubled tone. "Do you connect this
accident with the other disasters that have occurred in Hampstead?"
Emphatically, the coroner shook his head.
"But they look like sabotage," persisted the official. "This is the fourth
accident; and every one brought heavy property damage along with its toll of
life."
The coroner reached in his briefcase and brought out some sheets of yellow
paper. He passed them across the table.
"File those with your own duplicate report," he suggested. "They give the
details of the explosion at the dye works, the smash-ups in the railroad yards.
Compare them with the disaster here. You'll see that I am right. In not one
instance, was there any outside factor.
"I've had lots of experience, gentlemen. Sometimes accidental deaths are
uncanny. Like an epidemic, you might say. A year - two years - no trouble; then
they hit in a bunch. That doesn't mean a thing, unless there's proof that some
one was culpable or negligent. Not one of these cases shows any such
indications."

HARLIN had taken the duplicate sheets.
The Shadow
saw the supervisor place
them in a table drawer. Then it was time to step away; for the men were coming
toward the door.
The Shadow
swung to a darkened corner; when the door opened, it
moved outward and covered him completely.
Harlin was the last man from the office. He waited while the others went
down the stairs to the lighted entry at the bottom. Then the supervisor clicked
off the office light. The top landing was dark when he closed the door and
locked it. Harlin had no chance to see
The Shadow
.
Soon after the supervisor's footsteps had faded, a tiny flashlight shone
upon the office door. Its glow was but twice the size of the keyhole; but it was
sufficient for
The Shadow
to work upon the lock. A gloved hand introduced a long
thin instrument that resembled a pair of pliers. A click came from the lock. The
Shadow opened the office door.
Using his flashlight within the office,
The Shadow
found the drawer that
contained the report sheets. He spread the duplicate papers and began a close
study of past events in Hampstead.
The Shadow
soon learned that the coroner's
claims were well supported.
The boiler blast at the dye plant had occurred shortly after a routine
inspection. The cause had evidently been the failure of a worn safety valve. The
engineer had made the inspection himself; he was a man of long service, who
would not have omitted an essential detail; nor have been so foolish as to
tamper with the machinery.
The first wreck in the railroad yards had occurred when a switchman
highballed a shifting locomotive along the main track. The engine had taken the
siding instead, mowing down the switchman who stood in its path.
The second wreck had been a brakeman's error. He had been crushed when a
string of freight cars crashed into a motionless line of day coaches. In both
cases, additional lives had been lost.
Tonight's disaster at the steel plant resembled the others, in two definite
ways. First: that no one from outside had tampered with any machinery; second:
that old Joe Grandy, like others who had died before him, had been sound
mentally and alert in action. Not one of the men who had borne the brunt of
disaster could have chosen to make a deliberate mistake.
Behind disasters stood crime, engendered by some master-plotter. A genius
of evil was at work in Hampstead. Through some process, this unknown criminal
had managed to control the minds of unwitting men. A master of murder and
destruction had chosen to work with human tools, of whom old Joe Grandy was the
fourth.
The fact that this theory smacked of the incredible was something that gave
it strength. There was a reason, however, why
The Shadow
accepted it
immediately. A few days ago,
The Shadow
had sent a trusted agent to Hampstead to
investigate disasters there. That agent's name was Harry Vincent. No word had
been received from him since yesterday.
Harry's disappearance had brought
The Shadow
to Hampstead. The steel plant
disaster, at the very time of
The Shadow
's arrival, had simply added to the
supersleuth's belief that crime stood behind every accident that had struck the
city of doom.

EXTINGUISHING his flashlight,
The Shadow
left the company office. He
reached the bottom of the stairs to find total darkness. No guard was present;
if one had come on duty, he had gone when the officials departed.

The Shadow
reached the highway, crossed it and arrived at his coupe, which
he had wisely parked in the shelter of a side road before beginning his
investigation. The car was just within the town limits of Hampstead. Ten
minutes' drive would bring
The Shadow
to the heart of the little city.
That short journey was to be fraught with danger. Starting his car, The
Shadow swung out to the main highway. He headed townward and came immediately to
a quarter-mile stretch where buildings were few. Hardly had
The Shadow
struck
this open space before a rakish touring car roared out from the darkness beside
a closed filling station.
Instantly,
The Shadow
knew what was due. Prowlers had spotted his coupe
near the steel plant. They had decided that the car belonged to some independent
investigator. They had gone into ambush to waylay the coupe when it arrived.
A machine gun rattled. Instantly,
The Shadow
veered his coupe from the
touring car's path. He swung his automobile into a ditch; let it careen and stop
with a jolt, tilted far to the left. The men in the touring car thought that
they had scored an instant hit. The rakish machine slowed as it swung toward
the halted coupe.
An automatic spoke from the darkness of the ditch, just behind the coupe.

The Shadow
had dived from the wheel, unscathed. He had waited for close range;
his first shot was aimed for the rear door of the touring car, where he knew the
machine gunners would be.
A howl answered
The Shadow
's blast. He delivered a second gun-shot; another
yell was the response.
The Shadow
had winged a second crook.
The touring car shot forward. Its canny driver gave it a zigzag twist,
wheeling over so that the bulk of
The Shadow
's coupe would make the invisible
marksman seek a new vantage point. The lights of the touring car blinked off.
Its driver, knowing the road, was chancing darkness.
A mocking laugh sounded in the darkness of the ditch, as
The Shadow
boarded
his tilted coupe. Victor in the short-lived fray,
The Shadow
had gained the
proof he wanted. Crime lay behind the disasters in Hampstead - crime so big that
it needed murderous crews to back it in a pinch.
This first encounter would bring others. Battles and opposition could
produce clues.
The Shadow
was satisfied that his stay in Hampstead would lead
him to a master-villain's lair.

CHAPTER III

THE DEATH THRUST

IT was half an hour before
The Shadow
reached the center of Hampstead, for
he chose a roundabout course that finally brought him to an obscure garage. His
purpose was not to avoid a new encounter; he would have welcomed such a fray.
But
The Shadow
knew that there would be no new ambush.
Spies would be the next enemies. They would be watching for
The Shadow
's
coupe, in hope of identifying its occupants. Hence
The Shadow
chose to enter
Hampstead from another direction; to keep his car away from the main streets. He
had, moreover, delayed five minutes during his circuit. In that interval he had
changed the license plates on his coupe.
When
The Shadow
strolled from the obscure garage, he was no longer clad in
black. Street lamps showed him dressed in a dark-gray suit. His features were
full and bore little of the hawkish aspect which enemies identified with The
Shadow's countenance.
The Shadow
was carrying a large suitcase, which contained
his cloak and hat. He looked like a tourist who had stopped off in Hampstead.
The railroad station was near the garage. An approaching whistle told that
a passenger train was due. Picking an obscure route,
The Shadow
neared the depot
and stood by an old freight shed until the train arrived. A dozen passengers
alighted; half of them had bags.
The Shadow
stepped up to the station platform
and mingled with the small throng. Two arrivals were going toward an old sedan
that served as taxi.
The Shadow
followed them.
The driver announced that his cab took passengers to the Hampstead House.
The two men boarded the car and
The Shadow
joined them. They rode through the
main streets and pulled up in front of a pretentious hotel. If spies were about,
they took
The Shadow
merely for another passenger, who had come into town by
train.

The Shadow
let the two other men register first. He wrote his own name as
"Henry Arnaud," with Chicago as his home city. The name and identity of Arnaud
were
The Shadow
's own device. He used them upon occasion such as this.

THERE was a lone clerk at the desk, and only two bell boys available. This
meant a delay in room assignments.
The Shadow
took advantage of it to note the
lobby. He saw no potential spies. It was possible that crooks had decided to
head for cover, after their fray. That was not surprising, since they had
carried away two wounded men.
As he lingered by the hotel desk, secure in his role of Arnaud,
The Shadow

was rewarded for his courtesy in letting others register ahead of him. The hotel
manager came from a little office, spoke to the clerk in an undertone that The
Shadow caught.
"This man in 328," queried the manager. "You're sure that his luggage is
gone?"
"Positive, sir!" replied the clerk. "He's jumped his bill, all right! Looks
like he went out by the window."
"Three floors down?"
"Room 328 is over the kitchen roof, and that's two stories high, sir. The
window was open when the maid found the room vacated. I told her to leave
everything as it was."
"Humph! Let that room stay empty. I'll go up and look it over myself in the
morning. Give me that fellow's full name and a report on what he looks like. He
won't beat this hotel and get away with it!"

The Shadow
thus learned new facts concerning his vanished agent. He had
already known Harry's room number: 328. He had not known, however, whether Harry
had left the hotel openly or been carried away a prisoner. Nor had
The Shadow

cared to make inquiry. The chance conversation had saved him such a task.
The room to which
The Shadow
was assigned happened to be on the fourth
floor; but at a different side of the hotel than 328.
The Shadow
spent a short
while in his room; then turned out the lights. Any observer would have supposed
that he was either going down to the lobby or that he intended to retire. The
Shadow did neither.
From his suitcase, he removed black cloak and slouch hat. He tucked a brace
of .45 automatics under the folds of his cloak. After donning thin black gloves,
be added a tiny flashlight and a set of picks to his equipment. That done, The
Shadow opened the door of the room and squeezed out into the corridor, blocking
light from the hall.
There was a stairway leading down to the third floor. It was near Room 428,
therefore
The Shadow
knew that it would offer convenient access to Harry's
former room, just below. The stairway was but dimly lighted.
The Shadow
made a
fleeting shape as he descended. At this third floor, he peered along the nearest
corridor.
Crooks had captured Harry Vincent. There was a strong chance that they
suspected their prisoner to be an aide of
The Shadow
. That, in itself, could
have accounted for the ambush on the room. Crooks would also guess that The
Shadow knew Harry's room number at the Hampstead House. They would expect him to
visit it. This room might prove another ambush.

THE SHADOW eyed every visible door. From gloom, he had the advantage. The
slightest motion would have told him that crooks were keeping watch on 328. No
indication came.
The Shadow
deduced that crooks intended to keep clear of the
hotel, particularly since they knew there would be a fuss about Harry's sudden
departure.

The Shadow
moved out into the corridor, reached the door of 328. He worked
smoothly, quickly, with the lock. The key of his own room had given him
sufficient idea of what the locks were like throughout the hotel. The door
yielded.
The room was almost pitch-dark for it was at the back of the hotel, away
from any street lights.
The Shadow
could feel a breeze from the open window.
Approaching, he made out the flat shape of the kitchen roof not far below. There
was another building across the street; blank-walled, it appeared to be the
hotel garage. Two stories high, the building's roof was on a level with the
window where
The Shadow
stood.
Turning from the wide-opened window,
The Shadow
moved about the room,
blinking his flashlight in evasive fashion. He was looking for spots that might
offer clues. His light dabbed the wall with a small, luminous circle; then
touched doors, articles of furniture. Finally, it streaked along the floor.
There,
The Shadow
spied a clue. Straight across from the opened window was
a small table that stood against the inner wall of the room, by the head of the
bedstead. That table was slightly oblong. Marks in the carpet showed that it
should stand endwise, with a short side against the wall.
The table, however, had been moved, to bring one of its broad sides against
the wall.
The Shadow
saw a reason for the new position. Crosswise, the table
could cover a greater stretch of wall. It had been placed thus to hide something
on the wall.
The logical step was to remove the table from its position.
The Shadow

turned out his flashlight. His cloak swished in the darkness; but oddly, there
was no sound of motion from the table. Once or twice, the flashlight blinked in
guarded fashion, that was all. Then came a pause - an interval of fully a dozen
seconds.
That time space was a lull before the surprise that came.
A sudden glare filled the room. It was the beam of a brilliant,
straight-focused spotlight, coming from the garage roof across the way. Blazing
in from darkness, the bright gleam showed the head of the bed; but not the table
beside it. The reason was, that the table stood obscured by a crouched shape
clad in black.
It was a sight that some ambushed observer had hoped to see:
The Shadow
,
stooped motionless, in front of that table. Hard upon the blaze of light came
another occurrence, so swift that even
The Shadow
could not have wheeled in time
to escape it. A driving object whistled through the window at terrific speed.
Like an arrow, it found the cloak between the shoulders; drove to a stop and
wavered.
The missile was a knife. It had buried itself full way to the hilt, in the
shape beneath the black cloak. Slowly, the stooping form tumbled forward and
sprawled in huddled fashion in front of the little table.
As the figure stilled upon the floor, the light from the garage roof was
extinguished. Blackness took control along with silence. The death-thrust had
been delivered; assassins were departing from the field. Well had they chosen
their ambush.

MINUTES passed in the silent hotel room. A flashlight blinked from the
corner, following along the floor. It reached the huddled form; a whispered
laugh sounded in the darkness. A gloved hand plucked away the knife. It came
easily; then the cloak was drawn aside. No knife-thrust had found
The Shadow
.
The only victim had been a pillow from the bed.
From the moment that he had noted the turned table,
The Shadow
had expected
a trap - because of the line to the opened window. He had used darkness to
prepare a ruse; and his hoax had worked.
The Shadow
had tilted a chair back
against the table, so neatly that only a scant half inch of chair top prevented
the whole chair from toppling. Upon the seat of the chair he had placed a
pillow; over it, his cloak, draped to form a shape when seen from without the
window. The slouch hat had formed the last touch of deception.
The knife had driven through the back of the cloak; it had cleaved the
pillow and its point had penetrated the woodwork of the chair. The force of the
blow had been sufficient to make the chair back begin a slide from the table. It
was the chair, muffled beneath cloak and pillow, that had thudded to the carpet
like a huddling human figure.
Listening from a corner near the window,
The Shadow
had heard enough sounds
when the spotlight was extinguished. He knew that his enemies had abandoned
their post. This was his opportunity to finish his investigation.
In darkness,
The Shadow
moved away the table. He glimmered his flashlight
upon the wall. There, in penciled letters on the wall-paper, he read:

R-6384

Had Harry Vincent left that clue? It seemed likely to
The Shadow
. Why had
crooks not erased it? The answer was obvious: they had guessed that the penciled
marks would interest
The Shadow
long enough to hold him at the death spot.
Extinguishing his flashlight,
The Shadow
replaced the pillow on the bed. He
put the chair as it belonged; pressed the table against the wall. Donning cloak
and hat, he moved from the room, locking the door behind him.
The Shadow
went to
the stairway, ascended halfway to the fourth floor.
Some minutes later, he heard creeping sounds below. Men were coming up to
Room 328. They had a double purpose: to remove a dead body; to erase the marks
that lay behind the table. They would be nonplused when they discovered that The
Shadow was gone.

The Shadow
waited; soon he heard the footsteps return, then scurry down the
stairs.
Underlings had gone to report the amazing news that they had found no
victim. Promptly,
The Shadow
descended to the third floor, to find the door of
328 unlocked. Quickly, he pulled aside the table and blinked his tiny light. The
number R-6384 had been erased. The visitors had not forgotten that detail. The
number was an actual clue.

PAUSING,
The Shadow
stared toward the window and noted the dim edge of the
garage roof. On a straight line with the opened window, it told him another
story - regarding the knife-thrust from the dark. No thrown blade could have
followed so straight a path. The uppermost point of its curve would have brought
it too high to go through the window. The knife had been dispatched by a
powerful, muffled air gun.
With this knowledge of a unique weapon in the arsenal of his foemen, The
Shadow made his final departure from Room 328. With gliding tread, he returned
to his own room on the fourth floor. From the side window, he surveyed the few
street lights which remained illuminated at this late hour.
A soft laugh in the darkness foretold
The Shadow
's next adventures. He had
foiled his enemies tonight. His own identity concealed, he would be ready on the
morrow. Then would he search for the master of crime, who, like
The Shadow

himself, was hidden.
Whether or not Harry's lone clue would be useless,
The Shadow
would not
cease his efforts until he uncovered the brain who had made Hampstead a city of
doom.

CHAPTER IV

THE MAN WHO RETURNED

THE next day found the town of Hampstead in furor. The disaster at the
steel plant had shaken the nerves of the hardiest citizens. Those who had feared
the future were looked upon as prophets. Any one who voiced belief in new terror
found many listeners.
Hampstead was distinctly an industrial town. It formed the center of a
large rural area; and boasted the only factories in the section. It followed
that Hampstead was also a railroad center; and the quarries among the
neighboring hills gave the city an added importance.
Hence Hampstead depended upon industry; and the threat was therefore the
most pressing that the town could possibly encounter.
Today's rumors were unrestricted. The local newspapers had yielded to the
strain; they were publishing facts that had hitherto been suppressed. Hampstead
realized that a hoodoo lay upon it. That belief was supported by intelligent
persons as well as ignorant.
Morning found the dye works closed. Workers had been grumbling ever since
the explosion of a week before. The owners had decided to mark time; for they
felt that they would be regarded as culpable, if another disaster should occur
upon their premises. Already the quarry companies had ceased operations because
of the freight yard wrecks. They came out with an announcement that they would
bring no explosives into Hampstead until the railroad company could supply a
satisfactory answer concerning the freight car smashes.
The steel plant was closed; until the furnace room was put in proper shape,
it could not reopen. The officials, when questioned, were unwilling to state
when they intended to resume business. Other industries were making a last
effort to stem the rising tide of public opposition. Privately, owners met among
themselves, to agree that one new disaster would be the last. Should it occur,
Hampstead would become a city abandoned by enterprise.
It was known that certain plants had arranged for police protection. Among
these were the Century Chemical Company and the Hampstead Knitting Mills, for
they represented the most important industries other than the dye works and the
steel plant. The chemical company dealt in dangerous materials; the knitting
mills employed hundreds of persons. Both concerns knew that they had much at
stake.
Nevertheless, to close down would be folly. No threats had been delivered;
nothing suspicious had occurred at either plant. The leaders of industry in
Hampstead were determined to hold together for a last effort against the strange
jinx that had settled upon the enterprising city.
Nevertheless, late afternoon brought a feeling of dread. The main plants in
Hampstead were working overtime. Other tragedies had struck during evening
hours. Tonight would be the time for new disaster, should it come.

TO
The Shadow
, this had been a day of futile effort. In his guise of Henry
Arnaud, he had hired a sedan in place of the coupe that he had stowed away. He
had driven about Hampstead, passing the chemical works and the knitting mills.
He had noted other factories; he had located the city's electric powerhouse. The
Shadow had seen no signs of threatening danger.
Nor had
The Shadow
gained any traces of departed crooks. Covering ground
close to Hampstead, he failed to discover any houses that could serve as
hide-outs. When he drove back to the hotel at sunset,
The Shadow
was forced to
admit that his quest had been blank. That very fact disturbed him most; for The
Shadow, of all persons in Hampstead, knew how real the threat of doom could be.
Street lamps were aglow when
The Shadow
entered the dining room of the
Hampstead House and took a table by the window. Those lights were early; for the
sun had scarcely set. Looking across the street at an angle,
The Shadow
could
plainly observe the fronts of pretentious homes that had been converted into
apartment houses.
Just as dinner was being served to the guest who called himself Henry
Arnaud, a large gray car, a limousine, pulled up in front of one of the
apartments. The chromium-plated radiator caught the glow of a street lamp just
above. The same illumination shone on the car's license plate. From a distance
of some forty yards,
The Shadow
read the license number: R-6384.
The number was etched in
The Shadow
's thoughts. He had been looking
constantly for some sign of it. That was the number
The Shadow
had found
inscribed upon the wall of Harry Vincent's room.
A chauffeur was stepping from the big car.
The Shadow
saw him open a door.
A stooped man came from the automobile; he leaned upon the chauffeur's arm, then
shifted his weight to a heavy cane.
The Shadow
caught a view of a muffled face;
round, blackened spots indicated dark spectacles that the man was wearing.
The chauffeur preceded his master to the apartment house door, rang a bell
and awaited a response. When it came, the chauffeur opened the door and held it
while the stooped man entered. After that, the chauffeur returned to the car and
drove away.
Watching upstairs windows,
The Shadow
had only a short wait. A light
glimmered suddenly from a room on the second floor.

THE SHADOW lost no time in finishing dinner. He went up to his room, packed
garments in a small, pliable briefcase and came downstairs again. Strolling from
the hotel, he noticed that the upstairs lights were still burning in the
apartment across the way.
Crossing the street,
The Shadow
calmly approached the door that the
bespectacled man had entered. He noted a list of names on the wall mail boxes of
the open vestibule. Apartment 2 A bore the name Herbert Prensham; apartment 2 B
showed a vacancy.
Both facts were useful. One told the name of the man who had gone up to the
front apartment on the second floor. The other indicated an excellent means of
entry.
The Shadow
stepped down to the sidewalk, strolled around the block and
came to a narrow alley behind the buildings. He followed it until he reached the
house he wanted.
In a darkened space,
The Shadow
opened his briefcase. He donned cloak and
slouch hat; strapped the pliable briefcase under his cloak. Picking an
ornamental ledge in the stone wall of the house,
The Shadow
began an upward
climb.
He gripped a fastened shutter beside a first floor window, used it in
ladder fashion and reached the second floor. Another ledge gave him a foothold
while he jimmied a window in the rear apartment. Swinging over the ledge, The
Shadow entered an empty room.
Through darkness,
The Shadow
reached the outer hall, to find it unlighted.
He picked a path along the wall until he arrived at a door which he knew must be
Apartment 2 A. The knob turned noiselessly at
The Shadow
's touch. The door was
unlocked; it yielded inward under pressure.
Silently,
The Shadow
stepped into a passage. At the front were the lights
of a living room. Peering from the passage,
The Shadow
could see that the shades
had been drawn. He knew that they must have been lowered during the time that he
had been circling the block.
Approaching closer to the front of the passage,
The Shadow
spied a bent man
seated in a large chair, his feet upon a footstool. The man was Herbert
Prensham, whom
The Shadow
had seen alight from the large automobile.
Prensham's face was tilted forward, his chin buried in the collar of a
dressing gown. His dark spectacles still covered his eyes. The stooped man was
motionless, apparently dozing. His left hand lay limply upon a table beside his
chair.
There, also,
The Shadow
observed a squatly table lamp, with a large,
unfrosted bulb upright in the socket. The lamp shade had fallen from place and
was lying on the table. Prensham had apparently not noticed it.
No one else was in the room. Unless Prensham himself had risen to lower the
window shades, some intruder must have come and gone before
The Shadow
's
arrival. There was something sinister in that possibility - a connection with
the cryptic numerals that
The Shadow
had found in Harry Vincent's room.
The number R-6384 had signified only the license number of Prensham's car.
Had Harry left it as a clue to a man whose life was threatened? Danger lurked
here in Hampstead;
The Shadow
was ready for any startling development. The
longer he gazed at the slouched, immobile form of Prensham, the more certain he
became that the man's lethargy was not normal.

STILL within the darkness of the passage,
The Shadow
drew an automatic from
beneath his cloak. Swinging into the mellow light of the living room, he glanced
keenly toward the inner wall, in search of another doorway. There was none. The
Shadow had come in by the only entrance.
In his gaze,
The Shadow
took in the furnishings. They were luxurious.
Oriental rugs adorned the floors; chairs and tables were of fine, dark mahogany.
Rich tapestries hung from the walls. In that setting, Herbert Prensham looked
pitiful and helpless, as if he - though master of this room - had no ability to
appreciate his surroundings.

The Shadow
, however, concentrated his gaze upon the man in the chair.
Advancing, he studied Prensham, to learn the reason for the man's stupor.
As
The Shadow
came closer, Prensham stirred. He raised his head, proving
that his ears were keen enough to hear the footsteps of the soft-treading
visitor. Apparently, Prensham could not see
The Shadow
through his dark
spectacles; for he whined a puzzled query:
"Who's there?"
Motionless, his automatic leveled in his fist,
The Shadow
gave no response.
"Who's there?" demanded Prensham, his voice testy. "Is it you, Banzarro?"

The Shadow
maintained his silence. Prensham's hands came upward. His body
straightened as his fingers lifted away the dark spectacles and let them drop
into his lap. Simultaneously, the man in the chair delivered a short, musical
laugh. His lips produced a gloating smile; his eyes - black in hue - showed an
evil sparkle.
With the dropping of the spectacles, the man in the chair had seen The
Shadow; but his manner showed that he had expected to view the very visitor whom
he saw. His sleep had been feigned; he had waited for this moment to drop away
the darkened glasses that amply disguised his face. With the action, the seated
man had revealed his identity to
The Shadow
.
The cloaked visitor recognized the man who called himself Herbert Prensham.
Uncannily,
The Shadow
had suspected danger: that was why he had leveled his
automatic toward the man in the chair.
The Shadow
had anticipated a surprise;
yet even he was not prepared for this one. The face revealed to him was one that
he had never expected to see alive.
The man in the chair was Doctor Rodil Mocquino, the most insidious foeman
whom
The Shadow
had ever encountered - Doctor Mocquino, the so-called Voodoo
Master, whose last reign of crime had been ended by
The Shadow
. Downed by
bullets from
The Shadow
's guns, Mocquino had last been seen alive when he had
plunged, badly wounded, beneath the surface of the Hudson River. (Note: See "The
Voodoo Master" Vol. XVII, No.1)
Even to
The Shadow
, it was amazing that Doctor Mocquino had returned to
life. But with the present discovery,
The Shadow
had gained the end of his first
trail. The disasters in the town of Hampstead were explainable, since Doctor
Mocquino still remained a living threat.

The Shadow
was face to face with the master-villain who had brought terror
to this city of doom.

CHAPTER V

THE STALEMATE

"I HAVE awaited you."
Doctor Mocquino spoke the words in musical tone. His manila-hued face was
smiling; his dark eyes flashed in friendly fashion. Without moving from his
chair, the one-time Voodoo Master gestured with his open right hand.
"Be seated," he invited. "We have much to discuss, you and I."
Mocquino was pointing to a chair between himself and the window.
The Shadow

kept his eyes toward the Voodoo Master; his gun, in his right hand, was leveled
with his gaze. Using his left hand, he drew the chair toward himself, then sat
down facing Mocquino.

The Shadow
had placed himself at a slight angle to Mocquino's right. The
unshaded lamp upon the table was so placed that it stood almost in line with The
Shadow's gaze. Mocquino flipped a switch in the base of the lamp, using a single
finger.
Instantly, there came a result that showed why the Voodoo Master had
lowered the window blinds. The unfrosted bulb delivered a blinding brilliance.
Its light was of the most startling sort, a pyrotechnic display within a rounded
bowl of glass. Every possible color of light burst loose with dazzling blaze.
Like sparks from bursting fireworks, the colors sparkled soundlessly within the
bulb. They darted everywhere, those sparks, changing their flashes with
kaleidoscopic speed.

The Shadow
sat riveted, his eyes upon the startling display. Doctor
Mocquino's right hand had come upward; his fingers had promptly replaced his
spectacles over his eyes. Thus he escaped those blinding flashes that burned
before
The Shadow
's gaze. Mocquino's laugh was harsh, its musical tone ended.
The Voodoo Master deliberately pulled the little switch; the dazzle faded from
the blazing bulb. With both hands, Mocquino removed his glasses and spoke to his
cloaked visitor.
"You are helpless!" jeered the Voodoo Master. "You, too, have experienced
the blinding glare that the others received! You have gone through the ordeal
that causes men to see the things that I command! You are in my power! Rise;
stand silent; then receive my bidding!"

The Shadow
came to his feet while Mocquino chortled. The Voodoo Master's
gloat ended a moment later.
The Shadow
did not stand his ground; instead, he
advanced straight forward. The muzzle of his automatic pressed toward Mocquino's
eyes. Above the gun. the astonished Voodoo Master saw a blazing gaze, unaltered
by the dazzle that
The Shadow
had faced.
"Speak, Mocquino!" ordered
The Shadow
. "Tell of the crimes that you
committed; of the evil that you intend! I am the one who holds command!"

THE SHADOW had met the Voodoo Master's test. Whatever its effect upon
others, the blazing bulb had failed to stagger
The Shadow
.
Mocquino's face showed huge surprise; his lips were scarcely able to
deliver a snarl. It was rage, however, not fear, that had struck the Voodoo
Master.
"You command me to speak," mouthed Mocquino. "Listen, then, and hear the
facts you came to learn! I brought them here, the men I needed. I let them see
the blazing bulb. It left them dazzled, ready for my command.
"While each man sat dazed, I told him how he was to ignore his duty. Each
went his way, remembering his experience, like something from a dim past. Each
sought to recall what had happened. Memories jogged them at the proper moment;
the exact time that I had named."

The Shadow
thrust his automatic beneath his cloak; it was a gesture of his
contempt for Mocquino's power. He needed no more information regarding the
system that the Voodoo Master had employed.
A master of hypnotic influence, Mocquino had applied it to the
accomplishment of crime, through men who served as helpless instruments. All
hypnotism being dependent upon the full concentration of the person subjected to
it, Mocquino had devised the sparkling bulb as a mechanical way of forcing fixed
vision. Through the dazzling effect of myriad colored sparks, he had jolted each
victim into a state of temporary bewilderment.
That done, he had assigned each a task. The engineer at the dye plant had
been told to release the safety valve on the boiler, when he made inspection.
Switchman and brakeman both had been instructed to signal locomotives onward;
then stand in the engine's path.
Old Joe Grandy had responded to an impulse given him by Mocquino; he had
handled the wrong lever at the given moment, when he stood upon his perch beside
the ladle of molten steel.
In each case, Mocquino was a murderer. The Voodoo Master had purposely sent
his hypnotic victims to their own destruction. He had hoped to do the same with

The Shadow
. He had failed. His own statement had been forced from Mocquino's
reluctant lips.
More was required. Mocquino heard
The Shadow
's voice, with its commanding
tone:
"Proceed! State the crimes that you have planned for the future!"
Mocquino's teeth gritted. His clawish hands clutched the arms of his chair.
Despite the steadiness of
The Shadow
's gaze, Mocquino rallied.
"I have told enough!" he retorted, harshly. "You caught me by surprise,
when you met the ordeal that I gave you. I have told of past crimes; I shall not
speak of future!"

THE SHADOW'S right hand whipped from beneath the cloak. Again, Mocquino was
confronted by the leveled muzzle of an automatic that threatened to burn a
message of instant death. The Voodoo Master glared savagely; then managed to
deliver an evil smile.
"Why should I speak?" he queried, his voice regaining its smooth, insidious
tone. "You cannot afford to kill me when you know the facts that concern your
agent, Harry Vincent. He is my prisoner - he and others who tried to block my
path! There are five of them in all. My death will mean theirs!
"I took the precaution to place them where escape is impossible. Their time
of death has been set every twelve hours. Each time that the execution is due, I
postpone it. Should I die, there will be no one to countermand the order.
"Kill me if you choose. By doing so, you will give the death warrant for
men whom you have come to save. Moreover, my future crimes are scheduled. They
will proceed like clockwork; for my subordinates are men who will not fail in
obedience to my given commands."
Mocquino's tone had regained its strength.
The Shadow
knew that the Voodoo
Master spoke the truth. Forced to accept the issue as it stood,
The Shadow

thrust his automatic out of sight. Calmly, he took the chair that he had left.
Mocquino's eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure.
"You have decided wisely," remarked Mocquino. "My threat failed; yours did
likewise. That brings a situation that I have long desired; one wherein we can
speak freely. I have hoped for such a meeting. My wish has at last been
granted."

The Shadow
made no comment. He preferred to let Mocquino talk. The Voodoo
Master relished the situation. He continued:
"Some time ago, I formed a cult of faithful followers, worshipers of voodoo
rites, through whom I sought wealth. You uncovered my headquarters, aboard an
old ferry boat in the Hudson River. Single-handed you defeated my followers; I
plunged overboard, wounded.
"There were police boats all about, and other craft besides. One was a
small tug manned by a handful of my reserves, under the command of my most
trusted lieutenant, Banzarro. They brought me aboard; they carried me to safety,
and recovery."
Smiling, Mocquino began to stroke his chin. He showed no fear of The
Shadow; instead, he studied his visitor with a gaze that showed admiration.
Mocquino seemed to consider
The Shadow
as a foe who could put his schemes to
future tests. It was plain that the Voodoo Master enjoyed crime and relished
opposition.
"I have decided," announced Mocquino, "to attempt a gigantic experiment
upon the human race. All people are alike, whether savage or civilized. In
tropical countries, a master of voodoo - like myself - can gain a host of
followers. The same can be accomplished here in the United States.
"Except for one factor." Mocquino leaned forward and wagged a bony finger
as he made the proviso. "The influence of the machine age must be destroyed. To
implant the principles of voodoo belief upon a community, that place must be cut
off from the world.
"I have chosen this city of Hampstead as my experimental field. Already, I
have wreaked destruction; industry is ready to abandon the town. One more
catastrophe will produce the final result. Its factories closed, Hampstead will
become a city shunned by enterprise!"

MOCQUINO paused, hoping to see the effect of his words.
The Shadow
gave no
visible sign; yet through his brain was flashing the full thought of the future.
Outlandish as Mocquino's hopes might seem, the consequences were tremendous.
Steadily, invisibly, Doctor Mocquino would become the absolute ruler of a
detached community. Strange cults were not uncommon. Voodoo rites, with their
appeal to superstitious minds, could gain strong roots if planted in suitable
soil.

The Shadow
's thoughts turned to the immediate future. One fact was certain:
in his effort to extend his strange scheme, Doctor Mocquino intended to continue
with his strokes of crime. Lives were at stake, like those at the steel plant.
In addition, Mocquino held prisoners - men whose lives
The Shadow
must save. If
anything could be done to forestall Mocquino's present plans, that course must
be learned.
Mocquino was guessing at
The Shadow
's thoughts. With a smile, the Voodoo
Master himself presented new possibilities.
"We are at stalemate," purred Mocquino. "Suppose that we begin our game
anew. Banzarro failed twice last night; first, when he sought your life with
guns; second, when he missed his knife-thrust. I failed tonight, when my color
light proved insufficient to overcome you.
"I have no other moves; but I do intend new crime. As I have stated, it
will proceed without me; and at the same time, my prisoners will automatically
die. Should I be allowed to go my way, I shall proceed with crime; but the
prisoners will live. So long as I am free, there is no reason for their death."
Mocquino paused; then added: "I shall find the new game interesting. So
much so, that I may become negligent at times, merely to add new zest. That may
interest you, particularly since you also enjoy adventure. There will be crime
tonight, within the next few hours. You will find it intriguing if you seek to
prevent it. Suppose I state my terms."

THE SHADOW remained as motionless as a statue. His attitude was
unflinching; but that did not disturb Mocquino.
"You will leave here," proposed Mocquino, "and travel to the city limits,
in your coupe. Banzarro will see you before you reach the steel plant. There
will be no ambush: I do not care to sacrifice more men in futile effort."
Mocquino's words, dryly uttered, proved that the Voodoo Master was keen
enough to recognize
The Shadow
's prowess. That made him doubly dangerous.
Mocquino had dropped all over-confidence. His present plan, though boldly put,
was actually a desperate bid for freedom.
It depended entirely upon
The Shadow
, and Mocquino knew it. If
The Shadow

himself had a deep plan that would be sufficient to offset Mocquino's threat of
automatic crime, there would be no chance for the Voodoo Master. Knowing this,
Mocquino added a promise.
"The prisoners will live," he insisted. "They will be the prize at stake.
Our new game will begin from the moment that you have again passed the city
limits. It will end only when either you or I have won a final conflict."
Leaning forward, Mocquino waited expectantly for
The Shadow
's answer. It
came by action, instead of word. Rising,
The Shadow
turned toward the door. His
cloak swished, as he stepped to the passage. Mocquino heard the closing of the
door to the hall.
Slowly, the Voodoo Master approached a window and raised one lowered shade.
Minutes passed before a sudden gleam adorned Mocquino's evil confidence.
The sight that produced that evil gloat was the passage of a coupe that rolled
along the main street in front of the Hampstead House.
The Shadow
, like
Mocquino, had accepted the fact that the game had reached a stalemate.

The Shadow
was driving to the city limits, prepared to begin a new game
against the evil plotter.

CHAPTER VI

CRIME TO COME

IN his departure from Mocquino's,
The Shadow
had accepted the only
alternative. Past experience had told him of Mocquino's craftiness; events in
Hampstead had proven that the arch-plotter was more formidable than ever.
Mocquino had proposed a fresh start in his duel with
The Shadow
. As stakes
in the game, Mocquino had promised the lives of Harry Vincent and other
prisoners. Mocquino would adhere to his promise; but not because of any mercy in
his nature. The insidious Voodoo Master totally lacked that emotion.
Mocquino's purpose was to stir
The Shadow
to frenzied action; to bring him
into the open. Once on the offensive,
The Shadow
would be forced to discard
certain protective measures. Mocquino, always ready to deliver a death-thrust,
might find an opportunity to end the career of the only living foe whom he
feared.

The Shadow
had accepted Mocquino's terms for the same reason. He knew that
the one way to deal with Mocquino was to thwart him at every turn; to meet his
schemes as they came. If foiled, Mocquino would increase his own efforts at evil
action. He, too, could become unguarded.
All the while, however, Mocquino would keep his prisoners alive. The Voodoo
Master knew that those captives were human bait; that their welfare was
essential. As long as
The Shadow
knew that they lived, he would press his
activities without pause. Sooner or later, so Mocquino hoped,
The Shadow
would
be worn down. When that time came, Mocquino could strike.
There was only one choice for
The Shadow
. That was to keep constantly upon
the move; to challenge Mocquino to the utmost.
Driving toward the city limits of Hampstead,
The Shadow
reviewed these
prospects. All the while, he was watching the road with caution. Somewhere along
the route, he would pass a hiding place occupied by Mocquino's chief lieutenant
- the man whom the Voodoo Master had called Banzarro.
There was a chance that Banzarro would strike from ambush, despite
Mocquino's declaration to the contrary. This was one point upon which the Voodoo
Master could not be trusted.
The Shadow
's impression, however, was that Mocquino
would prefer to depend on future strategy, rather than order his underlings to
attempt another attack of a type at which they had previously failed.

THE SHADOW'S surmise proved correct. He reached the city limits
unchallenged. There, he wheeled his coupe about and started back toward the
center of town. Choosing a side road, he swung from the main highway and
threaded his way into the city. He reached the obscure garage near the railroad
station.
For this journey,
The Shadow
had used his former license plates. He changed
them again, in the garage; there were no employees on duty to observe the
action. Wearing his garb of black,
The Shadow
departed by a side door. He picked
his way through darkness, and came again to the converted house where Mocquino's
apartment was located.
This time,
The Shadow
chose another mode of entry. He picked a loose
grating at the side of the house, removed it and dropped into the cellar. In his
departure from Mocquino's apartment, he had observed the location of stairways;
hence he had no difficulty in reaching the ground floor. There was a light in
the hall, but
The Shadow
took a darkened flight of steps at the rear. He went up
to the second floor.
All the while,
The Shadow
exercised full caution. He knew that Mocquino
might expect him to return. This house offered many lurking spots for would-be
assassins. But
The Shadow
banked upon one factor that was definitely a part of
Mocquino's policy. The Voodoo Master was dealing in hidden, mysterious crime.
Therefore, Mocquino would seek to avoid any commotion that would cause the
public to guess that crooks were in Hampstead.
Last night's thrusts proved this fact. One had been made upon a lonely
stretch of road; the other had been a quick, silent stab from darkness.

The Shadow
expected, moreover, to find Mocquino gone; but he was not
entirely set for the surprise that he received when he opened the unlocked door
of the voodoo doctor's apartment. Lights were glowing from wall brackets. In the
living room; the illumination showed complete vacancy. Stepping in from the
passage,
The Shadow
stood in the center of complete desertion.
During the scant half hour since
The Shadow
's departure, Mocquino had
accomplished a complete removal. Every item of furniture was gone. including the
table lamp and its special bulb. Bare floors sounded hollow beneath
The Shadow
's
tread. Blank walls gaped where gorgeous tapestries had formerly hung. Mocquino
had left nothing except the few lights in the wall sockets, to let
The Shadow

see what had been accomplished.

The Shadow
had already decided that Mocquino must have some stronghold
outside of Hampstead, but within easy reach of the city. Such a place would be
needed as a hide-out for thugs who served under Banzarro. That stronghold could
also serve as a prison for Harry Vincent and the other captives. It was obvious
that Mocquino had chosen the place as his own headquarters for the future
campaign.
For the present,
The Shadow
had no intent to take up Mocquino's trail. He
was sure that the search for the stronghold would be a long one. If he made it
his immediate objective, he would lose a greater opportunity. Crime was due
again in Hampstead. It would come tonight, as part of Mocquino's strategy. The
Shadow's immediate purpose was to gain some clue to the next step in Mocquino's
campaign.

A BRIEF search through the living room showed nothing of importance. The
Shadow went through the little passage and used his flashlight in a darkened
rear room. Here, again, was vacancy.
The Shadow
moved through to another room.
His flashlight, glowing on the floor, showed streaky scrapes that had been made
when a piece of furniture had been moved. From the marks,
The Shadow
knew that
the object had been either a table or a desk.
The corner baseboard was warped. Its lower edge was fully a quarter inch
above the floor. A tiny strip of white showed from the space. Stooping, The
Shadow plucked and drew out a small, square piece of paper. It was a page torn
from a memorandum pad. Apparently it had been tossed toward a wastebasket, only
to flutter to the floor instead. Sliding under the baseboard, the paper had
remained unnoticed.
On the square sheet was a penciled scrawl.
The Shadow
read the notation:

Thursday, 9 p. m. Dynamo room at powerhouse.

This day was Thursday.
The Shadow
's watch showed half past eight. Thirty
minutes until the designated hour.
The Shadow
had found what seemed to be a
promising clue to Doctor Mocquino's next crime: some deed of destruction that
concerned the local powerhouse. Yet, in that written notation,
The Shadow
saw
one item that savored of truth; another that bore falsehood.

The Shadow
remembered the penciled marks on the wall of Harry Vincent's
room. Whether Harry had written that number, R-6384 or whether some one else had
scrawled it at Mocquino's order, it had certainly been left with a purpose. That
clue had brought
The Shadow
to Mocquino's apartment, where the Voodoo Master had
sought to overpower him with the brilliant hypnotic bulb.
Similarly, this new clue was a plant.
The Shadow
knew that Mocquino himself
had slipped it beneath the baseboard. Mocquino had expected
The Shadow
to find
it; to take the tip and go to the local powerhouse at nine o'clock.
The true statement on the sheet of paper was the one that concerned the
time. Something was due to happen tonight, at nine o'clock. The false item was
the mention of a place. When crime struck, it would not occur at the powerhouse.
Mocquino's purpose was simply to decoy
The Shadow
to the wrong spot.

CRIME due at nine. Crumpling the piece of paper,
The Shadow
stood in
darkness, considering the situation. Whatever Mocquino planned. it would
certainly be a disaster as great as the catastrophe at the steel plant. There
were only two other plants in Hampstead where so huge a tragedy could be
duplicated.
One was the Century Chemical Company, with its dangerous type of
manufacture; the other, the Hampstead Knitting Mills, where hundreds of workers
were employed. On the surface, the choice was equal;
The Shadow
could reach
either place by nine o'clock. But if he covered one, he could not protect the
other.
Minutes of silence lingered; then came a whispered laugh amid the darkness.
A swish betokened
The Shadow
's departure. The master investigator had chosen his
next destination.
The Shadow
knew that Mocquino had certainly planned disasters
at both the chemical plant and the knitting mills. One would strike tonight; the
other would come later.
Mocquino's campaign of horror followed one definite system; to make it most
effective, each disaster needed to be greater than the one before. Comparing the
chemical plant and the knitting mills,
The Shadow
chose the one that best fitted
the natural progression of Mocquino's evil plans.
Undeceived by the Voodoo Master's fake clue,
The Shadow
was setting forth
to deal with coming crime.

CHAPTER VII

AT THE CHEMICAL PLANT

THE Century Chemical Company occupied a stretch of isolated ground just
west of Hampstead. There was good reason for the remote location. The chemical
plant produced highly inflammable materials, and the fire hazard was too great
for other buildings to be built in the same locality.
The plant consisted of three sections, all housed in the same building.
First, the portion where incoming shipments were stored; then the main
laboratory where the chemicals were manufactured; last, the storeroom that held
the finished products.
Upstairs were offices; most of these were over the storeroom, for it had a
low ceiling and there was plenty of space above. Of the sixty employees who
worked at the plant, nearly forty were engaged in actual manufacture; most of
the others belonged in the upstairs offices.
In their inspection of the plant, officials had marked one danger spot.
That lay between the large laboratory and the last storeroom, where the finished
chemicals were kept. Fire was always a menace to the laboratory; but the workers
were trained to meet it. All inflammable materials were removed as soon as
manufactured. The important precaution, therefore, was to keep a fireproof
barrier between the laboratory and the storeroom.
This had been effectively arranged. When trucks were wheeled from the
laboratory, they followed a slight downward slope and stopped at a steel door.
When that barrier was opened, the trucks entered a vestibule, with another steel
door ahead. The man in charge of the doors closed the outer one; then opened the
inner, so that the trucks could be wheeled through to the storeroom at the end
of the downgrade.
Thus there was never an open channel between the laboratory and the
storeroom. Fire in the laboratory could not spread; nor could an accident in the
storeroom produce disaster in the laboratory.

A FULL shift of workers were in the laboratory on this particular night. A
clock by the outer door showed the time as five minutes before nine. Near the
door was a small lunch counter; there, a man in overalls was gulping down a cup
of coffee before going on duty.
Another worker, wheeling a handtruck in from the inbound shipment room,
stopped to nudge the coffee drinker.
"Hello, Danny," greeted the man with the truck. "Whatta you need a cup of
Java for? So's you can stay awake on that soft job of yours?"
Danny finished his coffee and grinned.
"Hello, Pete," he returned. "Kiddin' me, eh? Well, it takes brains to
handle them control levers when the trucks go through the doors. More brains
than shoving a truck."
"I'll be off this trick next week," growled Pete. "They're putting me in
the shipping department. Well, Danny, they're waiting for you over in the
control room. So long, old scout!"
"Wait a minute, Pete."
Earnestly, Danny gripped Pete's arm and drew the truck pusher to one side.
In an undertone he put a query:
"You're a pal, Pete, ain't you? One guy that I can count on?"
Pete nodded.
"There's something I gotta ask you about," continued Danny. "You remember
last Monday night? Were we together anywhere?"
Pete shook his head.
"Tuesday was my night off," he stated. "I was working here, Monday. Only -"
Pete paused suddenly. His eyes were half closed.
"Only what?" queried Danny, anxiously.
Pete opened his eyes and blinked.
"What were you asking about Monday for?" he demanded. "Give me the lowdown,
Danny."
"I haven't got time, Pete." Danny shifted as he spoke. "I gotta get over to
the control room."
"It wasn't that maybe you'd forgotten something?" insisted Pete. "Like
where you'd been at, on Monday night?"
It was Danny's turn to blink. His face showed worriment. Pete had guessed
the secret that Danny had been anxious not to let slip. Pete knew it; he was
quick to reassure his pal.
"Listen, Danny," confessed Pete; "it hit me funny, you asking about Monday
night. I was kinda worried the same way; thinking about where I'd been Tuesday."
"You mean it's kind of hazy, Pete?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't have mentioned it to nobody. Not even to you, Danny,
except because of what you just said. Seems like I got a telephone call, asking
me to come somewhere; and I went. That was right after dinner, Tuesday. I
remember coming home at ten o'clock, telling the folks I'd been to a movie. But
I must've sat right through the picture without even looking at it -"
"It's the same with me, Pete! Monday night I was somewhere. Nobody at home
asked me about it; but they said something about my hitting the hay at eleven
o'clock. I thought I'd turned in around nine. There's a couple of hours, Pete,
that I can't account for!"
"That's why you asked me if I'd seen you Monday?"
"Yeah. It makes me feel creepy - like I was trying to remember something
I'd dreamed, and couldn't!"
"Same with me, Danny. I keep thinking about it -"
A voice was calling for Pete's truck. The two men ended their confab. Pete
shoved his truck off through the laboratory. Danny crossed the floor and reached
an inner corner. There he stepped into a small control room, where a man was
seated in a chair beside two levers.
Danny took over the controls. The other worker departed by a door that led
into a darkened passage. Mumbling to himself, Danny mulled over the event that
he had discussed with Pete.

MECHANICALLY, Danny looked toward the big clock at the front of the
laboratory. Its hands showed nine o'clock. A shudder came to Danny's shoulders.
The man looked about, he had a feeling that eyes were watching him. Vainly, he
stared at the darkened passage near the control room. While he gazed, he heard a
shriek that made him swing about.
The cry came from the laboratory. From the open front of the control box,
Danny saw Pete stumbling beside his truck. Pete was holding a large bottle that
he was about to load. Some one had shouted a warning when Pete stumbled. As
Danny stared, Pete struck the edge of the hand truck and the bottle shot from
his grasp.
It crashed squarely into the contents of the half-loaded truck. As the
bottle shattered, chemical solution splashed upon loaded boxes. There was a
puff; a flash of flame. The truck was ablaze.
Workers scrambled from their benches. In the excitement, one over-turned a
large beaker.
New puffs sighed from the workbench. Flames sizzled, while a bell clanged
furiously from the end of the room.
Trained to quick response, workers could have met the emergency, had it not
been for Pete. On his feet beside the truck, the fellow went berserk. He wanted
to get the truck away; he chose the easiest direction. With a shove, Pete
propelled the blazing load straight down the ramp that led to the storeroom. The
truck jammed to a stop against the steel door that led to the protective
corridor.
In a sense, Pete's move had served well. He had at least shoved the truck
away from the workbenches, to a place where it could be easily handled. The
steel door was a fireproof barrier; the flames could not penetrate it. But
Pete's move led to another - one that came from Danny.
Deliberately, the man in the control box grasped the first lever and tugged
it. The steel door slid upward. While maddened workers dashed across the
laboratory, the blazing truck slid down through the passage to the storeroom. A
thump announced its arrival at the second steel door.
Shouting men were leaping to reclaim the truck. Others were staring toward
the control room, astounded by Danny's action. None were close enough to stop
the next move. With the same slow move that he had used before, Danny gripped
the second lever. His hands started its pull, to release the lower door and let
the truck roll through to the storeroom, where stacks of inflammable merchandise
awaited removal.
Only an instantaneous intervention could forestall Danny's unexplainable
move. That intervention came.

A BLACK-GARBED form launched from the darkened passage wherein Danny had
suspected watching eyes. A long, cloaked arm sped forward. Gloved, viselike
fingers clutched Danny's hand, wrenched the man's grip from the control lever.
Eyes staring straight ahead, Danny emitted a snarl like that of a trapped
beast.
Spinning about, Danny saw
The Shadow
. An expression of fierce rage came
over Danny's face as his eyes met the burn of
The Shadow
's eyes. Like a
mechanical figure, a human automaton controlled by a distant brain, Danny sprang
upon the cloaked intruder. Clawing furiously, he tried to tear
The Shadow
away
from the control lever. Danny's brain could concentrate upon one purpose only:
to gain again the lever and complete his act of destruction.

The Shadow
's tall form bobbed backward, yielding to the madman's thrust.
Danny shot one hand to the lever; but he was too late to perform the deed he
wanted. A gloved fist zoomed through the opening that came when Danny dropped
his arm.
The Shadow
's punch found the workman's jaw.
Danny slumped to his chair; his head tilted forward. His hand lost its
clutch upon the lever. Other workers were almost to the control room.
The Shadow

sidestepped to the outer passage. He was watching when men arrived to find Danny
in his chair.
The whole laboratory was filled with fading fumes. Special fire equipment
had smothered the flames at the benches. A squad of workmen had headed for the
passage leading down to the storeroom. There, they squashed the fire from the
blazing truck.
As Danny came groggily to life, he looked from his window to see men
hauling the extinguished truck up from the lower door.

The Shadow
could view Danny's profile. He saw the awed expression that was
flickering on the man's face.
Slowly, dimly, Danny was realizing what he had done. Thought of the averted
havoc left the man shaky. Danny looked about hopelessly, as if wondering how to
explain matters. Luck was with him. His fellow workers knew him for a man of
coolness; they made their own interpretation of Danny's actions.
"Smart work, Danny!" approved one. "You had us guessing when you yanked
that upper door. Then we caught the idea. You wanted to let that truck ride down
into the passage, to get it away from the laboratory."
Danny nodded weakly.
"Sure!" put in another man. "You knowed that the second door would stop it.
It was a cinch, putting out the fire on the truck down there in the passage."
"Some of the fellows got excited," added the first speaker. "Thought maybe
you'd gone goofy, Dan; that you was going to pull the second door. I knowed
different."
"Sure!" concluded the second man. "Your hand wasn't even on the second
lever when we got here, Danny. You looked kind of weak, but I don't blame you.
This box was a bad spot to be in, Danny."

A BIG bell was clanging, calling for men to return to work. Danny
straightened in his chair. The others left; but after their departure, a lone
worker sidled into the control box. It was Pete.
The Shadow
watched him motion
to Danny.
"I - I musta gone bugs, Danny," confided Pete, in a whisper. "Something
sort of hit me - like from that dream I had on Tuesday night. When I started to
load that big flask on the truck, it was like my feet stumbled over each other.
I sorta saw myself pitching the bottle on to the truck -"
"Don't tell me any more, Pete," put in Danny, his tone awed. "Something
clicked back to me when I saw it happen. You shoved the truck against the first
door - remember? It was like a picture I was waiting for, out of a dream!
"I yanked that first door open. When the truck slid down. I made a grab to
pull the second door. Don't ask me why. All I know is somebody - or something
came crashing in and stopped me. The boys think I did something smart; but I
didn't, Pete. I was goofy, that's what!"
Shakily, Danny mopped his brow with a big handkerchief. Pete gave a
departing whisper:
"Keep mum, Danny; that's what I'm going to do. Nobody's blaming us. I'm not
worried, neither. It seems like my bean has sorta cleared."
"Same here, Pete. I'm just jittery; but it won't stick with me. I'm through
bothering my noodle about where I was on Monday night."
Danny steadied in his chair. Pete edged from the control box.
The Shadow

moved away through the outer passage. His work was completed; he had spoiled
Doctor Mocquino's scheme. Wisely had
The Shadow
picked the chemical plant as the
place where crime was due. Here, Mocquino had hoped to send some fifty persons
to destruction, reserving the knitting mills for a rarer and greater disaster.
In Pete and Danny,
The Shadow
had observed two men who had come under the
Voodoo Master's evil power. Mocquino had decoyed them to his apartment; there,
he had jolted them with his hypnotic light. Upon each man's brain he had
impressed a future action, each to make an individual blunder at the hour of
nine, on Thursday night.
Like others before them, both Pete and Danny had responded. They had
mechanically performed their teamwork in accord with Mocquino's nefarious
desire.
The Shadow
had stopped the menace; Mocquino's influence was ended, so
far as those men were concerned.
Still,
The Shadow
saw more work ahead tonight. Outside the chemical plant
his whispered laugh was barely audible in darkness. An unseen traveler in the
night,
The Shadow
was choosing a trail that he knew might lead to Mocquino's new
lair.

CHAPTER VIII

AT THE POWERHOUSE

FIFTEEN minutes after his departure from the chemical plant,
The Shadow

arrived near the Hampstead powerhouse. From the protecting darkness of an old
empty house, he surveyed the squarish building that supplied the city with
electricity. Motionless,
The Shadow
watched for signs of prowlers near the
powerhouse.
In his past experience with Doctor Mocquino,
The Shadow
had learned that
the Voodoo Master's strokes were double-edged. Any false trail that Mocquino
offered would be beset with hazards.
The Shadow
's knowledge of Mocquino's ways
explained the present situation.
Mocquino had planned disaster at the chemical plant; another crime of the
sort that would seem accidental. In order to draw
The Shadow
from the place
where scores of workers were slated for doom. Mocquino had planted the memo
pages with its mention of the local powerhouse.
Another rogue would have been satisfied with the plan of drawing
The Shadow

to the wrong spot. Not Mocquino, however. He picked nothing at random. Since
there was a chance that
The Shadow
would come to the powerhouse at nine o'clock,
it followed that Mocquino would be prepared to trap him at that hour.
Mocquino had henchmen - many of them - with Banzarro to command them. None
of these underlings had been near the chemical plant; it was Mocquino's policy
to keep them well away from any spot of scheduled disaster. The powerhouse,
however, was a blind. It was likely that Banzarro and his crew would be here.
By this time, Banzarro's men would have closed in, on the chance that The
Shadow was inside the powerhouse. They would be set to trap him when he emerged.
In fact, Banzarro might even have kept the cordon loose in order to let The
Shadow enter. Therefore, the present advantage lay with
The Shadow
. If Banzarro
and his crew were close about the powerhouse, he could surprise them by coming
inward instead of outward.

ADVANCING from his position,
The Shadow
began a circuit of the powerhouse.
The building was square-walled and compact in construction; the space about it
was darkened and offered every opportunity for
The Shadow
to approach. In his
circling,
The Shadow
chose a course that was somewhat spiral. Always, he was
coming closer to the building itself.
At no spot did
The Shadow
discover any signs of lurkers. During his final
circuit, he could almost touch the walls of the building, yet there was no stir
to mark the position of hidden enemies. All that
The Shadow
could detect was the
steady thrum-thrum of dynamos within.
There were frosted windows, barred with crisscross gratings. From these
came dim light, enough to betray any men who might have chosen the window spaces
as hiding places. There was only one door; it, too, had a frosted-glass panel.

The Shadow
's inspection proved that none of Mocquino's followers were
hereabouts.

The Shadow
considered another possibility - one that he had hitherto
regarded as secondary. Mocquino could have ordered Banzarro to drop the ambush
soon after nine o'clock, because of the expected disaster at the chemical plant.
Mocquino might have considered it bad policy to have any of his men too close to
Hampstead when excitement reigned there.
If such was the case, Banzarro and his men would have left the vicinity of
the powerhouse before
The Shadow
's arrival. The silence about the square-walled
building certainly indicated that something of the sort had occurred.
Nevertheless,
The Shadow
did not intend to depart until he had made a through
search of the premises. The only area that still remained was the interior of
the powerhouse itself.
Stopping at the glass-paneled door,
The Shadow
performed his evasive move
of entering without betrayal. He pressed against the narrow space between the
edge of the panel and the door frame. He inched the door inward, so slowly that
its appearance scarcely changed. One arm above his slouch hat, he blocked all
passage of light. Squeezing through the partly closed door, he let the portal
close as slowly as it had opened.
There were other doors inside; all opened from a small central corridor.

The Shadow
tried each barrier in turn. All were locked, until he came to the
last one at the end of the passage. It opened when
The Shadow
pulled it; light
from below showed a short flight of steps that led down into the dynamo room.
The rhythm of the powerful machinery was more audible than before.

The Shadow
reached the bottom of the steps. There, he observed four huge
electric generators set in a row. The two that were closest to
The Shadow
were
in motion. Through the grayish centers of the massive revolving wheels, The
Shadow could see a wide space of floor; then the other two dynamos.
The second pair of machines were not in motion; but
The Shadow
saw that
they soon would be. There was an engineer in charge, with an assistant. The two
men were preparing to change the dynamo. Apparently, half past nine was the time
set for that operation.

WHILE
The Shadow
waited at the bottom of the stairs, he considered the
possibilities that this powerhouse might offer to Mocquino's schemes. It seemed
likely that Mocquino had made arrangements to take over the powerhouse, if
needed; for by stopping the dynamo, he could deprive Hampstead of electric
current. Such action, however, would be of no value in itself. It could serve
only as some device to aid another scheme.
Destruction in the powerhouse would not appeal to Mocquino. While the
Voodoo Master had declared war on machinery, he wanted to spread terror with his
strokes. The sacrifice of human lives was a vital part of Mocquino's campaign of
horror. The elimination of a mere two men - the engineer and his assistant -
would hardly be worth Mocquino's while, particularly since the size of his
disasters had increased.
The time would come when Mocquino would choose to strike without
self-concealment; but that time would not be tonight. It would come only when
Mocquino had gone the limit in his present campaign.
The Shadow
had already
recognized Mocquino's methods when he ignored the Voodoo Master's invitation to
visit the powerhouse at nine o'clock.
The thrum of dynamos was increasing. The big wheels had begun to move at
the far end of the room. Their massive spokes became blurred, as they advanced
to full speed. Then there was a slowing of the generators nearer to
The Shadow
.
Soon those wheels had stopped. The routine changing of the dynamos was
accomplished.
The engineer was coming toward the stairs.
The Shadow
saw a set-in corner
close at hand; he stepped quickly toward it and glided from view before the
engineer arrived. Listening,
The Shadow
heard the man's footsteps pound the
stone stairs. The engineer was taking a short spell off duty, leaving his
assistant in charge.

The Shadow
remained in his corner, intending to wait until the engineer
returned. Suddenly, there came the sharp ring of a bell, shrill above the
humming of the dynamos.
The Shadow
peered forth and watched the assistant
engineer answer a telephone that was fastened to the wall.
Completing a brief call, the assistant looked about and stroked his chin.
The man had evidently received a request to meet some one outside the
powerhouse. He had a chance to leave for a short while, since the engineer was
absent. The assistant was considering what risk there would be if he temporarily
neglected his duty. He decided that the dynamos could run smoothly enough
without attention. Hurriedly, the man came across the room and ascended the
stairs.

THE SHADOW was alone below. This was his opportunity to look about the
dynamo room; to find whether or not Mocquino's false message was entirely a
hoax. Moving out from his corner,
The Shadow
passed the first two dynamos,
studying the stilled wheels as he came close to them. He reached the center of
the dynamo room.
That middle space formed a broad, cement-floored passage between the two
sets of generators. Its walls were recessed; and, for the first time,
The Shadow

saw that each contained a door.
The Shadow
tried one door; then crossed the
space between the dynamos and tested the door opposite. Both barriers were
locked. Where they led was a matter that concerned
The Shadow
; for he saw at
once that they offered special exits from the dynamo room.
With one gloved hand,
The Shadow
produced a set of picks. He paused before
attacking the first door; he turned to observe the rear set of dynamos that were
whirling at full speed.
As he made the turn,
The Shadow
suddenly sensed danger. It was amazing that
he detected it, for his closeness to the dynamos made it almost impossible for

The Shadow
to hear other sounds. Nevertheless, his trained ability at sharp
hearing was sufficient for the emergency.
Not only did
The Shadow
catch the sound; he identified it as a footfall.
More than that, he detected its exact direction - from the stone stairs that led
down from the upper floor.
The Shadow
's hands swept beneath his cloak; they
whipped forth bearing automatics, as
The Shadow
swung to a position where he
could see past the stopped dynamos.
With his quick move,
The Shadow
had caught a new intruder unaware. Halted
at the foot of the stairs was a stocky, evil-visaged man, whose darkish features
showed a fang-toothed grin.
The Shadow
sighted an ugly, pugnosed face; above it
a spread of greasy black hair.
No introduction was necessary.
The Shadow
knew this intruder for Banzarro.
He saw the weapon in the Voodoo Master's lieutenant's square-fingered hands.
Banzarro was clutching a gun that looked like a large air rifle; to it was
affixed a gleaming knife blade.

AS Banzarro stopped short, his weapon only half raised, other faces bobbed
up behind him. Banzarro was backed by a squad of henchmen; these hard-faced
servants of Mocquino were brandishing revolvers. They, like Banzarro, were
covered by
The Shadow
's guns. Through his wary shift,
The Shadow
had caught the
foemen in a cluster. Their only hope at that moment was a mad dive back to the
cover of the stairs. Had any member of the crew begun to lift a gun,
The Shadow

would have poured quick bullets into the massed group. He withheld his fire only
because his enemies stood motionless.
Even Banzarro was rigid. The pug-nosed lieutenant showed an angry leer;
then uttered a harsh cry. Instantly, the situation changed. In that moment, The
Shadow realized that he should have shown no quarter to Banzarro and his halted
mob. Banzarro's shout was a signal.
Two doors burst inward; they were the doors on each side of the space where

The Shadow
stood. Each opening revealed a trio of vicious-faced henchmen - other
minions of Mocquino who had been hidden within the powerhouse itself.
The trap had closed.
The Shadow
was faced by foemen from three sides;
enemies who covered every exit. Behind him, on the fourth side, were spinning
dynamos; beyond them a blank wall that offered no escape.
Doctor Mocquino had returned to his policy of massed attack against The
Shadow; but the Voodoo Master had waited until his cloaked opponent had entered
a snare that promised death!
As proof of Mocquino's confidence that victory was his,
The Shadow
heard a
burst of jangled laughter from the stairway where Banzarro and his clustered men
were boldly springing forward, raising their guns despite
The Shadow
's coverage,
knowing that he could risk no battle with them while he was flanked from both
sides.
There, on the steps, stood Doctor Mocquino; he had crept down behind
Banzarro's halted group. In his bony hand the Voodoo Master clutched a leveled
revolver, ready to fire the first shot at
The Shadow
.
Death to
The Shadow
! Mocquino was positive that it would be delivered. The
Voodoo Master had come to be present at the kill!

CHAPTER IX

THE LOST TRAIL

THE scene had changed with suddenness. One instant,
The Shadow
held the
bulge. The next second had faced him with a three-way attack. Mocquino's quick
appearance at the stairway had supported Banzarro and the others when
The Shadow

covered.
The Shadow
's enemies had staged the unexpected.
In performing their sudden move, those foemen had gained the confidence
which
The Shadow
had so recently held. They had caught the lone fighter in their
toils. Had they been dealing with any but
The Shadow
, Mocquino and his men would
have delivered death with ease. But
The Shadow
also starred in producing the
unexpected; even when he had no time to prearrange a plan.
Before Mocquino could fire the opening shot,
The Shadow
sprang his
surprise. It seemed a futile one; on that account, it was the best move he could
make. Instead of wild attack; instead of holding ground,
The Shadow
took to what
seemed blind flight. He whirled about, dived wildly for the blank space beyond
the two revolving dynamos at the rear of the room.
Mocquino fired; his shot was wide. Though the Voodoo Master was something
of a marksman, he had not counted on a fading target. Nor had Mocquino forgotten
a previous battle with
The Shadow
. He knew
The Shadow
's speed with the trigger,
and was taking no chances against it.
Other guns barked hard upon Mocquino's. They, too, were hasty and belated.
Had
The Shadow
kept on to the blank wall, bullets would have reached him.
Instead,
The Shadow
sidestepped just past the first of the two rear dynamos; he
dived between the big revolving wheels just as the better-aimed slugs were
dispatched in his direction.
Mocquino shouted a harsh order; it was echoed by Banzarro. Underlings
closed in; those at the front spread to pass the motionless dynamos; those at
the sides crowded in from their doorways. All could see
The Shadow
. He was
behind the first wheel in the set of resolving dynamos. The speed of the wheel
was so terrific that its massive spokes were invisible.
The Shadow
stood framed
in a grayish circle.

MOCQUINO'S henchmen paused, seeing their enemy trapped. Banzarro shouted
again, from the front of the room. His leering subordinates paused; Mocquino
nodded approval while Banzarro stopped at the huge axle of the first dynamo; the
nearer of the two wheels that were standing still. His body covered behind an
upright spoke, Banzarro leveled his air gun, looking for a chance to pick off

The Shadow
.
Banzarro preferred this weapon of his. It had failed at the hotel; he saw a
chance to use it here. The best marksman in all Mocquino's tribe, Banzarro
considered it his privilege to down
The Shadow
. Through the spokes of the halted
wheels, Banzarro saw
The Shadow
beyond the grayed center of the whirling
generator.
The Shadow
was almost motionless. Banzarro clicked the trigger of his
odd gun.
The knife whizzed through space, driving straight for its target. It
glimmered in the air; then whirled with a sudden clatter and clashed the
ceiling, to rattle finally against the floor.
Above the pur of the far dynamos, came a laugh of challenge. Banzarro
voiced an oath.
The knife had been stopped by the spokes of the speeding dynamo. That
grayish barrier in front of
The Shadow
had been like a shield of steel against
Banzarro's blade.
The reason for Banzarro's failure dawned upon Mocquino and his followers.
The Voodoo Master gave a shout. His men aimed their revolvers toward the
whirling wheel and fired shots at an angle. Bullets clicked harmlessly. They,
too, were deflected by the broad spokes of the speeding wheel.
The Shadow
's
laugh rang out again.
Banzarro started to gesture and shout. Mocquino gripped his lieutenant's
arm; talked to him with a bland smile.
The lieutenant then went past the stationary dynamos. He spoke to his
subordinates, motioned them to the center space between the two sets of wheels.
Formed into a glaring line, the ruffians faced
The Shadow
. He was less than a
dozen feet away, looking straight through the whizzing haze of spokes that
separated him from the foes who outnumbered him. Through that almost invisible
shield,
The Shadow
could count ten faces.
Banzarro was by the wall, ready to yank a switch that controlled the
dynamo. He stopped as he heard Mocquino call. The Voodoo Master was reminding
him to start the front dynamos; then stall the rear ones, These generators
supplied all of Hampstead with its electricity, Mocquino did not want the town
to know that there had been trouble at the powerhouse.
The front dynamos moved. Banzarro laid his hand upon the switch that
controlled the wheel which protected
The Shadow
. Banzarro grinned as he realized
what was coming. The big wheel would slow; his men could open fire as a squad.
It would be death to
The Shadow
.

BEYOND the grayish spoke-barrier,
The Shadow
was holding leveled guns. His
fingers moved suddenly; the big automatics gushed flame, straight through the
revolving dynamo. Wild shouts sounded from the men clustered there
Banzarro stopped, rigid, staring as he saw two henchmen stagger, A third
went down; the others began to scatter. In some amazing manner,
The Shadow
was
shooting bullets through the spokes that had stopped every previous shot! Those
automatics had blasted with machine-gun speed. They were gone beneath The
Shadow's cloak; he was whipping out another brace of weapons. Two foemen alone
had stood their ground, struck with the thought that if
The Shadow
could fire
through the dynamo while it maintained full speed, they could do the same.
They were right.
The Shadow
had simply seen the weakness of the whirling
barrier. It had stopped Banzarro's knife, which had only an air gun's impetus.
It had stopped bullets also; but only when they had been fired from an angle.
The spokes in the dynamo wheel were broad. That was why they had served against
the angled fire.
But
The Shadow
had pumped bullets straight through, taking advantage of the
thinner edges of the spokes. Some of his shots had been deflected; others had
not. The bullets that had gone through had served their purpose. Three of
Mocquino's ten were down; five were in flight. The two who hoped to copy The
Shadow were too late. Each was a target for an automatic.
The Shadow
was already
firing from his second set of guns.
One man sprawled; the other staggered but managed to run for safety.
Banzarro was swept back by the wild rush of his own squad. The five who led the
flight had not paused to consider facts. They thought
The Shadow
held a curse
over them; that his bullets could ride where theirs could not. Superstitious
servitors of Doctor Mocquino, these ruffians had been taught to believe in the
incredible. Their training was working against the Voodoo Master this time.
Banzarro wheeled about, alone, clutching his useless air gun. He changed
his plan of stopping the rear dynamos. He pulled the switch that controlled the
front ones, anxious to leave matters as they were. He saw
The Shadow
leaping out
to the side of the dynamo that protected him.
The Shadow
was deserting that
safety in order to get Banzarro. Wildly, the ugly faced lieutenant followed the
course of his fleeing henchmen.
Mocquino was at the stairway, trying to rally the unscathed five. They were
turning about, ready to obey, when Banzarro came hurtling toward them. Wildly,
the henchmen forgot Mocquino's order. They sprang in a mad mass for the stairs,
carrying, the shouting Voodoo Master with them. Banzarro added his weight to the
drive. The whole group plunged upward, with Mocquino helpless in his effort to
stop their flight to safety.

SHOTS ripped from the dynamo room.
The Shadow
was delivering final bursts
of gunfire to speed the flight. He knew that his cartridges were exhausted; that
his plight would be a bad one if the fleeing men returned. Mocquino knew it,
also; that was why
The Shadow
kept to the pursuit. Taking to the stairs, he
reached the top just as the surging mass of men went through the outer door. The
Shadow had no bullets left; but Banzarro, looking backward, saw him aim. Unarmed
except for his knifeless, one-shot air gun, Banzarro dived outside with the
others.
Fleeing crooks reached their cars. They started off into the night.
Mocquino was in the second of two touring cars, rasping savage orders to
Banzarro, who was at the wheel beside him. The Voodoo Master wanted his
lieutenant to take a twisting course; to let the car ahead make its get-away.
This time, Banzarro obeyed. He sped the touring car around a corner,
swinging in back of a deserted house.
As the machine roared past, lights blinked suddenly from a parked coupe.
The second car started forward. Crooks had crossed
The Shadow
's path; he was
again in pursuit.
Cars wheeled wildly toward the outskirts of Hampstead. While Banzarro
handled the touring car, taking every twisted route that came, Mocquino leaned
from the side, glaring back at the coupe. The Voodoo Master emitted a sudden
hiss. He had guessed why
The Shadow
had not opened fire. The touring car had
passed him just as he reached his coupe.
The Shadow
had not gained a chance to
reload his automatics. Mocquino guessed, though, that
The Shadow
would manage to
refill those guns while on the move. That was the reason for Mocquino's hiss.
Banzarro heard the order; he jammed the brakes. Mocquino fired point-blank
as the coupe took the corner that the touring car had passed.
The Voodoo Master's shots had accuracy; they cracked the windows of The
Shadow's car. The coupe performed a wide skid, ripped through a hedge and halted
at a tilt. During the wild maneuver, a popped report betokened a bursting tire.
The touring car was roaring away as
The Shadow
fired.
Unable to stop the Voodoo Master's escape,
The Shadow
leaped from the coupe
and made a hurried tire change. The trail was temporarily lost; the only course
was to get back to the powerhouse and capture some of Mocquino's wounded
henchmen.
The coupe limped when
The Shadow
reversed it through the hedge. It jolted
along slowly as he retraced his steps.

NEARING the powerhouse,
The Shadow
halted. He saw a man entering the
building; it was the engineer's assistant. Dropping from the coupe,
The Shadow

waited until the man was inside; then he followed. At the bottom of the stairs,

The Shadow
stopped, expecting to see the powerhouse employee gaping at sight of
men sprawled on the floor by the dynamos.
Instead, the assistant was back at his post. No one else was in the dynamo
room. Mocquino's henchmen had again demonstrated their well-drilled ability.
Among the wounded, at least two must have had strength enough left to drag the
others out. Perhaps a small crew of reserves had arrived to aid them. Whatever
the answer, the work had been done.
The rear dynamos were purring smoothly. The floor was free from
bloodstains. Bullet nicks in the wall were meaningless; for the surfaces were
already rough and irregular. Time lost by
The Shadow
had produced another closed
trail.
Once again
The Shadow
, in order to reach the Voodoo Master and rescue the
prisoners whom the master villain held, faced the problem of divining Doctor
Mocquino's next move.

CHAPTER X

THE NEW OBJECTIVE

MORNING dawned brightly in Hampstead. It brought good cheer to those who
lived in the city of doom. At last, the jinx had lifted. Fear and pessimism were
temporarily banished.
A night had passed without new havoc. That fact was a pleasing one in
itself; but there was stronger cause for the confidence that the citizens felt.
The news was out concerning the brief fire at the chemical plant. Every one was
filled with enthusiasm for the manner in which the blaze had been handled.
There was another side to the wave of confidence that had gripped
Hampstead. It showed one thing clearly: that the citizens realized they had need
for courage. Persons who had kept their fears to themselves were talking freely
at last, for they felt that menace was ended. That, in itself, was a bad sign.
It meant that optimism had risen under pressure.
Should new disaster befall in Hampstead, its damage would be double. Not
only would it produce its own destruction; it would also drop the present spirit
of confidence to a lower level of despair. The jinx was gone; people openly
rejoiced in that belief. They did not realize that for the first time it was
unanimously agreed that there actually was a mysterious menace over Hampstead.
Only
The Shadow
could interpret the false hopes of the Hampstead citizens.
Only he knew the real menace that existed. Even more than before,
The Shadow
saw
how useless it would be to inform either the public or the law concerning Doctor
Rodil Mocquino.
Tales of the Voodoo Master would be ridiculed, particularly since they
involved two new heroes such as Pete and Danny. While those two were keeping
much to themselves, even they did not recognize Mocquino's existence. The Voodoo
Master's hypnotic influence had passed, so far as they were concerned. No matter
how hard they taxed their brains, they would never remember the details of their
separate visits to Mocquino's abode.
Along with his vanished henchmen, Mocquino had taken the automobile in
which
The Shadow
had first seen him.
The Shadow
had checked upon the license
number R-6384, only to learn that it belonged to an ancient roadster that had
been consigned to a junkyard more than a month ago. Obviously, Mocquino had
obtained a pair of discarded license plates and had put them on the big car
which he himself used.

The Shadow
remembered that car well. It was a long, gray limousine, as fine
a machine as any in Hampstead.
The Shadow
had noted every detail of the car when
he had seen it from the window of the hotel dining room. He had made casual
inquires at local garages; no one knew of the limousine. Some had remembered
seeing it about town; but none could name the owner.

AFTERNOON found
The Shadow
seated in the lobby of the Hampstead House. He
had spent the morning in and out of town, looking for any trails that might lead
him along Mocquino's path.
The Shadow
was sure that the voodoo doctor was not
far distant; but the hill district about Hampstead was too extensive to be
covered by a quick search.
One possible method had occurred to
The Shadow
; that was to use an airplane
as he had done on previous occasions. In this case, however, it was unwise.
Hampstead, though otherwise progressive, was lacking in an airport. Planes were
seldom seen near the town; there were no through air routes. Any plane that The
Shadow might use would be noted at once by some of Mocquino's spies.
So far,
The Shadow
had managed to protect completely his guise of Henry
Arnaud. That was a vital point in his campaign. It enabled him to keep as
completely hidden as Mocquino. Only by using the Voodoo Master's own methods
could
The Shadow
hope for success.

The Shadow
had come to a definite conclusion regarding Mocquino's future
plans. He was sure that the Voodoo Master would forget last night's failure. To
offset the disaster that missed, Mocquino would simply proceed with the next one
that he planned. Such a stroke would hit Hampstead harder than ever.
Mocquino would also use his previous system. For every disaster, he had
coached a hypnotized victim in advance. He would have one for tonight; and The
Shadow knew where destruction would be due to strike. The marked place would be
the Hampstead Knitting Mills, largest of all the local industries.
Crime could be averted only by an inspection at the mills, plus a search
for the man whom Mocquino had chosen as a tool. Both of these steps were
difficult ones. Unlike the steel works and the chemical plant, the knitting
mills had no danger spot; it was impossible, therefore, to recognize immediately
the sort of stroke that Mocquino might intend. Moreover, the knitting mills had
hundreds of employees. To find the one Mocquino had swayed was a long task.
Soon after three o'clock,
The Shadow
strolled from the lobby of the
Hampstead House. Passing as Arnaud, he hailed one of Hampstead's improvised
taxis and gave the driver a destination. The car started on its route. After
several blocks,
The Shadow
inquired about the location of the knitting mills.
The driver gave it, stating that the mills were in a direction almost opposite
the one they had taken.
"Drive me out to the mills," ordered
The Shadow
. "I want to handle some
business there, before it is too late."
They reached the mills at half past three. The plant was a large one,
sprawled over a few acres of ground.
The Shadow
alighted at the office entrance;
he noted several salesmen going in and out. Visitors were frequent at this busy
plant. An extra one would not attract suspicion, even if Mocquino did have spies
present.
Entering,
The Shadow
wrote a message on the back of a card that bore the
name of Henry Arnaud. He asked for James Chadron, the president of the plant,
and learned that Mr. Chadron had just returned from a vacation.
The Shadow
's
card was sent into the president's office. Very soon, word came through to usher
Mr. Arnaud into the office.
The explanation was simply that
The Shadow
had mentioned the name of a
prominent woolen manufacturer in the note that he had written. He had worded the
message so that James Chadron would believe him a close friend of the man whom
he had named.
The Shadow
found a warm reception awaiting him in consequence.

CHADRON, a puffy, portly man, was inside the door, waiting with extended
hand. He wheezed an immediate greeting:
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Arnaud! So you're a friend of Louis Gathrop! That
means you're my friend, Mr. Arnaud! Sit down - have a cigar! Plenty of time for
a chat with you!"

The Shadow
accepted an expensive perfecto. As soon as he and Chadron had
lighted their cigars,
The Shadow
spoke in a slow, steady tone:
"I have something important to discuss with you. Mr. Chadron."
"Word from Gathrop?" queried Chadron. "He had a message for me? Odd that he
didn't wire me -"
"He could not have done that. Nor did he think it wise to write. He wanted
me to convey this matter personally."
"No trouble has come to Gathrop, I hope -"
"None at all. He is concerned about you, Mr. Chadron."
"About me? Why business is at top! Working overtime -"

The Shadow
shook his head.
"I refer to recent disasters here in Hampstead," he declared in an
undertone. "They must not be discounted, Mr. Chadron. They are a real threat!
Louis Gathrop recognizes it; so does every one outside of Hampstead."
Chadron shifted in his chair. His face became troubled.
"I know it," he admitted. "The matter has been worrying me all day. I have
just returned from my vacation, to run right into the middle of this business.
You are right, Mr. Arnaud; it may be serious. Yet I cannot see how this plant
can suffer. We do not have the dangers that were present at the others."
"You have checked on everything?"
"Absolutely! I could show you through the plant, Mr. Arnaud, only that
might be unwise. Suppose" - Chadron paused to glance at his watch - "suppose
that you leave here with me. Come out to my house for dinner. I live a dozen
miles away from Hampstead. My car will be here shortly. We can go then. At home,
I have diagrams, blue prints, everything that pertains to the plant and its
machinery."
Chadron had accepted
The Shadow
without question.
The Shadow
's best course
was to accept the invitation. He did so; and the mill president seemed pleased.
Beaming, Chadron changed the subject; he began to ask questions about his old
friend Gathrop.
The Shadow
was well provided with facts that concerned Gathrop.
As they talked, Chadron became more and more pleased. Four o'clock had arrived
when a secretary entered and interrupted with the statement:
"Your car is here, Mr. Chadron. It is at the rear door."
Chadron arose. "Let us go, Arnaud," he suggested. "On the way out, we can
glimpse a few floors of the plant."

THE route that they took led past the doorway of long rooms, where scores
of workers were busy at looms and other machines.
The Shadow
noted lines of
steadily moving belts connected to overhead rollers. Each room was cramped;
filled with masses of machinery and workers who were almost elbow to elbow.
At one door
The Shadow
saw a locked transformer box, that served the room
within. He observed the same arrangement at each succeeding workroom. Then
Chadron reached the last stairway; he and
The Shadow
descended to step outdoors
where a large car was waiting in a narrow driveway.
A chauffeur was standing, holding the rear door open. For a moment, The
Shadow's eyes shone with a brilliance that seldom showed with the guise of
Arnaud. The light faded almost instantly.
The Shadow
boarded the car with
Chadron and settled leisurely back into the cushions as the chauffeur took the
wheel.
In one quick flash,
The Shadow
had recognized the unexpected. Singularly,
he had come across a clue at the time when he had least been likely to find it.
A clue to Doctor Mocquino; an unmistakable one.
This car that
The Shadow
had entered was gray. It was a limousine. The
chauffeur's face - his uniform were instant reminders. This automobile that
belonged to James Chadron was the very machine from which Doctor Mocquino had
alighted outside the apartment house across from the hotel in Hampstead!

CHAPTER XI

THE SHADOW AT DUSK

JAMES CHADRON was silent as the limousine rolled toward his country home.
The knitting mill owner had exhausted all questions concerning Louis Gathrop,
the man whom he supposed to be a friend of Henry Arnaud's. As for matters at the
mill, Chadron preferred to discuss them after they reached his home.

The Shadow
, too, was silent. His eyes were straight ahead, as if looking
toward the road that the car was following. Actually,
The Shadow
was studying
the rear-vision mirror, catching frequent glimpses of the chauffeur's face. Five
minutes of this convinced him of one important point: whatever the connection
between this car and Doctor Mocquino, it concerned Chadron's chauffeur alone;
not the mill owner.
The shiftiness of the chauffeur's eyes, the occasional twitches of his lips
were visible in the mirror.
The Shadow
knew that the man was burdened with some
secret. Whether or not the chauffeur would discuss the subject was something
that
The Shadow
intended to find out later.
The car was swinging along a rough road, heading toward a valley between
two hills. As they turned to the right, the car jolted. Chadron emitted a grunt;
then spoke testily to the chauffeur.
"Why did you bring this car, Wishart?" demanded the mill owner. "It does
not ride as well as the sedan."
"The mechanic had finished with it, sir," returned the chauffeur, half
turning his head toward the rear seat. "I thought that it would be in good
condition. What is more, sir, I had some packages to deliver in Hampstead - ones
that Mrs. Chadron sent. This car was roomier than the sedan, sir -"
"That's enough, Wishart. The packages were large ones, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then they explain why you brought the limousine."
There were a few minutes of silence; then Chadron turned to
The Shadow
.
"This limousine is a white elephant," declared the mill owner. "I purchased
it a year ago and brought it out to my estate from New York. The car is too
large and unwieldy for the roads in this section of the country. It broke a
spring the first day we started into Hampstead.
"Then there was trouble with the generator. I scarcely used the car for six
months. Soon after Wishart became my chauffeur, the car broke a rear axle. That
was being repaired when I went away on my vacation."
"The car was repaired in Hampstead?"

The Shadow
spoke the question casually. Watching Wishart, he saw that the
query had no effect on the chauffeur.
"No," replied Chadron; "we sent the car over to Newburg, some miles from
here. There is a better mechanic there. By the way, Wishart, when was the job
completed?"
"Only this morning, Mr. Chadron." replied the chauffeur. "The car was
brought over from Newburg."

The Shadow
knew that the chauffeur's statement was incorrect. Yesterday,
the limousine had been used by Doctor Mocquino in Hampstead. In fact,
The Shadow

had reason to believe that it was in this very car that the Voodoo Master had
made his rapid departure from the city of doom.
The repair job had certainly been completed some time ago; early enough for
Harry Vincent to spot the limousine while it was in Mocquino's service. At that
time, the car had been bearing the false license plates, as it had last night.
Moreover,
The Shadow
was positive that Wishart had been Mocquino's chauffeur.
Wishart had lied. The question was whether or not the chauffeur's falsehood
was intentional. There was a chance that Wishart - like other persons - had been
a victim of Mocquino's hypnotic influence. Yet the odds were equal that the
chauffeur might be a paid underling in the employ of the Voodoo Master.

THE big car took to a side road, curved beneath the looming bulk of a high
hill and entered a broad gate. It followed a driveway and pulled up in front of
a large mansion.
The Shadow
alighted with Chadron, who dismissed the chauffeur.

The Shadow
watched the limousine swing past the house and roll into a four-car
garage.
Chadron's house seemed gloomy when they entered it. The sun had settled
beneath the huge hill that flanked the large estate. There was a servant in the
darkened hall; Chadron told him that there would be a guest for dinner. Then the
mill owner led
The Shadow
to a secluded room at the side of the house. Turning,
on the lights. Chadron displayed a desk and file cabinets.
"We have everything here, Mr. Arnaud," he declared. "Even to models of the
latest machinery in use at the plant. These blue prints" - he brought an
envelope from a cabinet - "show the complete arrangements of our electric
installations. Here are plans of the entire plant; also lists of the employees,
with their full records."

The Shadow
had seated himself at the desk. He took the envelopes as Chadron
extended them. As
The Shadow
spread papers on the desk, Chadron smiled wisely.
"I have assumed, Mr. Arnaud." he stated, "that you are an expert in these
matters. Though you have not declared yourself to be a special investigator, the
circumstances of your visit have caused me to believe that you are one."

The Shadow
delivered a slight smile. Looking up, he nodded; then went back
to work. Chadron took a chair beside the desk. As
The Shadow
made quiet queries,
Chadron answered them.

The Shadow
looked up from a set of diagrams. He had completed a thorough
survey; he noted that darkness had settled meanwhile. Pointing to the diagram
before him,
The Shadow
made comment.
"All of your machinery," he stated, "is geared to a low current. I observe
that each circuit is controlled by a separate transformer."
"That is correct, Mr. Arnaud."
"Your current, of course, comes from the local powerhouse -"
"Yes. That is why the transformers are necessary."

The Shadow
nodded. He had seen the transformer boxes outside the large
rooms with their long rows of steadily humming machines.
"Suppose," suggested
The Shadow
, "that there were no transformers to reduce
the current. The effect, as I see it, would be chaos. Machines would speed up;
flywheels would be loosened; belts would snap. The damage would be instantaneous
and tremendous! Hundreds of workers would be trapped at their looms!"

CHADRON'S pudgy face showed horror; then the expression faded. The mill
owner tapped the diagrams and smiled.
"For a moment, Mr. Arnaud," he declared, "I was so frightened that I was
ready to call that plant and order it to shut down before the night shift. But
you have overlooked the one point that provides against such disaster. There is
no possible way to remove the transformers. Should they burn out, the current
would cease. There would be no disaster."
"Some one could cut off the transformers."
"Not without deliberate intent. The boxes are locked; there are twenty of
them altogether. That would require twenty men, all provided with keys for the
boxes. Only one man has those keys; he is the plant supervisor."
"Richard Lassman," read
The Shadow
, referring to the lists. "He is
scheduled to act as supervisor tonight."
"Lassman is one of our oldest and most trusted employees," declared
Chadron. "But granting that he did, by some quirk, pull the switch of a
transformer. Even then, there would be no damage. Other men are close at hand,
inspecting each room at the time when the supervisor examines the transformer
box for that particular unit of machinery.
"They would notice the speeding of the machines. They would immediately
offset Lassman's action. The machinery would be shut down; any excitement would
be confined to one room alone. No, Mr. Arnaud, such disaster could not occur. I
can assure you of one thing: half past nine - the time of the inspection - is
the safest moment during the entire evening."

STUDYING Lassman's record card,
The Shadow
considered Chadron's statement.
The mill owner was right; yet
The Shadow
still saw the transformers as the only
danger. He noted that Lassman's duty ended at ten o'clock. Rising from the desk,

The Shadow
spoke to Chadron.
"I shall not stay for dinner," he remarked quietly. "Instead, I should like
to be present at the plant. If you will give me a personal pass, Mr. Chadron, it
will serve me."
For a moment, Chadron hesitated. He had gained his only moment of
suspicion. If danger existed, it seemed unwise to allow a stranger to visit the
knitting mills. Thinking over
The Shadow
's visit, Chadron realized that he had
accepted him on his own word alone.
Then came an afterthought.
The Shadow
had pointed out the only possible
danger. Certainly he would not have done so had he held any interests other than
those of preventing crime. Chadron sat down at the desk and wrote out the
required pass.
"It is half past six," he remarked. "I shall have Wishart take you to the
knitting mills in my coupe."
"To Hampstead would be better," stated
The Shadow
, quietly. "I can go out
to the mills later."
"Of course," agreed Chadron. "That would be preferable. One moment, Mr.
Arnaud, while I call up the garage."
Chadron reached for a telephone on his desk.
The Shadow
stopped him.
"A quiet departure would be best," he told the mill owner. "I noticed a
side door as we came through the hall. Suppose that I go to the garage, instead
of waiting for the car to come to the front."
"But Wishart will want to hear the order direct from me."
"You can give it over the telephone while I am on my way to the garage. I
should like to reach Hampstead as soon as possible. That will save time."
"Of course. Very well, Mr. Arnaud."

CHADRON shook hands at the door of the room. Crossing the darkened,
deserted hall.
The Shadow
reached the outer door. He saw the lights of the
garage, less than fifty feet away. With quick stride, he followed the grassy
edge of a gravel walk.
The door of the garage was drawn slightly back.
The Shadow
entered the
lighted space where the big limousine was parked alongside a coupe and a sedan.
He saw a small door at the back of the garage; half opened, it showed a lighted
room.
The Shadow
heard Wishart's voice; the chauffeur was talking over the
telephone.
"Certainly, Mr. Chadron..." Approaching,
The Shadow
heard Wishart's half of
the conversation. "Yes. I can have the coupe ready in a few minutes... Very
well, sir. I shall look for Mr. Arnaud..."
Wishart hung up the receiver. He turned about, his lips twitching.
Evidently the chauffeur was troubled by this new development. First there had
been the questions about the limousine; now a dinner guest was going back to
town. Wishart mumbled to himself as he stepped toward the door that led out to
the main room of the garage.
Then the chauffeur stopped with a blurted gasp. On the threshold of the
doorway was the man whose arrival he had not yet expected. Keen eyes burned in
the chauffeur's direction - optics that shone from the face of Henry Arnaud.
Those blazing eyes transformed
The Shadow
's visage.
Had Wishart encountered
The Shadow
cloaked in black he could not have been
more terror-stricken.
The Shadow
's fierce gaze made up for his drab attire. His
eyes carried the accusation that made men of evil quail. Wishart stood rigid.
That instant told its story. Wishart was no mere victim of Mocquino's
hypnosis. Chance had served
The Shadow
well. He had trapped one of the Voodoo
Master's own henchmen.

The Shadow
was prepared to gain the facts he wanted. From Wishart's lips,
he would learn the location of Doctor Mocquino's lair.

CHAPTER XII

DEATH'S TRAIL

THE room where
The Shadow
had confronted Wishart was the workshop of
Chadron's garage. The room was equipped with benches and tables; tools lay
strewn about, except in the nearest corner which was bare only for a battered
table that supported the telephone.

The Shadow
had entered by the only door. The opposite wall was blank; but
far to one side was a wide, opened window, which might have served Wishart as an
emergency exit had the chauffeur expected this encounter.
The room was illuminated by a single brilliant light bulb that hung from
the ceiling. The glare upon Wishart's face showed the man's features more
plainly than had daylight. Previously,
The Shadow
had noted a certain shrewdness
in the chauffeur's expression. That glossy look had changed.
Eyes beady, lips drawn, Wishart resembled a human rat. Cornered, he
squirmed; his hands seemed itchy for action, yet all the while he showed a
preference for flight. Once his tenseness had ended, Wishart snarled. He made a
sudden shift in the direction of the window. As
The Shadow
blocked him with a
quick stride, Wishart darted a look toward the door.

The Shadow
had picked a midway position. He was ready to seize the
chauffeur, no matter which way the fellow turned. Wishart backed toward the
corner where the telephone stood. Almost there, he sprang to a workbench and
snatched up a huge monkey wrench. With livid face, he swung his arms blindly in

The Shadow
's direction.
A gripping hand caught the chauffeur's arm, stopping the drive of the heavy
monkey wrench. An elbow jabbed a back-arm stroke, upward to Wishart's chin.
Catching the man just above the neck, that short blow crippled him.
Wishart gurgled; staggered backward against the table in the corner. He
lost his hold on the wrench; a twist of
The Shadow
's hand dropped Wishart to his
hands and knees.
The rat-faced chauffeur turned yellow.
"I'll - I'll talk!" he gulped. "Don't sock me! I'll spill it all - about
the dirty business! All about -"
Wishart stopped short, trying to hold back a name.
"Doctor Mocquino!"
It was
The Shadow
who supplied the name of the Voodoo Master. Wishart
stared; his eyes blinked. He did not recognize the name.
The Shadow
gave
another:
"Herbert Prensham!"
Wishart nodded. In gulping tones, he talked.

"THAT'S him!" asserted the chauffeur. "The guy that had the apartment down
in Hampstead. Herbert Prensham - but it's not his own moniker. I don't know him
by any other, though. I'm giving that straight!"

The Shadow
's eyes were steady upon the kneeling chauffeur. Wishart
recognized that further talk might help him. In hurried phrases, the chauffeur
gave his confession.
"He called me up, Prensham did. About a week ago." Nervously, Wishart tried
to tell his whole story at once. "Said he knew Mr. Chadron. Wanted to see me. I
went down there. Prensham let it out that he was a big-shot. Knew a lot about
me, he did. About my doing time once, in a State penitentiary. Something that
Mr. Chadron didn't know.
"Prensham wanted me to get a car for him. That's why I used the big
limousine. I dug up some auto tags off an old junker. Put them on instead of the
regular plates. Prensham told me to do it. I was scared - honest -"
"By his offer of money?"
Wishart winced at
The Shadow
's sharp query. Knowing the ways of Doctor
Mocquino, the wealth of the evil Voodoo Master,
The Shadow
was confident that
more than mere threats had urged Wishart to become Mocquino's tool.
"How'd you get wise to that?" gasped Wishart. "About the dough that
Prensham slipped me?"
"Name the amount," returned
The Shadow
.
Wishart hesitated; then saw it was no use to lie.
"Two grand," confessed the chauffeur. "Half of it when I saw him the first
time. The rest after -"
Again, Wishart broke.
The Shadow
supplied the finish of the statement.
"After you learned the sort of crime in which your new friend specialized."
Wishart nodded feebly.
The Shadow
's knowledge was uncanny. Wishart did not
realize that
The Shadow
had penetrated deeply into the schemes of Doctor
Mocquino, alias Herbert Prensham. Considering Mocquino's dealings with Wishart,

The Shadow
had naturally assumed that the Voodoo Master would require the
chauffeur's silence. Mocquino was the sort who would pay well for such service.
More than that,
The Shadow
saw another use to which Mocquino had put
Wishart. Not only had the Voodoo Master known about the chauffeur's past; he had
probably recognized that Wishart was still a crook at heart. As Chadron's
chauffeur, Wishart would know facts about the town of Hampstead. It was likely
that Mocquino had found him a valuable source of information.
The steadiness of
The Shadow
's gaze made Wishart guess that his inquisitor
had divined the truth. Wildly, Wishart began a protestation of innocence.
"I - I didn't know what was due!" he claimed. "The trouble at the steel
works - the terrible accident at the chemical plant -"

QUICKLY the chauffeur tried to check himself. He had made a slip. There had
been no actual disaster at the chemical plant. Wishart's reference showed that
he had known that crime was scheduled there.
Steadily,
The Shadow
's eyes focused closer to those of the cowering
traitor.
The Shadow
was pressing Wishart's fears. He knew that the man had more
to blab; but statement of that fact was unnecessary. Through action, alone, The
Shadow was forcing Wishart to a point of final confession.
"I'll tell you where the big-shot is," promised Wishart hoarsely. "I took
him out to the place where he keeps his crew. They've got prisoners there - in
the old house where they are. It's two miles north of the Denbury road first
turn to the right after the forks. Maybe you've heard of the house. It's an old
joint that looks like a castle. They called it 'Myram's Folly' - after the guy
who built it."

The Shadow
had not heard of Myram's Folly. But he had long since come to
the conclusion that Mocquino's hideout must be some isolated house, reached only
by a back road. The wooded slopes and valleys near Hampstead had many such
buildings, relics of the days when there had been no through highways in this
region.

The Shadow
was ready to proceed with a simple plan. He would have Wishart
drive him to Hampstead and lead the way from there. Wishart could drive
Chadron's car, while
The Shadow
followed in his own. Knowing that he was trailed
by a master of vengeance, Wishart would be too yellow to attempt any deed of
treachery.
Slowly,
The Shadow
stepped back and motioned for Wishart to rise. The
chauffeur came to his feet; lips twitching, he faced
The Shadow
. Standing
between Wishart and the window,
The Shadow
motioned toward the door. His gesture
indicated that the chauffeur was to precede him out into the garage proper.
Wishart began to nod; then stopped. With hoarse outcry, he began a sudden
protest as he faced
The Shadow
.
"I won't talk!" voiced Wishart. "I don't know nothing, I tell you! You
can't make me talk! I never met this doctor guy - never even heard tell of him
-"
Instantly,
The Shadow
spun about. He had caught the reason for Wishart's
change of front. Staring past
The Shadow
, Wishart had seen someone at the
window of the little workshop.
The chauffeur had recognized a peering face.
The Shadow
knew that a menace
had arrived.

AS he swung,
The Shadow
grabbed Wishart and sent the chauffeur sprawling to
the cover of a workbench. Still spinning,
The Shadow
continued toward the door,
reaching it at the end of his rapid whirl. His entire move was one continuous
action. As he reached the doorway,
The Shadow
was facing toward the window.
There he saw vacancy, backed by darkness. The outside watcher had dropped
away. Quickly,
The Shadow
snapped an order to Wishart - to stay in his spot of
safety. The chauffeur, however, had other hopes. He saw an open path to the
window; he believed that he could take it and elude
The Shadow
. He was a
double-crosser, this yellow crook, ready to forget any promise.
Leaping from the cover of the workbench, Wishart took two long strides
toward the window. As he sprang in that direction, a muffled, sighing sound came
from the outer darkness. There was a whistle through the window, accompanied by
a glimmer from an arrowlike missile.
Wishart jolted upward as he took his third long stride. A gasped cry broke
from the chauffeur's lips; clutching air, Wishart staggered backward, lost his
balance and flattened, face up, upon the floor.
From the darkness,
The Shadow
heard a quick scramble; then the thud of an
automobile door, accompanied by the pur of a motor. The car was starting from an
obscure lane beyond a hedge that ran parallel with the garage.
Wishart lay motionless, dead. His assassin was gone; but
The Shadow
knew
the murderer's identity. The killer was Banzarro; the proof was the handle of a
knife that projected from Wishart's breast. Amid the outside darkness, Banzarro
had been ready with his powerful air gun. Again, Mocquino's lieutenant had lost
his chance to down
The Shadow
with that weapon.
Thwarted by
The Shadow
's quick twist for cover, Banzarro had reserved his
single shot for another victim. Wishart had leaped squarely into the path of
Banzarro's aim; the murderer had fired a knife-thrust straight to the
chauffeur's heart. Banzarro had decided to eliminate the one man who could serve
as an informer. Mocquino needed Wishart no longer; Banzarro had seen to it that

The Shadow
would learn no future facts from the chauffeur.
Wishart's lips were rigid. They had ended their twitches forever. Those
lips, however, had spoken in response to
The Shadow
's urge. They had named the
location of Doctor Mocquino's headquarters. Though death had ended the
chauffeur's confessions,
The Shadow
had gained the final trail.

CHAPTER XIII

MYRAM'S FOLLY

STANDING in the doorway between the workshop and the garage,
The Shadow

listened to the trailing fade-out of Banzarro's motor. After that sound had
ended, silence reigned complete. Neither Wishart's last cry nor the departure of
Banzarro's car had attracted attention in Chadron's house.
Alone on the scene where death had struck,
The Shadow
was confronted with a
problem. That concerned Wishart's body. Once found, it would cause inquiry.
James Chadron, when questioned, would remember that Henry Arnaud had been the
last person to see the chauffeur alive.
That was a fact that could not well be eradicated. The simplest way to
handle it would be to erase the character of Arnaud altogether. By such
procedure,
The Shadow
would have full leeway to move against Doctor Rodil
Mocquino. Since there would be no trail to Arnaud, it would not matter if the
law blamed him for Wishart's death. The character of Henry Arnaud was purely a
fictitious one that offered no lead to
The Shadow
himself.

The Shadow
chose the simplest and most effective course. He left Wishart's
body where it was. He turned out the light in the workshop; he went into the
garage and did the same. Sliding the outer door open,
The Shadow
boarded the
coupe and drove from the garage. He rolled slowly past Chadron's mansion.
To all appearances, Wishart was setting out for Hampstead with Henry Arnaud
as his passenger. It would take half an hour for the coupe to reach the little
city; another half hour for Wishart's return. It was obvious, therefore, that no
one would wonder about Wishart until an hour had passed.
The Shadow
had all the
time that he required.
All the way into Hampstead,
The Shadow
was alert. There was always a
possibility of ambush, where Doctor Mocquino was concerned. Though
The Shadow

believed that Banzarro had headed back to the headquarters at Myram's Folly, he
was not certain on that point. His vigilance did not lessen until he had
actually arrived in Hampstead.
There,
The Shadow
parked Chadron's coupe on a side street. Leaving the car,
he strolled to the Hampstead House and went up to his room. Using the guise of
Arnaud for the last time,
The Shadow
packed; came down to the lobby and checked
out. Carrying his suitcase, he walked to the garage where he had stored his own
car. A few minutes later, he was driving along the main street of Hampstead,
bound toward the Denbury road.

THE main street was ablaze with lights; long lines of blinking bulbs had
been strung from lamp posts. People were plentiful; store fronts were lighted.

The Shadow
saw large banners and sparkling lights that advertised a double
feature at Hampstead's largest motion picture theater. Already crowds had formed
a line in front of the box office.
Pulling into a corner gasoline station.
The Shadow
ordered the attendant to
fill the tank. That done, the man began to wipe the windshield. In the fashion
of a chance visitor,
The Shadow
inquired:
"What is all the celebration tonight?"
"Sort of general enthusiasm," chuckled the attendant. "People hereabouts
have been feeling kind of glum lately. On account of some pretty bad accidents
that have hit Hampstead. They sort of think the jinx is through. That's why ever
body's turned out tonight."

The Shadow
dropped the subject of the celebration. He inquired if he
happened to be headed toward Denbury; the attendant told him he was.
The Shadow

then made guarded inquires concerning Myram's Folly, found it had been built by
an old judge, who had died thirty years ago. The place hadn't been lived in
since, and was watched over by a caretaker.

The Shadow
thanked the attendant in the casual tone of Arnaud. He paid for
the gasoline and drove from the filling station. Soon
The Shadow
was riding
along the Denbury road.
Near the forks,
The Shadow
stopped. He donned cloak and hat of black. This
was the attire that he intended to wear until his work was completed. He had
finished with the role of Arnaud; even at the filling station,
The Shadow
had
kept his disguised features from view.
With two sets of automatics beneath his cloak,
The Shadow
drove past the
forks. He found the road to the right; took it and continued with dimmed lights
until he reached a clearing in the woods. He was one and seven-tenths miles from
the beginning of the road; here was a suitable spot to leave his car. Driving
over the chunky ground of the clearing,
The Shadow
parked beneath the shelter of
silent trees.
Extinguishing the lights,
The Shadow
stepped from the coupe. He groped to
the road, followed it farther inward. There was light enough to pick the path;
for an early moon had risen and the whitish rays filtered through the upper
boughs of trees. Only the road showed splotches of moonlight. The woods
themselves were like looming walls, waiting to engulf any unwary person who
might step into their blanketed area.
To
The Shadow
, those woods were welcome. They offered a vantage spot any
time that he might choose to seek it.

FOLLOWING the old road,
The Shadow
reached a spot where moonlight revealed
a pair of huge stone gate posts. Each was surrounded by a battered, crouching
lion. One of the stone beasts was tilted on its pedestal. The moonlight showed a
name chiseled in old English letters, upon one gate.
The Shadow
read the dim
name of "Myram."
Moonlight showed that the stone gates were flanked by a wall, also of
stone. This barrier probably girded the entire estate. The posts, themselves,
were barred by a rusted iron gate. Half off its hinges, the barrier offered no
obstacle.

The Shadow
approached; he managed to wedge the big gate inward, although
the task was more than a one-man job. Stepping through the opening,
The Shadow

forced the gate back to its former position.
Trees still shrouded the stony road that now served as a driveway to a
house somewhere in the woods. From Wishart's confession, from the filling
station attendant's talk in Hampstead,
The Shadow
was confident that he had
reached the actual headquarters of Doctor Rodil Mocquino.
It was after eight o'clock; but there was time for the campaign that The
Shadow intended. As he glided along the curving stretch of driveway, the cloaked
investigator summarized his findings and his plans.
Danger threatened at the Hampstead Knitting Mills. Although
The Shadow
had
found no weakness in the management of that plant, he felt sure that Doctor
Mocquino had discovered one. Granting that point,
The Shadow
had decided that
trouble might come at half past nine, when Richard Lassman, the night
supervisor, began his tour of inspection.
Therefore,
The Shadow
had planned to be at the knitting mills at that time,
coming there openly, if necessary, in the guise of Henry Arnaud. Circumstances
had caused
The Shadow
to alter that intention. Banzarro's murder of Wishart had
forced
The Shadow
to abandon his role of Arnaud.
Coming here to Myram's Folly,
The Shadow
saw a better opportunity. By a
meeting with Doctor Mocquino, he would have a chance to block off disaster at
its source. If he could deal with Mocquino within the next hour,
The Shadow

would still have time to drive back to the Hampstead Knitting Mills and be there
at half past nine. A road that skirted Hampstead offered a short-cut to the
mills.

The Shadow
believed that Mocquino would expect him to concentrate upon the
knitting mills; then seek the Voodoo Master's hide-out afterward. By learning of
Mocquino's presence at Myram's Folly; by coming here first,
The Shadow
saw
opportunity to take Mocquino by surprise.
Though deep in these thoughts.
The Shadow
was watching the curving driveway
ahead. He saw trickles of moonlight; he edged closer to the trees at the side of
the old driveway. Stealthily, invisibly,
The Shadow
came to the inner fringe of
the woods. He stopped upon the edge of a large, irregular clearing. There,
beneath the dull glow of moonlight,
The Shadow
viewed a most remarkable old
mansion.

THE building was in the center of the clearing. It was constructed in
sections - some of stone, other portions of wood. The front of the edifice
looked like a colonial mansion. It had pillars; but they were small ones. Once
white, the pillars were weather-beaten and looked tawdry, even in the moonlight.
The driveway went past the front of the mansion and any one approaching the
home from that direction might have accepted it as an old colonial homestead.
But
The Shadow
's view, from the side, enabled him to see the many styles of
mongrel architecture that had been added to the original portion of the house.
Directly in back of the colonial section was a Mid-Victorian annex that was
built in garish style. It had a square-shaped room that formed a fourth floor
above the three-story building. The square room had windows in every wall; all
of these were heavily shuttered. Above the square room was a broad roof, the
size of the room itself. This was girded by a solid wooden railing, four feet in
height.
There were other extensions of the house, all unsightly. They had been
connected to form an almost solid building. In one rear corner was the most
curious part of all. Old Judge Myram had not stopped with a Mid-Victorian
addition to a colonial mansion. He had finished with walls of gray stone; above
these he had added a roundish tower that looked like the turret of a castle. It
rose two floors above the house roof and was topped with odd-shaped battlements
that were considerably higher than the Mid-Victorian tower in the center of the
building.

The Shadow
could picture but one reason for this unsightly pile. The
builder had probably intended to study the completed effect of each section;
then rid himself of the composite eyesore by tearing down the portion that he
liked least. After that, new wings could have been raised to conform with the
section of the house that remained.
Apparently the castlelike portion of the house had been prompted by the
fact that a small pond stretched from the rear of the building and continued as
a moat on one side.
The Shadow
could see the stretch of water that shimmered in
the moonlight, just behind the rear wall of the massive house.
Such speculations, however, did not concern
The Shadow
long. One feature of
the building was all that interested him: that was some mode of entry that could
be accomplished without observation. To
The Shadow
, Myram's Folly was important
only as the lair of Doctor Rodil Mocquino.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PURPLE LAIR

UNTIL his arrival at Myram's Folly,
The Shadow
had followed the simple
process of performing the most direct action that offered. Through that policy,
he had arrived quickly at Doctor Mocquino's headquarters. The most obvious step
would be to choose the shortest route into the house itself - with the exception
of the front door, which would naturally be guarded.

The Shadow
, however, decided against quick entry. He knew that Mocquino's
henchmen were many. He could picture patrolling groups, keeping constant eye on
spots where intruders might try to enter.
The Shadow
's choice was the most
difficult one; for that would mark an unguarded place.
One portion of the building filled the bill. That was the high, castellated
turret at the rear. It could not be reached directly without crossing a stretch
of water. Therefore,
The Shadow
chose a roundabout course.
He circled along the edge of the clearing, swinging past the extent of pond
behind the house. Following almost to the front of Myram's Folly,
The Shadow

paused on the far side. The house stood between him and the moonlight. The bulk
of the building shaded a direct approach.
Like a ghost come to haunt the monstrous building,
The Shadow
approached
the front corner. He could see a portico beneath the pillars; the space was
flooded with moonlight.
The Shadow
observed three automobiles parked in a
cluster. He recognized the rakish touring car in which he had last seen Doctor
Mocquino.
Edging to the side wall,
The Shadow
glided toward the rear of the house. He
came to the forward end of the moat, which was nothing more than a slimy ditch
dug frontward from the pond. There was space between the moat and the wall.
Clinging to that precarious fringe,
The Shadow
continued his rearward course.
He came to the stone-walled extension that was topped by the castellated
turret. The stone was dark, untouched by moonlight. It was rough; it offered
projection for gripping hands, space for toe-holds. Clutching the wall, The
Shadow began an upward course. Black against the wall, he remained invisible as
he climbed like a human beetle.

The Shadow
's climb was comparatively easy until he reached the tower. He
encountered difficulties, but slits in the stone of the tower aided him.
Climbing farther, he found the crenelles of the battlement. Hunching himself up
from the darkness,
The Shadow
rolled over the edge and lay flat upon a rounded
roof.

THE moonlight showed
The Shadow
's cloaked form clearly; but no observers
could have seen him. Not only was
The Shadow
above the level of the square room
that topped the center of the house; he was also hidden by the irregular wall
that girded the small turret.
Here, as he had hoped,
The Shadow
discovered a trapdoor. Lying flat, he
produced a compact jimmy. Prying in expert fashion, he loosened the fastenings
that held the trapdoor from beneath.
Once inside,
The Shadow
lowered the trapdoor above him. He risked a
flashlight's blink, keeping the rays almost covered by folds of his cloak. The
beam showed the top step of a spiral stairway.
Descending,
The Shadow
found no further use for his light. The stairs were
revealed at intervals by streaks of moonlight that came through slits in the
wall. There were eight of these slits; two for each quadrant of the rounded
tower.
At the bottom of the steps,
The Shadow
expected a door. Instead, he saw an
unclosed exit that formed a dull frame against the dim lights of an inner,
third-floor hall. Stepping into the corridor,
The Shadow
noted shuttered windows
at the ends.
Obviously, wherever rooms or halls were lighted, windows were kept covered
so that Myram's Folly would retain its abandoned appearance. Visualizing the
composite house as he had seen it from the outside,
The Shadow
remembered a
stretch of blocked windows on the second floor, directly beneath the square,
Mid-Victorian tower.

The Shadow
wanted to reach that portion of the house; for there he believed
that he would find Mocquino's own sanctum. To arrive at his destination. The
Shadow chose darkness instead of the lighted hallway. From that moment on, he
began one of the most fantastic trails that he had ever undertaken.

THE various portions of the house had been built upon different levels,
probably from separate plans supplied by different architects. There were
short flights of steps in every hallway; rickety doors offered access to
deserted rooms. Moving from one apartment to another,
The Shadow
followed a
maze-like course through the side of the house that was toward the rising moon.
The whitened gleam, coming through grimy windows, was sufficient for The
Shadow to trace the route he wanted. At intervals, however, he paused to step
behind open, badly hinged doors or to linger in some cobwebbed corner. Each halt
came when
The Shadow
heard the shuffle of footsteps or caught the sweeping
flicker of an approaching flashlight upon the floor.
Soon after a shuffling guard had passed a room where
The Shadow
lingered,
the cloaked invader emerged into a hallway. There, the moonlight from an end
window showed a stairway down to the second floor.
The Shadow
descended; he was
greeted by a lighted hall below. Stopping in the gloom of the stairs, he looked
along the passage.
It was deserted; there were rows of doors on both sides. One door attracted

The Shadow
's immediate notice. It was new, and made a strong barrier. It had
evidently been put in place since Mocquino had occupied this strange house.
Advancing,
The Shadow
reached the door. Edging close against the portal, he
tried the knob. It yielded.
The Shadow
inched the door inward and peered into a
tiny anteroom that was dimly lighted and backed by purple curtains.
For a moment,
The Shadow
paused; then, from a turn in the hallway, he
caught the sound of footsteps.
The Shadow
's only course was to glide from view.
He opened the door farther, stepped silently into the anteroom and closed the
door behind him.
Gripping an automatic,
The Shadow
listened just within the door. He was
ready to slide behind the barrier if the arriving man opened it; should he
encounter the guard, quick fray would be necessary. As
The Shadow
listened, the
footsteps went past the door and faded in the hallway. Need of battle was ended.

The Shadow
still had opportunity to continue his stealthy search. He had need of
speed as well.
The Shadow
had used up valuable time in his foray into the heart
of Mocquino's own domain. The purple curtains promised new discovery. Still
gripping his automatic,
The Shadow
approached the curtains and spread them far
enough to peer through.
Beyond the curtains was mellow light that displayed a room of barbaric
magnificence. The walls were draped with hangings of a royal purple hue, broken
only by grotesque designs in gold. Depicted on the walls were hideous figures,
all in golden pattern. Some were dwarf-like shapes, lifesize, with glaring
faces, fanglike teeth, claws that served for hands. Others were tigerish beasts
that gaped with yawning jaws so lifelike that no observer would have been
astonished if they had emitted snarls.
There were snakes upon those purple drapes - golden serpents with venomous
fangs and twisted coils. They were as lifelike as the beasts; they looked ready
to writhe and raise their heads to hiss.
The room was a fiend's nightmare. No sane man could have stood long,
imprisonment within its walls.
The Shadow
could remember another such room that
Doctor Mocquino had owned in the past. That had been a room hung with crimson,
where captives lost all time sense under the glare of ruddy lights. But this
purple room, with its walls that seemed alive, was a greater and more vivid
threat than any that Mocquino had formerly owned.

AT the far end of the room was a dais; that platform was carpeted in
purple. Upon it stood a thronelike chair of ebony black, with gold designs on
the arms. The chair was upholstered in purple that matched the velvet of the
walls. Each arm formed a miniature lion's head in gold. Beside the throne was a
high pedestal, also of ebony. Its top was square and deep.
Upon the pedestal stood an object that
The Shadow
had seen before. This was
Mocquino's hypnotic light. The unfrosted bulb was mounted in a squatty lamp base
that formed a coiled figure of a lizard. With spread jaws and extended tongue,
the golden lizard was as lifelike as the other ornamentations in the room.
Behind the throne were golden curtains, that formed a relief against the
purple walls. Viewing them,
The Shadow
understood the purpose of the apartment.
It was Doctor Mocquino's throne room.
The Shadow
recalled the Voodoo Master's
boasts of grandeur; the promise that some day he would rule over hordes of
superstitious followers.
A whispered laugh crept weirdly through the curtained throne room. That
subdued taunt foretold
The Shadow
's purpose.
The Shadow
had found Mocquino's
purple lair. The room had become
The Shadow
's own base of operations.
Within this hideous room,
The Shadow
planned to learn Mocquino's schemes;
then seek the Voodoo Master in person, to finish his present career of crime and
evil.

CHAPTER XV

THE PATH BELOW

FROM the moment when he had reached the center of Doctor Mocquino's throne
room,
The Shadow
had taken definite interest in one particular object that stood
in the purple lair. That was the ebony pedestal beside Mocquino's throne.
The pedestal was the size of a low table. Its single leg was large and
square-shaped. The top of the pedestal resembled a box, its depth almost as
great as its other dimensions. That fact indicated that the top was some sort of
a receptacle.
Approaching the pedestal,
The Shadow
discovered that the lizard lamp base
was not a permanent fixture. A cord ran from it to the floor. Lifting the lamp,

The Shadow
rested it upon Mocquino's throne and began an inspection of the
pedestal. Fingering the under edge, he discovered a slight separation in the
woodwork.
Carefully,
The Shadow
probed for a hidden spring. The pedestal was like a
Chinese puzzle box, dependent upon a secret catch.
The Shadow
found a section of
wood that gave under pressure. There was a muffled click; the top of the
pedestal slid to one side. Pulling it farther,
The Shadow
saw the space within.
Indirect lights that shone from corners of the curtained room supplied
sufficient glow for
The Shadow
to discern the contents of the pedestal box.
There was a folded sheet of heavy paper that lay beside a thin, leather-bound
book.
The Shadow
unfolded the heavy paper; standing beside the purple throne, he
studied diagrams that were inked upon the sheet. They represented plans of this
mansion. Shaded portions represented the parts of the house that Mocquino had
occupied for his headquarters.
On each floor,
The Shadow
noted stairways. He discovered - as he had
supposed - that the Mid-Victorian square tower in the center of the building
served as an observation post. In addition, he learned a fact that interested
him even more. One diagram showed the basement of the building. The cellar space
was marked off into little rooms.
Those could be Mocquino's dungeons, where Harry Vincent and others lay
prisoners.
The Shadow
had not forgotten the men whom he had come to rescue, the
human stakes whose lives depended upon the outcome of his duel with Mocquino.
Studying stairways and halls, as depicted in the diagrams,
The Shadow
chose a
definite route to the cellar. That done, he folded the paper and replaced it in
the pedestal.

OPENING the leather-bound book,
The Shadow
scanned written statements that
pertained to the Voodoo Master's recent crimes. Moving through the pages, he
came to one that bore the entry he wished to see. In bold hand, Mocquino had
written these cryptic statements:

Knitting Mills
Richard Lassman
Control switch C
10:15 P. M.

The first two items were obvious. Mocquino actually intended destruction at
the knitting mills; and Lassman was the hypnotized dupe who had become the
Voodoo Master's tool. The reference to "Control Switch C" was something,
however, that did not conform with facts that
The Shadow
already knew. In going
over papers with Chadron,
The Shadow
had studied every phase of mechanical
methods that concerned the knitting mills and their operation. He had seen no
reference to any control switch that bore the letter "C." Turning farther in the
book,
The Shadow
discovered listings that gave an answer to the riddle. They
read as follows:

Control Switch A - Outer door.
Control Switch B - Alarm lights.
Control Switch C - Power transformer.
Control Switch D - Hampstead Theater.
Control Switch E - Hampstead House.
Control Switch F - Powerhouse.
Control Switch G - Time fuse.

As he studied these items,
The Shadow
grasped the full significance. A and
B meant apparatus that operated here in the old mansion. Control Switch C,
however, referred to an outside matter. Mocquino had found some way to tap the
power line leading into the Hampstead Knitting Mills.
The "power transformer" must mean one of Mocquino's own. It explained how
the Voodoo Master intended crime tonight. His transformer had been placed to
intercept the current to the mills. It was cutting down the flow of electricity,
taking the burden from the regular transformers in the mills.
When Lassman made his nine-thirty inspection, he would simply switch off
the transformers at the mills. The action would cause no havoc; therefore. it
would pass unnoticed by others who were inspecting the looms and other
mechanism. Lassman would lock the transformer boxes and go his way. The simple
reason why no trouble would occur was because Mocquino's outside transformer
would still be in operation.
At quarter past ten, after Lassman had gone off duty and would be back in
his own home, Mocquino would swing Control Switch C. The outside transformer
would quit. Full current would travel through to the mills, producing a
simultaneous effect in every machine room. Looms would speed; flywheels would
ride free; belts would snap. Complete chaos would engulf the hundreds of night
employees.
The disaster would prove the greatest that had yet struck Hampstead. Its
cause would never be discovered. Lassman could not be blamed; for all would
happen after he was elsewhere, with a complete alibi. Every one would concede
that the supervisor could not be responsible for a sudden failure of
transformers forty-five minutes after inspection time. As Chadron had told The
Shadow, those transformers could do no worse than burn out, and thus cut off all
current.
Chadron, however, had never dreamed that a master transformer had been
implanted outside the mills to take over the work of the inside equipment. The
Shadow had not divined the existence of such a device; although he had gained
the conviction that Mocquino somehow intended to nullify the regular
transformers. At last,
The Shadow
had the answer.

THE discovery simplified
The Shadow
's task. It meant that he could handle
everything here in Mocquino's own domain, without returning to the mills. It
also gave him three quarters of an hour longer in which to work. At present, it
was nearly nine o'clock.
The Shadow
would have until quarter past ten.
In items D, E, and F,
The Shadow
saw new evidence of Mocquino's
machinations. There was only one sort of damage that the Voodoo Master could
hope to deliver at the theater, the hotel, and the powerhouse. That would be
destruction through explosion. It was apparent that Mocquino had mined the three
structures named; that when he pulled the switches, he would blast the buildings
sky-high. Tapped wiring; dynamite planted in basements: high-speed fuse attached
to the hidden bombs - those items could have been arranged long ago.
When would this destruction come?

The Shadow
could give the answer. The explosions would follow the disaster
at the knitting mills, probably within a half hour. Mocquino would destroy the
theater while it still had a capacity audience. The hotel would go up soon
afterward. Last of all the powerhouse, to cut off lights and leave the wrecked
town in darkness.
The last on the list - Control Switch G - unquestionably referred to this
very mansion. The time fuse was an emergency device. Through its use, Mocquino
could dynamite Myram's Folly. Such would be his course if he discovered that his
lair was known. The purpose of a time fuse was important: it would allow
Mocquino and his henchmen time to pack up and leave before the house was
wrecked. The blasting of Myram's Folly would cover Mocquino's trail; the Voodoo
Master, ever elusive, could move to a new hide-out.

AS he began to turn farther in the book.
The Shadow
heard a slight sound
that indicated an opening door. It came from beyond the curtains on the other
side of the room: those drapes through which
The Shadow
had entered.
Instantly,
The Shadow
replaced the book in the pedestal, along with the
folded diagrams that he had already put there. With his right hand, he slid the
pedestal top shut; with his left, he swung the lizard lamp base and its dazzle
bulb from the throne to the tabletop.
With the same motion.
The Shadow
faded behind Mocquino's purple throne. His
cloaked form dropped, merging with the darkness of the door. The golden curtains
behind the throne parted at the bottom. Their upper borders scarcely rustled as

The Shadow
moved into a darkened space behind them.
The cloaked investigator was just in time. Rising behind the golden
curtains,
The Shadow
peered between them to view a man who had entered the room
from the other side. It was Banzarro; the ugly faced lieutenant was carrying his
powerful air gun in the crook of one arm. He looked straight toward the throne
as he entered.
Pausing as if he expected to see Mocquino, Banzarro waited a few moments;
then shrugged his shoulders and turned about. As he went tack to the purple
curtains, his weapon swung into clearer view.
The Shadow
saw a long-bladed knife
projecting from the end of Banzarro's gun.
The fact that the lieutenant had come inside, bringing his gun with him,
was proof that he had merely arrived to deliver a routine report. Not finding
Mocquino, Banzarro was going back on outside duty.
Another fact was evident. Banzarro had access to the purple throne room.
That explained the reason for the diagrams and the book that were hidden in the
pedestal. Banzarro was schooled to carry on with Mocquino's schemes, in case the
Voodoo Master should be absent. So, perhaps, were others. Mocquino had spoken
facts, when he had announced that his evil would continue whether he lived or
died.

A SLIGHT thud told that Banzarro had departed beyond the anteroom door. The
Shadow remained behind the golden curtains; but he risked a flashlight, knowing
that he was free from observation. The rays showed that he was in a small space
between the curtains and a wall. It had a door of its own - one that probably
served Mocquino when he wished to enter.
That was not all. Against the wall
The Shadow
saw an insulated board. Upon
it shone a row of glittering switches, each marked with a different letter.
Beside the last switch - G - was a clock dial marked off in minutes. It was
designed to set the time fuse.
Hinged above the switches was a metal panel, with overlapping edges. It was
held upright by a catch. Once lowered, it would cover the switchboard. The
Shadow saw three spring locks attached to the panel: each with a keyhole. If
Mocquino chose to cover the switches, he could do so by simply swinging the
metal panel downward. It would lock automatically; only Mocquino could open it
afterward, unless Banzarro or others were also provided with keys.
A few moments ago,
The Shadow
had held the opportunity to drop Banzarro
with a single pistol shot. He had spared the evil ruffian simply because he had
not wanted to start action too soon. Similarly,
The Shadow
had a present chance
to put Mocquino's switchboard out of commission, from A to G. Again, he
refrained from action.
The Shadow
wanted to leave no evidence that he was
present in Myram's Folly.
With more than an hour ahead of him,
The Shadow
could let such deeds wait.
There were prisoners below, including his own agent, Harry Vincent. The first
task was to release those captives; to gain them as allies in the work that was
to come. For
The Shadow
could foresee hard conflict before he settled scores
with Doctor Mocquino.
Stepping through the golden curtains,
The Shadow
crossed the throne room.
He put away his flashlight; moved through the purple exit and reached the outer
door of the anteroom. With hand on the knob,
The Shadow
paused. He was sure that
he had heard a sound from the depths of the throne room. Stepping back, The
Shadow peered between the drapes.
Across the room, he saw the golden curtains part. Into view stepped Doctor
Mocquino, clad in a purple robe with sleeves and borders of golden braid. The
Voodoo Master had come through the doorway that
The Shadow
had seen beside the
switchboard.

CALMLY, Mocquino seated himself upon the throne. His hand rested upon the
ebony pedestal, fondling the golden lizard that served as lamp base. Upon the
Voodoo Master's countenance appeared a benign smile, that
The Shadow
knew to be
more dangerous than a leer.
To Doctor Mocquino, human lives were trifles. He relished the part that he
played in their destruction. He was looking forward to the deeds that were
scheduled for tonight, patiently awaiting the time when his plans would mature.
Hand beneath his cloak,
The Shadow
gripped an automatic. Again he paused,
to let the .45 slide back into the deep pocket that served as its holster. As he
had spared Banzarro, so did he decide to let Mocquino live. Even the death of
the insidious Voodoo Master could not serve
The Shadow
at this moment.
Henchmen would respond if they heard a single shot. Mocquino's death would
madden them. Some would battle
The Shadow
, while others would reach the helpless
prisoners in the dungeons. The captives would die before
The Shadow
could reach
them. Therefore, Mocquino must wait.
Leaving the Voodoo Master to his thoughts of crime,
The Shadow
glided
noiselessly across the anteroom. He reached the outer door, opened it so
silently that even Mocquino's keen ears could not detect the sound. Edging out
into the hallway,
The Shadow
found it clear. He closed the door as softly as he
had opened it; then glided to the nearest stairway.

The Shadow
was taking the path that led below. Venturing alone through this
stronghold peopled with Mocquino's minions, he was choosing a swift but
dangerous task: the release of the prisoners to whom Doctor Mocquino had allowed
life only while he still sought to balk
The Shadow
.
All depended upon this present mission. If it succeeded,
The Shadow
would
hold power equal to Mocquino's, within the Voodoo Master's own fortress!

CHAPTER XVI

MONSTERS OF DOOM

THE SHADOW'S course was clear until he reached the ground floor. There, he
found immediate need for caution. At the foot of the stairs, he heard the pacing
that indicated one of Mocquino's patrolling henchmen. Swiftly,
The Shadow
drew
back to semidarkness; clung close to a wall while the man passed.
The patroller was a squatty, dark-faced rogue, who looked ugly enough to be
a cousin of Banzarro. He was clad in rough clothes; from his belt extended the
heavy blade of a knife, which
The Shadow
recognized as a machete. Squinty eyes
glanced toward the stairs; they failed to detect
The Shadow
. The patrolling
henchman continued on his way.
Following the hall,
The Shadow
chose a path through a darkened room. He
found a closed door; he opened it and peered into another corridor. There he saw
another of Mocquino's minions standing by a doorway. This fellow was taller than
the rogue who had passed
The Shadow
; but he was of similar appearance. He was
wearing a dirk at his hip; but
The Shadow
also saw the handle of a revolver
projecting from the man's jacket pocket.
Like the first patroller, this henchman failed to detect
The Shadow
's
approach. After a few moments, the man went along his route. The path was clear
to the last flight of stairs.
From his close-up view of Mocquino's watchmen,
The Shadow
had observed that
they were the sort of servitors upon whom the Voodoo Master had always depended.
They were imported killers, brought from tropical lands. Their presence here
explained, in part, why Mocquino had chosen so isolated a hide-out. The Voodoo
Master knew that his dark-visaged followers would excite attention, unless kept
under cover.
Such men served as the inside guards. There were other rogues outside,
under Banzarro's lead. Among them,
The Shadow
was positive, were thugs recruited
from American cities. Such crooks could move about more freely; they would also
prefer guns to knives. They had proven that fact in their combats with The
Shadow.
Though the inside guards, with their knives, would prove more dangerous in
hand-to-hand combat,
The Shadow
preferred them on the present occasion. He knew
that a forced encounter could be made a silent one. Confident on that point, he
proceeded more rapidly. He found the stairway that he wanted; he made a swift,
but silent descent.

NEAR the bottom of the steps,
The Shadow
paused. Directly ahead was a door;
in front of it stood another of Mocquino's men. A ceiling light showed the
rogue's sallow face, his shocky, jet-black hair. Short, but wiry of build, the
guard was also one who preferred a knife. His dirk rested in a leather sheath
that hung at his right hip.
The sallow guard did not note
The Shadow
's approach. He was busy, for the
moment, rolling a cigarette.
The Shadow
watched the process; saw the sallow man
fish in his pocket for a match. Finding none, the guard grumbled under his
breath; then turned to the door and gave four quick raps.
The door opened inward, cautiously. The guard thrust his face through the
aperture; spoke a few words. Finally he emerged, bringing a few matches in his
hand.
The Shadow
heard him speak to some one on the other side of the door.
"Bah, Toussant," snarled the guard. "Why is it not important that I should
call you when I need a match. You have nothing to do in that cave of yours! When
I give the signal, it is for you to answer!"
Slamming the door himself, the guard stepped away from it. He struck a
match to light his handmade cigarette. As the flame flickered beneath the sallow
face,
The Shadow
glided forward.
The guard was alert. He sensed
The Shadow
's approach. He flicked the match
away, gave a sudden snarl as he looked toward the stairs.
The Shadow
lunged. The
guard saw the sudden surge of blackness and made a quick grab for his knife. He
managed to wrench the dirk from its sheath.
Then
The Shadow
was upon him. Bare-handed, the cloaked battler smashed down
the guard's raised left arm. With a quick grab,
The Shadow
caught the hand that
was beginning a knife-thrust. For a moment, he grappled with the guard; then
gained a jujitsu hold.
The next effect was terrific. The light form of the wiry guard buckled
upward.
The Shadow
spun the man in mid-air; then released him. Flat on his back,
the rogue struck the floor. He lay stunned, almost paralyzed by the jolt that he
had received.
Looking about for a place to stow his prisoner,
The Shadow
saw a space
beneath the stairs. He carried the man there; bound his arms with the belt that
the fellow wore. Ripping lining from the prisoner's jacket,
The Shadow
used it
for a gag. There was a broken barrel in the corner.
The Shadow
wrenched away a
wire hoop, used it to bind the sallow guard's ankles.

RETURNING to the door at the foot of the stairs,
The Shadow
gave four quick
taps. A few moments passed; the door moved inward. Shoulder first,
The Shadow

bashed the door wide open. He flung himself into the space beyond and swung
quickly about to meet the man whom he knew must be behind the door.
Here was a dingy, stone-walled passage, lighted by dim bulbs set in the
wall. The glow showed Toussant.
The Shadow
had staggered the inner guard by the
quick smash against the door. Nevertheless, in Toussant,
The Shadow
was due to
meet a most formidable antagonist.
Floundered against the wall, Toussant formed a gigantic figure. He was
fully six feet eight in height; his physique was proportionate. Though
dull-faced, Toussant showed himself quick of action. He rallied as
The Shadow

spied him. With a terrific spring, the giant came leaping forward.
Huge arms flayed forward. Hamlike hands gripped for
The Shadow
's throat. In
a trice, the cloaked battler was confronted with a situation that he had
scarcely foreseen.
The Shadow
had expected fight from Toussant; but he had not
guessed that the man would possess such formidable proportions. By choosing
hand-to-hand conflict,
The Shadow
had gained chance for a silent struggle; but
such advantage was offset by the size and power of the combatant who loomed upon
him.
Had
The Shadow
tried to elude Toussant's grip, he would have failed. The
giant's drive was too quick; his arms and hands were too long and powerful to
escape. Instead of wresting away,
The Shadow
let Toussant's clutch take hold.
Then within the gripping circle of the giant's arms,
The Shadow
drove forward.
A cloaked shoulder pounded the pit of the giant's stomach. Toussant doubled
backward;
The Shadow
's surge thrust the huge man against the door. The barrier
swung shut. His back against it, Toussant recovered. His fingers had slipped
from
The Shadow
's throat; but he had gripped the cloaked arms below. With a
mammoth heave, Toussant sent
The Shadow
rolling to the floor.
Grimly,
The Shadow
had gripped Toussant's arms. In sprawling, he took the
giant with him. They rolled across the stone floor. As
The Shadow
tried to twist
away, Toussant at last gained a throat grip with one mammoth hand. His other arm
girding
The Shadow
's body, Toussant steadied to drive his opponent's head
against the wall.
One such smash would have been
The Shadow
's finish. Toussant had the
strength to crack a skull with such a stroke. His own arms trapped in Toussant's
girding grip,
The Shadow
's plight seemed hopeless, at least to Toussant. One of

The Shadow
's hands was jammed beneath his cloak - a fact that made his cause
look even worse. But
The Shadow
's hand was busy. Upon it rested his salvation in
this fray.
As Toussant shouted a fiendish laugh, he started his forward thrust.
Simultaneously, there was a muffled report from within the folds of
The Shadow
's
cloak. Toussant's laugh changed to a high-pitched shriek. The giant's arm
quivered. It did not complete its thrust. Huge fingers loosened; slow, like an
overbalanced tower, Toussant swayed and sprawled headlong to the floor.
His collapse revealed a curl of smoke wreathing at the spot where he had
been. That coil of smoke came from
The Shadow
's cloak.

The Shadow
had managed to twist a .45 toward Toussant's body. With a jab of
the trigger, he had dispatched a bullet to the giant's heart; Toussant was dead.

The Shadow
had passed the last of the guards who blocked the path to Mocquino's
dungeons.

THE SHADOW was panting; wavering, he slowly recovered from the effects of
the clutching fingers that had temporarily choked his throat. Stepping past
Toussant's prone form,
The Shadow
followed the passage toward its inner end.
There he found a vaulted opening that led down a short flight of steps to a
corridor that ran at right angles to the passage that Toussant had guarded.

The Shadow
remembered the diagrams in Mocquino's throne room. All the small
rooms opened from that inner, lower corridor. There,
The Shadow
would find the
prisoners behind their bars. With Toussant dead, there would be no one to
interfere with the rescue that
The Shadow
intended.
There was a glow from the lower corridor; dim, like the lights in the
passage where
The Shadow
stood. About to descend the steps,
The Shadow
noted a
sudden blink ahead. He stopped short; turned about.
The lights in his own passage were blinking also. Instantly,
The Shadow

remembered the instructions in Mocquino's book. Control Switch B: the alarm
lights. Some one had learned of trouble here below. Either
The Shadow
's fight
with Toussant had been heard; or the bound outside guard had been found beneath
the stairs.
Whichever the case, the result was the same. Word had been carried to
Mocquino's purple lair. The Voodoo Master had pressed Control Switch B.
Everywhere, lights were blinking the emergency signal. Soon Mocquino's minions
would converge upon this spot.
Gripping a pair of automatics,
The Shadow
started for the outer door of the
passage. He had wanted to avoid this conflict until later; but his only course
was to begin battle. At least,
The Shadow
had gained a vantage point that would
help his plans. By holding this passage, he could also protect the prisoners,
for he would be between them and all incoming invaders.
By reaching the door,
The Shadow
could first offer resistance on the
stairs; then withdraw, if necessary, to the passage. Since the door was his
immediate objective, he headed for it rapidly. Before he reached it, the door
burst inward.

STOPPING short,
The Shadow
stood face to face with six blocking enemies -
men whose faces and attire were as strange as any that he had ever seen. Each
antagonist was brawny; all bore a marked resemblance. Dark of features, glaring
of eyes, they faced
The Shadow
with fixed expressions.
Each foeman wore a helmet with raised visor. Each was equipped with a steel
breastplate that resembled Roman armor. For weapons, the six held upraised
sabers. They stood like waxen figures, as if awaiting a command that would bring
them to life.
Instantly,
The Shadow
recognized the nature of these foemen. They were
zombie - human machines who lacked will of their own. Well did
The Shadow
know
that the zombi lore of Haiti was pure superstition; that the belief that dead
bodies could be brought to life had never become a proven fact.
But
The Shadow
knew the ways of Doctor Mocquino. He knew how the Voodoo
Master could take living victims and make them appear as zombie. These were
former henchmen who had incurred Mocquino's displeasure. The Voodoo Master had
forced them to face his brilliant, dazzling light of many colors; not once, but
often. Through such regular treatment they had become the equivalent of zombie.
They were shock troops, entirely at Mocquino's call; fighters who would battle
like machines, never stopping, even though threatened by instant death.
Their visored helmets; their heavy breastplates, were thick enough to stop
pistol bullets. Equipped with such armor, each fighting zombi would come
forward, flaying with his saber until too crippled to proceed. Unless they could
be stopped before Mocquino arrived, these monsters of doom would become a
hideous menace.

The Shadow
leveled his automatics straight for the rows of glaring eyes.
His move was too late. From the stairway beyond the zombie came the sound of a
fierce hiss. Arms raised mechanically, at the very instant when
The Shadow
aimed
his automatics. Hands slapped the sides of helmets; visors clicked down,
covering the faces of the six foemen.
A musical laugh sounded from the stairs; the melodious tone was tinged with
an insidious note. Beyond the zombie,
The Shadow
sighted a figure in a purple
robe. Doctor Mocquino had arrived in time to give his order. The Voodoo Master
was ready to launch his steel-clad monsters of doom against
The Shadow
!

CHAPTER XVII

THE SNARE BELOW

BRIEF moments would have sufficed
The Shadow
in his attempt to down
Mocquino's inhuman warriors; but those moments were denied. The zombie had heard
the Voodoo Master's hiss. They had obeyed the order to prepare. All that they
needed was another signal to advance.
Mocquino alone could give that command. Knowing it,
The Shadow
tilted an
automatic farther upward; he jabbed quick shots at the stairs. Again, Mocquino
was too quick. With his hiss, the Voodoo Master had leaped forward. His purple
clad figure dropped from view just as
The Shadow
fired.
At the bottom of the stairs Mocquino was protected by the massed bodies of
his zombie. Clustered in the doorway, those six saber-armed fighters formed a
solid phalanx. There was no space through which
The Shadow
could stab new
bullets.
A fierce cry from Mocquino; a harsh order in some unknown tongue. The
zombie heard it; they recognized their master's wish. With martial stride, the
six stepped forward, spreading to form a fanlike rank in the wider space of the
passage. Sabers lifted, they closed upon
The Shadow
.
As the zombie closed upon him,
The Shadow
did not retreat; nor did he open
fire. Instead, he sprang directly into the closing circle, under the very
weapons that gleamed from upraised arms.
Instantly, the zombie halted. Mocquino had trained them to strike when they
closed with a foe. Arms began their saber strokes.
Those arms were met by hands that carried steel. Swifter than the
mechanized warriors,
The Shadow
had begun strokes of his own. His arms flayed
above his head; his fists drove his heavy automatics straight for the sabers and
the hands that gripped them.
Clanging one saber at the guard,
The Shadow
knocked the weapons from the
zombie grasp. With backhand upswing, he struck a descending forearm to ward off
another fighter's blow. Twisting, dropping back,
The Shadow
dropped his hand to
the floor. Coming up with his other arm, he used the barrel of his second
automatic to meet the sharp blade of a saber that was cleaving straight for his
head.
The zombie were breaking rank. Twisting about,
The Shadow
threw his back
against the wall. He clamped one foot upon the saber which the first zombi had
dropped. Beating back two attackers,
The Shadow
made a side swing with his arm
and sent his right-hand automatic scaling along the passage, clear to the arched
opening that led to the dungeons.
That gun would be safe there - ready, later when
The Shadow
needed it. For
the present,
The Shadow
wanted another weapon; one that he had a chance to gain.
Dropping to the floor, he grabbed the saber which he held beneath his foot.
Swishing away, he grasped the handle with his right hand. The zombi who owned
the weapon had already clutched the blade.
The Shadow
's tug took the saber from
the zombi's grasp.
Hands streaming with blood, the zombi lurched forward. Though weaponless,
though wounded by the slither of the blade, he intended to fight until death.

THROUGH his lunge, the zombi served
The Shadow
.
One swinging saber had just slashed
The Shadow
's sleeve. Another was
driving downward with a truer stroke, when the weaponless zombi jostled the one
who sought to cleave
The Shadow
's skull. The stroke was diverted as
The Shadow

whirled away. Retreating a few paces along the passage,
The Shadow
was ready for
his attackers. He had only five saber bearers with whom to deal.
Moreover,
The Shadow
had a saber of his own; and with that weapon, he held
an unexpected advantage. The zombie were cluttering forward, swinging their
sword arms.
The Shadow
, slowly retreating, had assumed a fencer's pose. His
right arm was extended; his hand used its saber like a fencing foil. His left
was ready with its automatic. The time would come when he could use that weapon.
Framed in the outer doorway, Doctor Mocquino leered with rage. He had not
anticipated this situation. He foresaw that his zombie would fail to reach The
Shadow with their blades. In mechanizing these henchmen, Mocquino had deprived
them of all human emotions. They lacked cunning, just as they had no fear. They
were trained for close-range battle; they would advance until they gained it.
That type of fight would be impossible while
The Shadow
parried with his saber.
Not one of the five zombie could get within arm's length.
Only the sixth zombi, weaponless and bloody-handed, could manage an
approach. Having no saber, he kept marching forward, clutching at
The Shadow
.
Each time he came close,
The Shadow
shifted to deliver a left-hand, backswing
stroke with his automatic. Each crash found the visor of the zombi's helmet,
jolted the stupid monster and stopped his brief advance.
With clenched fists, Doctor Mocquino snarled from his doorway. Clashing
with the zombie,
The Shadow
heard and saw the Voodoo Master; he took quick aim
and fired with his .45. A side-stepping zombi blundered into
The Shadow
's path
and took the bullet against his breastplate. Saved from
The Shadow
's quick shot,
Mocquino took to cover outside the doorway.

DESPITE his superhuman efforts,
The Shadow
was losing the advantage. He had
backed far along the passage. His limit would soon be reached. Though tireless,

The Shadow
knew that his enemies were the same.
Death to the zombie was
The Shadow
's only course. Such death, when
delivered, would be merciful. Long under Mocquino's hypnotic sway, these
creatures could never be brought back to a state of individual intelligence.
They were no longer human; nor could they ever be again.
In his parries,
The Shadow
had discovered the system of the strokes
delivered by the zombie. Their mechanical motions were uniform. In meeting the
strokes,
The Shadow
was making a regular round, always ahead of each expected
blow. Mocquino has seen that from his doorway; on that account, the Voodoo
Master had delivered his snarl.
Twisting his position,
The Shadow
found that the zombie followed. He
shifted; two enemies ran afoul and their saber blades clashed.
The Shadow
dodged
both strokes; drove straight in on a zombi who had completed a swing. With a
thrust of his own saber,
The Shadow
stabbed the point between the close bars of
the zombi's helmet visor.
Jamming his shoulder against the mechanical fighter's breastplate, The
Shadow gave a forceful pry. His thrust ripped the helmet upward, clear of the
zombi's head. Twisting away from the glaring face,
The Shadow
warded off a pair
of saber strokes; pressing back against the wall, he thrust his saber point into
another visor and served the second zombi as he had the first.
The first of the two unhelmeted zombis was again upon
The Shadow
, coming
from an angle which cut off retreat. The saber arm was swinging from above the
glaring face. Another fighter, this one with a helmet, was beginning a saber
stroke.
Lunging from the wall,
The Shadow
jabbed his automatic straight at the
zombi who wore no helmet. As he pressed the trigger,
The Shadow
swung his saber
to ward off the other zombi's blow.
Both moves sufficed.
The Shadow
's gun blast dispatched a bullet through the
unprotected zombi's brain. The killer sagged, a glare still on his face. His
body clattered to the floor; his arm never completed its saber stroke.
Simultaneously,
The Shadow
had blocked the other slash.
Swinging back toward the steps to the dungeon,
The Shadow
turned suddenly
to meet the second zombi whom he had deprived of a helmet. He fired another
straight shot to stretch this adversary on the stone floor.
Passing the guard of the nearest zombi,
The Shadow
made another of his
expert visor thrusts. Off bobbed a helmet; even before it clattered upon the
floor,
The Shadow
delivered a close-range bullet that destroyed this adversary.

MOCQUINO had heard the shots. Venturing a quick look from the doorway, the
Voodoo Master saw the climax. Three of his zombie were flattened upon the floor.
Above the motionless, steel-breasted forms,
The Shadow
was handling the last two
saber bearers.
A helmet popped off as Mocquino stared. An automatic thundered. Clanging, a
zombi hit the floor, his steel breastplate adding new echoes to the clatter of
his helmet.
Sabers flashed as
The Shadow
parried with the last of the pair. Then came a
thrust; a helmet jounced upward and an automatic tongued its doom. Clear at the
rear of the passage stood
The Shadow
, triumphant.
Suddenly, a darkish form lurched up from the floor. It was the sixth zombi;
following in the wake of those whom
The Shadow
had dropped, this forgotten
battler had stumbled upon a saber. He still wore a helmet, this zombi; swinging
his fresh blade, he was blindly charging upon
The Shadow
, undeterred by the fate
that had overcome five battlers before him.

The Shadow
met the lunge; parried and stepped back to gain a position from
which he could stab the zombi's visor. The backward pace was one too many.
It brought
The Shadow
over the top sill of the steps that led down to the
dungeon corridor. The cloaked fighter lost his footing; before he could regain
it, the zombi was upon him. Clutching the monster's bloody hand,
The Shadow
went
sprawling to the stone floor below, carrying the zombi with him.
Mocquino heard the clatter and dashed madly through the passage. He reached
the steps, to see
The Shadow
rising from beside the zombi's body. Twisting away,

The Shadow
had let the steel-weighted monster strike head foremost. The crash
against the stone below had broken the zombi's neck.
The Shadow
, however, was
only halfway to his feet when Mocquino reached the steps.
Grabbing at an iron ring that projected from a stone wail, the Voodoo
Master tugged. There was a clatter from above; with a terrific clash, a steel
gate dropped within the archway, at the very top of the steps. Never pausing,
Mocquino wheeled about, to dash for the safety outside the front door of the
passage, where
The Shadow
's bullets could not reach him.
Doctor Mocquino had offset
The Shadow
's victory. The cloaked warrior had
slain the Voodoo Master's zombis, only to be snared in the trap that lay below.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NEW MENACE

IT was six feet to the top of the stone steps. Jarred by the fall, The
Shadow was slow to gain a position behind the barred gate. He had plucked up the
automatic that he had tossed down the steps; he was ready to add Mocquino to the
list of casualties. He arrived too late, however, to find the Voodoo Master.
Stopped by the steel gate,
The Shadow
found it a most formidable obstacle.
Not only was the gate a heavy one; it had dropped between two portions of the
archway. There was no way to attack the barrier; its bars were too close to do
more than wedge a hand through.
The dim passage showed the sprawled bodies of the zombie. Mocquino had
picked a route between them and had gained the cover of the outside door. He had
pulled the door shut after him; but it was not quite closed. As
The Shadow

stared, with automatic leveled, the tones of the Voodoo Master echoed to his
ears.
"Seek the prisoners!" issued Mocquino's snarled challenge. "Rescue them!
Bring them past the barred gate! Do so, if you can!"
A pause; then a gangly sneer that betold Mocquino's belief in the strength
of his snare. Then, in harsher tone, Mocquino added:
"You have slain Toussant and my zombie - but you can thank them for your
plight. It took their full strength to raise that gate to its position. To lift
it, you will require the power of seven men.
"When you are free, you will find me in my throne room. Perhaps you may
arrive in time to witness the completion of my schemes. But I warn you, unless
you reach me before the appointed moment, you shall never again interfere in my
plans!"
The outer door slammed shut. Mocquino was gone from beyond it.

THE SHADOW lowered his automatic. Eyeing the gate, he recognized that
Mocquino had spoken actual facts concerning it. Its weight was certainly
sufficient to tax the strength of Toussant and the six zombie.
Plainly,
The Shadow
saw what Mocquino's course would be. It would not be
long until quarter past ten. At that time, the Voodoo Master would operate his
control switches. First would come the havoc at the knitting mills; then
destruction of theater, hotel and powerhouse. Finally, Mocquino's tone had told

The Shadow
, this fortress would also be destroyed.
Mocquino would have no further use for Myram's Folly. His move would be to
pack his belongings; set the time fuse and depart with his henchmen. Knowing
Mocquino's speed at such transfers,
The Shadow
could foresee that the time
interval would be short. Its exact duration was unimportant, however. The
Shadow, even in his present plight, was determined to be free of this pit before
Mocquino began his first operations.
Hundreds of lives were at stake. Actual massacre was scheduled for the town
of Hampstead.
The Shadow
alone could avert the slaughter that threatened the
city of doom.
To avert it,
The Shadow
must leave this trap. He must bring a band of
followers with him. Therefore, the first step was the rescue of the prisoners.

The Shadow
knew that they would be comparatively few in number; certainly less
than half a dozen. Otherwise Mocquino would fear that they could lift the steel
gate, copying the former example of Toussant and the zombie.
Mocquino certainly felt no fears. As proof of his surety, he had removed
all guards from below. That was good policy on his part. Having witnessed the
slaughter of his zombie. Mocquino was too wise to put other henchmen within
range of
The Shadow
's guns. The steel gate might bar progress; but it offered
loopholes for
The Shadow
's weapons.
Knowing that the outer passage would be clear,
The Shadow
moved down to the
bottom of the steps. The corridor below was lighted;
The Shadow
looked for the
dungeon doorways. He still saw a chance to free himself and the prisoners - to
escape the fate of living entombment that Mocquino hoped to bring by blasting
the walls of Myram's Folly.
Four doorways greeted
The Shadow
's gaze. Each was fronted with steel bars.
Each dungeon was dark; but as
The Shadow
gave a commanding whisper, a face
appeared at the one gate.
The Shadow
recognized Harry Vincent. Approaching, he
spoke to his agent.
"How many are here?" queried
The Shadow
. "Who are the other prisoners?"
"Five," replied Harry. "Two are caretakers who belonged here. Another is a
man who had some trouble with Mocquino. There are two others who landed here in
their car, taking the wrong road by mistake. They are in the last cell -"
Harry's voice broke off. A sudden, gushing sound had started in the
darkness of his dungeon. Harry pointed downward, indicating-steps upon which he
stood. His eyes were wild.
"The sluices have opened!" he exclaimed. "Mocquino promised us that such
would be our death! The water pipes are large; one in every cell."

THE SHADOW understood. The dungeons were below the level of the broad pond
in back of the large house. So was the corridor wherein
The Shadow
stood. Cells
would be flooded first; then the corridor. Mocquino was not waiting until his
departure to destroy the prisoners.

The Shadow
looked for the lock on Harry's cell. The agent shook his head;
Harry's well-molded features looked weary and hopeless.
"These bars are not doors," stated Harry. "They are solid gratings.
Mocquino's men fixed them in place with stone and mortar."
Stepping back,
The Shadow
studied the bars. Harry was right; Mocquino had
placed these prisoners in cells where he intended them to stay forever. Though
they had been fed and well-treated, they had known that doom would be their lot.
Yet, in permanently sealing the cells, Mocquino had not gone to great
labor. The stone walls of these cellar archways were old and crumbly. Holes had
been driven into one side of Harry's door; bars had been inserted there. The
other side of the doorway had been torn down, so that the bars could be swung
inward. After that, new stone had been mortared into place.
There was no use to attack the new masonry; it was too solid. The old
stones, however, told their own story. Since one side of the doorway had been
broken down, the other side could be similarly handled.
The Shadow
saw spaces
where cracked mortar had fallen loose.
"I've worked on the stones," began Harry. "But without tools, I couldn't
move -"
Harry stopped as
The Shadow
swung away. Over by the spot where the dead
zombi lay,
The Shadow
stooped and picked up two sabers. One was the weapon that
he had used; the other was the sword that the last zombi had carried on his
fall.
Coming back to the cell,
The Shadow
thrust one weapon through to Harry.
Keeping the other, he rammed its sharp point between two stones. Jabbing,
prying,
The Shadow
began to loosen the masonry that held one end of the bars.
Harry cooperated from his side. One stone fell under
The Shadow
's efforts;
it struck the steps by Harry's feet, bounced down into the dungeon and splashed
into a six-inch depth of water. The gushing pipes were still at work, steadily
flooding the dungeons.
There were clangs at the doors of other cells. Prisoners, excited by the
inpouring torrents, had roused to hear the noise of rescue. They were shouting
for aid. It was due to come.

The Shadow
pried away another stone; Harry chiseled one loose, higher up.
Finding a deep cavity for his saber,
The Shadow
gained a powerful leverage and
broke away the intervening chunk.
Shoulder against the bars,
The Shadow
shoved back and forth. Harry supplied
added effort. The barrier swayed; its own weight served to crack other sections
of the decayed masonry. At last, as
The Shadow
tugged, Harry fought frantically
outward. The bars ripped away; Harry sprawled to the stone of the corridor.

HARRY splashed water as he came free. The tide had risen to the top of the
inner steps upon which he had stood.

The Shadow
passed the sabers to his agent. In response to a quick command,
Harry hurried the weapons to the next cells and passed them through to eager
prisoners within. Coming back to the cell that he had left, Harry found The
Shadow wrenching one of the loosened bars. It came free from its
cross-fastenings;
The Shadow
passed it along to Harry, who carried it to another
prisoner. This new implement was better than the sabers.
Within the next four minutes, every prisoner had a tool with which to smash
at the weak side of his cell door.
The Shadow
had a bar of his own; so did
Harry. The water had reached the corridor; its torrent seemed swifter than
before. But
The Shadow
had found the way to defeat disaster.
Stones were clattering; barriers were yielding. One row of bars came down
from the doorway where two prisoners were confined within. Eagerly, these
rescued men joined in the outside work. Stones cracked; bars twisted. The third
door fell. With the water knee-deep, the fourth barrier crashed, releasing the
two last men.
Wearied prisoners stood gasping, until one saw the steps up from the
corridor, with the formidable gate beyond. That upper archway was new, it had
been specially installed by Mocquino. There was no way of smashing the masonry
that surrounded the big gate.
The other prisoners stared. They recognized that their combined strength
would be insufficient to hoist the gate that had taxed the gigantic Toussant and
the six inhuman zombie. Not including Harry, these prisoners were but five in
number; and they were wearied. Even if
The Shadow
could exert the strength of
two Toussants, his crew could not perform its part.
Not by mere brawn alone - but
The Shadow
saw opportunity for an added
measure. It was one that Mocquino had not considered; for the Voodoo Master had
not supposed that his dungeon doors could be shattered and their bars
transformed to implements of labor.
To Harry and the other rescued prisoners,
The Shadow
issued this command:
"Gather the largest stones. Take these to the gate."

THE ex-prisoners obeyed. Each groped in the water that surged about his
knees and found solid stones from the shattered doorways. Harry remembered one
that had rolled down into his dungeon. He ducked below the surface of the water
to get it. Others copied Harry's example.
Dripping as they brought the last large stones, the eager men found The
Shadow on the topmost step by the big gate. He was holding the steel bars
battered from the prison cells. As the men laid the stones beside him, he
supplied each with a rod. Taking a bar of his own,
The Shadow
wedged it under
the space formed by the lowest crossbar of the gate. The others did the same.
Standing on the dry step just below the top,
The Shadow
brought his bar
down upon one of the raised stones. The bar became a lever; the stone served as
the fulcrum. All were ready;
The Shadow
called for downward pressure. Together,
the prisoners leaned upon the bars.
The long leverage brought an instantaneous result. Groaning, the steel gate
went a full foot upward. The strength of the combined crew had gained double its
normal lifting power.
Strongest of all,
The Shadow
held his weight upon his lever while he
ordered a weaker man to wedge stones beneath the gate. That done,
The Shadow

piled smaller stones on larger, to gain a closer, higher fulcrum. The aiding men
worked quickly, performing the same action. Again, the leverage was applied in
unison. New stones there stacked upon the ones that already held the gate.
The water was almost to the top step. Further leverage was impossible with
the slippery footing; but no more was necessary. The two-foot space beneath the
gate was sufficient. Shoulders first,
The Shadow
wriggled through between the
two pairs of supporting stones. He was on his feet, an automatic in his hand,
watching the far door of the passage as the rest came through.
Meeting no challenge,
The Shadow
ordered his followers to arm themselves
with sabers that lay scattered beside the dead zombie. He had his extra
automatics ready to pass to others, if they encountered groups of Mocquino's
henchmen; but for the present,
The Shadow
held his own weapons. He had reason to
believe that he would need them later. Hence he preferred, if possible, to keep
his own men armed with swords instead of guns.
For
The Shadow
planned more than mere escape. In his release of the
prisoners, he had accomplished his first objective in less than the time
required, thanks to the stout cooperation that the men themselves had given.
There was still an interval wherein
The Shadow
could accept Doctor
Mocquino's ironical invitation to meet him in the purple throne room. Within
that space of time,
The Shadow
hoped to save the city of Hampstead from the doom
that Mocquino intended to deliver.

CHAPTER XIX

DISASTER'S HOUR

THE SHADOW expected encounter with Mocquino's henchmen. It came soon after
he and the prisoners had escaped the Voodoo Master's snare. Hastening through
the passage where five dead zombis lay,
The Shadow
wrenched open the outer door.
He stopped short, blocking the six men who were behind him.
Harry Vincent, at the head of the former prisoners, saw why
The Shadow
had
halted. Coming down the stairs from the first floor were two of Mocquino's
inside guards, probably, bound for a last inspection of the cellar.
Both were armed with two weapons: revolver and knife. Each chose
differently, when they sought to deal with
The Shadow
. One man raised his gun;
the other whipped the knife from his belt.
The Shadow
, one hand still on the
doorknob, jabbed two quick shots.
He dropped the man with the revolver before the ruffian could fire. The
other hurled his knife just as he received
The Shadow
's bullet. Staggering as he
finished his throw, the knife hurler never found his mark. Dropping back, The
Shadow flipped the door half closed and stopped the blade in flight. The knife
stopped in the woodwork.
The blade had traveled too high to strike
The Shadow
; he made his quick
move with the door to protect the men behind him, for the arching knife was
curving downward as it struck.

The Shadow
started for the stairs while his enemies were still tumbling
toward him. Harry, close behind his chief, grabbed up the revolver which the
first sprawled man had dropped. One of the caretakers snatched the gun from the
second foeman's belt. Two of
The Shadow
's followers were supplied with
revolvers, instead of sabers.
In the first-floor hallway,
The Shadow
encountered four more of Mocquino's
men, who had converged there when one had called out the news of shots below.

The Shadow
opened with quick fire; Harry and the caretaker joined immediately.
This skirmish was a short one. Three of Mocquino's minions flattened; the other
dashed away to give the alarm.
This produced two more guns for
The Shadow
's followers.
The Shadow
passed
one of his own automatics to Harry; ordered him to give his revolver to the
fifth member of the band. All were now armed. In quick tones,
The Shadow
gave a
final command. Even as he spoke it, lights began to blink. The alarm had reached
Mocquino's lair.

LEADING the way,
The Shadow
cut through to the front of the house,
following a route that he knew from Mocquino's diagrams. His purpose was
twofold: first, to beat back Banzarro's outside band; second, to make Mocquino
think that the fight was confined below.
His order to his followers was a simple one. They were to drive outward,
with Harry Vincent at their head, while
The Shadow
remained within the house.
None was to return to Myram's Folly, once they had left it.

The Shadow
was the first to reach the massive front door. None of
Mocquino's men had arrived to block the path. Opening the door,
The Shadow
swung
halfway through; then dropped back. His action was perfectly timed for the
stroke that he expected.
A missile whistled through the air; it struck the door frame by The
Shadow's shoulder and quivered there. The object was a knife, fired from
Banzarro's air gun. Mocquino's lieutenant had seen
The Shadow
, had started to
fire, then altered his aim as the cloaked target disappeared. He had pressed the
trigger too late.
Banzarro had fired from some spot of darkness. There was no gun flash to
betray his position.
The Shadow
, however, had a better line on where Banzarro
lay. The instant after the knife struck,
The Shadow
clamped his hand beside it,
let the muzzle of his automatic lie straight along the handle of the knife. With
that,
The Shadow
pressed the trigger.
The big .45 ripped its return message to Banzarro. A howl from the darkness
marked
The Shadow
's hit of an unseen target.
The Shadow
had remembered the knife
that Banzarro had fired into the room of the hotel in Hampstead. He knew the
dead line on which these blades could ride. Deliberately,
The Shadow
had made
himself a target for Banzarro, that the assassin might dispatch an indicator to
mark his position. The knife had served
The Shadow
; not Banzarro.
The Shadow
's
aim was sure, the moment that he chose the line of the knife handle.

SWINGING back into the hallway,
The Shadow
pulled the door wide. Harry
Vincent was awaiting the move; he dashed outside, with five followers behind
him. Wild shots began as Harry and the former prisoners passed the portico.
Banzarro's men were opening up with their revolvers.
From the doorway,
The Shadow
opened a short barrage, picking the spots
where guns spurted.
Harry and his men were opening quick fire. Spurred by the advantage that

The Shadow
had given them, they were pursuing the outside horde. Though
outnumbered two to one, Harry's stout band had the edge; for their opponents
were in flight. Inspired by
The Shadow
; anxious to serve the superman who had
saved them, the released prisoners were not to be stopped.
Within the house,
The Shadow
closed the door. A strange lull had fallen.
The front stairs - short route to Mocquino's lair - remained deserted. Wisely,

The Shadow
chose another course. He hurried through the ground floor, found an
obscure stairway and ascended to the second floor. He reached the hallway that
boasted one new door: the entrance to Mocquino's lair, by way of the anteroom.
Only for a moment did
The Shadow
slow his progress; that was while he
opened the door. He made that action silent so not to warn Mocquino, should the
Voodoo Master be within. The door opened,
The Shadow
did not stop to close it
after he had entered. He surged through the anteroom, past the purple curtains,
into Mocquino's royal-hued throne room.
The golden curtains at the far wall had been drawn apart. There, by the
mellow light,
The Shadow
saw Mocquino. The Voodoo Master was at his switchboard;
the gloat upon his face showed that the time for disaster had arrived.

BOTH of Mocquino's clawlike hands were ready. His left grasped Control
Switch C, prepared to cut off the transformer that intercepted the power line
between the powerhouse and the knitting mills. His right hand, as eager as his
left, clutched two switches at once. They were D and E; if pulled, they would
produce instantaneous explosions at the theater and the hotel, in the very heart
of Hampstead.

The Shadow
had arrived at precisely quarter past ten. Stopping short in the
center of Mocquino's throne room, he delivered a burst of sinister laughter that
halted the motion of the Voodoo Master's hands.
The Shadow
's challenge was a
wise one. He had seen the clutch of Mocquino's claws. Bullets could not stop the
Voodoo Master's intended deed. Mocquino could pull the switches as he fell.
Turning as he heard the laugh, Mocquino saw
The Shadow
. His glaring eyes
spotted an aimed automatic; keenly, Mocquino saw the mark to which the gun
pointed. It was his own right hand - the one that was ready to deliver an
electric current to the distant dynamite charges.
Quickly, Mocquino yanked his hand away. His action was instinctive. The
Shadow fired; Mocquino snarled triumphantly and yanked the lone switch that his
left hand held. In the same move, the Voodoo Master dived for the exit from the
space behind his throne.

The Shadow
sped forward. He had tricked Mocquino, without giving the Voodoo
Master time to pause and realize it. Had
The Shadow
aimed for Mocquino's heart,
the fiend would have tugged all the switches. By picking Mocquino's right hand,

The Shadow
had given his enemy an option.
Letting the explosions wait until later, Mocquino had managed to complete
his first objective. He had pulled the switch that would wreck the knitting
mills, at the precise time that he had prophesied. Pressed by
The Shadow
,
Mocquino had taken to flight, forgetting that his one deed could be offset.
At the switchboard,
The Shadow
seized Control Switch C and pressed it
upward. Through his own knowledge of Mocquino's device, he was quick enough to
avert the disaster that had been started.
The Shadow
's move restored the
operation of the transformer outside the mills.

MILES away, the effect of those moves was felt. At the knitting mills, a
sudden roar had greeted workers at their looms. Machinery had begun to speed.
Employees had leaped from their benches, shouting in terror as huge wheels
wabbled; while belts began to snap. For a moment, destruction had been on its
way. Then, only brief seconds later, chaos ended. Machines had speeded up,
threatening horror, at Mocquino's tug of the switch. They had slowed, found
stability, when
The Shadow
had thrown off the extra load of power.
Had Mocquino pressed the other switches that he had first handled, his move
could not have been rectified. By outguessing the Voodoo Master,
The Shadow
had
prevented even greater destruction than that which threatened the knitting
mills.
Crowds in the theater and hotel at Hampstead would have perished without a
warning, had Mocquino had his way. As it was,
The Shadow
's action had saved
those threatened hundreds without giving them a single inkling of their danger.

The Shadow
's next duty was to prevent any possibility of Mocquino again
operating the switchboard. Reaching above the control switches,
The Shadow

released the metal panel that was hinged to cover the switchboard. He paused as
he noticed Control Switch G and the clock dial beside it. Quickly,
The Shadow

set the dial for ten minutes; then pulled the switch. He was allowing time for
his own departure; also relying on the probability that Mocquino would remain
longer in Myram's Folly.
That done,
The Shadow
pulled down the panel. As soon as the latches
clicked, he bashed the locks with a gun handle. No key could open those locks;
if Mocquino should return, he would try vainly to raise the panel. Given half an
hour, Mocquino might manage to jimmy the locks. But Mocquino would not have a
half hour. Ten minutes would be his greatest limit.
At the end of that period, Myram's Folly would go up in thunder.
The Shadow

had set Mocquino's own time fuse to destroy this useless structure. There was no
need to follow Mocquino, to rout him from some hiding place.
The Shadow
's own
course had become departure; to join Harry and the rescued men before the blast
went off.
The surest course was back through the throne room, out by the hall. Combat
en route did not seem a great threat to
The Shadow
. He had already quelled
Mocquino's scattered henchmen whenever he had met them.
With surety that he could clear the way,
The Shadow
started through the
throne room. He stopped as he reached the throne itself.
Purple curtains ripped away from the doorway at the anteroom. Revolvers
bristled, glimmering, from the hands of a dozen foemen. Mocquino's henchmen were
here in greater number than
The Shadow
had known. Summoned to one duty, they had
arrived en masse to block
The Shadow
. Glaring faces, leering lips; these told of
the confidence that inspired Mocquino's horde.
No lone fighter could hope to survive a battle with that throng.
The Shadow

had nullified Mocquino's hour of disaster; he had averted doom that threatened
hundreds of helpless victims. Mocquino would never have a chance again to deal
the destruction that he wanted.
Probably, the Voodoo Master had realized it. Therefore, he had chosen a
course which pleased him equally. He had hurled his henchmen to a final thrust.

The Shadow
, himself, was the victim whom Mocquino sought.
This was Mocquino's challenge.
The Shadow
, though he had saved the lives of
hundreds, was faced by death from a firing squad.
The Shadow
was trapped within
Mocquino's purple lair.

CHAPTER XX

DEATH'S HARVEST

HALTED between Mocquino's purple throne and the ebony pedestal beside it,

The Shadow
stood half crouched. He was at bay; his foemen recognized his plight.

The Shadow
was too far forward to escape through the golden curtains. The throne
could not serve him as a shield. Bullets from revolvers would rip through
woodwork and plush, if
The Shadow
chose such a refuge.
Mocquino's henchmen had spread in the same fashion as the zombie. The
Shadow faced them with a lone automatic; his weapon was not even raised. Beneath
his cloak he had another brace of guns; but he would never have time to draw
them. For he was faced by vengeful marksmen, who would fire as one. Unlike the
blundering zombie, these henchmen were not mechanical in action.
Individually, they feared
The Shadow
. In a horde, they lost their dread
because of numbers. Once a single trigger finger tugged, all would follow. The
only factor that stayed the assassins was the motionless position of
The Shadow
.
They knew the fallacy of quick aim, did these killers. They welcomed the
pause that gave them a chance to steady and level their revolvers. They were
ready to fire before
The Shadow
could move his gun hand.
They saw
The Shadow
's gun fist loosened; clad in a thin black glove, it
seemed helpless. They spied a tremble of the gun hand; it was matched by a
twitch of the other gloved fist. His fingers shaking as if seized by a palsy,

The Shadow
let his free hand steady upon the ebony pedestal.
Suddenly, the tremble ceased. Free fingers moved; a sharp click sounded.
With it, the purple-walled room was filled with spontaneous light.
The Shadow

was gone, hidden in a protecting glare. In his place was a dazzle of tremendous
light that came in vivid colors from a rounded cage of glass.

The Shadow
had pressed the switch at the base of the lizard lamp stand. He
had snapped the current into Mocquino's high-powered bulb. The Voodoo Master's
own device was loosened, shooting the instantaneous flashes of brilliance that
could overpower all who faced it - excepting
The Shadow
and Mocquino himself.

WITH wild shouts, Mocquino's henchmen dived for the cover of the purple
curtains. They knew the power of that light; how Mocquino used it to turn sane
men into zombie. With one mad surge, the entire dozen took to the anteroom not
waiting to fire a single shot.
Nor did
The Shadow
wait. The instant that he clicked the switch, he made
for the golden curtains - on the chance that some adversary might sizzle a pot
shot in his direction. Though he could resist the glare himself,
The Shadow
-
like others - was unable to discern objects beyond it. He did not care to waste
wild shots. His plans were already made; there were less then ten minutes for
his departure from Myram's Folly.
Cutting out through Mocquino's own exit,
The Shadow
was confronted by a
trio of Mocquino's reserves. They were at the end of a hallway; they opened fire
suddenly, but not in time.
The Shadow
was swinging for cover as they attacked.
Springing to a doorway, he heard a sharp snarl from beyond the marksmen.
Mocquino, himself, was stationed with that protective trio.
Jamming a door inward,
The Shadow
cut through a darkened room. He came out
into another hall; made for a stairway, only to reverse his course. Four more
enemies had bobbed in view; they were from the crew that had invaded the purple
lair. Safely away from the sparkling light, they had again become maddened,
desperate fighters.

The Shadow
delivered quick shots from a doorway. One enemy sprawled; the
others took to the stairway that
The Shadow
wanted. Knowing that attack upon
that ambush would be futile,
The Shadow
took to the other end of the hall. More
of Mocquino's men appeared. Quickly,
The Shadow
cut through another room.
The next few minutes produced quick surprises. Weaving in and out from
unexpected doorways,
The Shadow
encountered Mocquino's henchmen at every turn.
The house was alive with the murderous rogues. The dozen who had grouped against

The Shadow
were but half of the total that Mocquino controlled. Needing one hand
to yank at doorknobs,
The Shadow
was restricted to use of a single gun. He
employed it at every turn, switching his emptied weapon for a fresh one. Halts
were useless; they would only bring a massed throng to the spot.

The Shadow
's one objective was the front door; to gain it, he needed to
reach a stairway. Each flight of steps proved to be a nest for Mocquino's
minions. All that
The Shadow
could accomplish in four minutes of hectic fray was
the elimination of three enemies, each a member of a different group that he
encountered.

WITH sudden change of tactics,
The Shadow
chose a stairway that led upward
to the third floor; and hence proved unguarded. At the top,
The Shadow
came upon
a group that he had not seen since his first encounter with them on the floor
below. There were four in the cluster: Doctor Mocquino and the three underlings
who served as his own bodyguard.
As
The Shadow
opened fire, Mocquino leaped for a doorway.
The Shadow
saw
him spring upward, taking the stairway that led to the central lookout tower of
the building, that square-walled room that loomed above the roof. Two of the
bodyguards succumbed before
The Shadow
's rapid shots. The third followed
Mocquino, slamming the stairway door as he passed it.
There was no chance to follow.
The Shadow
's gun was emptied. As he reached
for his last automatic, he heard thuds of footsteps everywhere. Bands of enemies
had located the sound of the fray. They were coming to surround
The Shadow
, to
block off his escape. This time, he would be ambushed if he tried to reach the
second floor.
Few minutes remained. Departure by the ground floor would be impossible.
Any delay would bring the moment of destruction.
The Shadow
took the one course
that remained - a route that he had reserved in case of final emergency.
Speeding toward a darkened hall, he dashed through the rear portion of the third
floor, just as the first of the arriving squads sighted him.
Shouting fighters followed, thinking their enemy in flight. They fired
wildly, uselessly, in the darkness. They could not see
The Shadow
; but they
heard his footsteps, for he was making no attempt to cover his route.
Suddenly,
The Shadow
's course led upward. Mocquino's minions stopped at the
entrance to the old castle tower that adorned the back corner of Myram's Folly.

The Shadow
had gone above, following the circular stairway, keeping to the
wall, away from the open center. With shouts to their fellows, half a dozen of

The Shadow
's enemies dashed upward in pursuit.

The Shadow
reached the rounded roof; slamming the old trapdoor, he pounded
its surface with the handle of an emptied automatic. Wood splintered and jammed
the trap in place. It would take minutes for the men below to crack it. Swinging
to the rough-hewn parapet,
The Shadow
looked beyond the stone bulwark, toward
the center of building.
There, in the clear glow of moonlight, he saw a figure above the solid
wooden rail of the Mid-Victorian tower, a dozen feet lower than
The Shadow
's own
vantage point. It was Doctor Mocquino, his purple robe blackish, its gold
trimmings dull against the moonlight.
The Voodoo Master had guessed
The Shadow
's objective, for he had heard
shots from within the rounded tower that
The Shadow
had ascended.

AS he saw
The Shadow
, Mocquino rasped a command. Mocquino's last bodyguard
bobbed up beside him. Both opened fire with revolvers. Bullets chipped the stone
beside
The Shadow
; he dropped below the level of the bulwark.
Jabbing his automatic through a stone crenelle,
The Shadow
used that space
to return the fire. His bullets splintered the wooden rail; one found Mocquino's
henchman.
The Shadow
heard a cry. He fired for the rail, knowing that Mocquino
would be behind it.
Men were pounding at the trapdoor close by
The Shadow
. That sound did not
trouble him. Mocquino was the only enemy who could battle him during the scant
moments that remained.
The Shadow
halted his fire, reserving last shots for the
Voodoo Master, should he reappear.
The moonlight revealed a grisly sight. Up from the rail of the square roof
moved a death-stilled figure. It was Mocquino's last bodyguard, his corpse as
mechanical as one of the Voodoo Master's zombie. From beneath the dead man's
right arm there came a living hand, aiming the bodyguard's own revolver.
The hand was Mocquino's. The Voodoo Master had taken his dead henchman for
a shield. Ready with the gun, Mocquino awaited
The Shadow
's reappearance.
Through ghastly artifice, Mocquino hoped to win a last combat with his superfoe.

The Shadow
delivered a triumphant laugh. From his parapet, the mirth rose
in sardonic mockery. The trapdoor was breaking below him; Mocquino was prepared
to stop him with a deadly aim; nevertheless,
The Shadow
knew that victory was
close. He sprang into view, wheeled across the rounded roof and neared the rear
parapet.

MOCQUINO fired. His bullets sizzled wide of the moving target.
The Shadow

was too swift for Mocquino's hand to follow him, for the Voodoo Master's arm was
burdened with the weight of the dead man whom he held as shield.

The Shadow
fired return shots; weaved one direction, then the other.
Suddenly, he sprang to the rear parapet itself, just when Mocquino expected him
to drop to cover.
Again, Mocquino fired wide.

The Shadow
sped a bullet that came a scant inch from Mocquino's projecting
arm. It was his last shot; but it made Mocquino shift, swinging the dead body
with him.
At that moment, the trapdoor splintered open; a head poked through; with it
a fist and a revolver.

The Shadow
hurled his emptied automatic straight for the glaring, grimy
face. The heavy weapon crashed the upthrust jaw; Mocquino's henchman dropped
back through the trapdoor.
Mocquino saw the action; observed that
The Shadow
was weaponless. Dropping
the corpse that served him as shield, the Voodoo Master aimed. Simultaneously,

The Shadow
spun upon the parapet. With a long, sweeping dive, he went head
foremost over the rear edge, taking a forty-foot plunge for the pond below.

The Shadow
had held out to the last possible moment, knowing that he would
be a target when he reached the moonlit pond. He was gone from Mocquino's range;
but there would be others, on the rounded roof. Last moments had seemed slow to

The Shadow
. He had lingered in hope of a quake which he knew would come. That
was the sign he wanted before he made the dive.
The token came while
The Shadow
was speeding downward through the air. From
the depths of Myram's Folly came a muffled blast. The building quaked; the
depths delivered another burst. Then came the third explosion one that seemed to
rip the countryside with a searing volcano of flame.

The Shadow
had hit the water; arms tilted upward, he shot to the surface at
the end of a shallow dive. Nearly ten feet deep, the pond had given him ample
leeway.
As his face came above the water,
The Shadow
swung his head toward the
tower that he had left. He was met by a sweeping tidal wave, as if the whole
pond had lifted.

SWIMMING away with the sweeping wave,
The Shadow
saw the end of Myram's
Folly. The gray stone tower had buckled inward. Pygmy men who had reached its
top were tilted from it, down into the crumbling ruin of the building below.
Foundations had been shattered by the buried mines that Mocquino had installed.
Old, decaying, the building added to its own collapse.
Outer walls had fallen to ruin. The stone tower was gone, to give weight to
the debris. Cracking stone and splintering wood were scourged by the thrusts of
flames. The men on the stone tower had met their doom; those within were buried
in the crash. Others, lower in the house, were lost in the destruction.
Oddly, amid that tremendous smash, one portion of the building resisted.
Swaying, it seemed to fight against the fall. That was the square room above the
center roof - the Mid-Victorian tower.
Upon it, his clenched fist high above his head, stood Doctor Mocquino. With
his other hand, the Voodoo Master was clutching the wavering wooden rail - like
the captain of a sinking vessel, stationed on the bridge.
From the shore of the pond,
The Shadow
saw the finish. Others, too,
observed it: Harry and the rescued men, back from the chase in which they had
downed the last of Banzarro's ruffians. They watched Mocquino sway as the square
tower lurched; they saw the lookout room collapse and take its final plunge.
Down into the ruins of Myram's Folly went Mocquino, still clinging to the
wooden rail. The woodwork splintered as the Voodoo Master went from view, into
the very center of the shattered mass that no longer resembled a building.
Last sections of wall tumbled. Flames crackled high amid the dust of
crumbled stone. The last sign of life had disappeared from the ruin.

ABOVE the roar of the rising fire came a grim, sardonic laugh. Mirthless,
it told of deserved triumph. It marked the doom of evil men who had engaged in
schemes of murder and destruction. It foretold that facts would be made public,
when revealed by Harry Vincent and the others who had been prisoners in
Mocquino's dungeons.
Crime would be laid where it belonged - to Doctor Rodil Mocquino and his
chief assassin, Banzarro. Some past deeds would be understood, such as
Banzarro's murder of Wishart, the chauffeur. Others would be guessed at, yet
their true facts never learned.
For the full tale of Mocquino's mad reign of crime had been grasped by The
Shadow alone. He, the master of right, would preserve those details in his
hidden archives.
The Shadow
, alone, had conquered Doctor Rodil Mocquino.

THE END