Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 095 - Death Rides the Skyway

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DEATH RIDES THE SKYWAY

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. SAN FRANCISCO NIGHT

? CHAPTER II. FLIGHT IN THE FOG

? CHAPTER III. DEATH TRAVELS EAST

? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW SUBSTITUTES

? CHAPTER V. DOUBLE-CROSSERS

? CHAPTER VI. DEATH AT DAWN

? CHAPTER VII. THE LONE CLUE

? CHAPTER VIII. THE CLUE REMAINS

? CHAPTER IX. THREE ARE SUMMONED

? CHAPTER X. DEATH ON THE SKYWAY

? CHAPTER XI. CARDONA SEEKS FACTS

? CHAPTER XII. THE HALTED CHASE

? CHAPTER XIII. CROOKS CONFER

? CHAPTER XIV. THE DECISION

? CHAPTER XV. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

? CHAPTER XVI. THE NEXT NIGHT

? CHAPTER XVII. CARDONA'S TRAIL

? CHAPTER XVIII. FIFTEEN MINUTES

? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW SURROUNDED

? CHAPTER XX. DOUBLE BATTLE

? CHAPTER XXI. THE CAPTURE

? CHAPTER XXII. THE FINAL TRIUMPH

? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW REWARDS

CHAPTER I. SAN FRANCISCO NIGHT

"PAGING Mr. Crofton!"

A square-built young man came to his feet as he heard the bell boy's call. Striding across the hotel lobby,

he stopped the attendant and acknowledged the summons.

"Miles Crofton?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," returned the bell hop. "You're Mr. Crofton?"

Miles Crofton nodded as he passed the boy a quarter. The bell hop turned smartly about and indicated a

row of telephone booths past the clerk's desk. "Telephone call, sir. Booth four."

Miles Crofton sauntered to the booth. Stopping there, he looked quickly about; then entered and

removed the receiver from the hook. He gave his name to the switchboard operator. A click from the

wire; a quiet voice gave a hello.

"Miles Crofton speaking," acknowledged the young man. "You are calling me?"

A pause. Then came a sinister tone, a whisper that held a strange reverberation as it quivered through the

receiver at Crofton's ear:

"Report."

The voice of The Shadow! An eerie tone that had caused grim men to falter; a whisper that was sinister,

even though it spoke but a single word. Miles Crofton's features tightened, then relaxed with an

expression of relief.

"Cruisers still near Hylap's," reported Crofton. "Tam Soak's watchers in the offing. No change since last

report."

"Report received," came The Shadow's whisper. "Instructions to follow."

Crofton listened to the intonation that resumed. Steady words hissed through the receiver. Finally, The

Shadow's orders ended with a pause. Crofton acknowledged.

"Instructions received."

Hanging up the receiver, the young man strode from the telephone booth. He headed for the door, gave a

last look at the lobby and continued on to the street. There he started briskly along the sidewalk, for the

distance of half a block. He slowed his pace, coming at last to a standstill in front of a darkened opening

between two buildings.

Glancing back, Miles Crofton noted the marquee of the hotel that he had just left. Above the projecting

roof was an electric sign that flashed the name "Hotel Aldebaran." Crofton grinned. He had not registered

at the Aldebaran; no one had followed him, from the lobby.

Raw, dank mist swept shroudlike about Crofton's shoulders. That fog was in from the Pacific; for this

was San Francisco. The open spot where Crofton stood held the ruined foundations of a building that

had never been rebuilt since the great fire. But off beyond, hazy through the swirl of sea fog, was the

persistent orange glow from the lights of the modern metropolis.

From one spot, only a few blocks distant, came a lower glare. That was Chinatown; and Miles Crofton's

view of those fog-sifted lights was a reminder that time had come for action. For Miles Crofton, here in

San Francisco as an agent of The Shadow, had held important dealings with certain men who dwelt in the

quaint Oriental district of the West Coast metropolis.

A TAXICAB was coming down the street. Its lights blinked from the fog; its tires sloshed along the

moistened thoroughfare. Miles Crofton stepped to the curb and delivered a hearty hail. The driver pulled

up; the young man stepped aboard.

"Where to?" queried the cabby.

"Cut over past Chinatown," returned Crofton, gruffly, "then head for Telegraph Hill. I'll tell you where to

stop."

The cab started. Miles Crofton settled back in the rear seat. Crofton had come to the city, weeks ago, at

The Shadow's order. He had been delegated to remain in San Francisco as the appointed agent of a

mysterious chief. The Shadow, ever vigilant against crime, had needed a trusted man to serve in such

capacity.

Soon after his arrival, Crofton had visited Tam Sook. This meeting had given him an important contact,

for Tam Sook was a crafty Celestial whose knowledge of San Francisco covered a much greater area

than the mere confines of Chinatown. Tam Sook was a friend of The Shadow; and he had promised to

keep Crofton posted. Tam Sook had lived up to the promise.

A few days ago, the Chinaman had sent word of shady characters - men who deserved suspicion,

although they had managed to dodge the law. Stealthy and slinking, they had chosen a focal point - a

residence on the side of a northern hill.

Crofton had visited the terrain. He had seen signs of prowlers. He had learned that the house was the

residence of Seton Hylap, a retired financier. Yet he had guessed no reason for the presence of the

riffraff. Seton Hylap, though a man of influence, was not enormously wealthy. His home, though large,

was unpretentious.

Crofton had sent word to The Shadow. His chief had left New York by air. Tam Sook, meanwhile, had

cooperated in measures of stealth. Influential in his own quarter, Tam Sook had supplied Chinese

watchers. Craftily, these men from Chinatown were maintaining an outer cordon, ready to act should evil

threaten the beleaguered residence.

The call that Crofton had so recently received was news that The Shadow had arrived at the San

Francisco airport. From now on, the period of vigil had ended. If something was wrong at Hylap's, the

time had come to learn the details. The Shadow had delegated Miles Crofton to that duty.

His voice hoarse from the fog-thickened night, Crofton gave a gruff order to the taxi driver. The cab

changed course; it labored on a steep incline. The cabby shifted to second gear in order to make the

precipitous hill. Half a block later, Crofton ordered him to stop. Alighting, The Shadow's agent paid the

driver and stepped from the cab.

IT was an ideal night for duty. Crofton was wrapped in fog and darkness before he had gone a dozen

yards. Crofton was proceeding shiftily. He intended to pass two thin groups of watchers: The Chinamen

and the riffraff beyond.

Nothing disturbed his mission. Crossing a street at the middle of a block, Miles Crofton came within the

massive gloom of an old stone residence. Lower windows were but dimly lighted; the upstairs part of the

building was entirely dark. Treading carefully as he reached a flight of broad stone steps, Crofton

ascended and huddled in the darkness close to the large front door. Fumbling in the dark, he found a

push button and pressed it. A bell tingled faintly within the house.

Footsteps sounded, barely audible. The door opened inward, but showed no light, for the vestibule was

darkened. Crofton saw the pallid face of a servant. Moving inward, he gave a friendly greeting that

caused the man to step back without refusal of admittance.

"Who - who are you, sir?" queried the servant, his face startled and apprehensive. "I - I had not been

informed that a visitor was expected."

"I've come to see Mr. Hylap," responded Crofton easily, as he drew a card from his pocket. "A matter

of important business. My name is Gwynn" - he tapped the card as he handed it to the servant - "and my

business is real estate. I have come to see Mr. Hylap regarding the purchase of some property."

The introduction was an apt one. Crofton had learned that Hylap was burdened with too much real

estate. Apparently the servant knew the same, for he nodded wisely and motioned the visitor to a chair.

"I shall tell the master that you are here, sir," stated the servant.

CROFTON watched the servant waddle across the hallway, toward a door farther back and on the

other side. There the fellow stopped and rapped. A few moments passed; the door opened part way and

a long, peaked face peered into the hall.

"Who is it, Sowbry?" questioned the man from within, his voice low, but nervous. "Some visitor to see

Mr. Hylap?"

"Yes, Mr. Danning," nodded the servant. "A gentleman named Gwynn, here to see the master about real

estate."

"Impossible," returned Danning, with a shake of his head. "Mr. Hylap is resting. He does not want to be

disturbed."

"This may be important," protested Sowbry. "Only yesterday, Mr. Danning, I heard the master mention

that he wished to sell some property -"

"Eavesdropping, eh?" Danning's interruption was a snarl. He swung fully into the hall. "I shall report you,

Sowbry. As for tonight, Mr. Hylap wants no visitors. As his secretary, I shall not allow -"

This time it was Miles Crofton who offered interruption. He had risen from his chair; he was striding

forward as he spoke. His voice came gruffly.

"I have business here," interjected The Shadow's agent. "Since I have taken the trouble to come here, I

feel that it is up to Mr. Hylap to decide whether or not he intends to see me. I have no time to listen to

petty arguments. Is that understood?"

Danning shifted into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him. The secretary's nervous face showed

high-pitched excitement. Throwing out his arms, Danning blocked the path.

"You can't see Mr. Hylap,'' he insisted hoarsely.

Crofton chuckled. He viewed the frail, long-limbed secretary and saw that the fellow was quivering with

consternation. Crofton turned abruptly toward Sowbry; considering the servant as an ally, he gave an

order.

"Come, Sowbry," suggested Crofton. "You have my card. Enter your master's study and announce me."

"I shall be pleased to do so, sir," acknowledged the servant. "But Mr. Danning is blocking the way -"

Another servant had appeared as Sowbry faltered. This fellow looked brusque and businesslike; his

uniform indicated that he was a chauffeur, who had probably been in the kitchen when he had heard the

noise of the argument. The arrival stepped up beside Sowbry; from his nod, his glare toward Danning,

Crofton knew that this second servant would also favor his cause.

"So Danning is the obstacle, is he?" queried Crofton. "Well, Sowbry, I don't think that he will persist in

keeping you from your duty. Not after I have reasoned with him."

CROFTON took a step toward the secretary. With a wild cry, Danning leaped forward from the door,

thrusting his arms at Crofton's throat, beginning an unwarranted attack before The Shadow's agent had

even threatened him.

Crofton swung aside to avoid Danning's leap. He thrust out a brawny hand and clapped it hard against

the secretary's shoulder, giving a wide lunge with his arm. Danning spun around helplessly and sprawled

to the floor like a man of straw.

Unhurt, he whimpered and knelt cringing. Crofton gestured toward the door; Sowbry nodded solemnly

and placed his hand upon the knob.

A hysterical cry from Danning. With the servants, Crofton turned about. The three stood startled as they

viewed the insane bulge of Danning's eyes. Their faces showed alarm as they caught the glimmer of a

revolver that the secretary had drawn.

Frenzied, Danning had become a menace. Still intent to keep visitors from Seton Hylap's study, he had

brought a weapon into play. He was ready to shoot; ready to kill, should any man attempt to step across

the threshold of the room he sought to guard.

CHAPTER II. FLIGHT IN THE FOG

"MOVE away!"

Danning fairly shrieked the words. Sowbry sidled along the wall; Crofton copied the action in the other

direction. Danning's glare fixed upon the chauffeur, now the most prominent of the trio whom he

covered.

"You, too, Durfee!" ordered the secretary. "Get back from that door! All of you keep away from it! Far

away!"

The revolver wobbled slightly as Danning kept shifting it back and forth, making a semicircle that caused

him to turn his head as well.

The revolver was traveling with Danning's eyes. That was the fact that gave Crofton an opportunity.

Sowbry and Durfee were too alarmed to act; but Miles Crofton had faced situations of this sort before.

His sinews tightened; he waited for half a second, then launched a spring.

Crofton's leap was perfectly timed. It came at the instant when Danning's eyes had swung directly toward

Durfee, the farthest member of the trio. Danning did not hear the onrush; it was through nervousness that

he sensed it. Coming up from his crouch, the secretary tittered a cry and swung back toward Crofton.

DANNING was too late. The Shadow's agent was surging with full force. As Danning tried to aim his

gun, Crofton's right hand crisscrossed and clutched the secretary's wrist. Danning's finger pressed the

trigger as his hand went up. The revolver barked while pointing toward the ceiling. A bullet crackled

deep into the plaster.

Danning's cry ended. Bowled backward, the secretary flattened to the floor. His head struck the

upholstered side of a chair; the blow half stunned him. Danning moaned as his fingers loosened. Crofton

snatched up the revolver just after it clattered to the floor.

Rising above Danning's huddled form, Crofton looked toward Durfee and Sowbry. Then, as a gesture of

alliance, he extended the revolver to the chauffeur, who accepted it. That done, Crofton spoke briskly to

Sowbry.

"You may announce me to Mr. Hylap," stated Crofton. "And when you do so, Sowbry, you can explain

what has happened here.

"Indeed I shall, sir," returned Sowbry, waddling toward the door.

Crofton stepped forward as Sowbry opened the door. He saw the servant enter a small, lighted study

room. Crofton followed to the threshold. He heard a puzzled gasp from Sowbry. The servant was

looking all about. Crofton did the same. His face, too, showed perplexity, far Seton Hylap was not in the

study.

"The - the master has gone!" exclaimed Sowbry. "Of course - of course he could have left while I was

not about. But why did Danning say that he was here?"

As if seeking an answer to his query, Sowbry stared past Crofton, toward the spot where Danning had

fallen. A sharp cry was Sowbry's next utterance. Crofton wheeled about; so did Durfee in the hall. They

saw the reason for Sowbry's alarm.

Danning had shown recuperation; coming up from the floor, the treacherous secretary was again showing

fight. Fiercely, he was springing forward to snatch the revolver from Durfee's hand.

MILES CROFTON acted instinctively. He shot his own hand to his pocket and yanked out an automatic

that he had brought with him on this mission. Gun in fist, he sprang forward to intervene.

At that instant, the door from the vestibule burst open. Into the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, came a trio

of huskies who brandished big revolvers. These were the riffraff whom The Shadow's agent had avoided

when be came here. They had heard the bark of the gun.

Crofton stopped short, just outside the door of the study. With one arm, he hurled Sowbry back to

safety. Raising his gun, he shifted as he aimed point-blank for the invaders. Durfee had grappled with

Danning; the chauffeur would have to take care of himself.

Shots roared simultaneously. Wild bullets zipped the plaster of the wall beside Crofton's shoulder.

Leaping invaders were coming forward to overwhelm this lone enemy. Crofton's automatic spoke along

with the revolvers.

One of his quick shots clipped a hoodlum's shoulder, for the invader staggered. But these three were not

all; there were others behind them. The next volley seemed slated to spell Crofton's doom.

Then came a mighty sound from the rear of the long, gloomy hall. It was the fierce cry of a strident mirth;

a proclamation of vengeance that made would-be killers swing with angry snarls. Backing that weird

taunt, blending with its echoes, issued the roars of new guns in the fray. The Shadow had arrived.

Invaders sprawled, firing vainly as they fell. Others dived for the doorway, flinging away guns in their mad

rush for safety. One alone persisted in wild shots toward that evasive, barely visible form. This rogue was

close to Crofton. With a jubilant cry, The Shadow's agent flung himself upon the fiendish raider.

As they sprawled, Crofton drove the gun's muzzle to the fellow's skull. Half groggy, the thug came up for

more, still clutching his revolver. As Crofton gave a grab for the man's wrist, someone sprawled beside

him. It was Durfee, downed by Danning's choking clutch. Hard upon that came Danning himself, fear

forgotten in madness. The secretary was pouncing upon Crofton, his first foe.

Crofton lost his grip upon the groggy thug's wrist. He and Danning rolled in a mad grapple. A revolver

sounded a muffled bark as The Shadow sprang forward to enter the close-range combat. Danning

groaned and sank from Crofton's grasp. The groggy invader had shot his own ally. But now he was

rising, that thug, aiming to get Crofton before The Shadow's agent could roll in against him.

An automatic blasted its final stroke. The Shadow's shot singed an inch above Danning's sagging body. It

found the form of the thug who had aimed for Crofton. That would-be murderer sprawled upon the floor

beside Danning's writhing, long-limbed shape.

Durfee had managed to crawl into the study. Sowbry dragged him farther and slammed the door.

Weaponless, these two men had found a place of safety, not realizing that they needed it no longer. Into

the lull that followed came the muffled tones of Sowbry's frantic voice. The servant was calling the police

over the study telephone.

Eyes upward, Danning was coughing incoherent words. The Shadow was close beside the wounded

secretary. Burning eyes caught Danning's glassy gaze.

"Speak!"

THE hissed word was a command. Danning's lips moved; they managed to eject gasped words. Mortally

wounded, the secretary gave the answer to the riddle of his master's absence.

"Mr. Hylap left," gulped Danning. "Left here - a few hours ago. Going - going East. Mountain Pacific -

new train - the Typhoon. He - he - was not followed. Going to - to -"

Strength was spent. Danning's lips twitched; his glazed eyes bulged. The Shadow had gripped the man's

shoulders; he could feel Danning's body sag. The thug's bullet had completed its unintended work.

Danning was dead.

From far out in the night came distant crackles of revolver fire. Fleeing men of crime had encountered the

cordon of Chinese. Shots were being exchanged during flight in the fog.

From somewhere, a siren was delivering its faint whine. Police were already on their way. The Shadow's

gloved fist gripped Miles Crofton's shoulder. In obedience to his chief, the agent followed as The

Shadow led the way through this hallway where frustrated invaders lay silent beside Danning.

LATER, a plane took off from the fog-filled airport. Miles Crofton was at the controls of the swift ship,

rising for high altitude as he chose an eastward course. Visibility would be clear after the plane had

cleared the bay.

The Shadow was aboard, resting silent in the cockpit. He had ordered his agent to pilot the plane; for

Crofton was a skilled aviator, and The Shadow was fatigued from the flight that had brought him to the

Coast. Moreover, The Shadow had work ahead.

His plane was off to overtake the Typhoon, a swift streamlined limited train that had become the pride of

the Mountain Pacific Railroad. Through new flight in the fog, off to the clear atmosphere above the

Sierras, The Shadow was on his way to find Seton Hylap, the man in whose absence crime had struck.

CHAPTER III. DEATH TRAVELS EAST

FLOODLIGHTS bathed the airport at the little town of Falko. Located near the foothills of a towering

mountain range, this spot was of prime importance to transcontinental planes. Meeting place of air routes

and railway, Falko served also as a transfer point for passengers.

Hours had passed since The Shadow had left San Francisco. Miles Crofton, steady at the controls, had

headed the ship for Falko, hoping to reach the tiny town before the swift streamlined train that was

traveling east on the tracks of the Mountain Pacific.

Crofton had almost reached his goal; already eyes from the ground were viewing the lights that twinkled

high above the flooded gleam of the landing field.

The plane made a rapid landing. Rolling along the ground, it came almost to a stop, then wheeled and

taxied toward a hangar. From the cockpit dropped a tall passenger who held a light suitcase in one hand.

With the other, he waved instructions to the pilot; then strode rapidly from the edge of the landing field,

heading across a blackened area toward the lighted station, a few hundred yards away.

The arrival was just in time to make connection. Already, a gleaming headlight was whizzing into view

from beyond a curve. Then, into the lights of the railway station glided the Typhoon, a slithering,

snakelike shape of silvery metal. The streamlined limited had arrived.

Sliding doors opened. Passengers alighted from low steps and tramped the station platform. All of them

were planning to take planes that were due later; most of them looked about to find the direction to the

airport. There was one, however, a thick-set man in gray overcoat, who needed no instructions. Coat

collar turned up; chin wrapped in a muffler, this individual strode past the others from the train and paced

straight toward the road that led to the landing field.

THE SHADOW was just in time to spy that muffled passenger. A moment later the fellow was gone, too

quickly for The Shadow to observe his muffled features.

Pausing on the platform, The Shadow glanced through darkness toward the airport. A small plane was

visible, moving forward, in preparation for a take-off. It was obviously no commercial ship. Instinctively,

The Shadow linked this private plane with the muffled man who had departed from the station.

"All aboard!"

The conductor of the Typhoon was giving the final call. Forced to immediate choice, The Shadow

delivered a soft, whispered laugh; then boarded the train. Doors slid shut; the Typhoon glided from the

station.

The Shadow gave no new evidence of curbed mirth as he walked into the club cafe that formed the

observation section of the Typhoon. He had recognized that the departing passenger might be a man who

needed watching; but he had gained no evidence that the muffled man was Seton Hylap. The Shadow's

best course was to take the limited, particularly since he had left a trump card at Falko.

The trump was Miles Crofton. A skilled agent in The Shadow's service, Crofton would allow nothing to

slip his notice. Still at the airport, Crofton would observe any passenger who took off in a private ship;

hence The Shadow would receive a later report on the man whom he had seen.

The chances were still large in The Shadow's favor. Odds were that Seton Hylap had chosen to ride

farther east than Falko. The Typhoon was not due for another stop until it reached Ridgley, a station one

hundred and fifty miles east of Falko. All passengers would still be aboard at the next stop.

The Shadow seated himself by a window near the rear of the car. He rang for the porter and ordered

refreshments, then leaned back in his cushioned chair and smiled slightly as he stared at the blackness

beyond the shatter-proof window pane.

IT was long after midnight. Some passengers must have stayed up in order to leave the train at Falko; but

they were gone and all others had retired. Except for the porter, The Shadow was alone in this rear unit

of the streamlined limited. His thoughts were concerned with the time that lay ahead.

A conductor entered the club car. He spied the tall passenger whom the porter was serving and

approached to collect tickets. The Shadow produced a wallet, extracted a stack of currency and paid his

fare from Falko to Chicago. The Pullman conductor arrived during the process; he prepared a receipt

and assigned the new passenger to lower Berth 4, Car 2.

The conductors took seats opposite The Shadow. They began to check off the tickets that they had

collected. Forgetting the passenger who was dining across the aisle, they entered into a discussion that

concerned the very fact that The Shadow had noticed - the reduced speed of the Typhoon.

"Five hours from Falko into Ridgley," grumbled the railway conductor. "That's no better than the Eastern

Limited used to do along this stretch of pike."

"Only one hundred and fifty miles," observed the Pullman conductor. "It ought to be clipped to two hours

flat. This windjammer could do it."

"Not quite. The grades would slack us a bit. But right at present it's the curves. We can't hit them at top

speed."

"When is the road going to bank them heavier?"

"They can't touch that stretch over the rise," the railroad man declared emphatically. "Not a chance of

changing it. The pike was laid for heavy hauls and that's how it will stay. Let's see" - the railroad

conductor paused to speculate - "forty-five miles to the K and R junction - that could be stepped up a

bit.

"But from the Junction into Ridgley, the freights have it tough enough as is. That traffic still has rights, even

though we're trying to compete with airplanes. Any monkeying with the curves would play hob with the

freights."

"How about picking a new right of way?"

"Couldn't be done. There's one bet, though." The railroad conductor leaned forward and spoke

confidentially. "You know the old K and R, don't you? Cuts off from the junction, goes through Altamont

and terminates at Ridgley?" The Pullman conductor nodded.

"Well, there's a rumor about," stated the railroad conductor. "I heard it for the first time when I was in

Frisco yesterday. They say the Mountain Pacific is looking to buy up the K and R."

"To use it for a freight line?"

"No, for passenger service. There's going to be fortunes made out of high speed trains like this one. If the

Mountain Pacific takes over the K and R, they'll rig it up for speed."

"And if they don't get the K and R?"

"They'll be out of luck competing with the other transcontinental lines. Three hours lost is going to be

plenty bad, when every through pike is running streamlined limiteds."

THE railroad conductor gave his head another emphatic shake. He became silent as he counted through

a stack of tickets. Suddenly he paused and examined one slip of pasteboard.

"Fellow getting off at the K and R Junction," he remarked. "Let's check this one. Where did you locate

him?"

"Lower 8, Car 3," returned the Pullman conductor. "Charged him same fare as for a berth into Ridgley.

No rate listed for the K and R Junction."

"It's not a regular stop for any through train," mused the railroad conductor, "but we've got an agreement

with the K and R in case a stop is called for. Funny how that bird knew about it. First time any passenger

ever reminded me about it."

"Maybe he was an official of the K and R?"

"He'd have been traveling on a pass if he was. No, sir, this chap was a straight fare. He said K and R;

and there I was."

"There's a local pulls out on the K and R, isn't there?"

"Yeah. To Altamont, where the power dam is under construction. Like as not this fellow is switching to

the local."

The conductor placed the ticket aside. He went on with his other details. Neither he nor the Pullman

conductor glanced across the aisle. The Shadow had completed his light repast. He was rising silently,

leaving his grip by the seat.

Walking forward, The Shadow passed the corner where the porter was dozing. He walked through the

short vestibule into the car ahead. This unit of the articulated train was the portion to which the Pullman

conductor had referred as "Car 3." The Shadow's unit was one ahead; but he did not continue on to Car

Instead, he stopped at curtains that read: No. 8. This was the berth occupied by the passenger whom the

conductor had discussed - the man who was due to leave the train at the K and R Junction.

The Shadow had learned much from the short conversation that he had overheard. He knew that the

occupant of this berth must be a man who had some unusual purpose. He could be no chance traveler,

for he would not have called for the stop required by a little known regulation.

The Shadow had deliberately passed by the muffled passenger who had alighted at Falko because he

had conjectured no reason for Seton Hylap leaving the limited there. Conversely, The Shadow was

stopping at this berth because he had decided that Hylap might be its occupant.

The retired financier was close to affairs in San Francisco. It was quite probable he had learned of a deal

that concerned the K and R Railroad.

CAREFULLY, The Shadow spread the curtains. Beyond them, he encountered a metal barrier; the

berths of these streamlined trains were equipped with such doors for passengers who chose to use them.

The Shadow slid one hand along the barrier. He found a slight space. The door was not fastened from

the inside.

Smoothly, noiselessly, The Shadow slid the steel sheet open. His hand moved through the darkness; it

found a switch beside the window. Covering the little bulb of the berth lamp, The Shadow pressed the

switch. His palm covered the glow; carefully, he moved his hand sidewise, to let light trickle into the

berth.

Keen eyes were staring toward the man whom they saw lying in the berth. The glow increased as The

Shadow continued the motion of his hand. Then, with suddenness, The Shadow removed his hand

entirely.

The man in the berth was dead. The burning lamp revealed that fact in all its horror. Lying face upward,

his body half out from the blankets, the victim was staring toward the bottom of the berth above. The

dead man's eyes were bulging sightless; his lips were twisted in an expression of agony.

The Shadow had seen such death before. He knew what had caused it. The victim had been poisoned;

the killer had taken no chances in making sure of certain death. The man had died amid fierce pangs that

had prevented him from making an outcry.

However the killer might have administered the dose, it was evident that he had made no visit here to

view his handiwork. That would have meant too great a risk; furthermore, two articles of clothing

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DEATHRIDESTHESKYWAYMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.SANFRANCISCONIGHT?CHAPTERII.FLIGHTINTHEFOG?CHAPTERIII.DEATHTRAVELSEAST?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWSUBSTITUTES?CHAPTERV.DOUBLE-CROSSERS?CHAPTERVI.DEATHATDAWN?CHAPTERVII.THELONECLUE?CHAPTERVIII.THECLUEREMAIN...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 095 - Death Rides the Skyway.pdf

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 095 - Death Rides the Skyway

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