Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 146 - Face of Doom

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FACE OF DOOM
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME'S OVERLORD
? CHAPTER II. JORDY TALKS AGAIN
? CHAPTER III. CRIME'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER IV. THE CROOK WHO LEARNED
? CHAPTER V. CRIME'S ULTIMATUM
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW'S ANSWER
? CHAPTER VII. CROOKS AGREE
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW TRAPPED
? CHAPTER IX. A CROOK'S PROMISE
? CHAPTER X. MURDER RIDES AHEAD
? CHAPTER XI. THE CLUE FROM DARKNESS
? CHAPTER XII. THE VANISHED EMPEROR
? CHAPTER XIII. CROOKS VERSUS SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIV. THROUGH THE SHAFT
? CHAPTER XV. CRIME'S INFERNO
? CHAPTER XVI. THE LIVING GHOST
? CHAPTER XVII. BEINGS OF DARKNESS
? CHAPTER XVIII. BIG-SHOTS LISTEN
? CHAPTER XIX. CROOKS UNITED
? CHAPTER XX. DEATH LIES BELOW
? CHAPTER XXI. THE LOST EMPIRE
CHAPTER I. CRIME'S OVERLORD
THE elevated local was rumbling to a stop when Marty Lursch stepped to the open car platform. One
hand on the slippery, rain-soaked rail, Marty slanted a look through the drizzle. Above the hazy lights of
the Apex Meat Market, he saw the windows he was seeking. They were shuttered tight.
The collar of Marty's dark-brown raincoat was turned high, but it didn't hide the grin that showed on his
bloated face, when he stepped from the "el" train. Shuttered windows meant that Jordy Fergen was in the
meeting place. The first man to get there closed those shutters. That was Marty's rule.
Down the steps of the elevated station, Marty shifted away from the rain-shrouded lights of Third
Avenue. He didn't have to go through the crowded aisles of the cut-price meat market, to reach the
second floor. There was a rear alley that offered direct access. It was always black and deserted in the
evening. The little entry to the stairway was a dark place, also.
In fact, Marty Lursch had originally picked the upstairs room as a hideaway, in case he required one.
That hadn't become necessary; but Marty had still kept the place a secret, except to Jordy Fergen.
Marty was remembering that, as he stole up the inner stairs. There wasn't a person in New York who
knew about this meeting spot, outside of Marty and Jordy. No one; not even "The Face."
That last thought brought a chuckle from Marty, as he placed his long fingers on the doorknob. Then,
suppressing all sound, Marty opened the door and stepped into darkness. Closing the door softly behind
him, Marty was free to supply a whispered announcement:
"O.K., Jordy! It's me—Marty!"
There was a slight sound; a stir in the darkness. Marty took it as Jordy's answer. Shifting his rangy body
along the wall, he found the light switch and pressed it.
The result stiffened Marty's face into an upward stare.
The lights did not come on with the sudden glare that the rangy crook expected. Instead, there issued a
feeble glow, like an old flashlight with weak batteries.
As Marty gazed, the lights began to increase their power, but with a painful slowness. They furnished a
weak circle around the center of the ceiling; they spread their range until the walls became barely visible.
Then the increase halted.
Marty lowered his stare. His eyes were goggly as they looked straight ahead. His bloated lips no longer
wore a smile.
Seated in the center of the room was a figure that Marty recognized. Not from its shape, for that was
distorted by a darkish, high-drawn garment resembling a Roman toga; but because of the features that
showed above it. They were clearly visible; too much so, to suit Marty.
The face in the gloom shone with a weird, greenish light, that made it more ghostly than human.
Marty needed no more light to identify this being who so mysteriously awaited him. In fact, greater
illumination would have destroyed the illusion that produced Marty's recognition. For the rigid crook had
never seen that visage, except in haunting dimness. No one had ever needed to tell Marty that, in full light,
the grotesque countenance would bear no resemblance to its present appearance.
Gloom seemed designed to make that face impressive. The forehead was a broad expanse of glow;
cheeks made straight, downward lines to a chin that cut square across. Eyes formed deep sockets, but
from them shone beady points of light. The nose looked sharp; the lips straight. Those effects, however,
could be due to well-gauged applications of the luminous dye.
Proof that the disguise had been perfectly arranged came, when Marty gulped two words:
"The Face!"
GLOWING lips contorted into an oddly twisted smile, itself a symbol that Marty had seen before. From
those lips grated the harsh accusation that Marty feared.
"You have sought to deceive me!" spoke The Face. "You know the reckoning that awaits those who
make that error!"
"It wasn't that, chief," blurted Marty. "I only wanted to talk to Jordy, to get the lowdown on the next job
-"
"You talked to others first," came the rasped interruption. "To Orry Leven and Sparkler Broyt. You told
them that you had tired of long idleness; that you intended to engage in crime to-night."
Marty wilted. The Face knew everything. How, Marty couldn't guess. He knew that Orry Leven and
"Sparkler" Broyt weren't the sort who squealed, not even to The Face. How The Face had managed to
find this spot, was another mystery, unless he had kept tabs on Jordy Fergen.
Those matters, though, seemed trivial. Marty's job, right now, was to square himself with The Face.
"I wanted to talk to Jordy," insisted Marty. "I wouldn't have gone ahead, chief—not without your
O.K.—but Jordy called me up the other day. Said things would be ripe to-night, if I had the mob ready.
He couldn't talk over the telephone, but I figured he had something big.
"He's a smart guy, Jordy is. Been working as a ship steward for fifteen years. Used to inform on guys that
were smuggling gems, until I put him wise to a better racket. That was to get the dope on stuff that was
coming through legit, and let me grab it off afterward.
"I know what he's got this trip: Those Spanish jewels that were shipped to the Aldheim Company. Jordy
must have got wise to some way to slide in there, that I don't know about. If I could talk to Jordy -"
Marty's voice broke off. He had talked himself in a circle, and there wasn't anything else he could say to
square himself. He knew what it meant to be in wrong with The Face.
For months, certain criminals had been enjoying unusual success in crime, for one single reason: They had
accepted the rule of The Face, Manhattan's new overlord of crime. Who he was, what he was—none
had guessed. There were rules, though, that The Face invariably followed.
He appeared at unexpected places, as he had to-night, to talk to crooks alone. Always, he showed that
same luminous countenance, indelible in its glowing green, yet untraceable, afterward. He gave out
orders, coupled with threats; and underworld members listened.
Men of crime could choose their own enterprises; but all must have the approval of The Face.
Sometimes, The Face rejected plans; other times, he said to wait. In every case that crime proceeded at
his bidding, The Face received his percentage of the spoils.
There were two reasons why crooks—even the biggest of the big-shots— submitted to this mysterious
overlord, whom they had so appropriately dubbed "The Face."
First, because when The Face ordered crime, it succeeded. Second, because crime without The Face's
approval was sure to fail.
Criminals who had accepted The Face's yoke were never troubled; those who refused his terms came to
sudden grief. The Face was a racketeer without an equal; for his victims were crooks and racketeers
themselves. Small wonder, therefore, that Marty Lursch was jittery. He was helpless, in the control of
The Face.
Lips that glowed in darkness spoke their decision.
"YOU are fortunate," rasped The Face. "It happens that your decision corresponds with mine. Meet
Jordy. Learn the details. Proceed with crime to-night."
Marty couldn't manage to gulp his thanks.
"One point must be remembered," added The Face, dryly, "Make no move until after midnight. There is a
reason."
Marty's nerves were no longer shaky. He shot a question.
"You mean The Shadow?"
"That is correct." Again, The Face spoke dryly. "Beginning with midnight, The Shadow will be otherwise
engaged."
Marty's grin came back. That was the smartest thing The Face did. He handled The Shadow, somehow.
Scourge of the underworld, The Shadow was also a mysterious figure; but he battled crime, instead of
aiding it. No matter how well plotters laid their plans, The Shadow had always been an unknown factor
who might ruin the smoothest scheme. Since The Face entered the picture, all that was changed.
Those who were with The Face never met The Shadow. It seemed, though, that crooks who ignored
The Face were always running into trouble from a black-cloaked adversary who had their number.
Remembering that, Marty regretted his recent impatience. He managed to mouth an apology to The
Face.
"Comment is unnecessary." The Face was moving upward, as the body beneath it rose from the chair.
"Caution is wiser. I have chosen to ignore your error. I shall not do so again."
There was a pause. Fully risen, The Face added:
"You know the penalty?"
Marty nodded. The Face was looking toward the light switch on the wall. Marty pressed it. Dim lights
died. The door opened beside Marty; but the crook didn't hear it. He was staring at the luminous features
of The Face, more shining than ever.
Suddenly, those features were blotted. The Face had turned away. Marty heard a hoarse whisper,
almost in his ear:
"Blimey! The Fyce!"
It was Jordy Fergen. He had arrived in time to see The Face. Jordy had heard about crime's overlord;
but only indirectly. He hadn't been here to experience the shakiness that Marty still felt. Jordy didn't
know how tough The Face could be.
Before Marty could stop the fellow, Jordy blinked a flashlight. It became his turn to stare in awe.
The room was empty. Strange though The Face's arrival had been, his departure was even more
mysterious. The flashlight wabbled in Jordy's hand. The crooked steward muttered:
"Strike me! Let's get out of this grisly 'ole!"
It suited Marty. As they crept downstairs, he had his answer. There was an old closet in the room; its
wall was thin. That was why Marty had always kept the closet door locked. The Face, learning of the
hide-out, had probably chiseled through that wall.
He was gone, through another room and out, before Marty and Jordy started their exit. His visit, though,
had left them woozy. Marty still couldn't get over The Face's arrival. Jordy was shaken by the
crime-master's sudden departure.
Marty decided not to enlighten Jordy on the subject. The less Jordy knew; the more worried he was, the
better it would suit The Face.
To Marty Lursch, beginning with tonight, The Face had become a master supreme.
IN the alleyway, Jordy Fergen steadied, to give details for Marty's next crime. They were the very sort
that Marty wanted. On the liner Megantic, Jordy had done more than obtain details regarding the Spanish
jewels themselves; the fake steward had listened in on a conversation between two representatives of the
Aldheim Company.
They had done more than discuss the gems. They had talked over the faults of the burglar-alarm system
protecting the Aldheim offices. They had also expressed annoyance because installation of a newer
system had been delayed. It wouldn't be fixed, as ordered, before the Spanish gems arrived in New
York.
"That means the old hook-up is still set," summed Marty, when Jordy had finished. "It's a cinch, Jordy,
with all you've spilled about it. You slide back to the boat and stay there. I'll get the mob together. We'll
start the job at midnight."
Ever cautious, Jordy asked where Marty Lursch would be until midnight, in case he needed to find him.
Marty's reply was explicit.
"Call the Casino Del Tovar," stated Marty. "The swell joint that Sparkler Broyt runs. Ask for Orry
Leven. I'll be with him. I'm going to put both those fellows straight on one thing"—Marty was adding this
for his own benefit, rather than Jordy's. "I'm letting them know that I still stand right with The Face."
Jordy shuffled from the alley. Three minutes later, Marty took the same route. He went back to the
elevated station, to ride a few stations, then change to a cab. As he waited on the station platform, Marty
again registered a grin on his puffy features.
If Marty Lursch had foreseen the full consequences of his coming midnight venture, he would not have
worn that smirk.
CHAPTER II. JORDY TALKS AGAIN
AT eleven o'clock that evening, a group of men were leaving the banquet room of the Hotel Cosmopole.
All were attired in evening clothes; their faces marked them as a distinguished throng. Reporters were in
abundance; cameramen were shooting photographs as they touched off flash bulbs.
The affair had, in fact, been an eventful one. The banquet had been given by Alvin Drame, multimillionaire
and philanthropist; its purpose was to induce other men of wealth to add their contributions to a fund for
the erection of a new museum.
Drame, himself, had announced his subscription of a half a million dollars, to put the plan in progress.
That made him the center of attention as he left the banquet room. Surrounded by other men, Drame
formed a rather incongruous figure.
The philanthropist was tall, but slender and narrow-shouldered. His head seemed overlarge in proportion
to his frame. That was partly due to the bushy hair that topped his high, bulging forehead. His face, too,
was long; its pointed chin increased its oversize appearance.
Drame didn't mind photographs, provided they showed his face alone. He had a way of shifting his
spidery shoulders out of sight, past other persons. If asked to pose alone, he made sure that the picture
was a close-up of his face. No one ever managed a candid-camera shot of Alvin Drame.
The multimillionaire looked hollow-eyed and tired; but his large broad lips retained a pleasant smile. It
was seldom that Drame appeared publicly; when he did, he let interviewers make the most of it. That
was why he stole the show from the other celebrities present. It irked some of them; particularly, Police
Commissioner Ralph Weston.
If there was one thing that Commissioner Weston liked, it was being photographed with men of
prominence. Being shunted to the background didn't please him. Twisting the points of his military
mustache, Weston looked for some one in the same position, who might draw him into the limelight. He
saw the very man he wanted. That individual was Lamont Cranston, a millionaire globe-trotter.
Tall, immaculately attired, Cranston was standing apart from the throng. If the bedlam amused him, he did
not show it; for Cranston's face was an immobile one. The only expression that came to his hawkish face
was a slight smile of welcome as Weston approached.
"Hello, Cranston!" greeted the commissioner. "Sorry I could not reach you last night, from the club. I
wanted you to meet Kent Allard, the famous aviator."
"Allard and I are already acquainted," replied Cranston calmly. "It is seldom, though, we meet in New
York. I am sorry that I was out of town, commissioner."
Though Weston did not guess it, he was actually speaking to Kent Allard. The guise of Lamont Cranston
was merely one that Allard assumed on suitable occasions. That, in itself, was amazing; but there was
more to Allard's remarkable personality.
There were times when Allard was neither himself nor Cranston. Those were the occasions on which he
became that mysterious being known as The Shadow.
SUCH an occasion was shortly due. A reporter joined Weston and Cranston. The commissioner was
pleased, when he recognized Clyde Burke, of the Classic. Weston was counting on an interview that
would include himself. Instead, Burke concentrated on Cranston, asking if he intended to contribute to
the museum fund.
While Cranston parried the reporter's questions, Weston stalked away. That put the scene the way
Clyde Burke wanted it. In a low voice, the reporter told Allard:
"Report on Clipper Threeve. Achilles Warehouse job set for midnight."
"Report received," undertoned Cranston. "Instructions! Inform Burbank to tip off Cardona at
eleven-fifty."
Clyde moved away, his face puzzled. This was the sort of case that The Shadow usually handled alone.
Instead, he was turning it over to the law. The warehouse raid would become the duty of Inspector Joe
Cardona. Ace of the Manhattan force, Cardona was competent; but this assignment would be over his
head. He might spoil "Clipper's" warehouse job; but the law could never close in soon enough to trap that
slick worker and his band. Only The Shadow could bag Clipper—by being inside, waiting for him.
Clyde Burke couldn't guess what the real dope was. That was something which only The Shadow knew.
A few minutes after Clyde had gone, Lamont Cranston was leisurely shaking hands with Alvin Drame,
promising the museum sponsor that he would hear from him shortly regarding a contribution.
In strolling style, Cranston went downstairs in an elevator, through the hotel lobby, to the street. Haste
seemed absent from his thoughts as he stepped into a waiting limousine.
After that, the pretense ended.
Through the speaking tube, Cranston gave a crisp order to the chauffeur. As the big limousine wheeled
toward Tenth Avenue, Cranston pulled out a drawer-like compartment beneath the rear seat. Black
garments unfolded under quick-moving hands.
Within the space of half a minute, the limousine's passenger was cloaked in black. A slouch hat rested on
his head; a brace of automatics were tucked in holsters beneath his inky garb.
The Shadow was speeding to a quick-chosen destination.
There was something phony in the Clipper Threeve set-up. It was like half a dozen other crimes that The
Shadow had recently suppressed. With every triumph, there had been a missed opportunity. This case
offered another link in the sequence.
The Shadow's agents, scouring the underworld, had been learning facts too easily. If The Shadow chose
Clipper Threeve as to-night's target, the field would be open for hidden crime elsewhere. It had been that
way for weeks; but this time, The Shadow was prepared for it.
Ever since the Spanish gems had arrived in New York, The Shadow had expected thieves to seek them.
That was why he had stationed Harry Vincent, one of his keenest agents, at a watch-post near the offices
of the Aldheim Company. So far, Harry had furnished no report on any undue activities there.
Nor had The Shadow learned of a single leak that could favor men of crime. He had waited for proof
that there could be such a leak. It had come—this bait involving Clipper Threeve. Midnight was the hour.
The Shadow still had time to follow a lone thread that might prove useful; one that he had left for
emergency.
Only one crook, to The Shadow's knowledge, could possibly have gleaned information regarding the
Spanish gems. That fellow was a ratty steward aboard the liner Megantic. His name was Jordy Fergen.
The Shadow hadn't missed the fact that Jordy had dropped his old game of tipping off customs
inspectors regarding smuggled jewels. That meant that Jordy had found a better racket.
THE big liner lay shrouded at its pier. Along the Hudson River, the drizzle was mostly fog. There were
watchmen at the shore end of the pier, but the mist-dewed lights lessened their range of vision. There was
a gangplank running up to the side of the Megantic; but it formed no more than a dull streak in the
darkness.
No eyes spied the gliding shape that boarded the liner. First evidence of The Shadow's presence was to
be gotten by Jordy Fergen.
The ratty steward was in his cramped cabin, playing solitaire with a greasy pack of cards. He had been
smoking cigarettes ever since his return to the liner; that was one reason why Jordy had the porthole
open. There was another reason; Jordy was overwarm from the nips of liquor that he had taken. The
whisky bottle on his rickety table was half emptied.
Jordy's nerves were on edge. That was why he caught the stir outside the porthole. When he stared,
though, he saw nothing but the swirling fog. Rigid, Jordy kept his eyes set until the lighted end of his
cigarette began to singe his lips.
With an ugly grunt, the steward flung away the cigarette stump. He decided that he needed one more nip.
He found his hands shaky when he reached for bottle and glass. Jordy was recalling the face that he had
seen at Marty's meeting place.
"Twas grisly," muttered the steward. "That's wot it was—grisly!"
Another stir made Jordy turn. This sound came from the cabin door. He thought that he had heard it
open. He was wrong. Jordy had heard the door close. Before his rattish eyes stood a being who had
entered; a shape more terrifying than The Face. Jordy saw a cloaked being, whose eyes shone ominously
beneath the brim of a slouch hat.
The Shadow stood unarmed. That was why Jordy jumped to action. Grabbing the whisky bottle, he tried
to swing it for The Shadow's head. Blackness surged toward him as he swung. A sweeping arm warded
away the stroke. Two gloved hands of steel took Jordy's throat.
Raised from his chair, Jordy heard the whispered command that issued from hidden lips. The Shadow
was demanding all that Jordy knew regarding the Spanish gems. Jordy talked. His words were a bare
whisper; all that he could squeeze from his tight-clamped throat.
"Marty Lursch"—Jordy's statements were short spasms—"going up through the floor—into the strong
room—'e's making 'is start from No. 202—right below the Hald'eim place!"
Jordy was back against the porthole. The Shadow had thrust him there to block off any view from
outside. The Shadow put another question; one that brought a fearful twitch to Jordy's lips.
"State who ordered Marty's crime!"
All that Jordy could deliver was a gurgle. The Shadow's fingers relaxed. His throat muscles free, Jordy
voiced the answer with more than a gasp. He managed a hoarse cry:
"It was The Fyce! I've seen him with my own eyes, s'elp me! The Fyce was the -"
THE reports of a revolver interrupted from the fog: two staccato shots in quick succession. They were
enough for Jordy. The squealy steward went limp in The Shadow's clutch. Those bullets had tongued
through the porthole, sharp stabs for Jordy's back.
Instantly, The Shadow shoved Jordy hard against the opening. The fellow was dead. He could serve The
Shadow only as a temporary shield.
Whipping across the cabin, The Shadow yanked open the door. He pulled an automatic as he went;
turning from the corridor, he was aiming his .45 for the porthole when Jordy slumped away.
Like Jordy, The Shadow saw nothing but the writhing tendrils of fog. The assassin had shoved away; but
in departure, he was giving a clue to his direction. The Shadow could hear him clambering over a rail
above the port.
There was only one direction that the killer could take; that was toward a rear deck.
The Shadow pursued. He could hear the outside scurry as he sprang up through a companionway. There
were shouts from all along the docked liner. Crew members had heard those gunbursts. They were after
the man responsible. Halting as he reached the deck, The Shadow saw a chase in which he could not
participate.
Too many figures were blocking The Shadow's path of fire. He saw their quarry—a scrawny man who
looked like a wharf rat. That was what the ship's crew took him for; but The Shadow knew the man's
actual ilk. He was a gunman, posted to keep watch in case Jordy tried to blab.
Officers were pounding along the pier. They fired warning shots that clanged the liner's steel side. Those
didn't slow the assassin; they spurred him on. The officers changed tactics; they aimed above the fellow's
head, to let him hear the whistle of the bullets. Madly, the gunman clambered over a rear rail, hoping for a
jump into the river.
The spring hoisted him into the path of fire. There was a shriek as a chance bullet clipped the killer. His
voice was a long, fading wail, as he took his sprawling dive. It ended with a flat, silencing splash.
Crew and guards alike had reached a spot by the liner's stern, to peer into darkened waters, hoping to
spy the killer's body. None saw the shape that again descended the gangplank. There was no one at the
shore end of the pier to force delay upon the cloaked figure that had chosen to take such prompt
departure.
With a quarter hour remaining until midnight, The Shadow was faring forth to use the facts that he had
gained before Jordy's pasty lips went dead.
CHAPTER III. CRIME'S TRAIL
EAST of lower Broadway stood the tall but old-fashioned building that housed the offices of the Aldheim
Company. The structure had been a skyscraper in its day, but it was dwarfed by the mighty towers that
now pyramided near it.
All that saved the old building from destruction were the long-term leases held by certain concerns that
occupied it. One of these, the Aldheim Company, liked the location because of its proximity to Maiden
Lane, where other jewelry houses were situated.
Darkened, tight-locked at night, this relic of the early skyscraper era looked as formidable as a fortress.
It was, in fact, impregnable to any direct attack; but one loophole had been overlooked. Since the
building's construction, subways had been burrowed beneath the surrounding streets. They afforded an
invisible underground route to the building's interior.
Midnight was past. In the darkness of an empty second-floor office, oiled saws were cutting silently
through flooring. The last up-and-down motion came; a man shifted from a ladder top, to let a slab of
loosened wood fall into waiting hands. A low-growled voice, that of Marty Lursch, ordered the fellow
down from the ladder.
It was Marty himself who poked into the darkened space above, to glimmer a flashlight along the floor.
He whispered juicy news to the yeggs who waited below.
"It's the place we're looking for!" informed Marty. "Bring up those drills. We're getting to work!"
The drills came up. Mobsters found their leader in a room that was bulked by huge steel shutters, with a
metal door that could have withstood a sizable charge of dynamite. Set in the wall was the heavy front of
an old-fashioned vault. As he viewed it with the flashlight, Marty grinned.
The Aldheim outfit had put their dough into protecting the entrances to the vault room, figuring that they
would have a double barrier. They hadn't counted on crooks finding another route into the room itself, to
begin direct operations on the vault. They'd be due for a surprise to-morrow, when they opened the
untouched door to find a hole in the floor, with the rifled vault beyond it.
There was no use fooling with the combination. The drill was the better system. Hooked to an extension
cord from the room below, the drill began its bite. The vault door cut like layers of tissue. Its steel was
the sort that safemakers had used in the days when they had no worries regarding electric drills.
Marty had a helper beside him. Over their shoulders peered a third yegg, who witnessed the quick
progress. Not needed, he shuffled back to the hole in the floor; whispered the tidings to the man who
waited in the room below. That fellow stole to the door, gave the news to a thug who patrolled the
corridor.
The word followed a long-stretched chain. The patroller told another at the darkened stairs. Mutters
followed to the basement; the news was finally carried to the end of a long, narrow passage, where
distant rumbles could be heard. There, it was whispered to a lone lookout who stood beside a heavy
metal gate.
That gate opened onto the end of a subway platform. After six o'clock, it was shut and padlocked. One
of Marty's crew had settled the padlock, while a subway train had been rumbling in the opposite
direction. A few hard whacks from a small sledge had been sufficient.
The gate had a new lock, at present, so that it would pass notice if any one observed it. The keys to the
new padlock were in the pocket of the lurking picket.
A subway local coasted to a stop at the station. It wasn't far enough along the platform to reveal the
watcher; but it would be soon. As he heard the train start, the thug dropped a cigarette to the stone floor.
Crushing the smoking stump with his foot, he stepped out of sight behind the corner where the gate was
hinged.
When the train had roared by, the lookout edged from his hiding place. He took a look in both
directions, through the gate; then turned toward the passage, to blink a guarded-flashlight signal telling
that all was well.
THE lookout hadn't made the careful inspection that he thought he had.
There had been a crouching darkness on the platform, just beyond the gate. It arose behind the crook's
back, as he blinked the signal. While the thug was pocketing his torch, long arms stretched through the
gate. They poised, then clamped together like the hooks of closing ice tongs.
Between them, powerful hands encountered the watcher's neck. The dig of thin-gloved fingers held the
fellow's gurgle deep in his throat.
The thug clawed; his efforts were useless. With passing seconds, his tugs relaxed. When gloved fingers
loosened, the gate watcher folded to the floor.
The Shadow reached through, fished the padlock keys from the crook's pocket. Soon, the thug lay
bound and gagged. The Shadow was stealing along the passage that lay within the gate.
From then on, The Shadow's course was a curious mixture of speed and delay. He didn't undertake to
handle all the chain of yeggs that made up Marty's crew. It was better to slide past most of them in the
darkness; particularly as there were a few who had been given remote stations.
On the stairs, however, The Shadow encountered watchers at close range. He took them unawares;
treated them as he had the man at the gate.
The last encounter came when The Shadow entered the office just beneath the Aldheim vault room.
There, he encountered his first serious resistance— from a wiry crook who put up frenzied battle. The
fellow couldn't shout, under The Shadow's choking grip; but he did manage to conduct a flaying fight
across the room.
There was luck in the fact that the office was devoid of furniture; otherwise, there would have been
betraying crashes. The one danger was the ladder. The Shadow could see it dimly; and he kept the fight
away from it, until the finish.
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FACEOFDOOMMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CRIME'SOVERLORD?CHAPTERII.JORDYTALKSAGAIN?CHAPTERIII.CRIME'STRAIL?CHAPTERIV.THECROOKWHOLEARNED?CHAPTERV.CRIME'SULTIMATUM?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOW'SANSWER?CHAPTERVII.CROOKSAGREE?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOWTRAPPED?CHAPT...

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