Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 142 - Hills Of Death

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HILLS OF DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," January 15, 1938.
Terrible death hovers over the hills of New Jersey, while The Shadow
strives to break the grip of evil!
CHAPTER I
JERSEY MURDER
THE lights of the filling station were dimmed amid the drizzle, as the
small coupe nosed toward them. It wasn't until the driver identified the
round,
dull glow of a gasoline standard that he was sure the place was actually a
service station.
The discovery brought him satisfaction. Picking a way among the back
roads
on a hazy night was bad enough; it was worse when the needle of the gasoline
gauge had wangled almost to the empty mark.
Pulling in between the gasoline standard and the shack that served as
service station, the driver of the coupe honked his horn; then settled back to
light a cigarette. The dim lights showed a wise face; eyes that were
observant,
but friendly.
Though young, the man at the wheel of the coupe had an oddish poise. His
experienced air caused many persons to class him as a newspaper reporter,
which, in fact, he was. This traveler along the back roads of New Jersey was
Clyde Burke, roving news-getter for the New York Classic.
Clyde was eyeing the service station as he lighted his cigarette. It
looked like a one-man establishment; and the poorly-painted sign above the
door
testified to that effect. It bore the name: "FRED'S SERVICE STATION," and the
man who came from the little building was evidently Fred, himself.
He was the sort of service station proprietor that Clyde expected to see
in a remote location like this. Fred was tall and lanky; he wore puttees,
khaki
trousers and an old sweater, topped by a black poncho. His face was dreary,
weather-beaten; that of a man who had taken up his present occupation as a
last
resort.
There was something else, though, that Clyde noted instantly. There was a
worried look on Fred's face as the fellow saw the coupe. He seemed to be
expecting some one that he didn't want to see. His lips grimaced momentarily;
then their expression changed. Clyde's car wasn't the one that Fred thought it
was. That was why Fred gave his wan grin of relief.
"Fill her up!"
Clyde's brisk order brought a nod from Fred. Clyde's appearance added to
the man's relief. That made the reporter more anxious to learn what was on the
fellow's mind.
While Fred was busy at the gasoline standard, Clyde alighted from the
coupe and strolled over to open conversation. His first words were a question:
"Do you have a telephone?"
Fred looked up suspiciously. He noted that Clyde was light of build,
although wiry. He didn't seem the sort who would be making trouble.
Nevertheless, Fred wasn't taking chances.
"Yeah," he returned, gruffly. "I got a telephone. Only it ain't a pay
station. People don't use it, generally -"
"I want to call New York." Clyde produced his reporter's card. "The
operator will give us the charges. I'll pay them."
Fred saw the reporter's card by the glow of the tail-light. His
expression
showed a sudden eagerness. He wanted to talk to some one, and Clyde seemed
eligible. Fred thumbed toward the service station.
"Will you wait inside, sir?" he questioned. "I'll pull your car around in
back."
Clyde nodded, Fred's request told him exactly what he wanted to know.
Fred
was awaiting the arrival of another car. That was why he wanted the space
clear.
Obligingly, Clyde went inside. He was seated in a chair by a battered
desk
when Fred joined him.
"TELL me something." Fred wasn't wasting any time. "Are you out here
looking for a story?"
"In a way - yes." Clyde spoke frankly. "We picked up a tip, down at the
newspaper office, that some New York mobbies were heading out this way. Just
where they were going, and why, we don't know. So far, they haven't made any
trouble."
Clyde was outspoken, because he was confident that Fred was no crook.
What
he didn't tell Fred was that the Classic knew nothing about the tip in
question.
Though Clyde was actually a newspaper reporter, he also filled another job.
Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow, the superfoe to all men of crime.
It was The Shadow who had learned of gang-car trips across the Jersey
meadows. For the past four days, The Shadow had been watching a crew of
hoodlums that he expected would start forth. Meanwhile, he had sent Clyde and
other agents on tours of investigation, hoping that they might learn the
probable destination of the crooks.
Clyde was thinking of those facts as he watched Fred. The man's eyes were
staring out through the door, with a far-away gaze. He was nodding over what
Clyde had told him. Suddenly, Fred voiced, in awed tones:
"To-night's Wednesday!"
Clyde awaited an explanation of the statement. For a few moments, Fred
hesitated; then broke loose.
"Listen, Mr. Burke" - Fred remembered Clyde's name from the reporter's
card - "every Wednesday night he comes here, see? A fellow in a coupe; only
it's bigger than your car. With Jersey license plates, instead of New York. He
never says nothing - just holds up his hand, spread like this, meaning he
wants
five gallons of gas.
"I've seen him close enough to guess what he is. He's a Turk, that's
what!
With a round face, yellowlike - and a mustache, like this." Fred drew his
forefinger straight across his upper lip. "And he never smiles. Keeps his lips
straight; just like the mustache."
Fred sat down. He watched Clyde, saw that the reporter was intent. That
was because Clyde knew there must be more to the story. Filling station men
didn't worry about steady customers having a foreign appearance and refusing
to
open conversation. Fred's next spell of hesitancy wasn't a long one.
"Here's what happens, every time." Fred leaned forward in his chair. "The
guy don't pull out right away, see? He smokes a cigarette - sometimes two or
three. They smell like pure Turkish; I whiffed the smoke once, when I was
close.
"Then, all of a sudden, a car goes by from the opposite direction. A
sedan; but I never got its license number. That's what the Turk's waiting for,
though he don't show it. Maybe he finishes his cigarette; sometimes he lights
another, to bluff me. But he pulls out, circles back, after he's seen that car
pass. And when he gets to the bend" - Fred pointed - "he stops to pick up
something!"
Fred arose and paced the cramped floor, nodding wisely. He had told his
story, and he considered it air-tight. The tale impressed Clyde, too. Cars
were
infrequent along this lonely road. The fact that the Turk always waited until
one had passed was sufficient proof that the mystery man was awaiting that
machine.
"I shoulda called the State police." Fred glanced ruefully at the
telephone. "It's too late, though. The Turk's about due. That means I got to
wait another week."
"I have an idea." Clyde arose. "Don't call the State police at all; not
until we know more about the case. Maybe I can find out something."
"How?"
"By getting down to the bend and seeing what the fellow does there. If he
-"
A splashing sound interrupted. A car was wallowing in from the
rain-soaked
road. Fred pointed quickly to a little side door beyond the desk.
"It's him!" gulped the weather-beaten man. "Better duck out, Mr. Burke -"
CLYDE was off before Fred completed the hint. Once outside, he sneaked to
the front corner of the little building. From his vantage point, Clyde saw
Fred
going out to a large coupe that had parked beside the gasoline standard.
The mystery car had arrived. Events repeated themselves exactly as Fred
had described them. Clyde glimpsed a darkish face that moved back into the car
as Fred approached. A hand showed at the window to gesture for five gallons.
While Fred was putting gas into the tank, the man in the car lighted a
cigarette.
Fred received his money and came back into the shack. The man in the car
had finished one smoke. Clyde could see the tiny flare of a match, as he
lighted another. Hurrying to the side door, Clyde opened it and beckoned to
Fred.
"I'm going down to the bend," whispered Clyde. "If I don't come back,
call
this number. Tell the person who answers that you're calling for me; and give
him the details."
The written telephone number that Clyde slipped to Fred was an unlisted
one, important to The Shadow's agents. The man who would answer a call there
was Burbank, The Shadow's contact man.
Fred put a question: "This number's the newspaper office?"
Clyde shook his head. He told Fred not to worry about it; just to call
the
number. Fred agreed; but made another proviso.
"Maybe I ought to call the State coppers, too?"
"Don't do that," interrupted Clyde. "If you've got to get in touch with
the police, call Joe Cardona, the New York inspector. He knows me."
Leaving Fred, Clyde rounded the back of the shack and picked his way
through the underbrush. His route was silent; for the ground was heavily
soaked. Soon out of earshot from the Turk's coupe, Clyde found a sudden urge
for speed. From down the road, he could hear the rapid rhythm of an
approaching
motor.
A sedan whizzed past, too swiftly for Clyde to do more than glimpse it
from the bushes. It went by the service station; and by the time Clyde was
near
the bend, he could hear the coupe pulling away from Fred's.
Just off the edge of the road, Clyde waited while the coupe pulled up. It
stopped some thirty feet beyond him.
Clyde watched the driver get out and use a flashlight. He was looking for
something just off the paving. Stealing out to the roadway, Clyde saw the
flashlight glimmer on a muddy satchel. The man picked it up and came back to
the coupe.
That was when Clyde performed an impulsive move. Behind the coupe, he was
out of sight. There wasn't time to accost the mystery man; moreover, Clyde
doubted the wisdom of seeking an encounter. He had time for something else:
the
right trick in this pinch. Tiptoeing along through the drizzle, Clyde reached
the back of the coupe, just as the car started.
With a long grab, Clyde clutched the handle of the rumble seat and shoved
one foot upon a bumperette. He gained another hold while the car was gathering
speed. Clinging, flattened, the reporter was off on a trip that promised
strange adventure.
BACK at the service station, Fred was listening to the last sounds of the
coupe's departure. By the light of the gasoline standard, he studied the slip
of paper that Clyde had given him. Memorizing the phone number, the fellow
tore
the paper to shreds. A look of suspicion came over his features.
Fred was thinking that perhaps Clyde had joined the man in the coupe.
Maybe the reporter's visit was a trick to find out how much Fred knew.
With an ugly mutter, the lanky man went into the shack and picked up the
telephone. He was about to call the State police, when he remembered something
that Clyde had said, about calling Joe Cardona.
Just part of Clyde's bluff, thought Fred. All right, he would call that
bluff. A chat with Joe would fix it.
Lifting the receiver, Fred told the operator to connect him with New York
police headquarters. Fred grinned, thinking he would soon be exposing the
methods of a fake reporter.
Fred's sudden mistrust was to prove his misfortune. He had trouble
getting
connected with Cardona; his call took longer than if he had telephoned direct
to
Burbank. That delay was to prove fatal, for Fred's own actions were putting
him
on the spot.
"Hello!" Fred was shouting at some one on the other end of the wire. "I
want to talk to Inspector Cardona...Yeah. Cardona. I got some important news
for him..."
Fred couldn't hear what was happening outside. A long touring car had
slithered up to the front of the service station; men, peering from its
interior, could see Fred at the telephone. A pair of huskies slid out from the
car; muffling their raincoats about their chins, they sneaked up to the
doorway.
"Hello, inspector!" Fred was talking again, while the watchers drew
revolvers from their coat pockets. "I'm a guy that's got a filling station,
over in Jersey. I want to tell you about a car that stopped here... What's
that?... Say, I want to talk to Inspector Cardona! Get him on the wire..."
Fred turned, holding the telephone. He was muttering angrily, because of
the wrong connection. His words were audible, until his eyes happened to gaze
through the doorway. Then, Fred's lips kept moving, but they were soundless.
Goggle-eyed, the lanky man was staring into the muzzles of revolvers. He
saw the intruders step through the doorway, their merciless eyes beady as they
watched him. Fred clamped the telephone receiver to his ear; the horror on his
face was proof that he could hear no one on the other end of the line.
The invaders didn't wait for Fred to get his connection. What they had
heard was enough to settle their policy. This temporary interval was their
opportunity. Before Fred had a chance to plead for life, the pair acted in
concert. Stubby fingers pressed revolver triggers. Each weapon stabbed a
single
shot at six-foot range.
Fred's lanky body doubled. The telephone clattered from his hand and
bounded on the floor. One second later, Fred's sprawling body thumped beside
it. Ugly eyes watched the man's last squirm. Leering lips gave chuckles.
Killers had finished a man who knew too much. It had been easy to deliver
cold-blooded death at this remote spot. This was one crime, they thought, that
would never be traced. Their guess was a good one, so far as the law was
concerned. But those killers were not considering another factor in the case.
Murderers were to pay for their deed, much sooner than they would have
deemed possible. Speedy vengeance was due in this isolated place where men of
crime had gained an evil triumph over a helpless victim.
CHAPTER II
CLUES IN THE NIGHT
THE sharp shots from Fred's shack were like a signal to other mobsters
who
waited in the touring car. One thug craned from behind the wheel, while two
more
sprang from the rear of the car. Reaching the door of the shack, the new pair
was met by one of the murderers.
"We croaked the lug," growled a killer. "He was piping through a call to
Joe Cardona! We'll listen to hear if Joe gets it. You guys take a gander in
back of the shack. See if there's a buggy there."
The pair circled the shack. The killer in the doorway started in to join
his companion, when he heard a warning "Psst!" from the driver of the touring
car. The killer beckoned to his pal, who was listening at the telephone. The
latter set the instrument on the desk and came to the doorway.
"Thought I heard a bus driving up!"
The warning words came from the touring car. The killers stared toward
the
roadway. They heard nothing, saw nothing. The drip-drip of the rain smothered
the sounds that might have reached them. Hazy night added a blanket to obscure
something that they might have observed.
A huge roadster was edging in from the roadway, coasting along with its
motor stilled. The big car halted just short of being seen. From it emerged a
shape that was lost in the darkness. Shrouded in night's blanket, an invisible
arrival took stock of what he saw.
From his point of observation, that visitant spied the little side
doorway
near the rear corner of the shack. Clyde had left the door slightly ajar.
Light
gleamed through. Using that glow as an objective, a silent stalker approached
through darkness.
One murderer was back at the telephone; the other was searching Fred's
body when the door inched inward. A killer heard a slight creak; he whipped
his
revolver in the right direction as he stared instinctively toward the little
door. The barrier swung wide.
On the threshold stood a shape of blackness - a cloaked figure that had
materialized from night. Burning eyes peered along the line of a leveled
automatic. That sight brought a hoarse shout of recognition from the killer's
lips:
"The Shadow!"
HAVING rapped two killers on the actual scene of murder, The Shadow
intended to hold them for the law. The telephone offered prompt communication
with the authorities; and while the police were on the way, The Shadow would
have opportunity for another task.
He could learn from his prisoners why they had come to this remote spot.
The Shadow had a way of making ratty captives talk.
The murderers knew it. They recognized that The Shadow must have trailed
them from New York. Only the foggish thickness of the drizzle had given them
chance to lose The Shadow for short intervals. They were beginning to regret
their hasty murder of Fred.
These thugs had some reason why they didn't want to talk. That was why
they acted with sudden desperation.
One killer was crazed enough to open fire at The Shadow; a futile
attempt,
because the crook had no time for accurate aim. The other murderer chose a
course that was equally unwise. He made a mad dive for the open doorway at the
front of the shack, forgetful of the fact that The Shadow could easily drop
him
as he fled.
Luck favored the killers, where sense failed them. Without knowing it,
the
man who opened fire blocked The Shadow's aim for the rogue who was attempting
flight. Rather than let one crook get away without punishment, The Shadow
performed a sudden twist of tactics.
Instead of dropping the first crook with a point-blank shot, The Shadow
wheeled out through the side door and cut for the front corner of the shack.
The firing crook stopped short, gaping at the incorrect thought that his shots
had driven off The Shadow.
For a moment, the killer was ready to follow; then he changed his mind.
He
ducked out through the front door, in hope of reaching the touring car.
Both killers were to learn their mistake, with promptness. The driver of
the touring car saw them dashing toward him; he glimpsed The Shadow at the
corner of the shack and gave a shout of warning. The murderers turned to
deliver a hectic fire, that they began too late.
The Shadow's .45 spoke its own message. Two gun stabs were all that he
required to stagger the fugitives. The first shot sprawled one thug on the
running board of the touring car, where the crook clutched a wounded shoulder.
The second bullet found the next man's gun arm. The killer dropped his
revolver; he howled as he reeled toward the car.
The man behind the wheel had dropped low into the seat. He was sliding
the
car into gear, ready for flight, without waiting for his crippled pals to get
aboard. That suited The Shadow.
The fierce laugh that shivered from his lips was an urge for the scared
driver to hurry away and leave the actual murderers behind. That one fugitive
could serve, later, to open a new trail to the big-shot who had sent this
murder crew into action.
THE SHADOW'S policy was proof that he had made a miscalculation. He had
not had a chance previously to learn the exact number of crooks in the touring
car.
Arriving late, he had seen nothing of the pair that had gone to the back
of the service station. They, in their turn, had not guessed that The Shadow
was responsible for the firing that they had heard.
The pair had discovered Clyde's car. Starting the coupe, they came
speeding around the corner of the shack just as The Shadow shifted off into
the
darkness. The glare of the headlights showed his cloaked form squarely in
their
path.
With raucous shouts, the thugs tried to take advantage of their lucky
opportunity. The crook at the wheel tried to run The Shadow down, while the
other leaned out with a revolver, to fire if The Shadow leaped away.
With split-second speed, The Shadow dodged the double menace. From his
position, the gunmen expected him to dive to the right. The man in the
driver's
seat yanked the wheel in that direction, while his companion stretched wide
from
the window on the right. Both guessed wrong.
With a long bound, The Shadow went straight across the front of the
oncoming car. He couldn't quite clear it with that spring; but the thump that
he took from the left fender was a glancing one. Instead of rolling beneath
the
tires, The Shadow took a long pitch off into the darkness.
Flattening in the mud, The Shadow rolled over, in case his foemen had
seen
his landing spot. He came to hands and knees, still clutching his automatic.
It
would have gone badly with both crooks, had they stopped to battle further.
They were wise enough, however, to keep on their way.
All that The Shadow saw of the coupe was the final twinkle of the
tail-light as it twisted past trees that lined the open road. He didn't even
have time to recognize the car as Clyde's coupe. Coupled to that was another
disappointment.
The coupe had cut across the touring car's path; in so doing, it delayed
the touring car long enough for the crippled murderers to haul themselves
aboard.
When The Shadow fired at the touring car, it was also on its way, blotted
from sight in the haze. Both cars were in the clear, wheeling away in mad
flight.
The Shadow remembered the telephone in Fred's shack. By a simple call, he
could have the killers bottled. That would leave him free to investigate these
surroundings, where valuable evidence might be found.
The telephone, itself, could be a clue, for The Shadow had noticed that
the receiver was off the hook. There was still a chance to find out who Fred
had been calling at the time when he was slain.
THE SHADOW hurried into the shack. He could hear clicks from the receiver
before he reached it. Once the receiver was against The Shadow's ear, he
recognized the excited voice that was coming across the wire. Joe Cardona had
heard the shots over the telephone. The inspector was clamoring to know what
had happened.
The tone that Cardona heard must have awed him, for Joe's babble ceased
the moment that The Shadow spoke. In calm, whispered words, The Shadow
announced his identity; then told Cardona exactly what had occurred. There was
a short silence; after that, Cardona broke loose with a gruff-voiced thanks.
The New York inspector told The Shadow that he would promptly notify the
New Jersey State police regarding the murderers. He added that the New York
police would be on the watch, in case the thugs tried to head back into
Manhattan.
Hanging up the telephone receiver, The Shadow stooped beside Fred's body
and began a search. He found nothing in the way of a clue. Unfortunately, Fred
had torn up the paper that Clyde had given him. Those scattered fragments,
lost
outside, would have told The Shadow much of the entire story.
The call to Cardona was evidence that Fred had uncovered something that
he
thought the New York inspector would like to know. Whatever it was, it
probably
concerned some person unknown who had made a stop at the filling station.
That deduction was the reason why The Shadow went out to the gasoline
standard and began examining tire tracks that he found there.
The Shadow saw marks that represented the touring car and the small coupe
that he had not identified as Clyde's. Beside them were other tracks, that
indicated a middle-size car. The Shadow traced them; discovered that a car had
pulled in from one direction and circled back the same way.
Entering his own car, The Shadow started along the road. He was using a
yellowish fog-light, tilted toward the hard surface. Rain had washed away the
traces that The Shadow wanted, until he neared the bend. There, on the muddy
shoulder of the road, were the same tracks that he had seen before.
Alighting, The Shadow discovered footprints. He recognized that the
driver
of the mystery car had stepped to the ground to look for something. The Shadow
lost no more time. He drove along the road, his hawkish eyes on the lookout
for
more evidence.
THE trail was a blank one for nearly two miles. At that point, The Shadow
saw a road that led to the left. It was a dirt road, muddied by rain despite
the overhanging trees. Tire tracks showed in the mud.
On the ground, The Shadow examined the marks of the tire treads and made
a
careful measurement. They were the evidence he wanted.
The mystery car had gone along the dirt road. A map showed that the
journey might prove a long one, for the road was poor and had intersections
within the next five miles. There was a chance that the car might have stopped
somewhere along this obscure road. It was also possible that if the car, had
continued through, The Shadow might gain on it, during the five-mile course.
The Shadow was at the wheel. Gears meshed silently; the big roadster took
smoothly to the dirt. The car gained speed along the lonely road. The Shadow
was off on the quest that Clyde Burke had taken, a quarter-hour ago.
The Shadow's keen brain recognized that his trail might prove important;
there was evidence to make it so. But The Shadow had gained no inkling that
his
agent was already involved. He was to learn of Clyde's part, later.
Finding an agent active on a trail was usually of advantage to The
Shadow.
This time, such a discovery was destined to produce disaster.
CHAPTER III
BROKEN STRATEGY
CLYDE BURKE had expected difficulty in clinging to the slippery back of
the coupe. Instead, he had experienced no trouble. There had been a swift ride
to the dirt road; after that, the car had rolled along at a very moderate
pace.
The man at the wheel was driving carefully.
The car had covered scarcely more than three miles in its quarter hour of
travel, and Clyde was benefiting by the driver's care. He felt entirely secure
on his perch; and with the gait no more than fifteen miles an hour, he
resolved
to break the monotony. There was a chance, Clyde decided, to learn more about
the driver.
Gaining a good grip, the reporter pulled himself up to the rear window
and
looked into the interior of the car. Through the glass, Clyde could see the
driver's wide shoulders and thick neck, but he couldn't get a good look at the
mirror, which showed the fellow's face.
As he shifted his position for that purpose, Clyde happened to glance
downward. What he saw, gripped his full attention.
The dash-light was a bright one. It showed the seat beside the driver.
There lay the satchel that the man had picked up from the highway. The bag was
a fair-size one; it bulged so much that the clamp must have broken when it was
pitched from the sedan that Clyde had seen go by the bend. The bag was wide
open, its contents visible.
Clyde saw bundles of checks, that he recognized as the sort used in
international exchange; bundles of currency, in American notes and bills of
other countries. The bag was literally stuffed with wealth; but from the
surface view, it was impossible to estimate the total.
Nevertheless, the sight held Clyde's eyes glued. That was why he failed
to
notice another pair of eyes, that peered suddenly toward him from the mirror
above the windshield. Dark eyes, set in a flat, yellowish face; their sudden
glint told that they had spotted the unwanted passenger on the back of the
coupe.
Had Clyde looked at the mirror, he would have recognized that the driver
of the car was actually a Turk, as Fred had said. But Clyde's opportunity went
before he had a chance to take it. The Turk turned slightly so that his face
could not be seen in the mirror. He was careful to give no inkling that he
knew
Clyde was on the back.
From that moment, the Turk began a cool campaign to lull Clyde into a
false belief of security. He kept the car at its easy-rolling speed, picking
the best spots of the road. When Clyde shifted back from the rear window, the
Turk did not even notice it. He was confident that sight of the open bag would
keep Clyde right where he was.
That was all the Turk wanted. It was the build-up for a coming stroke of
strategy.
AT the end of a half mile, wheel tracks ran from the left of the road.
They marked the entrance of a private byway that led through the woods. The
Turk swung deliberately into the wheel tracks; brought the car to a stop in
front of bars that lay between two fence posts. He opened the door beside him
and stepped from the car.
This time, Clyde saw the Turk plainly; for the man made no effort to
obscure himself as he walked into the path of the headlights. He took down the
fence bars; carried them, one by one, to the darkness beside the rutty road.
Each time he lugged a rail, he paused to stack it before he returned.
Those intervals - the first two - were the strategy that deceived Clyde.
Drawn high on the back of the coupe, Clyde watched through the window,
expecting the Turk to come back into the light. Clyde allowed a half minute,
because of the other delays. The thirty seconds had passed before Clyde
suddenly suspected that something different had occurred. On a quick impulse,
he shifted downward from the back of the coupe.
There was a splash, five feet away, just as Clyde's feet hit the ground.
The reporter swung about, to see the Turk spring from a puddly spot. The
yellowish face looked ruddy, demonish, in the glare of the red tail-light. The
fellow was coming for Clyde; the reporter's only course was to meet him.
Quick punches were Clyde's method. The Turk's big arms warded them off.
The grab that he made for Clyde was the quick clutch of a wrestler's. Clyde
tried to dodge, but he was backed against the car.
He stabbed a hard punch; it landed beside the Turk's jaw, but it lacked
the weight to stop the fellow. A second later, Clyde's arms were pinned.
The reporter didn't succumb as easily as the Turk expected. Clyde was
wiry, and proved it when his husky foe started to drag him from the
bumperettes. A hard twist; Clyde was free enough to engage in a furious
grapple.
He heard the Turk's breath hiss harshly, as though the fellow relished
such a fight. Clyde found out why, when the Turk displayed more wrestling
tactics.
Every clutch resulted in a fall for Clyde. The Turk threw him around the
muddy road, off into the underbrush, with heaves that would have been
knock-outs on a wrestling floor. The soft turf was Clyde's salvation. Each
time, he managed to be out from under, when the Turk came thudding upon him.
The finish came when the Turk finally missed a throw. The husky slipped
on
a patch of skiddy moss; went plopping backwards, hanging on to Clyde. Instead
of
wrenching away, Clyde saw a chance he thought would win the combat. He threw
his
own weight on the Turk, caught the man's neck and flattened the fellow's big
shoulders on the ground.
There wasn't any referee to give Clyde the verdict; so it didn't count.
Instead, the Turk's big hands smacked upward, took Clyde in a grip that
nullified the neck hold.
Clyde twisted, writhing in a torturing clamp that would have done credit
to a python. He felt himself roll over, to land on his back with a hard
thwack.
This time, he had no chance to get away before the Turk's full weight planked
on
him.
When the big man arose, Clyde was lying limp and dazed.
THE Turk grunted; picked up his prisoner and carried him over one
shoulder
to the coupe. With his free hand, the man put the opened satchel on the floor
and sprawled Clyde in the front seat. He turned on the dome-light, studied the
face of his exhausted prisoner.
From a deep pocket, the Turk produced a small hypodermic syringe. He
jabbed the needle into Clyde's arm. Circling the car, he took his place behind
the wheel.
He watched the reporter for a few minutes; decided that the dope was
taking effect. Turning out the dome-light, the Turk started his car ahead. He
did not stop to replace the fence rails.
Despite the rain, the Turk had the window open beside him. He was
listening intently as he drove slowly along. At one place, the thickness of
the
overhanging boughs produced a hush despite the heavy rain. It was that quiet
that gave the Turk his chance to hear a sound from behind his car.
The Turk had gained the sudden impression that another car had stolen
into
the woods behind him. Somewhere along this narrow, twisted road, a clever
pursuer had doused his own lights, to creep up behind the coupe.
That, whether or not the Turk knew it, was a piece of strategy often used
by The Shadow. Clyde's battle had given his chief a chance to close in on the
trail. It was seldom that any one detected The Shadow's ruse; but the wily
摘要：

HILLSOFDEATHbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"January15,1938.TerribledeathhoversoverthehillsofNewJersey,whileTheShadowstrivestobreakthegripofevil!CHAPTERIJERSEYMURDERTHElightsofthefillingstationweredimmedamidthedrizzle,asthesmallcoupenosedtowardthem.Itwasn'tuntilthedriverident...

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