Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 127 - Brothers of Doom

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BROTHERS OF DOOM
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," June 1, 1937.
Through air reddened with the flaming glow of mighty mills of steel
sounds
the strident scream of The Shadow's taunting laugh, as he meets the challenge
of
the evil four who had made their terrible compact as Brothers of Doom.
One after the other, mighty barons of industry died on the threshold of
great success. Millions were in their grasp; then came death! From
motion-picture magnate to Wall Street millionaire - all were stricken down
with
the suddenness of a meteor's flash. No warning. Then the unexpected.
Brothers of Doom!
Into each murder scene came these four men of evil - four gray-clad
fiends
whose masked eyes held the glitter of prearranged murder! Brothers of Doom
showed no mercy; their evil work done, silently would they steal away, to plot
the gruesome crimes that would be their future strikes.
Rolling high above the creeping fog, billowing tongues of flame outlined
the rambling, massive buildings that, flung across the New Jersey meadows,
made
up the Centurion Steel Co. Its fiery furnaces once cool, its interior silent
of
the hoarse shouts of workers' voices, these sounds were heard again; the heat
of molten steel felt, as new management took over the old company.
But into this rejuvenated industry crept the menace that was Brothers of
Doom. Through wreathing fog, their approach was unseen - unseen to all but one
pair of eyes. Gleaming, piercing eyes - that could penetrate the evil afoot.
The Shadow's eyes!
The Shadow!
To this Master Crime Fighter had come secret knowledge that all was not
well within the empire of steel. Brothers of Doom walked abroad, and in their
bloody wake was a trail of blood and disaster!
Turn the page and read of the titanic struggle between this evil horde
and
The Shadow, and of the masterminds of the steel industry who ruled their
empire
of molten metal with hands as strong as the product they produced!
Follow the trail of The Shadow, as he moves from strand to strand of the
web of crime woven by the Brothers of Doom. Turn over the page and start this
thrilling episode of The Shadow's, as he closes in on "Brothers of Doom"!
CHAPTER I
THE BROTHERS MEET
LOW fog clung to the New Jersey meadows, giving a dank pall to the
evening
air. Distant, above the level of the creeping mist, were the glimmering lights
of automobiles, streaking an endless procession across the viaduct of the
Skyway toward the Holland Tunnel and New York City.
At intervals, huge electric locomotives slithered along the embankment of
the Pennsylvania Railroad, bringing long lines of passenger cars, their
windows
merry with light. From lower ground came the occasional rumbles of steam
trains
along the Erie and the Lackawanna, their whistles wailing while their great
lights cleaved the fog.
Nature had marked those meadows as desolate stretches. For years, the
dismal wasteland had been shunned. Then man had cross-ribbed the area with
arteries of traffic: railroads and highways reaching into New York City. That,
in turn, had made the meadows strategic ground for factory sites; near to
Manhattan, with transportation at hand.
As a result, big, rambling buildings had encroached upon marshy soil once
considered valueless. Built upon filled foundations, these structures stood
like lonely haystacks upon a flattened field. Far apart, they made darkened,
grimy shapes amid the shrouding blanket of the fog.
One of those spectral masses was the plant of the Centurion Steel Co. It
consisted of blocky, clustered buildings, that tapered upward to a central
structure. Viewed from a distance, the plant resembled a squatly pyramid.
Close at hand, an observer could see spaces between the buildings. The
middle one was straight-walled, rising to a twelve-story height. Its lower
floors housed the offices of the company. Above were experimental shops and
storerooms. All were dark at night.
Grumbling men were patrolling the muggy area around the buildings. They
were company detectives, assigned to such nightly duty; and they considered
their task a mean one. Two dozen in all, they met in pairs, at each end of
their sentry stretches. There, they paused to exchange condolences.
"I'll be off this trick next Tuesday," grumbled one. "It'll suit me, too.
I still don't get the idea. Why've they got a whole crew of us? A couple of
watchmen ought to be enough."
"Guess the old man's jittery about his equipment," returned the other
dick. "They've installed a lot of new machinery lately."
"Yeah? And who's going to haul it away? Nobody!"
"Somebody might cop some parts."
The first dick snorted.
"If you ask me," he confided, "I'd say that old Marcus Omstred doesn't
need his equipment. He'll be licked before he ever gets it working.
Consolidated Metals will gobble this outfit inside of six months! They've got
a
smart man at the head of that organization."
"Sidney Thrake is smart, all right," agreed the other. "He took over two
more plants last month. This is the kind of grip he's got on Consolidated
Metals; and it's the biggest corporation in this line."
A doubled fist was the dick's description, where adjectives failed him.
The two separated, to resume patrol. Each, going in his own direction, was
swallowed by the mist.
THE fellow who had grumbled arrived near a light. It shone from beside
one
of the small outlying buildings. Its glow was feeble and fog-muffled. The
guard
listened. From a roadway that passed the plant came the soft murmur of an
expensive motor, throttled down to faint rhythm.
The noise ended. Soon, the guard heard a slight sound beyond the fringe
of
light. Gripping a gun, he approached the darkness. A blocking figure halted
him.
The patroller whispered:
"Who's there?"
No reply was spoken. Instead, a gloved hand nudged the guard's arm. He
felt the rub of a silky gauntlet. The hand opened. In its palm lay a shining
disk, the size of a half dollar. The token was all that the guard could see.
It
was coated with a luminous substance, that gave it the weird glow.
"All O.K.," whispered the guard. "Go through!"
The fist closed. The figure crinkled forward. Watching, the guard saw the
outline of a dark-gray shape; almost the color of the night fog. The garb was
tight-fitting, although it had a noticeable bulge. The shoulders were topped
by
a rounded helmet that extended over the head above them, in the fashion of a
cowl.
Another motor throbbed. Again, an unseen figure made a crinkly approach.
The guard's whispered challenge was answered by the display of a luminous
disk.
The second visitor went through.
Five minutes later, the company detective resumed his delayed patrol. He
liked this night shift better than he claimed. It gave him the shivers; but it
was worth it. His regular weekly pay was thirty-five dollars. Fifty more came
in a mysterious envelope, delivered by some unknown hand.
That extra fifty was the bribe for letting the strange passers through.
They came at intervals. Who they were, what they were, the bribed dick neither
knew nor cared.
He knew that there were at least four of them; although that number did
not always pass. All looked alike, from the glimpses that he gained of them.
Tight-clad figures, bulgy in their dark, grim gray.
The reason why the number varied was explained by an occurrence on the
other side of the steel plant. There, another company guard was allowing a
second pair of grayish stalkers to pass through. He, too, had recognized
identifying tokens that shone in darkness.
There were four of those visitors who carried ghostly, phosphorescent
disks. Always four; but individually, they chose the route that suited their
convenience. They had bribed a pair of the two dozen patrollers, so that they
could always be sure of passing through the cordon, even if one of the fixed
guards happened to be off duty.
Two weak links in the encircling chain were all that the four gray
passers
needed. Within the cordon, they did not meet immediately. They had a special
place for conclave.
THE first of the four reached a corner of the central building. He
stopped
by a heavy door that looked as though it had been closed for months. He gave a
silent tap with one closed fist.
The gauntlet made no sound. Some hidden instrument must have magnified
the
blow, for the heavy door slid open, noiselessly. It closed as soon as the
rapper
had passed.
At the end of a short passage, another door glided open. The gray-robed
man stepped into a tiny, lighted elevator. He faced a huge giant of an
operator, who towered head and shoulders above him. The fellow was roughly
dressed; his dull face had a leering grin that exhibited fangish teeth.
"Up, Suda."
The gray-clad arrival gave the order in a deliberate monotone, speaking
through a thin, tight-fitting mask that formed a portion of his roundish
headpiece. Suda took the elevator swiftly upward, through a doorless shaft. As
soon as the masked man left the car, it went down again.
One by one, three more grim visitors were brought to the top of the
darkened building. Each passed through a door and reached a square,
low-vaulted
room that was located in the exact center of the roof. The room was
windowless;
outwardly, it would appear to be no more than a portion of the roof.
In the center of the ceiling was a square-shaped opening with heavy,
frosted glass. It looked like a skylight, which in a sense it was. Seen from
above the building, it would have been taken for one. Actually, the square
panel was double. That was proven by the fact that electric lights glowed from
within it, to provide the illumination for this secret room.
Those lights could be seen outside the building; but not from the ground
below, nor even from the railroad embankment or the high automobile roadway
that stretched across the meadows. They were visible only from the air; and
passing planes could not linger to identify their position.
The lights had a peculiar greenish tinge, that produced a noticeable
effect upon the grayish garbs beneath it. Their color seemed an olive drab,
showing plainly against the dark plush cushions upon which the four were
seated.
The secret room was furnished in sumptuous style with tables of heavy
teakwood; chairs that were thick in upholstery. Though the four had chosen
seats that were alike, three had drawn their chairs so that they faced one. It
was plain that they recognized him as their leader.
"The Brothers meet." The leader spoke in the singular monotone that all
adopted. "Our long-awaited time has arrived. Each shall take his turn, to
strike for wealth. The others shall aid."
A pause. Three Brothers understood the fourth. His statement was the
expression of their own thoughts.
"Our plans are fully made. Thrice shall we gain. Our resources shall be
used for the final stroke, the greatest. My own."
There was no boast in the leader's declaration. Every word carried the
steady weight of fact. All was accepted; yet the listeners did not rise. They
were waiting for their chief to flash the news of their decision.
The leader stepped to the far wall. He pressed a switch, as slowly, as
methodically as he had spoken. The greenish light blinked off; came on again.
The moments of blackness were irregular. They formed a series of dots and
dashes, that dispatched a coded message that some distant watcher could
observe.
With the finish, the light came on again. It remained steady while the
leader resumed his chair. Pointing to one of the Brothers, the chief waited
while the designated man arose and went from the meeting place. The leader
allowed sufficient time for the elevator to make a return trip. He pointed to
the second of the Brothers. After a sufficient interval, he motioned to the
third.
Alone, the last Brother approached the light switch. He waited, as though
counting the passage of seconds. His grayish gauntlet descended. Final
blackness filled the windowless room.
Gauging direction perfectly in the dark, the leader walked to the
elevator. He reached it just as the door slid open. Suda grinned as the last
Brother entered the car.
At the bottom, the masked man spoke an order. Suda was to descend below.
He would be needed no more tonight. That statement given, the Brother followed
the route of the three before him.
TWENTY minutes after the masked four had made departure, a coupe stopped
close to the battered fence that surrounded the property of the Centurion
Steel
Co. From it stepped a being as weird as the Brothers themselves. He was
cloaked
in black; his head was topped by a slouch hat. He was The Shadow.
This master of darkness entered the fog-shrouded premises. His course was
noiseless for a short distance; then, deliberately, The Shadow scraped the
corrugated wall of a small tool shed.
Promptly, a company guard challenged. The Shadow did not respond. When
the
guard approached with revolver and flashlight, The Shadow was gone.
Other sentries had similar experiences, all around the cordon. The
results
were identical. Not one of the posted guards uncovered an intruder. Satisfied
with his circuit, The Shadow returned to his car.
It was The Shadow's avowed purpose to thwart crime. He had learned of the
guarded steel plant on the Jersey meadows. He knew that valuable equipment had
been installed there; that important experiments had been in progress. Such
news was often of interest to men of crime. The Shadow had come to learn if
the
Centurion Steel plant happened to be well protected. He had found all guards
alert.
Driving up a long ramp to the Skyway, The Shadow halted his car before
joining the traffic on the high-level roadway. He looked toward the meadows.
He
could see the central building of the steel plant, above the low-lying fog.
Its
roof was on a higher level than the one that The Shadow had gained. Green
lights would have been invisible, even if they had not been extinguished.
The fog stretched eastward, transforming the meadows into a billowy sea.
Lights of Jersey City shone from the low-ridged hill beyond, like beacons upon
some ocean island. Past that, the sky was lighted with the vast glow of
Manhattan; but from this point, only one landmark was visible.
That was the tower of the Empire State Building. Alone, of all
Manhattan's
skyscrapers, it reared its dome above the blocking stretch of headland. Like
an
upraised forefinger, it beckoned travelers toward the metropolis.
It was chance, not design, that caused the Empire State tower to be
visible from this remote spot. No architect had planned the tower's height
with
that point in mind. Nor had the central building at the steel plant been
reared
to gain a special view of the highest Manhattan tower. It had no apparent link
with the mighty spire of the Empire State Building, more than one hundred
stories above the level of Fifth Avenue.
The remote connection was not apparent even to The Shadow. He had arrived
too late to uncover the gray-clad Brothers. Their conclave ended, their very
existence was as wraithlike as the fog upon the meadows.
Brothers had voted to strike. With each thrust they intended to draw
their
shrouding veil still closer. That might deceive the law; but it could not
baffle
the cloaked investigator who had nearly traced them to-night.
Brothers of Doom would soon be destined for a meeting with The Shadow.
CHAPTER II
DOOM DRAWS CLOSE
Two nights later, a group of men were assembled in the living room of a
pretentious Long Island home. Despite their surroundings, the meeting was most
informal. Northrup Lason, the owner of the house, felt that his guests would
be
more comfortable when fully at their ease.
Gray-haired and portly, Lason arose as a servant entered carrying a
dark-brown smoking jacket. Smiling, he took off his coat and vest, put on the
jacket in their place. As he buttoned the smoking jacket, Lason said to the
servant:
"Bring the drinks, Alphonse. We are ready for them."
Lason was still smiling as he sat down. Donning that smoking jacket had
become a ritual with him. He observed how the gesture had made his companions
feel more comfortable. Those who had dined too well were unbuttoning their
vests, to relax more easily.
Most were like Lason - men past middle age, who looked prosperous. They
were here for business; that was apparent when Alphonse brought the drinks. A
few sips from glasses; then the group waited for Lason to speak.
"To-night, gentlemen," announced the portly host, "our proposed
theatrical
chain will become a reality. I know that you have looked forward to this
occasion."
Pleased murmurs from the group. Looks of anxiety faded from several
faces.
"For several months," proceeded Lason, "theatrical stocks have been
selling very low. They have stayed far below par, while investors have been
awaiting our announcement. We have regretted the delay; but it was necessary.
We needed to acquire one recognized property before our organization could
function."
Nods of assent. Every one knew the situation. They knew, also, that Lason
had dickered with several theatrical groups. A man of great wealth, Lason was
positive of a purchase. Sooner or later, some one would weaken and sell. That
time had come.
"I was fortunate," declared Lason, with a smile. "I learned that one man,
Lewis Groth, had acquired full control of the Eastern Theater Circuit. He
purchased that stock for the comparatively small sum of one hundred thousand
dollars.
"To-day, I was told that Groth was on the edge of bankruptcy. I called
him
by telephone, and offered to buy his stock for the exact price that he had
paid.
One hundred thousand dollars will prove a life-saver to Groth. He almost wept
when he heard the offer."
Smiles matched Lason's. His associates knew well what the purchase would
mean. Lason had an entire million dollars ready to finance his new theater
chain. With the Eastern Circuit in the bag, at a price of one hundred thousand
dollars, Lason would still have capital to buy out others. Their only resort
would be to sell out.
"Groth will be here to-night," concluded Lason. He picked up a sheaf of
folded papers. "Here is the sales contract, in triplicate."
Hardly had Lason completed the statement, before Alphonse entered with
the
announcement that Mr. Groth had arrived. Lason sent the servant to bring in
the
visitor. Soon, Groth was shaking hands with the group.
THE owner of the Eastern Theater Circuit was a weary-faced man, whose
shoulders seemed stooped from burdens. His sloping forehead; his receding
chin,
gave him an appearance of weakness. His eyes had something of an eager gleam,
as
they peered from above his pointed nose; but that was obviously because he had
found a way out of his difficulties.
Groth read the contract greedily. When he had finished, he displayed a
tired smile. He turned to the group.
"You understand my situation, gentlemen," he said. "I had hopes for the
Eastern Circuit. I found that they were useless. Every one was waiting for the
Lason Chain to begin its operations. For weeks, I have been wishing one thing
only: that I could dispose of my circuit at the price I paid for it.
"This offer is more than generous." He turned to Lason. "You are taking
over encumbrances that you can easily handle, but which I could not. You have
saved me money that I would surely have lost."
He drew a pen and signed the contracts. Lason applied his own signatures,
when Groth was finished. With a sigh, the peak-faced man sank back in his
chair
and accepted a drink that Alphonse brought him.
"One thing more," reminded Lason. "That is the payment. It will bind the
contract."
"I shall bring you the stock certificates," returned Groth. "To-morrow
morning - at your office."
"Of course. But to-night, you shall receive the check for one hundred
thousand dollars. That will complete the deal."
Lason reached in his pocket, expecting to find the check book. He
realized
that he was wearing his smoking jacket. Alphonse had taken away his coat.
Lason looked for the servant; Alphonse was not about. With a wave of his
hand, Lason told Groth to finish his drink, stating that he could make out the
check when the servant returned.
THERE was a curious reason for Alphonse's absence.
The servant had gone to a side door of the mansion. His drab face showed
a
pronounced grin; his breath came in deep hisses as he hurriedly unlocked the
door. Stepping outside, Alphonse closed the door behind him. He waited in the
darkness beside the house.
There came a low-toned hiss, that the servant could barely hear. Alphonse
answered it with a whisper. There was a crinkly sound beside him.
Staring downward, Alphonse saw a shining disk of light. He whispered
quickly that the door was open; that Groth was signing the contracts. The disk
vanished as a fist closed over it. Alphonse heard the Brother enter the
mansion.
More of those marked visitors were due. Alphonse waited to admit them. He
listened for hissed whispers; watched for those shining coinlike tokens in the
darkness.
Others beside the Brothers were about the mansion. Lason's grounds were
ample - running along three streets, with a small connecting lane at the far
side. A touring car was cruising along streets and lanes, its lights dimmed.
At times, the car paused, while ugly voices spoke from its interior.
Mutters responded from spots beside the hedges. Skulkers from the underworld
were on duty, covering the moves of the Brothers. Ready for their thrust of
crime, those masked invaders were protecting their departure.
Darkened cars, parked in the lane, told the direction from which the
Brothers had approached the mansion.
Traffic was light along the near-by streets. The mob in the touring car
watched all cars suspiciously. They saw a limousine approach; doused their own
lights when it neared the corner. The limousine turned left, heading away from
the mansion. The touring car resumed its patrol.
Immediately afterward, the limousine nosed back along the street that it
had taken. When it came in sight of the lights of Lason's mansion, a quiet
voice spoke through the speaking tube:
"This will do, Stanley. Turn off the lights and wait here."
The steady voice was that of Lamont Cranston, wealthy member of
Manhattan's Cobalt Club. Fastidious and leisurely, Cranston was usually seen
in
evening clothes after nightfall. When he alighted from his limousine on this
occasion, he was totally invisible.
He was The Shadow.
STEALTHILY, The Shadow moved forward, unseen, unnoticed even by the
limousine's chauffeur. He reached the corner; sidled from the glow of a street
lamp. A wraithlike being, he glided across the street under cover of darkness.
Uncannily, The Shadow located a crouched picket by the hedge. He avoided
the thuggish lookout; found a space where the hedge was thin, and worked
through without a rustle. Half a minute later, he was approaching the near
side
of Lason's mansion.
Reports from the underworld had brought The Shadow on this mission. Aided
by agents, he had finally traced the location where thuggish crooks were on
patrol. Their presence outside Lason's mansion was proof that a thrust was due
there. There was no token, though, of the robed Brothers who had already
entered.
The Shadow knew that Northrup Lason lived in this house. The millionaire
was a collector of rare paintings; he had a gallery of them on the second
floor
of the mansion. It was possible that crooks intended to pillage that gallery.
Their constant patrol could mean that they were waiting until Lason's guests
had left.
Hence, The Shadow's present purpose was to find a strategic position
within the house.
The windows of Lason's living room did not open directly upon the lawn.
There was an enclosed sun porch between. It was dark, and offered a good post
from which The Shadow could gain a first look into the living room. Steps led
up to the sun-porch door. It was locked, but easily opened. The Shadow edged
into the enclosed darkness.
He saw a French window, open. Through it, he viewed the thronged living
room. He saw Lason rising impatiently from his chair.
"I shall get the check book myself," announced the millionaire. He
stopped, smiling, as he faced the door. "Ah! Here is Alphonse. What has been
keeping you?"
"I was preparing more drinks for the guests, sir -"
"Good! Fetch my check book before you bring them. You will find it in my
coat pocket."
Alphonse departed, while Lason went back to his chair. The Shadow noticed
Groth; he heard the peaked-faced man speak dubiously.
"This sale helps me, Mr. Lason," reminded Groth, "but there are others
who
will not relish it. Some of the owners of other small circuits are holding
tight
to their stocks, hoping that they will rise."
"What of it?" queried Lason. "None of them was ready to help you out of
difficulties."
"Perhaps they have difficulties of their own -"
"Nonsense! They are holding out for outrageous prices. I shall pay them
fair sums, as I am doing with you, Groth."
Alphonse entered with the check book. He handed it to Lason and went out
to get the drinks. Lason noted satisfied smiles on the faces of his
associates.
They were counting on this prompt payment that would complete the deal with
Groth.
The Shadow had recognized the purpose of this meeting. He knew of the
proposed theatrical chain; but had not heard of the sudden transition it had
taken, bringing it from obscurity to reality.
He watched Lason fumble with a fountain pen, angry because ink did not
flow. He saw Groth, again eager; while the rest of the group retained their
expectant smiles.
Then, in one quick instant, The Shadow tightened.
A SLIGHT sound had gained The Shadow's attention. It was from the other
side of the living room, at the doorway from the hall. Looking in that
direction, The Shadow saw an intruder as weird as himself.
The man from the hallway was clad in silkish gray. His costume had the
tight fit of an athlete's attire; but it was bulgy, proving that its wearer
had
ordinary clothes beneath. By using an oversize costume, a close fit had
resulted.
From the shoulders, the garb extended upward to form a rounded headpiece,
like an aviator's helmet. That gear was part of the costume itself. It
included
a thin, tight mask of the same silky material. The mask hid the intruder's
face
completely, except for narrow eye-slits.
For the first time, The Shadow had sighted a mysterious Brother of Doom.
In his thin gauntlet, the Brother clutched a revolver. He held it
lowered,
while he looked over the gathered throng. Men were clustered; the Brother
wanted
a definite aim. Like a hunter picking out the fattest game in a herd of
grazing
prey, the masked assassin stepped into the room. He side-paced along the wall.
The Shadow produced a .45 automatic. Carefully, he took aim toward the
Brother. One lift of the Brother's revolver would bring The Shadow's gunfire.
The stalker, himself, was being hunted.
At that instant, a startling change occurred.
Lason's pen had no ink at all. Instead of borrowing another, Lason looked
up to call Alphonse. The millionaire saw the stalking Brother. A gasp left
Lason's lips.
Others echoed Lason's cry. Chairs went clattering as men sprang away,
stumbling against each other as they sought protection behind tables. Lason
was
springing with them; so was Groth.
The hooded Brother, his revolver lifted, started a hurried, weaving
stride
to reach the victim that he wanted.
The assassin's move, alone, could not have saved him. The Shadow had the
bulge on this perpetrator of crime; was ready to drop him within the next half
second. The .45 was moving with the Brother's weave. The Shadow's finger was
starting its trigger squeeze when the next event occurred.
Complete blackness blotted the entire scene. Some one in the cellar had
pulled the house switch. The Brother was lost in gloom; so were the scrambling
men, the prospective victim among them.
Shouts, howls, the clatter of chairs, made tumult in the darkness. That
sudden obliteration of light had saved a would-be murderer from The Shadow's
bullets.
Brothers of Doom were to gain success to-night, despite The Shadow's
presence.
CHAPTER III
DEATH IN THE DARK
THE SHADOW fired into the blackness.
His shot was intended for the masked Brother, though there was small
chance of finding the man as target. At least, so The Shadow thought, a shot
would cause the assassin to turn toward the outer door.
Instead, the Brother ignored the gun stab. He was somewhere in the
darkness, shifting among the scrambling men. Calmly, The Shadow waited for
some
proof of the fellow's whereabouts. It came.
A revolver roared. The Shadow saw its tongue of flame. From far across
the
room, the Brother had aimed to an inner corner. He was firing from among the
frightened guests; The Shadow could not risk a shot in his direction.
Again, the revolver blasted. A second later, it ripped a third message.
Every shot pointed to that same inner corner, a spot that The Shadow could not
see. Those arrowlike jabs indicated that the Brother had picked a target; yet
the blackness was impenetrable.
Why had the killer fired those three shots with such precision?
The Shadow had no time to answer the question. The gun flashes told that
the Brother was retreating as he fired, seeking to find the hallway door in
the
gloom. Moving into the living room, The Shadow calculated the interval
required
for the Brother to be clear of helpless men. When the right moment came, The
Shadow fired for the hallway door.
The masked enemy had not forgotten The Shadow's first shot. Expecting
another, he stopped short of the spot where The Shadow expected him to be. At
the moment The Shadow fired, the Brother did the same. He aimed for the porch,
thinking that The Shadow was still there.
Bullets whistled through doorways, missing human targets. New shots
echoed, as The Shadow and his foeman both shifted, seeking better position for
their duel. It was hide and seek in the darkness, each battler clever enough
to
keep from harm's way.
The Shadow was skilled in such fray. A few shots more - he would outguess
his adversary. Crooks had a habit of becoming overconfident in the darkness.
The Shadow handled them like a boxer, sparring for an opening. He fired again
fading as he did. His foe returned the shot, as The Shadow expected.
This was the right opportunity. The Shadow drilled a bullet in the
direction of the hallway door. An answer came, a wild shot from the hallway.
Instead of shifting, the Brother had bolted. His hurried dive had come one
shot
sooner than The Shadow anticipated. By taking to flight, the killer had
started
a getaway.
THE SHADOW had an antidote for that move. He hurled himself through the
darkness, driving straight for the hallway door. He knew that when he reached
there, he would find the Brother by the sound of the man's mad scramble in the
hallway. In flight, the killer could never twist about and fire accurately at
the room that he had left.
Once again, The Shadow was due for the unexpected; this time, a reversal
of the surprise that had come before.
Just as The Shadow wheeled through the doorway into the hall, the house
lights came on again.
The glare was blinding in its suddenness; but it was apparently a bad
break for the fleeing Brother. Thanks to the light, The Shadow could spot him
before he reached the front door. That, in fact, was what The Shadow started
to
do, when a sudden sound made him change his course.
There was a click from another angle. The Shadow heard it, just as he saw
the first Brother hustling through the front door. Turning instantly, The
摘要：

BROTHERSOFDOOMbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"June1,1937.ThroughairreddenedwiththeflamingglowofmightymillsofsteelsoundsthestridentscreamofTheShadow'stauntinglaugh,ashemeetsthechallengeoftheevilfourwhohadmadetheirterriblecompactasBrothersofDoom.Oneaftertheother,mightybaronsof...

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