The Shadow - Foxhound Part 13

"'S' is on board," he murmured.

"Parlor car Wellington. Two cars from the rear. Seat No. 19. White hair and mustache. Can't miss him."

"Okay."

The milling crowd on the platform was boarding the train. Kelsea hurried rearward, boarded the train. The train got under way, roared northward.

A porter guided Kelsea to the parlor car Wellington. His seat was behind The Shadow, near the rear vestibule. He grinned as he pa.s.sed his intended victim. The old man's eyes were tightly closed in slumber. This was going to be a cinch!

KELSEA, however, was making two very bad mistakes. The eyes of the gentle old man in Seat 19 had been only partly closed. He was aware that Alonzo Kelsea was riding behind him. He also knew that there was one too many conductors on this train. The extra trainman, a tall, gimlet-eyed individual presumably off-duty and traveling for pleasure, had shown a railroad-pa.s.s when the real-conductor came through to collect tickets.

To The Shadow, his presence was easily understandable; he had been placed on this train by Foxhound to make sure that The Shadow did not slip away before the express pulled out from Grand Central.

The Shadow's eyes had been pressed to the windowpane as the train thundered into 125th Street. He had seen the swift meeting between Kelsea and the fake conductor. He knew that both were now riding with him, to encompa.s.s his death before he alighted near a certain village upstate where the North Turnpike wound through heavily wooded hills to the property of a wealthy Mr.

Fox, whom no one along the river seemed to know much about.

The train roared smoothly through the night. In Seat 19, the old man dozed steadily. He seemed wearied by the swift rush of lights outside, the hollow roar of bridges and tunnels. Not once did his head turn backward in the direction of Kelsea. He knew that a move would be made presently. His purpose was to fool Kelsea into thinking the trick had succeeded - but to leave the train at the spot he had already decided upon.

Any other course of action might warn Kelsea and permit Foxhound to escape.

Kelsea's role was simplicity itself. He watched for the train butcher.

When the lad came through the car, he purchased a newspaper and a magazine, added a generous tip.

A moment or so later, Kelsea rose with a brief exclamation and the air of a man who has forgotten something. He followed the train butcher and caught up with him on the platform at the rear of the car.

They were quite alone here, hidden from view of either car. The loud rumbling of the wheels covered the sound of Kelsea's voice, as he spoke persuasively and rapidly. For an instant, the lad looked incredulous, worried.

He shook his head. A twenty-dollar bill pa.s.sed between them.

"It's just a joke," Kelsea chuckled. "I'll see that you don't get into any trouble."

The train butcher eyed the twenty-dollar bill covetously. "I'll do it,"

he promised, hoa.r.s.ely.

He listened attentively to Kelsea's instructions. Then he continued onward toward the club car. Kelsea sauntered back, returned quietly to his seat.

NEARLY an hour pa.s.sed. The train slowed down to stop at a station. A mile or so beyond this station was the village where Kelsea knew The Shadow was planning to swing off the train when it slowed for a long curve. Kelsea wiggled nervously on his seat. Then he smiled with relief, as he saw the train boy approaching.

The lad was carrying a tray of gla.s.ses filled with orangeade. As he pa.s.sed the seat where the old man was sitting, he swayed suddenly with the motion of the train and lost his balance.

The contents of the tray were spilled all over the dozing pa.s.senger.

Orangeade splashed into The Shadow's face, puddled in a sticky mess in his lap, drenched his clothing. He shrank backward, a look of pretended astonishment on his face.

The boy, in a fever of apology, began to dab at the clothing of his victim. "The train jerked - I'm sorry, sir - I couldn't help it!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kelsea nod slightly toward him, and he added quickly: "May I help you to the washroom? It's just at the end of this car."

"That's all right, my boy," the old man said, mildly. "I'm sure you couldn't help it. I'll attend to it myself, thank you."

He rose, walked toward the narrow corridor at the front of the car, beyond which was the curtain of the men's washroom.

Screened by his newspaper, Kelsea watched the victim disappear. The moment The Shadow was gone from sight Kelsea was on his feet, leaving the car. The train had halted, and was already beginning to pull out from the station.

Brushing past the porter on the steps, Kelsea leaped to the station platform.

He watched the lighted observation platform of the last car roar out of sight along the dark rails. There was a haggard grin on his fleshy lips. In the next minute or two, The Shadow would be dead!

KELSEA wasted no time, but set out walking briskly toward a small river village that was situated a mile up the road. He reached it in fifteen minutes.

The village was extremely small: a single shabby street. It was late and there were no pedestrians in sight. Kelsea crossed the street diagonally toward a service station that occupied the far corner. Beyond the service station was a crossroad, and two branching highways that led back into the hills.

Kelsea nodded to a silent attendant in greasy coveralls, walked past him to the rear of the place. Parked out of sight from the street was a big sedan.

Kelsea unlocked the car, switched on the lights, started the powerful motor. If the attendant saw him leave the place, he gave no sign of interest.His back was turned toward his visitor.

Kelsea drove to the crossroad and took the fork marked "North Turnpike."

The car whizzed through the darkness with a speed and a sureness that would indicate the lawyer had been along this route many times previously.

Crouched over the wheel, his teeth shining in a broad grin, Kelsea chuckled. Trapping and killing The Shadow had been so easy that it was amusing!

CHAPTER XXI.

THE IRON MINE.

THE SHADOW had walked quietly to the curtained washroom of the train, fully aware of the fact that he was stepping into a death trap.

He lifted the curtain and stepped inside. A man in a conductor's uniform was standing there alone. It was the fake conductor. He murmured a courteous word of surprise at the drenched appearance of the old man and immediately walked out. But his footsteps didn't recede. The Shadow could hear the faint sound of his breathing, just outside the drawn curtain. Obviously, he was posted there to prevent any other pa.s.senger from entering.

There were three wash basins standing in a row. Two of them, apparently, were not working. A placard marked "Out of Order" was propped on each of the two end sinks. That left only the one in the middle in use.

The Shadow eyed the sink, the plunger that operated the water and the gadget that supplied liquid soap. He turned and looking upward, surveyed the ceiling of the washroom. It was pierced with a grating that supplied fresh, filtered air to the car.

The Shadow's expression was grim. He knew what he was expected to do; what he intended doing was another matter entirely.

He stood well to the left of the end basin. His arm reached out over it to the water plunger of the middle sink. With his forearm back of and below the sink and only his hand showing, he pressed downward on the metal plunger.

Instantly, water spurted; but the noise of its flow was drowned out by the roar of a pistol explosion. Flame spat from the ventilator grille in the ceiling. A bullet whizzed downward and flattened against the steel wall of the train. Had The Shadow been standing with his back inclined above the middle sink, the bullet would have pierced his spine.

THE SHADOW whirled, unhurt, wrenched the curtain aside and sprang into the corridor. As he expected, the man in the fake conductor's uniform had whirled away at the sound of the shot and was racing toward the front of the train to make his escape.

He halted with a yell of astonishment and rage as he saw The Shadow emerge, unhurt and alive. His hand darted to his pocket and flashed into view with a glittering pistol.

The Shadow, too, had drawn a gun. Both weapons exploded with a single ear-shattering echo. But whereas the disguised conductor had planted himself stiffly against the angle of the corridor to steady his aim, The Shadow was descending arrowlike toward the floor. His swiftly hinging knees cut a full foot from his height.

Crouched, coolly aware of what he was doing, he placed two bullets an inch apart in the body of his would-be murderer. The criminal's bullet split the airharmlessly where the head of The Shadow had been a second earlier.

He pitched forward like a felled tree. The gun bounced from his relaxed fingers.

Instantly, The Shadow retraced his steps. In two leaps he was out of the corridor and into the Pullman, running through a scene of mad confusion of milling men and women.

No one made a move to stop The Shadow. He crossed the grinding roar of an enclosed platform and entered the car behind. His goal was the observation platform on the rear of the train.

A single figure tried to balk him. It was a man in blue uniform - one of the real conductors. Courageously, he tried to grapple with The Shadow.

The Shadow was careful not to hurt this brave employee more than was absolutely necessary. He avoided the conductor's wild rush with a twist of his shoulders. His hand caught a forearm and wrist and locked them in a sudden, numbing pressure. Already off balance, the conductor was easy prey.

The Shadow darted away. Through the club car, he ran. A wrench of The Shadow's hand opened the door to the observation platform. He climbed over the shining railing. His feet were braced on a narrow ledge at the outside, one hand supporting him. His eyes watched the rocky ballast that whizzed backward at a speed that made the telephone poles blur as they pa.s.sed.

All The Shadow needed was a sane chance for his life - and fate gave that to him as the train screamed round a curve and again straightened. To the right of the roadbed, the ground dipped. The racing lights of the train disclosed a deep blackness, cupped by a circular slope of loose, sandy gravel. A sand pit!

One of dozens of such places in this desolate upriver country of quarries, lime kilns, and brickyards. Flying by with the speed of the wind!

Between the lip of this man-made crater and the platform of the roaring train was a leap of almost a dozen feet. But The Shadow didn't hesitate.

Launching himself outward with every atom of strength in his thighs and legs, he plunged like a fluttering bundle through the whip of the wind. He missed the sharp points of hard rock ballast and crashed against the side of the sand pit with a force that drove the breath from his lungs.

But the sand was loose and sliding and he took most of the grinding impact on shoulder and hip. He rolled over and over, plunging down the steep slope.

A LESS intelligent man would have been killed instantly, his spine snapped in two by the force of his gyrating descent. The Shadow, however, understood his danger. As he struck the sand he made his muscles limp. Barring the chance of crashing against an imbedded boulder, he was safe from the danger of broken bones.

His head tucked itself inward against the curve of his chest. Except for this, he was like an unresisting s...o...b..ll rolling down a sheer mountainside in obedience to the tug of gravity.

Water stopped him with a tremendous splash. It was cold, icy. The Shadow reached the surface with a few quick strokes and inhaled a long breath of air.

A moment later, he was resting on wet sand at the edge of the deep pool that covered the bottom of the pit. He ached from head to foot, he was soaked and shivering; but he was still alive, and in spite of his bruises, able to walk without difficulty.

By the time The Shadow had climbed to the top of the pit, the blood was flowing warmly through his veins. He was eager to reach a certain river village from which planned murder had tried to keep him and failed.

It was the same village from which Alonzo Kelsea had recently departed ina sedan.

Later, The Shadow, his clothing dry from the night breeze, but sadly rumpled, walked along the deserted block of the single street. His goal was a dark alley adjoining the one-story bank building where he expected to find his own car parked and waiting.

It was. But when he tried to start it; it refused to move. He lifted the hood and examined the motor. Whoever had damaged the parked car was an expert.

He saw at a glance that it would take hours to get it repaired.

Opening a lid in the rear, The Shadow took out a bulky briefcase that contained his black cloak and hat. He walked away.

Only two places seemed to be open along the street. One of them was a filling station on the far corner. The other was a garage. The Shadow walked toward the garage.

A man was washing down an empty sand truck with a long hose. He stared at the rumpled old man, listened to his mild request and shook his head decisively.

"Sorry. We don't have no cars for hire. Only trucks. We haul sand and gravel from them pits up the river."

His eyes were curious.

"Kinda late hour for travelin'. Where were you going, mister?"

The Shadow sighed, told a long, rambling tale about a sister in a town back of the hills; an earlier train he had missed; a long walk from the station nearest to the village.

"That's too bad, mister. I tell you what. See that filling station? They might be able to fix you up over there. The owner has a brother who owns a flivver. The brother likes to make a dollar or two extra money by hiring out as a taxi driver. You might try him."

"Thanks," The Shadow said, in his polite quaver. "I'll do that."

AS he crossed the street, The Shadow saw the filling station attendant eying him keenly from the shack doorway. He didn't like the fellow's looks. He decided to make a small experiment. He stated his problem to the attendant, explained that he wanted to hire a car and driver, and offered twenty-five cents to be driven a distance of nearly twenty-five miles.

His offer was instantly accepted. The attendant disappeared behind the shack to search for his "brother." The Shadow smiled grimly, as he heard him calling in a loud voice: "Jake! Hey, Jake! I got a customer for you! Where are you?"

Twenty-five miles for twenty-five cents - and no argument! To The Shadow, it seemed to tie up very neatly with the mystery of his own damaged car in the alley alongside the bank building. Kelsea had already struck and failed. What would the next move be?

The Shadow knew the answer, when he saw Jake. His face was bearded and there was a greasy, black oil smudge that covered his left cheek bone and part of his nose.

The Shadow divined why there was a beard on that disguised chin. It covered a small, crescent-shaped scar.

The man was David Stoner!

THE SHADOW said nothing and got into the seat next to his driver. The car was not a flivver, as the garage man had said, but a brand-new and powerful sedan. It rolled into motion with a fast, beautiful pickup and roared to the crossroad. A twist of the wheel and it swerved into the North Turnpike.

Staring at the instrument panel, The Shadow noted a peculiar thing. The gas gauge was broken. It was the only thing out of order in this brand-new car.It had been deliberately damaged. The Shadow was certain that this broken gauge would undoubtedly be the pretext for a second murderous attempt on his life.

In the gentle, high-pitched voice of an old man, The Shadow drew the bearded man's attention to the damaged instrument.

Stoner said briefly: "Yeah." He was afraid to talk too much, for fear of disclosing his real ident.i.ty.

"These hills look like mighty good country for iron ore," the old man continued, mildly. "Any iron mines hereabout?"

Stoner's body jerked nervously at the question. The speeding car swerved for an instant and recovered.

"The road's pretty bad along here," Stoner muttered.

He didn't answer the question about iron mines. To his relief, the old man relapsed into silence. The car began to slacken speed slightly, and The Shadow watched the road for a sign he expected to see very soon.

It flashed past in the glow of the headlights: PRIVATE PROPERTY.

NO TRESPa.s.sING ALLOWED.

- J. FOX.

A quarter of a mile onward, a private lane cut between thickly leafed trees. The car pa.s.sed the lane and started up a steep hill in the road.