The Plot Master s-71

by Maxwell Grant

  don't it?"

  Harry did not catch the reply. He was interested in observing some persons who had just

  entered from the passage at the front of the car. They were passengers who had come

  aboard at this stop.

  One was an elderly man with a cane, who looked like an old-time planter. With him was a

  middle-aged lady who was dressed in black, which somewhat lessened her stout

  appearance. The third was a brisk-looking fellow of about thirty-five. He had the manner of a

  traveling salesman.

  Cliff, looking up from a letter that he was writing, gave these arrivals an inspection. Harry

  caught a slight nod; it was Cliff's signal that they had passed his observation. Harry shifted

  back into his chair and leaned his elbow upon the briefcase that he had beside him.

  The two men at the rear were still talking about the plane that they had seen. Harry noticed

  one pointing out through the back window. Then he looked frontward again as another

  person entered. This was a uniformed brakeman, a member of the train crew.

  Harry began to read a newspaper. Cliff resumed his writing. Both were caught off guard by

  the sudden commotion that passed through the car. A growl came from up front. Harry

  stared in that direction. Two masked men had entered from the passage.

  Both were uncouthly dressed. They wore bandanna handkerchiefs about their faces. They

  must have come aboard and entered one of the compartments ahead of the lounge, where

  they had lurked until this moment. They were flashing large revolvers.

  "Put your hands up!" came the order.

  ONE fellow nudged a gun into the brakeman's ribs while the other covered the rest of the

  car.

  The brakeman faltered. His hands went up. The gun moved away. Passengers began to

  copy the brakeman's example. In a scared tone, the brakeman urged them to do so.

  "Don't offer resistance," he blurted. "Everything will be all right. Just remain quiet -"

  "Shut up, shack," growled one of the bandits, using the hoboes' term for brakeman. "We're

  running this. Say—you look like the mug that bounced me off a freight near Chillicothe. If I

  thought you was the guy -"

  "Forget the shack," broke in the other. "Keep 'em covered, Louie, while I collect. Keep your

  hands up—all of you. This gat has a hair-trigger."

  WHILE Louie covered the car, the other bandit started along the line. He passed up Cliff

  Marsland until later. He snatched a purse from the lady's lap and tugged three rings from her

  fingers. He whisked a wallet from the old gentleman's inside pocket. He was about to

  approach the traveling man when he noticed Harry Vincent.

  "Keep 'em up, mug," he ordered. "That briefcase of yours looks good to me. Just what I

  want to load the swag. What'd I tell you, Louie? I said we'd pick up a bag on the train."

  With that the fellow jabbed his gun against Harry's chest and reached for the briefcase.

  Staring across the car, Harry caught Cliff's eye. He saw that Louie had left Cliff uncovered.

  Feigning fear, Cliff looked too pitiable to make trouble.

  Harry gave a slight nod. Cliff caught it, and was about to give a negative sign. An attack was

  too dangerous, while Harry had a gun muzzle thrust against his body. But as the collecting

  bandit drew back with the briefcase, Harry acted.

  With a quick move of his left hand, he caught the gun barrel and thrust it away from his body.

  The bandit clutched the gun; he almost lost his balance as Harry gave a twist. The revolver

  boomed. Its bullet splintered the back of a chair and flattened against the steel side of the

  car.

  Then the revolver clattered to the floor as Harry, rising, delivered a haymaker to the bandit's

  chin. The fellow went sprawling upon his back. Harry had scored a knock-out punch.

  Cliff had lost no time. He was picking his chance with the same skill that Harry had shown.

  Louie was swinging to aim at Harry. Cliff came up from the writing desk and drove a left

  hook to the fellow's chin. Louie's head cracked back against the metal front of the lounge

  compartment. As Louie sagged, Cliff bore him to the floor.

  Harry saw the action. He sprang upon the man whom he had downed and yanked away the

  fellow's mask. Astonishment came with understanding. The stunned bandit was Hasker.

  Harry saw Dadren's mechanic open his eyes. Grimly, Harry clutched the traitor's throat,

  ready to pound his head against the floor if he offered new resistance.

  Then an arm came under Harry's chin. The Shadow's agent was yanked back, struggling.

  He was in the clutches of the old man with the cane. Then another fighter joined the fray. It

  was the old lady, minus hat and wig. A man in disguise. Both were working with Hasker.

  UP at the front, Harry caught a glimpse of Cliff Marsland struggling with the brakeman. That

  fellow, too, was an impostor. He was a pretended member of the train crew—a crook who

  had stepped aboard with the others.

  The traveling man was springing forward to aid the fake brakeman. Four against two, these

  minions of Eric Hildrow had delivered a well-timed counterthrust against the agents of The

  Shadow.

  The struggle would have been a short one but for the intervention of the two men from the

  rear of the car. When they saw the woman's wig fall to the floor, they gained an inkling of the

  game. As Hasker came to his hands and knees, reaching for his gun, the two men fell upon

  him.

  Hasker lost his revolver. The crook who had played the part of an old man, sprang to aid

  him. He and Hasker delivered punches to the men who had intervened. Harry, wresting free

  from his lone antagonist, grabbed the revolver and fired toward the front of the car.

  The shot, aimed high, caused commotion there. As three men turned to draw guns on Harry,

  Cliff gained a chance to bring out his automatic. Then some one landed upon Harry's back.

  The Shadow's agent went to the floor.

  The last impression that Harry gained were odd ones. Crooks again grappling with Cliff;

  something thumping upon the roof of the car; the distant blare of the locomotive whistle far

  ahead.

  Then a gun barrel glanced against the side of Harry's head. Stunned, the Shadow's fighting

  agent lay motionless.

  Hasker, the briefcase under his arm, glared viciously as he reclaimed his revolver. With a

  snarl, this aid of Eric Hildrow's prepared to kill the man who had come from Cedar Cove.

  CHAPTER XII. FROM THE NIGHT

  CLIFF MARSLAND was helpless. Backed against the front wall of the car, he was standing

  with arms pinned behind him. The fake brakeman, the pretended salesman, were the pair

  who held him at bay. The second bandit—the fellow whom Cliff had slugged—had not

  removed his mask.

  This man was Wenshell. He and Hasker had led the expedition. The others— all

  disguised—were crooks who had served with Wenshell's fake air circus. Gangsters all, Eric

  Hildrow had relied upon them to pull this coup.

  Death to Harry Vincent. Such had been Hildrow's order. The others— Cliff Marsland and the

  two men who had intervened—could wait. Wenshell did not know that Cliff was with Harry.

  The two men from the back of the car sat cowed in chairs, covered by revolvers. Wenshell

  looked on approvingly while Hasker aimed his revolver for Harry's heart.

  Wildly, Cliff Marsland struggled. Curbed, he resorted
to a momentary subterfuge. To turn

  Hasker's attention, he shouted a warning that the man thought came from Wenshell.

  "Look out!" cried Cliff. "Look out for the door of the platform!"

  Instinctively, Hasker turned his eyes in that direction. So did others, including Cliff. Then The

  Shadow's agent stared, as amazed as the others. His wild cry had become a prophecy. The

  door of the platform was swinging inward.

  THEN, from the blackness of the night appeared a looming form. A figure with a cloak that

  wavered in the wind; burning eyes that glowed from beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat.

  Beneath those eyes were the looming muzzles of mammoth automatics. Guns that were

  held in black-gloved fists.

  Cliff had heard that thump on top of the car. He knew its meaning. The Shadow had arrived

  in his autogyro. Entrusting the controls to the hands of a skilled pilot, he had ordered a

  landing on the rear car of the speeding train.

  The ship must have taken off immediately; but The Shadow had remained. Gripping the roof

  of the observation platform, he had swung downward and inward to the platform itself. Too

  late to join the train at the last stop, he had overtaken it by air!

  The Shadow could have fired from darkness. Such was not his choice. Viewing the scene

  within, he had stepped into sight that he might draw the aim of desperate marksmen. The

  Shadow's scheme worked.

  Hasker swung his revolver upward. So did Wenshell. Leaders of the crew, crooks at heart,

  these two knew the menace of the black-cloaked stranger from the night. Both sought to fire.

  Hasker failed. As Wenshell's revolver barked, The Shadow's automatics flashed tongues of

  flame. With those shots, the cloaked avenger did a fading sweep to the side, timed to a

  lurch as the train took a curve.

  Wenshell's bullets shattered the windows at the back of the car. Hasker, clipped by an

  opening shot, sprawled forward upon Harry Vincent's senseless form. Then a skimming slug

  found Wenshell's heart. The second crook dropped.

  Four others were yanking guns. Cliff Marsland was forgotten. His automatic had been

  wrested from him. He was a nonentity now, so far as the other crooks were concerned. But

  Cliff was ready to aid The Shadow.

  He gave no thought to the men beside him. The swinging train might disturb their aim. Those

  close to The Shadow were the ones that Cliff wanted. As guns roared, Cliff sprang forward,

  just as the foremost crook went down.

  That was the one who had worn the woman's disguise. Cliff landed on the rogue who had

  played the part of the old gentleman. He landed on the fellow and caught his gun arm just as

  the crook was about to press the trigger. They sprawled together on the floor, struggling for

  the revolver.

  The path was opened. Brakeman and salesman fired shots that whistled close to The

  Shadow's form. The automatics gave their answer. The two crooks went sprawling.

  Cliff had a strangle hold on his adversary. A swing of the train turned the tables. Clawing

  fingers gripped Cliff's throat. Choking, Cliff heard a final shot from the rear of the car. Hands

  loosened as the crook rolled dead.

  STRUGGLING to his feet, Cliff saw The Shadow step out through the opened door. He

  caught the strident cry of a mocking laugh; then the sound cut short as the door swung shut. It

  was followed by a hissing noise. The Shadow had pulled the bell-cord, out on the darkened

  platform.

  The half-dazed men who had aided Cliff and Harry, were coming to their feet, along with

  Cliff. Harry had opened his eyes. Two snarling crooks, mortally wounded, were trying to rise

  from the floor. Then the train conductor came bounding in from the passage, followed by a

  trainman.

  A wounded crook aimed for the conductor. Cliff landed on the fellow. The trainman took care

  of the second.

  As the express slackened its speed, Cliff was giving brief words of explanation. The masks

  worn by Hasker and Wenshell supported his statements.

  A train robbery had been thwarted. The fake brakeman; the disguises of the others—all

  were fitting testimony. Harry Vincent was joining with Cliff Marsland. The two strangers were

  giving their story.

  "Some one from the observation platform -"

  The conductor started back as he heard these words. He wanted to learn the identity of the

  mysterious rescuer. He was too late. Before he could reach the door, a figure dropped from

  the platform of the slowing train.

  CROUCHING upon the roadbed, The Shadow watched the rear lights of the train as they

  dwindled. The Northern Express came to a stop. A brakeman was alighting with his lantern,

  coming back along the track.

  But The Shadow, too, was on the move. Gliding from the roadbed, he pressed his way

  through a mass of bushes and reached an open hillside. He waited there, watching the

  distant train. He heard the blare of the whistle. It was the signal calling in the brakeman.

  The conductor had evidently ordered the train to proceed to the next town. The locomotive

  chugged. The Northern Express moved on.

  The Shadow stooped toward the ground, planted an object there and touched a fuse.

  A vivid flare burst forth as The Shadow stepped away. A greenish fire illuminated the rough

  ground. A ball of light shot upward and burst into a pyrotechnic display. A second followed;

  then a third. After that, the green fire flared, wavering.

  From high above, the autogyro came swishing down through the night. Miles Crofton, the

  pilot, had followed along the right of way. Hovering, he had turned off the motor. The

  autogyro made a landing beside The Shadow's flare.

  The black-cloaked figure appeared ghoulish as it stepped into the realm of light. Rising to

  the cockpit behind the pilot's seat, The Shadow dropped beneath the path of the slowly

  revolving blades that turned above the strange machine.

  Miles Crofton waited at the controls. This man knew the prowess of The Shadow. Crofton

  had once been tricked by men of crime. The Shadow had rescued him from a hopeless

  situation. A daredevil, a stunt flier, Crofton had since been ready to do The Shadow's

  bidding.

  That landing on the moving train had been the greatest feat of Crofton's career. Yet he knew

  that The Shadow had inspired it. Nerved by the thought of the part that The Shadow had

  elected to play, Crofton had succeeded in his task.

  He did not know what had happened aboard the Northern Express. He knew only that The

  Shadow had returned. The whispered laugh that Crofton heard was proof that the cloaked

  master had accomplished his design.

  WHILE blades turned lazily, while the propeller continued its slow spin, The Shadow rested

  deep in thought. Again he had delivered a thrust against the master plotter whose name he

  did not know. Henchmen of crime had been defeated. Harry Vincent still held the

  all-important plans that Commander Dadren had given him. He had done his part well.

  The Shadow was considering the next move. With it, he was calculating upon what his

  enemy would do, once he had learned of the defeat which his underlings had suffered.

  Again, The Shadow laughed. Then, leaning forward, he hissed his order to Miles Crofton:

  "To Washington."

  The pilot nodded. The motor roared. The autogyro wabbled on rough soil. Its wheels


  bounced from the ground. Rising, the ship whirled forward, gaining speed with altitude.

  Far below, The Shadow could spy the gleaming headlights of the Northern Express,

  stopped at a small station. Then the autogyro had left the toylike train far behind.

  Speeding into Washington, The Shadow was due to arrive before his agents. When Harry

  Vincent and Cliff Marsland reached their destination, he would be there to meet them. The

  Shadow, triumphant, was ready to offset the next stroke that came from Eric Hildrow.

  CHAPTER XIII. IN WASHINGTON

  AT nine o'clock the next morning, Harry Vincent was seated by the window of a room in a

  Washington hotel. Smoking a cigarette, The Shadow's agent watched the passing traffic

  along a broad boulevard. A smile showed on Harry's lips.

  The fray aboard the Northern Express had been explained to the satisfaction of the law. The

  train had steamed into Washington one hour late; but Harry, Cliff and the other two

  passengers in the lounge car had been cleared of all responsibility. More than that, they had

  earned the commendation of the sheriff in the town at which they had stopped.

  A newspaper which lay on Harry's writing table carried two headlined stories. One

  concerned the disappearance of Commander Joseph Dadren. It was believed that the

  former naval officer had crashed in some wooded district. The other story told of the holdup

  aboard the Northern Express. Neither the bandits nor their accomplices had been identified.

  That was the reason for Harry's smile. He had concealed the fact that he was in the employ

  of Commander Dadren. He wondered what the newspapers would say should they learn that

  Hasker—mechanic missing with the lost flier—was one of the bandits who had been killed

  in the fight aboard the train.

  The public was not to know of this connection. There was one man, however, who must be

  informed. That was Senator Ross Releston. Arriving at the Union Station, the night before,

  Harry had gained a note, thrust in his hand by some one passing in the crowded train shed.

  A message from The Shadow, ordering him to this hotel.

  Here, Harry had found a room reserved for him; a new note on the writing desk. Further

  orders from The Shadow. Harry was to call on Senator Releston this morning, to deliver the