WITH Hildrow, in Washington, The Shadow had lingered while playing the part of Stollart.
The trip to the island, once begun, had required a full hour because of its winding, changing
course and the bad roads encountered.
More time had elapsed at the cottage. There had been another interval after the crash. A
clouding sky was bringing dusk when The Shadow and Dadren reached the end of the
jagged road and stumbled to a better though little-traveled highway.
To the left was the way by which The Shadow had come with Hildrow. That was the road
which the plotter must have taken. Despite the time lost by the changing of a tire—The
Shadow and Dadren had seen the old shoe lying near the jagged road—Hildrow must by
now be nearing the capital.
Instead of taking the course to the left, however, The Shadow, leaning heavily on Dadren,
urged the commander to the right. Again, The Shadow had made a clever deduction.
There were no houses along that road to the left. It was miles to the nearest habitation. Yet
Hildrow must have kept close contact with the secluded island. There was no telephone line
into Korsch's den, therefore, the contact point must be somewhere else close by.
Pete's arrival was a further indication of that fact. The man who had come in the sedan
probably had headquarters only a short way off. The road to the right offered the one
solution.
The Shadow and Dadren traversed half a mile. The Shadow was making rapid progress,
despite Dadren's protests. The road kept curving to the left; The Shadow knew that it must
miss the river, which twisted in the opposite direction. But he was looking for lights, not for
water. He spied them through the increasing dusk.
A short bend had brought them into sight of an old roadhouse, which formed the center of a
little settlement. This must have been Pete's headquarters. The Shadow knew that a
telephone would be available.
As they plodded on, The Shadow spoke to Dadren. The commander nodded as he heard
the instructions. They were almost at a dilapidated garage when The Shadow gave his final
reminder.
"Call Marsland first," he said, in a steady whisper. "Then Releston. Then come into
Washington."
"But you are not leaving -"
The Shadow stopped Dadren with a warning motion. They were close to the garage.
Standing in front was an antiquated roadster, that shook from the explosions of its running
motor. One light alone was gleaming from the front of the car. The driver had stepped into
the garage to purchase a new bulb.
"Proceed," ordered The Shadow. "Make the calls from the roadhouse."
He shifted his arm from Dadren's shoulder and swayed for a moment. Dadren paused; he
caught the flash of The Shadow's compelling eyes. Nodding, Dadren turned and strode
along the road.
Shedding his weakness, The Shadow approached the roadster. Opening the door, he
moved noiselessly behind the wheel, drawing his weak leg in after him. He closed the door
softly.
The owner of the car had come from the garage, talking with the proprietor. The man was
holding the new bulb. He was about to step forward past the hood when The Shadow
jammed the car in gear.
The rattly roadster shot away from beside its astonished owner. Shifting rapidly to second,
The Shadow gave it gas. Then into high. Its one lamp blazing through the increasing
darkness, the roadster took the bend. Thanks to the twisting course of the road, The
Shadow gained a speed that a swifter car could not surpass if it came in pursuit.
EIGHT minutes after The Shadow had made off with the rickety roadster, Cliff Marsland
strode through the lobby of a Washington hotel. The firm-faced agent of The Shadow was
carrying a suitcase. He had received a call from Commander Joseph Dadren.
Reaching a parking space a quarter-block away, Cliff handed in a ticket. He stepped into a
mammoth roadster, a high-powered car of foreign make, and rested the suitcase in a wide,
deep niche behind the seat.
The motor throbbed. The lights came on. Cliff piloted the car to the street and headed for an
avenue. The huge car sped forward, noiselessly increasing its speed. Cliff smiled grimly.
This machine would roar when it reached the open road.
Cliff was on his way to meet The Shadow. He had heard the route from Dadren. He would
be on the watch for a one-eyed roadster that would be straining every bolt to gain its
topmost speed.
Then the transfer. With The Shadow, Cliff would head back for Washington. The Shadow
would be busy with the suitcase while Cliff drove. It was anticipation of that coming ride that
caused Cliff's smile.
For The Shadow, traveling to frustrate crime, would order speed. This car was built for rapid
travel. Whatever the game The Shadow had at stake, Cliff knew that the goal would be
reached in record time.
CHAPTER XXIII. HIGH WATER MARK
A SOLEMN group was gathered in Senator Releston's office. In this quiet room of the large
apartment, Releston was listening to comments that came from Vic Marquette. Harry
Vincent, also present, was puzzled by the situation.
"It's got me beat," admitted Vic. "I don't know which one of those birds was phony. It looked
like both. No Commander Dadren at the Navy Department. Nothing down at that siding in
Virginia. Fifty men on the job; they covered the entire territory around that station called
Alora. They haven't found the shack; not even the siding, for that matter."
"We have been hoaxed," agreed Releston. "But I cannot understand what has become of
Stollart. Do you think that he has met with harm?"
"Probably," declared Vic, "The whole mess is black as ink. Tougher than anything I've ever
encountered. Suppose, for instance, that the first man here was really Dadren -"
Vic paused as Smedley entered. The servant had come to announce that Mr. Eric Hildrow
was calling. Senator Releston nodded.
"Does he have an appointment?" he inquired.
"He says so," replied Smedley.
"He must have made it by telephone," mused Releston. "While Stollart was here. I leave all
that to Stollart. I shall see him, Smedley."
"But listen, senator," began Vic, "we've got other matters -"
"I can make the interview short," interposed Releston. "We have discussed all points and
have arrived nowhere. We can wait until Mr. Hildrow leaves."
"But we ought to be here, Vincent and I."
"That will be quite all right."
Smedley returned with Hildrow. Pale-faced, almost weary of manner, the visitor shook hands
with Releston. He seated himself beside the desk and refused a cigar that the senator
offered him.
"I always smoke these," declared Hildrow, smiling wanly. He drew a small case from his
pocket and extracted a panatela. "Will you try one, senator? They are a special brand I
picked up in Cuba."
Releston accepted. Hildrow settled back in his chair. He began to mention shipping
conditions; then looked about questioningly, noting Harry and Vic.
"Mr. Vincent is my new secretary," explained the senator. "Stollart has gone on vacation.
You have seen Vincent here before. Mr. Marquette is his assistant. Go on, Vincent. Arrange
those files of the Congressional Record, as I told you."
Harr
y took the tip. He went to a corner where the publications were stacked and began to
make a pretense of sorting them. Vic came over to aid him. Hildrow resumed his talk.
THE master plotter had played one card, a subtle suggestion that Harry and Vic would
leave. Releston, unsuspecting his visitor's real purpose, had balked the game without
knowing it.
Hildrow had another card up his sleeve. It was a better bet if he played it right. He came
quickly to the point that he was after.
"Senor Danzola of Havana is a man of high intelligence," stated Hildrow. "He has an
excellent connection with the steamship lines. He believes that the export of sugar cane has
been retarded by certain persons in New York."
"Did he name them?"
"Yes. He stated that -"
Hildrow paused. He looked over to the corner. Then, in a confidential tone, he leaned
forward on the desk.
"I do not like to mention the names that Danzola gave," he said, in a confidential tone. "I
promised him that I would mention them to no one but you, senator."
"Do not mind Vincent or Marquette."
"On my previous calls," reminded Hildrow, with a disarming smile, "you usually talked with
me alone. Not even Stollart, your regular secretary, remained with us."
"Those Congressional Records must be filed," said the senator. "I must refer to them for a
speech that I intend to prepare to-night. Suppose, Hildrow, that we postpone this conference
until to-morrow."
"I am leaving for New York, senator, this evening. I require only a few minutes to give you this
important information. Could we retire to another room since your secretaries are busy
here?"
"Certainly," replied Releston, seeing an easy solution that would leave Vic and Harry
guarding the vault. "We can go into the front living room, Hildrow."
Releston arose. Hildrow repressed a smile. He shot a wary glance toward the corner, then
got up from his chair to follow the senator. At that moment the telephone rang.
"Answer it, Vincent," ordered Releston, pausing at the door. "Tell me who it is."
Hildrow stopped beside the senator. Harry went to the telephone. He gave his name in brisk
fashion, announcing himself as the senator's secretary. The voice that came over the wire
stopped Harry short.
THE speaker at the other end was Commander Joseph Dadren.
Instantly, Harry stopped the exclamation that was coming to his lips. The presence of the
stranger, Eric Hildrow, was the reason why he curbed himself. Yet Harry did not fully
succeed in covering his surprise.
Vic Marquette had noted it. The Secret Service operative was watching from the corner. So
had Releston. The senator was stepping in from the door, eyes on Harry. He passed
Hildrow, who was looking on in an apparently indifferent fashion.
Brief, terse statements were coming from the commander. Harry was mentally registering
each phrase. Then came the startling finish. The name of the master plotter.
"Eric Hildrow."
This time, Harry managed to repress his new surprise. With assuring words that ended the
call, he replaced the double-ended desk phone on its stand. He had the instrument in his left
hand; that side of his body was toward the door. Harry let his right hand drop to his coat
pocket.
"Hold it!" came a fierce warning from the door. "You're a dead man, Vincent, if you pull that
gun! Up with your hands! Make it quick!"
HARRY obeyed. He found himself facing Hildrow. The man's face showed evil in the light.
Twisted lips were forming a snarl. The master crook had drawn two revolvers. One was
trained on Harry. The other was swaying back and forth between Marquette and Releston.
"All hands up!" ordered Hildrow. "Line over here. If it wasn't for the servants being around, I'd
blot out the three of you. Make it fast, or I'll start the works anyway!"
Three men followed the order. Herding the trio with the senator in the lead, Hildrow ordered
the procession into the living room. No other alternative offered. The men marched forward.
Hildrow forced them into the living room. The servants were on the other side of the
apartment. Neither Smedley nor Williston appeared to make trouble, which was fortunate,
considering Hildrow's threat.
Ordering Vic and Harry to back into a corner, Hildrow covered them with one gun and
motioned to Releston with the other. He snarled an order that none had expected.
"Open the door of the closet," voiced Hildrow. "You'll find Stollart there. Release him."
Releston obeyed. He found the missing secretary bound and gagged on the floor.
Harry and Vic stared in amazement. Hildrow became impatient. He kicked the door to the
inner hallway. It slammed shut. This was to offset discovery by the servants.
Prompted by Hildrow's threatening voice, Senator Releston produced a pocketknife and
managed to cut the cords that bound Stollart so tightly. The secretary came to his feet. He
recognized that Hildrow must be his chief.
The plotter barked an order. Stollart came to action. He frisked Harry Vincent and Vic
Marquette, finding one automatic on each man. Hildrow ordered him to cover the two with
the guns.
Keeping an eye on Senator Releston, Hildrow went to the shelf that The Shadow had
mentioned. Pocketing one revolver, he reached up and found the missing plans that The
Shadow had left there.
FROM far away—outside the Hotel Barlingham—came the whine of sirens. Stollart, his
voice quavering, asked:
"What's that, chief?"
"A fire somewhere," returned Hildrow. "Keep those men covered, Stollart. Fire if they move
an inch."
The wailing noises were coming closer. Hildrow ignored them. Holding the plans in his free
hand, the master plotter sneered his victory.
"No need to open that safe, senator," he chuckled. "Those tracings are not needed. I have
photostats. I do not care if a portion of the plans exist. I, alone, have the complete diagrams,
now that I have gained these underlying sheets.
"All that remains is to make sure Commander Dadren dies. That call that Vincent answered
indicates that he is still alive. His rescuer— The Shadow— is probably dead. I shall trap
Dadren.
"But first, the lot of you will die." Nearer sirens blared as Hildrow paused. "Prepare for
death, the three of you. I have stationed competent aids about this hotel. My get-away is
assured. Then will come the final search for Dadren."
Pocketing the plans, the master plotter deliberately drew his second revolver. Four guns
were covering the doomed men. Hildrow seemed to relish his plan of murder. He had
reason. For Eric Hildrow's fortunes—evil though they were—had reached high water mark.
Despite the intervention of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST SETTLEMENT
THE sirens which Eric Hildrow had ignored were not the whines of fire engines. While the
master plotter had been gaining the missing plans, a dozen police cars had undertaken a
most unusual chase.
A huge roadster had entered the limits of Washington, traveling at a speed of nearly one
hundred miles an hour. Its driver blaring a horn that sounded warnings a full block ahead, the
car had roared along a broad avenue toward the business district of the capital.
Traffic had be
en disrupted. Pedestrians had ducked for cover. At hurricane speed, the
mammoth roadster had cleared a path before it. But in the wake of this foreign-built car
came a deluge of pursuers.
Motorcycle cops and patrol cars had taken up the chase. The big machine had outdistanced
them. Its speed had decreased to eighty as it neared the center of the city; then had come
another lessening of pace. Yet the most ardent pursuers had failed to catch up with it.
New patrol cars, cutting in, had complicated the chase. By the time the big car was in sight
of the Hotel Barlingham, it seemed that half the police of Washington were on its trail. Then
the foreign roadster did an unexpected circuit about a circle. It cut along a street that led to
the Hotel Barlingham.
CLIFF MARSLAND was the grim driver of that roadster. Blaring his warning, he had cut a
swath toward his goal. He was not the daredevil that Miles Crofton was. In an autogyro, Cliff
would have admitted his inability.
But Cliff was an accomplished driver. He knew this car. Like Crofton, he was inspired by the
companion who rode with him. For beside Cliff sat a silent figure cloaked in black. During
the early portion of the ride, The Shadow had donned a garb that he had taken from the
suitcase in the car.
The Shadow had regretted that he had not kept Miles Crofton in Washington. Crofton had
brought the big touring car to the capital, to leave it with Cliff Marsland. The car had been
there to serve The Shadow. For once, the cloaked warrior had not anticipated an
emergency which had come.
But Cliff Marsland had proven his ability in the pinch. He had cut away precious seconds
during this roaring trip. A soft laugh came from hidden lips as The Shadow viewed the home
stretch. Whining sirens from behind meant nothing. The goal lay half a block ahead. Cliff had
made it in a time limit that Crofton would have envied.
Cliff jammed the brakes and shot the roadster into the alleyway beside the Hotel
Barlingham. As the big machine swerved, The Shadow raised a gloved hand and pressed a
phial to his lips. Purple liquid showed by the dashlight as The Shadow lowered the tiny
bottle.
A strengthening elixir, included in the suitcase. The Shadow had reserved this dosage for
the finish of the run. Already well recovered from his loss of blood, he was making final
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