when you wish admittance to this room."
No reply. Whitburn stared at the placid, rounded face of his subordinate. Bragg was a man
with a somewhat owlish expression. His lips had a solemn droop that they maintained while
Whitburn stared.
"What ails you, Bragg?" demanded the professor. "Why do you stand there staring like a
lout? Speak up, man!"
A soft laugh came from Bragg's drooping lips. The sound brought Whitburn to his feet.
Though the laugh was no more than a whisper, it carried an echo of the mirth that the old
professor had heard within the walls of the submarine chamber.
This was not Bragg. It was The Shadow!
The thought was startling as it drove through Whitburn's brain. The professor understood
what The Shadow had meant when he stated that he would like to see Bragg after the man
returned.
The Shadow had come from the submarine chamber. Ascending to the roof, he had
obtained a suitcase from the autogyro. In the lonely tower room, he had made himself up to
resemble Bragg. The rest of his plan was apparent to Professor Whitburn.
Looking to the desk, the old inventor picked up the note that Polmore had written for Bragg.
It had not been opened, for Bragg had come directly to the submarine room after
discovering Quex outside the front door.
The Shadow took the message that Eric Hildrow had dictated to Polmore.
He read its contents; then returned the note to Whitburn.
The message instructed Bragg to come the Hotel Halcyon, in New York; there to inquire for
Professor Whitburn. Its tenor indicated that the professor had left for an important
conference; that he wanted his aids there to listen in on the discussion of some new
experiments.
"Do you intend to go in Bragg's place?" inquired Whitburn, looking up at The Shadow.
"Yes. I shall leave immediately." Whitburn was astonished at The Shadow's excellent
counterfeit of Bragg's voice. "I entered here to learn what you might think of my disguise."
"It is remarkable!" declared Whitburn. "It deceived me."
"That is sufficient. One other point. If your telephone service has been restored, I should like
to make a call to New York."
Whitburn had forgotten the telephone. Turning to the instrument, he raised the receiver and
clicked the hook. He shook his head. The line was still dead.
"My call can wait," asserted The Shadow. "In the meantime, follow these instructions. Leave
the island, taking Stephen and Bragg with you. Also remove the cat. It is important that our
enemy does not learn that a rescue was effected."
"But he may send some one back here to look around -"
"That is unlikely. A spy would not approach closer than Lake Marrinack. Any sign of life upon
Death Island would attract an observer. If all appears deserted, I doubt that an agent would
approach."
WITH this statement, The Shadow turned. He left the professor's study and walked through
the corridor to the stairs. He reached the tower where he picked up his bag. Leaving by the
skylight, he boarded the autogyro.
Then came a remarkable maneuver. The flat roof offered very little opportunity for a take-off.
The only factor that favored The Shadow was a breeze that came through the trees from the
front of the house. But The Shadow kept his ship facing straight toward the tower at the
back.
The propeller began to whirl; the fan above the ship spun also as the motor roared. Then the
autogyro started straight for the tower at the rear, traveling in the direction of the wind. An
observer might have expected an immediate crash.
None came. Instead, the autogyro spun about. Braking one wheel, The Shadow caused the
ship to turn in a twisting circle. The right wing grazed the tower; then the about face was
completed. The autogyro was headed directly into the wind; for the ship was moving toward
the front of the house.
The quick whirl had given momentum to the autogyro. It produced the added impetus upon
which The Shadow had counted. The windmill blades were lifting; the speeding propeller
aided. The ship took off before it had reached the front of the house.
Rising, its ascent became almost vertical. The undercarriage scraped the twigs of the
nearest tree; then the autogyro was clear.
rising above the trees. He wondered what this ship was doing at Death Island. Anxiously, he
hastened to the house to report to Professor Whitburn.
ONE hour later, The Shadow landed at the Newark airport. Disguised as Bragg, he lost no
time in getting to a taxicab. He entered the car, carrying his bag. He gave the driver an
address in Manhattan.
Arriving in the city, The Shadow left the cab and called another. He wanted to break the trail.
He did not wait to put in a call to Burbank. That could come later; the sooner that he
performed Bragg's mission, the more effective would future measures be.
The new cab reached the Hotel Halcyon. This building was an old-fashioned structure,
located in a dingy part of town. Yet it was the type of place that an old man like Professor
Whitburn might have chosen for a temporary residence in Manhattan. The Shadow entered
the lobby.
He spoke to an idling clerk. In Bragg's voice, he inquired for Professor Whitburn. The clerk
looked at the register; then nodded.
"Room 406," he said. "The professor came in late last night. Said to send up anybody who
asked for him."
There were loungers in the lobby. As soon as the arrival had entered the elevator, one man
spoke to another. The speaker was the man whom Hildrow had left at the dock on Death
Island, the only survivor of Nuland's crew.
"That's Bragg," he whispered to his companion. "I know the guy. We've been watching him
along with others. That's why the chief put me here."
"You're sure its him?"
"Positive!"
"Come on, then."
THE pair entered the second elevator and told the operator to take them to the fourth floor.
They were following less than two minutes after The Shadow. He, however, had reached the
fourth floor and was already knocking on the door of 406.
Some one unlocked the door. Guised as Bragg, The Shadow entered to find two men
standing in what appeared to be the outer room of a suite. In a quizzical tone—a perfect
counterfeit of Bragg's—The Shadow asked:
"Where is Professor Whitburn?"
"Is your name Bragg?" questioned one of the men.
The Shadow nodded.
"All right, then," said the fellow. "I'll call the professor. He's taking a nap in his room. Say,
Jerry"- this was to the other man— "show Mr. Bragg that model engine that the professor
wanted him to see."
Jerry nodded and turned to a suitcase. The other man entered an inner room. Playing the
part of Bragg, The Shadow stood idly just within the door. His rounded face looked
complacent; his hands were resting in his coat pockets.
"Stick 'em up!" came a sudden order.
Jerry had brought a .38 from the suitcase. Whirling, he was covering this visitor whom he
thought was Bragg. He saw an amazed expression come over the droop-lipped face.
Thinking he had a soft victim, Jerry was totally unready for what occurred.
The Shadow half staggered backward, just as Bragg might have done in the face of a gun.
As his left hand came up empty, his right was momentarily out of sight, due to a slight turn
that he gave his body. Then he wheeled the other way. His quick-moving right had whisked
an automatic from his pocket.
Jerry never had a chance to press the trigger on which his finger rested. The automatic
barked with split-second speed. Jerry staggered; his hand lost its grip on the gun. Again,
The Shadow whirled.
This quick move was a timely one. The fellow who had made pretense of summoning
Whitburn had turned immediately when he had gained the other room. He, too, was covering
the form of Bragg. The flash of the automatic brought him into action. Quickly, the fellow
fired.
His bullet sizzed by the spot where The Shadow had been; inches only from the place where
The Shadow now stood. The revolver bullet flattened itself against the wall. Before the
would-be killer had a chance for new aim, another burst came from The Shadow's .45s.
Another human target plopped to the floor. The Shadow, swinging inward as he fired, had
picked his mark with perfect precision. Moreover, he was swinging toward the inner room,
to deal with any others who might be lurking there.
Then instinctively, he whirled toward the outer door. Gifted with uncanny intuition, The
Shadow had not only divined that other foes were absent in the inner room; he had also
guessed the spot from which a new attack might come.
THE unlocked door was swinging open. Framed in the portal were the two crooks from the
lobby. Shots had told them that something was amiss. Plans for Bragg's capture and murder
had not included gunplay in the hotel itself.
While his gun-holding right hand had been reaching forward, almost probing the spaces of
the inner room, The Shadow's left had dropped to its original position—within his pocket. As
his right hand swung toward the outer door, this hidden left also snapped into view, carrying
a second gun.
Had they been dealing with a black-cloaked fighter, the new arrivals would not have had a
chance. But The Shadow was here as Bragg. His disguised form was plainly visible against
the window. Both entrants recognized their foe. They were ready with their guns.
The Shadow beat them to the shots. His automatics boomed a simultaneous welcome as
the killers opened their hasty fire. Revolver bullets sizzled through the air. The whining slugs
shattered windows.
But The Shadow, still whirling, had standing marks. The missives from his automatics found
living bodies in their paths. Hildrow's reserve assassins went slumping helplessly.
Moving toward the door, The Shadow pocketed his gun and yanked open the suitcase that
he had previously placed on the floor. From it, he produced cloak and hat. Here, away from
the light of the windows, he performed a black-out as he donned his chosen garb.
A flexible briefcase followed. It contained The Shadow's make-up equipment. It would later
hold the hat and cloak. This object went from view. Pausing, The Shadow listened. He could
hear shouts from outside the room; but they were all far below.
One man, slumped against the wall, was staring with glassy eyes. Dying, the rogue had
seen The Shadow's transformation. His blood-flecked lips were trembling with fear. The
Shadow turned his burning gaze upon this crippled foeman.
"Name your chief!" came the hissed whisper. "Speak, while you still live!"
The dying man quivered. Pain was forgotten in the midst of the fear that shook him. The
frustrated murderer coughed; then gasped:
"I—I don't know—who he is."
"You have seen him," hissed The Shadow.
The sinister tone brought another tremor to slumping shoulders. The sagged gunman
coughed out another statement:
"I—I've seen him," he gasped, "but it—it ain't him. He—he's different, the chief is. Like last
night"- the fellow paused and The Shadow knew that he was the one who had escaped from
Death Island— "he was—he was a guy with a mustache then. But he changed—changed it
later—to a beard -"
That was all. The man had talked beyond his time, spurred by the presence of The Shadow.
He toppled from the wall and sprawled crazily upon the floor. He had told all that he knew;
and his dying statement had corroborated The Shadow's previous supposition.
The master plotter was the enemy. One who had many agents, who knew him in different
guises. But now was no time to speculate upon Eric Hildrow, the villain whose name The
Shadow had not yet learned. Shouts from a stairway told that police were arriving.
The Shadow swept into the hall. He spied a flight of stairs and sprang up them just as
bluecoats appeared from below. On the fifth floor, The Shadow headed straight for the
elevator shaft. Stopping there, he pried doors apart just as a car came up and stopped at
the fourth floor.
Softly, The Shadow lowered himself through the opening and closed the doors noiselessly
behind him. The car had delivered two officers. It descended, and The Shadow rode down
with it. At the ground floor, he slid over the top of the car, worked down its partly grilled side,
then dropped a floor to the basement level. This was possible, for all the elevators were in
an open shaftway. There, he pried open a pair of doors and moved swiftly through gloomy
cellar corridors.
FIVE minutes later, Bragg appeared upon a secluded street. He was carrying a well-stuffed
brief case. The Shadow had stowed away his black garb. It had aided in his escape. That
was sufficient.
Entering a large drug store, The Shadow went to a telephone booth. He dialed Burbank's
number and spoke in a low, whispering tone. Over the wire came Burbank's report, telling of
Commander Dadren's departure from Cedar Cove. The contact man added further
intelligence from Cliff Marsland. Harry Vincent was taking the afternoon express. Cliff was
going with him.
Then came another report. This was from Clyde Burke, an agent of The Shadow who
worked as a reporter with the New York Classic. It was Burke's job to forward important
news flashes before they were printed.
"Dispatch from Washington news bureau," informed Burbank. "Officials at the airport are
expressing anxiety about the plane flown by Commander Joseph Dadren. One hour and a
half overdue, coming from the Carolinas."
A soft laugh sounded in the telephone booth. Its whispered tone was grim. The Shadow
knew that Dadren had been intercepted. More than that, he foresaw what might follow. His
answer to Burbank was a prompt one.
"Contact Miles Crofton," ordered The Shadow. "Order him to the Newark airport. To join a
man named Bragg who has an autogyro there. He will follow all instructions that he receives
from Bragg."
"Orders received," responded Burbank.
A few minutes later, a taximan pulled up beside the curb near the big drug store. He opened
the door to let an owlish, round-faced man step aboard the car. The passenger was carrying
a briefcase.
"Where to, sir?" inquired the taximan.
"Newark airport," replied The Shadow, in the solemn voice of Bragg.
CHAPTER XI. ON THE NORTHERN EXPRESS
COMMANDER JOSEPH DADREN had been cap
tured at noon on this eventful day. At three
o'clock, The Shadow had demolished a squad of Eric Hildrow's minions who had attacked
him at the Hotel Halcyon. Shortly after six, Harry Vincent was eating dinner aboard the
Northern Express.
This was the train that Harry had taken from the town near Cedar Cove. It was a slower train
than the through limiteds. At the same time, it was equipped for long-distance travel. The
only day train on the line, it did a large business in passengers between way points.
Seated at a table across from Harry was Cliff Marsland. The two had not talked together. To
all appearances, they were strangers—chance travelers on the same train to Washington.
All the while, however, Cliff was keeping Harry in view. He knew the importance of the
briefcase that his fellow agent carried.
Dusk had settled while Harry and Cliff were finishing their meal. The Virginia landscape had
grown hazy. Harry glanced about the dining car; then arose and left by the rear door. Cliff
followed half a minute later.
Harry's course led back through the Pullmans that were attached to the rear of the train.
When he reached the last car, Harry walked into a passage that led along the right side.
This car was half-compartments, half-lounge—a combination car that had come through
from the South.
Two men were seated by the rear window that opened on the observation platform. Harry
looked them over; then took a chair midway in this section of the car.
Shortly afterward, Cliff Marsland arrived and seated himself at the writing desk near the
front.
The train was coming to a stop, in a fair-sized city. This was the last stage of the run; from
here on, it was a two-hour-trip straight into Washington. The express waited a minute at the
station platform; then chugged slowly out into the yards.
Lights showed through the dusk as the train was gathering speed. Harry caught snatches of
a conversation between the two men at the rear of the car. One was pointing through the
window.
"That's the new airport -"
"Well equipped. Say—there's a plane landing -"
"Hope he isn't bringing anybody for this train -"
"Not likely. Most people transfer south from here. Looks like that fellow's going up again,