'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 been 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
preparation for the ordeal that lay ahead.
The roadster jammed to a stop in the darkness of the alley. The roaring trip had been made
through lighted streets. Evening had settled. It was gloomy in this spot. The Shadow could
be distinguished only by his soft laugh.
Cliff saw a shape glide across the alley. He spied a man standing by a service entrance to
the hotel. The fellow looked like a watcher. Cliff heard the man growl a challenge. He saw
the fellow flash a revolver.
Then came a stroke from the dark. The guard thudded to the pavement. A black shape
blotted out the illumination of the service entrance. Then The Shadow was gone.
Cliff smiled tensely. The Shadow had anticipated this. He had given Cliff the tip in whispered
words. Cliff knew what to do. He had his alibi for the police. He needed it, too, for they were
here.
SOME had spotted Cliff entering the alley; others had doubled back; more had gone around
the block. The roadster was the center of a glare of headlights. None opened fire, now that
the machine was stopped. But they came piling in, a dozen of them, ready with revolvers. A
powerful flashlight showed Cliff Marsland.
'Climb out of there,' came a gruff command. 'What was the idea, you doing ninety down the
avenue?'
'An emergency,' returned Cliff, coming peacefully to the street.
'Yeah?' The officer grunted. 'Well, spill your alibi. We're ready for a laugh, after that chase.'
'Look across the street and you'll see it,' stated Cliff.
One of the cops turned a flashlight in that direction. The glare showed a hard-faced rowdy
laying flat on the sidewalk. Two cops hurried in the direction. Others turned to Cliff.
'I drove this car,' stated Cliff, quietly, 'in behalf of Commander Joseph Dadren, of the
United States Navy. I brought him here to prevent the murder of Senator Ross Releston.'
Exclamations from the cops. One growled his disbelief in the statement; but another joined
with Cliff.
'Say,' put in the second officer, 'Senator Releston does live here. This is the Barlingham.'
'Who knocked out the guy across the street?' demanded a policeman.
'Commander Dadren,' responded Cliff. 'He chose this entrance because he believed that
others, on the avenue and further street, would be more heavily guarded. Thugs are about, to
cover the murderer.'
The easy tone impressed the officers. The one who had supported Cliff was quick to give a
suggestion.
'If this fellow's right,' said the cop, 'we're dubs to be standing here. A couple of you boys
watch him. I'm taking a look for these thugs he spoke about.'
Two officers took Cliff in charge. The rest set off on the run. Two headed through the service
entrance. The others circled the hotel in both directions to cover the main doors. Cliff
Marsland settled back in the seat of the roadster.
UPSTAIRS in the Hotel Barlingham, two men were standing in the sixth-floor hall. One was
Marling; the other, a crook. Hildrow's chief lieutenant was troubled. He had heard the sirens
