seriously. This terrible experience had shattered his nerve.
What had happened to Mr. Cranston? Stanley could not guess. Perhaps his employer was dead, back in the tunnel. Yet Stanley felt that he had done the right thing to act bewildered. If his master had escaped, he probably did not want to be connected with the terrible affair.
Like the truck, the limousine crossed the drawbridge. Stanley drove along a series of roads, and entered a driveway. He stopped in front of his master's mansion. Here, he decided, it would be best to report to Richards, Cranston's trusted valet.
Sorrowfully, Stanley alighted and opened the rear door, so that the bullet-riddled interior could be seen.
A figure stirred and moved wearily. Two arms stretched. A tall man stepped from the car, carrying a closed suitcase in his hand. He gave the bag to Stanley. The chauffeur nearly dropped it in his amazement. He was staring at Lamont Cranston!
'Home already, Stanley?' questioned the millionaire in a languid tone. 'Really, I can scarcely believe we are here. I must have slept all the way!'
Stupefied, Stanley followed his master into the house, and set the suitcase on the floor. His mouth was open in complete dumfounderment. Here was Cranston, unperturbed, calmly come from the limousine.
Stanley could not understand it. Had he been dreaming?
He went back to the car, where he stared at the bullet-ripped cushions. The chauffeur had never undergone so incredible an experience in all his life. It was beyond explanation.
For Stanley did not know that in reality he was the servant of two masters. One of them was the real Lamont Cranston; the other was an impersonation of Cranston—The Shadow!
CHAPTER XV. THE NEXT STROKE
ON the second day after the bold attempt on Lamont Cranston's life, Felix Zubian and Douglas Carleton again met in conference; but on this occasion, Gats Hackett was with them, and their meeting place was the gangster's room in the Gargantuan Hotel.
It was shortly before five when the three assembled; and the greetings which they exchanged showed that any previous tendency toward ill feeling had been forgotten. Zubian had gained a high respect from Gats; and, similarly, the gang leader had won Zubian's esteem.
Both realized that the fiasco in the Holland Tunnel was no fault of the other. The Shadow—otherwise Lamont Cranston—had escaped by a display of genius that could not possibly have been anticipated by his enemies.
It was Gats who brought up the subject of that affair, within a few minutes after the conference had begun.
'He slipped us all right,' admitted Gats. 'But I thought for sure we'd gotten him. When I loaded that limousine full of lead, I figured The Shadow was all washed up. We made a perfect get-away.
'When the truck came along with Louie, I thought that was the wind-up. Then Louie tells me what happened under the river; how some guy raps him on the noodle and puts him to sleep. I knew the answer. That meant The Shadow.'
'The newspapers bore out your story,' responded Zubian quietly. 'No talk of a dead man. Just a bullet-riddled car. No interview with Lamont Cranston. According to the servants, he had left home for parts unknown.'
'The only thing I can't figure,' declared Gats sullenly, 'is why The Shadow didn't give Louie the works.
He might have taken a few shots at me, for that matter.'
'Not that night,' objected Zubian. 'The minute you fellows went after Lamont Cranston, he was wise.
Remember—he lays low. He wasn't going to do anything that would be hung on Cranston. That identity is ended. Lamont Cranston has not appeared at the Cobalt Club since the affair in the tunnel.'
'Do you think he's trying to make us believe that he is dead?' questioned Carleton.
'Hardly,' said Zubian. 'He is letting us wonder; that is all. Nevertheless'—Zubian smiled shrewdly—'I learned more, perhaps, than The Shadow has suspected. I believe that I can pick up his trail again; and once more become The Shadow's shadow.'
'But in the meantime -'
'In the meantime, we shall follow the advice of our good friend, Gats Hackett.'
The gang leader looked at Felix Zubian in surprise. Zubian promptly began a series of questions that indicated his purpose.
'Where is Squint Freston?' asked Zubian.
'Keeping his eye on The Shadow's stools,' responded Gats promptly. 'He's watching Vincent and Mann, both.'
'Excellent. You are prepared to capture them when you receive the word?'
'Sure thing. I figured on getting them both at once. After that— well, leave it to me. They'll squawk!'
'How do you intend to take Vincent?'
'Easy enough. Trail him when he leaves the Metrolite Hotel.'
'And Mann?'
'At his office. He stays there until after six o'clock every afternoon.'
'Six o'clock'—Zubian was thoughtful—'in his office. That is odd. Lamont Cranston had a habit of making a telephone call from the Cobalt Club at six. You intend to take Mann in his office?'
'That's it,' explained Gats. 'The office next to his is empty. Squint got in there; he's fixed the door that opens through. Give the word, and the boys will be there.'
'That gives me an excellent idea,' declared Zubian. He turned to Carleton. 'You are willing that Gats should seize these agents of The Shadow?'
'Absolutely,' responded Carleton.
'And that I,' added Zubian, 'make certain arrangements with Gats for what may follow?'
'Certainly,' said Carleton.
'Here is the plan, then,' announced Zubian, turning to Gats. 'Put some competent men on Vincent. Have Squint and six others in the office next to Mann's. You and I will join them after five o'clock. Be ready to seize Mann.'
Zubian turned to Carleton.
'So far as we are concerned,' declared the international crook, 'the treatment of Mann and Vincent depends entirely upon Gats. It is his idea; therefore, it should be his privilege. He can make them talk; he can dispose of them as he sees fit. You will be at Devaux's; I shall be at the Cobalt Club.'
DESPITE Zubian's dictatorial tone, Douglas Carleton offered no objection. The clubman had come to rely upon Zubian's craft, and he was wise enough to refrain from petty interference. The knowledge that The Shadow was a formidable foe had broken down all bars of discord that might have existed within this triumvirate of plotters.
Thus it developed that at five o'clock the same afternoon, Felix Zubian and Gats Hackett entered the Grandville Building, and rode to the twenty-first floor. Arriving in the office that adjoined Rutledge Mann's suite, they found Squint Freston, with a crew of half a dozen picked thugs. The little, wolf-fanged gangster gave them a whispered greeting.
'The stenographer has left,' he said. 'Mann is in the office alone. Not many people here on the floor. We can slide in any time.'
'Wait a little while,' ordered Gats.
It was five fifteen when the attack was made. Squint, smooth and wiry, unlocked a door that led into the outer office of 2121. He entered, followed by two gangsters. The door of the inner office was closed.
Squint approached and opened it, inch by inch.
The widening space revealed the chubby-faced investment broker seated at his desk. Squint crept slowly forward. Mann, suddenly aware of a foe close by, turned to find himself facing two armed gunmen at the door.
With a startled expression, Mann raised his arms. He made no outcry; nor did he hold that opportunity long. Squint Freston was upon him, his arm around the victim's throat, ready to choke Mann, should he offer the slightest resistance.
Gats Hackett entered the room. He took immediate charge. Drawing a rag from his pocket, he saturated it from a bottle and applied it to Mann's face. The investment broker sagged toward the floor.
