The portico — the inner passage — finally the balcony. Did The Shadow recognize those circles as the
danger zones? The Shadow's action was the only answer.
With firm stride, the tall figure moved from the cylinder that housed the spiral staircase. He crossed the
pit and stood beside Professor Urlich's massive contrivance of human destruction.
Again, The Shadow's weird laugh shuddered through the pit. Not one of those three bulbs was
illuminated. The Shadow knew that he had passed the zones of death.
Mysteriously, he lingered beside the huge machine, his gaze turning from the wheels and levers down
toward the floor, where the current wire appeared.
Within the zones of death, The Shadow laughed. His hollow mockery was foreboding. Yet he made no
move to return toward the hollow cylinder. He seemed to regard this place as the destination which he
had sought — as the end of the trail.
On the floor above, Professor Folcroft Urlich still held The Shadow's agents captive. While the master of
darkness remained below, the master of silent death was planning the doom of The Shadow's aids.
Who held the balance: Professor Urlich or The Shadow? Were their cross-purposes to meet before the
victims died?
The scales of fate were trembling, while master minds prepared their methods.
CHAPTER XX. CARDONA ENTERS
WHILE strange events were occurring on Long Island, Larry Ricordo was making all haste toward
Manhattan. The gang lord, fleeing town at Professor Urlich's request, had neared his destination. He was
mounting the steps from the East Side subway at Forty-second Street.
As a natural procedure, Larry Ricordo turned up Lexington Avenue to enter the Grand Central Station
from the east. It was scarcely later than half past twelve. Plenty of time remained to catch the Chicago
Limited.
Larry Ricordo seldom liked haste when it was unnecessary. As he moved leisurely through the midnight
crowd along the avenue, his lips twisted scornfully. Even if the police were out to capture him, they stood
little chance of getting him now.
Nevertheless, Larry Ricordo fondled the revolver in his coat pocket. One challenging word: the
challenger would get the works. This was the attitude that the gang leader held as he entered the wide
passage from the street.
Larry's eyes were keen and cautious. Even in this thronged entrance, the gang lord did not trust entirely
to his inconspicuous appearance. He prided himself upon his watchfulness. His boast to Professor Urlich
was still strongly in mind.
The crowd spread as it reached the huge central concourse. Larry Ricordo, as he walked across the
great expanse of floor toward a ticket window, was no longer one of a large throng. He was in the open
— a single figure that could easily be spotted by watching eyes.
A man swung from the wall and walked swiftly after the gang leader. Larry Ricordo was not aware of the
man's approach until the stranger was close beside him. It was then that Larry turned to recognize a face
that seemed familiar.
The man made a sudden leap upon the gang lord. That action meant more than recognition. Larry
Ricordo knew his assailant for a detective. Wresting free, Ricordo whipped his big revolver from his
pocket.
Another man had sprung up behind the gang leader. The second detective made a quick grab for
Ricordo's arm. Larry fired once, his shot aimed upward as a hand seized his wrist. The detectives were
flashing their own guns. Two more men were springing to their rescue.
Shouts of men; screams of women — these were heard as people scattered for shelter.
LARRY RICORDO'S revolver roared again. A detective went down with a bullet in his shoulder. The
others struggled ferociously. They were trying to get their man alive, to prevent gunfire in this open space,
where hundreds of people stood in danger of stray shots.
But Larry Ricordo was a fiend who balked all capture. He sent one detective sprawling on the floor;
another after him. One of the downed men fired upward and missed. Larry, an evil snarl on his lips,
dropped the fourth, who still struggled with him.
Spinning across the floor of the concourse, the murderous gang leader leaped to meet a fifth, who
blocked his path. He swung his huge revolver to deliver a death shot. This time the gang lord failed.
The last antagonist did not falter. His revolver was in his hand, and before Larry could shoot to kill, this
detective fired point-blank into Ricordo's body.
The gang leader staggered on; a second shot, delivered coolly at close range, sent him sprawling to the
floor.
Rolling upon his back, clutching at his wounded side, Larry Ricordo saw the face of Joe Cardona above
him. The ace detective had stepped in where the others had failed. It was the swarthy sleuth who had
finally felled Larry Ricordo.
With futile clutch, Ricordo grasped for his revolver, which had fallen beside him. True to his boast, the
gang leader intended to go out fighting. His weakening fingers fumbled; a moment later, Cardona had
kicked the weapon out of reach.
Detectives came to aid Cardona. Other persons rushed up to help the wounded men whom Ricordo had
dropped. Through it all, Joe Cardona never desisted from a purpose which had steadfastly filled his mind
for the past half hour.
There was a reason why he had sought to capture Larry Ricordo alive, rather than dead.
'Ricordo!' Cardona was staring squarely into the gang lord's face. 'Ricordo! Who's the guy in back of
this!'
Ricordo coughed. Blood appeared upon his lips. An evil leer followed the crimson. Coughing, gasping,
Larry Ricordo spat defiant words at his questioner.
'Try — try to find out!' he challenged, in a broken snarl. 'Try to — to make me squeal. You — you got
me — but that's all!'
Cardona pressed back those who were crowding around. He knew that Ricordo was dying. In the last
minutes of life, the gang lord would have to talk. Cardona, acting on a hunch, played his final trump.
'You know why we got you?' he demanded. 'I'll tell you why! We were tipped off that you were taking
the Chicago Limited. Tipped off half an hour ago. We want the bird who gave the tip-off. Do you know
him?'
Ricordo's eyes were glassy. Now they opened wide.
On the verge of death, the gang lord forgot his wounds, forgot his enmity toward the police. All that he
could sense was the tone of Joe Cardona's words — cold utterances that sounded plainly amid the
muffled murmur of the concourse.
LARRY RICORDO forgot the excited cries about him. He could hear only Cardona's voice, repeating
the same theme in steady demand:
'We were tipped off. We want to know just where the tip-off came from.'
'I'll tell you where!' coughed Ricordo. 'I'll tell you where! It came from the guy in back of this game!'
In a spasm of dying fury, the gang leader had gained a tremendous hatred for the man who had betrayed
him. Bewildering thoughts were racking Ricordo's brain. Only one man could have played the traitor.
That man was Professor Folcroft Urlich.
Why not? The scientist had brutally disposed of Thomas Jocelyn. Similarly, he had decided to get rid of
Larry Ricordo. To go out fighting — all because of a double-crosser! With failing strength, Ricordo gave
