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 captured 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
