With the order, Nuland aimed past Polmore. With gun on the move, the killer pressed the
trigger for a first wild shot. That bullet was the last that he was to deliver. Hard on the bark of
the revolver came the burst of an automatic.
As Nuland's shot went wide, The Shadow's zimming bullet found its mark. Nuland
staggered. While echoes still resounded, his revolver went clattering to the stone floor. Then
the man himself keeled sidewise and sprawled dead.
NULAND'S minions had turned with the shots. They were caught helpless, their guns
lowered and unready. There were two, however, who acted without an instant's delay.
Professor Whitburn, amazingly agile, came springing upon one foe, while Stephen, close
behind him, landed on the other.
At that instant, The Shadow whirled. He had not discounted Polmore. A coward at heart, the
secretary was most dangerous in an emergency, for fear for himself could inspire him to
frantic effort. At this moment, Polmore was profiting by Nuland's failure.
Polmore had sprung away at the sound of the shots. Back against the wall, he had swung
about to aim steadily for the figure in the doorway. He had The Shadow covered. He was out
to kill. But his very deliberation proved his undoing.
As fierce eyes blazed upon Polmore, an automatic swung with them. A black-gloved finger
pressed the trigger with split-second precision. Polmore wavered. His face became sickly
as his numbed trigger finger failed to respond. With a croaking gasp, the traitor sank dying
to the floor.
As The Shadow swung away from Polmore, he saw Stephen stagger. A killer had dealt the
man a glancing blow with his revolver. That same killer was turning to get The Shadow. An
automatic ended his attempt. Flame flashed from the muzzle of The Shadow's left-hand gun.
The would-be killer tumbled to the floor.
One enemy remained. That was the man upon whom Whitburn had sprung. The fellow had
gone down beneath the professor's attack. Brief seconds, however, had changed the tide.
The old inventor had clutched the throat of his foe; now the grasp was loosening.
The Shadow could not fire. Whitburn's body intervened. But the black-clad fighter came
promptly to the rescue. Springing down the short steps, he crossed the room and wrested
the professor away from the fighting crook.
Snarling, the man aimed up from the floor. The Shadow whirled upon him. The automatic
dropped from The Shadow's left hand; the gloved fist caught the crook's right wrist and sent
it upward. The killer's revolver spat flame. Its slug sizzled past the brim of The Shadow's hat.
A clawing hand caught The Shadow's shoulder, before the avenger could deliver a shot with
the second automatic. The Shadow grappled with the crook. Locked together, the two
staggered halfway across the room.
Then Professor Whitburn, crouched by the wall, saw The Shadow slump. A gasp of alarm
came from the old inventor.
The cry was premature. As Whitburn stared, The Shadow came up. Above him was the
clawing, struggling form of the crook. The Shadow had gained a jujutsu hold. With a mighty
lunge, he sent his enemy whirling across the floor. A scream; a head-first crash upon the
floor; then the thwarted killer rolled over and over until he struck the wall.
While Professor Whitburn gazed in profound amazement, Quex, the cat, sat blinking upon a
dismantled machine beside an old torpedo tube. Back with its master, the feline had
scrambled there the moment that Nuland had released it.
The Shadow, with his final lunge, had whirled close to the machine where the cat was
resting. He had dropped his second gun. As he reached to recover it, The Shadow heard
the cat emit a snarling hiss. Whitburn, staring, saw the animal arch its back. But The
Shadow looked toward the door.
AT the head of the steps stood Eric Hildrow, still wearing the disguise of Logan Collender.
The arch-fiend had arrived to witness the annihilation of his minions. Gun in hand, Hildrow
saw The Shadow.
Had he paused to aim, Hildrow would have met the same fate as his henchmen. But the
plotter was too wary. As The Shadow's gun came up, Hildrow leaped for cover, back behind
the huge metal door that stood open beside him.
The Shadow fired. His first shot whistled through the doorway and nicked the stone stairway.
Then, as The Shadow moved sidewise to gain new aim, the metal door came swinging shut.
Aiming with a momentary glimpse of Hildrow's mustached face, The Shadow delivered a
second shot. The bullet flattened against the steel of the closing door.
With that, the barrier clicked in place. As echoes died, the clatter of a closing lock came
from the steel door. Then faint footsteps died from beyond the solid steel. Eric Hildrow was
departing by the upper stairs.
The master villain had resorted to his original plan: Death by confinement, within the
suffocating walls of the air-tight submarine chamber. Bodies of his obliterated henchmen
remained with those who still lived. That did not matter to Eric Hildrow.
The master plotter was departing, with Professor Whitburn and Stephen entombed. Quex,
the cat, was also there; the note to Bragg had been placed upon the desk in the professor's
study.
But with the prisoners that he had originally doomed, Eric Hildrow had interred another living
being. Deep in the cellar vault was The Shadow. The arch-enemy of crime was encased in a
trap of death!
CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW WAITS
A LAUGH resounded within walls of stone. A tone of whispered mockery; a rising noted that
reached a shivering crescendo, the laugh awoke strange echoes that answered in ghoulish
discord. Such was the laugh of The Shadow.
Professor Whitburn stared bewildered. The closing of the metal door had placed him in the
grip of dismay. He had seen an end to everything, a tragic finish to the climax of The
Shadow's rescue.
Yet The Shadow laughed. Mocking the man who had trapped him, this master fighter was as
challenging as before. Professor Whitburn could not understand. He did not know that The
Shadow relished such situations as this. Rarely was The Shadow trapped. When he
encountered a seemingly hopeless snare, he found the plight intriguing.
Silence followed the dying echoes. Gleaming eyes turned upon Professor Whitburn. Then
came the whispered tone of The Shadow's voice. It was a keen command.
'Speak!' ordered The Shadow. 'Tell what occurred before my arrival.'
The professor nodded. He knew The Shadow for a friend. Despite the fact, old Whitburn
was awed by the presence of this being in black. His tones, usually harsh, were almost
feeble as he began the story. But as he continued, Professor Whitburn gradually gained his
ease.
The inventor ended with a statement regarding the note that had been left for Bragg on the
study desk. His tone was almost pathetic as he completed his own summary.
'Bragg will leave,' he declared. 'Of course, his arrival could not aid us, for the air in this
chamber will be exhausted before morning. But if Bragg could only learn that we were dead,
he might at least warn Commander Dadren regarding this terrible enemy. Logan
Collender— Reginald Satterly—whatever the man's true name, I class him as a fiend who
will stop at nothing.'
