BOSCO'S move was as quick as the rasped recognition he uttered. Gripped by a convulsive fury, the dying thug whipped a knife from his coat, drove it for The Shadow's heart.
Twisting at the wheel, The Shadow parried the stroke with his elbow. His foot left the accelerator, but the car was on a downward slope. It was scorching along that straight stretch of road at more than sixty miles an hour.
One curve was past; another lay just ahead. It went to the right; if another car appeared, it would come squarely into the path of the hurtling coupe. Like Bosco, the coupe had to be controlled within the next few seconds.
Shoving his left shoulder through the open window, The Shadow kept a left-hand grip on the wheel.
Simultaneously, his right hand grabbed Bosco's knife hand, held it at bay, the blade point almost at The Shadow's heart.
A long right leg shoved clear across the car; The Shadow's foot hooked the handle of the door on the right. As the handle came downward, The Shadow lunged inward from his own window. Heaving hard against Bosco, he flung the crook to the right side of the car.
The loosened door gave. Bosco took a long, clawing dive to the highway. His last spasm was ended before he hit the concrete. The crook had given his last ounce of life in his murderous attempt to obliterate The Shadow.
Gloved hands wheeled the coupe hard, out of the path of an oncoming car. The flapping door, hinged at the front, slammed shut as The Shadow stepped on the gas.
Bosco's body had rolled deep into a gully, to lie forgotten. The Shadow was speeding onward to settle scores with mobsters who believed him dead!
Those tools of Professor Lawsham had handled earlier victims; men, at present helpless, who were termed the 'Dead Who Lived.' They were to learn, however, that such a title could be improved - and regarded from another viewpoint.
They were to meet another kind of Dead Who Lived - as represented by The Shadow, risen from a fiery grave to complete a new errand of justified revenge!
CHAPTER XVII. IN THE HIDE-OUT
THE East Side street was in a rundown neighborhood; but it was quiet. It wasn't the sort of thoroughfare where crooks would ordinarily choose a place for conclave. Perhaps that was why Quill Baxton had picked it; particularly the address that Bosco had mentioned.
It was a narrow house, brick-fronted, its door boarded up. There were steps, however, that led down to a basement entry tucked well from view. That was the spot The Shadow chose, when he left the cab that brought him.
The Shadow had been forced to use precious minutes, preparing for this foray. That had necessitated a stop at his sanctum, a hidden room in the heart of Manhattan. Since time had to be taken out, The Shadow had left the coupe and summoned the cab instead.
Curiously, The Shadow was visible, despite the darkness at the little doorway. That was because of the new garb he wore. His khaki pants, though darkish, could be spied. The same applied to the brown-striped jersey and the checkered cap that topped The Shadow's head.
Finding the bell-push, The Shadow gave the signals. Someone opened the door, stepped out of sight.
Moving into darkness, The Shadow sensed that a gun was covering him. It would be a bad spot if he didn't know the password.
A hoarse voice whispered from a stairway: 'Who's there?'
The Shadow gave a guarded growl; 'Hello, Hoppy!'
A flashlight glimmered to guide The Shadow up the stairs. At the top, the beam was turned upon the visitor's face. The Shadow was prepared for the doubtful grunt that came.
'Take it easy, pal,' he told his challenger. 'I'm Pike Fengel. Working with Bosco Treff. Where's Quill?'
The Shadow was guided to a closed door; when it opened, he saw a lighted room, its windows completely shuttered. Quill Baxton was seated there, eyeing a man who lay bound in the corner. The prisoner was Dick Remingwood.
The room had soap boxes for chairs, army cots for beds. Evidently Quill and his tribe lived tenement fashion when they occupied these premises. There were other furnishings, though, that caught The Shadow's notice.
A big compressed-air tank stood in the corner; the object was fully five feet high. In addition to that large cylinder were smaller, portable tanks. The big tank was evidently loaded with a supply of sleep-inducing gas. The small ones were used to carry lesser quantities. One had been taken to Mandor's apartment, for the job there.
The Shadow also saw the apparatus that had been used in Thurnig's Servidor, and the mechanism from the telephone booth where Brellick had been overpowered.
There was no sign of Harry and Arlene. The Shadow had no time to speculate on their absence. Quill was glaring in his direction.
'I'm Pike Fengel,' rasped The Shadow. 'In from the joint at Hadley.'
'Yeah?' queried Quill. 'How'd you crawl out of there?'
Pike's appearance suited Quill. The Shadow looked as tough as any of Quill's own crew. What was more, The Shadow's present face was copied from a rogues' gallery portrait of Pike. What puzzled Quill was the manner of Pike's escape. The Shadow answered the query with a blunt tone that made Quill like him.
'You'd have seen me get out, if you'd stuck around,' said The Shadow. 'Instead, you lammed, leaving me in a tough spot!'
'I thought you'd took a dive,' apologized Quill. 'Like the rest of 'em.'
'The floor didn't cave where I was. But I had to punch through a wall and a window, before the whole works went.'
Quill recalled that Pike had been in the big room when the crash came.
'The Shadow got his!' gloated the pretended Pike. 'Too bad Bosco went with him. He and me was pals.
What he'd do for you, you can count on me doing, Quill.'
'I'll use you,' Quill told The Shadow. 'Only, there ain't much to do, with The Shadow done for.'
'What about them stooges of his - that guy Vincent and the moll? Ain't you going to put the heat on them?'
Quill came up from the soap box. He snapped his fingers in a gesture of annoyance.
'What?' he exclaimed. 'We figured Vincent was just some dumb dick. It's too late for the heat. We gave
'em the gas pipe. We shipped the dame back to the joint where she was staying. Then we found out that Vincent lived at the Hotel Metrolite, so we lugged him to his room.
For a few moments, Quill glared, his mind imbued with regret at the lost opportunity. Quill would have liked to put the heat on anyone who served The Shadow. Then his lips writhed into a grin.
'What's the diff?' he asked. 'The stooge couldn't have squawked much; neither could the moll. They've got what was coming to 'em, and it makes everything more jake than ever. They're two more of the Dead Who Lived, and it was time we were adding to that bunch.'
With his comments, Quill's admiration for the foresight of the visitor who called himself Pike Fengel, was increasing. He waited, hoping that Pike would offer something else.
Pike's hard voice put questions:
'What about this guy Remingwood? Going to take him to the prof?'
Quill's eyes flashed savage suspicion. His hand went to his gun hip.
'Where'd you hear about the prof, Pike?'
'That's what you said to Remingwood,' reminded The Shadow, coolly. 'Out at the nut joint. So what?'
Quill's hand came from his hip, empty. He was becoming more and more impressed with Pike.
'The prof don't want Remingwood,' informed Quill. 'He said to send him on a ride. So that's where he's going, when the mob gets back.'
'Good enough,' observed The Shadow, eyeing Dick. Then: 'What're you getting for it, Quill?'
'Five grand. That's enough, ain't it?'
'Maybe it ain't anywhere near the right dough!'
Pike's idea that five thousand dollars was small money, was something that aroused Quill's interest. He
