hard fling. The timber clattered free.
With one hand, The Shadow clawed for the bandage that covered his eyes. It came away; and with the end of the tight pressure, he was dazzled by the scene about him. In an instant, false recollections were forgotten. The Shadow recognized exactly where he was.
The Shadow lay below ground level, on dampish mud that formed an oasis in the center of an area of flame. He had fallen to the cellar of the old house, close to the spot where the explosion had occurred.
The ruins, elsewhere, had become a furnace; this one place was refuge.
What The Shadow had taken for a bandage, when he had ripped it from his eyes, was his slouch hat, which had been driven down upon his head. The wooden clamp was the chunk of a beam, that must have struck him when he fell. That blow, partly warded by the hat, accounted for the time that The Shadow had lain senseless.
Also, the hand that had clutched his throat was real. The Shadow saw it, resting on his shoulder. It was ruddy, livid from the glow of those towering flames that formed a vast circle around this refuge.
The Shadow had seen that hand before. It lacked a second finger: the hand of Bosco Treff.
Plunging with The Shadow, the mobster had fared less fortunately. There was a burned piece of wood near Bosco's sprawled body. That one hand, reaching to The Shadow, had probably been thrust instinctively. For Bosco's coat was smoldering where sparks had reached it.
The Shadow tamped the slow-burning cloth. He pulled away the scorched mask that had twisted askew.
Bosco's ugly face was seared, his eyebrows singed away. One leg twisted under him. Dried blood caked his lips, proving internal injuries.
Yet Bosco was alive; one of very few who had survived within that flame-lashed house.
Hoisting Bosco's limp frame, The Shadow moved forward, dwarfed by the billows of flame that danced and wavered like mammoth waves. He had to find passage through that fiery sea.
THE explosion had hurled the center of the building upward and outward. The center had been free of debris; therefore, it did not blaze. Close to the blast, The Shadow and Bosco had been more fortunate than others who had dropped into fiery beds.
Flames, though, were sucking air from the vortex that had been The Shadow's refuge. Soon, the central pit would be devoid of oxygen, meaning suffocation if The Shadow remained.
Threading toward the flames, The Shadow found paths where the blaze had burned out. Sometimes he was forced back, but always he found new openings. The holocaust was an ever-changing maze.
Ominously, it closed at times, when he had passed. The Shadow's route was one that offered no retreat.
At last, came the towering blaze that devoured the outer walls. That conflagration was still on the rise.
Fire raged everywhere, forming a menacing circle through which there was no outlet. Worse, walls had begun to totter.
The Shadow was forced back by embers of blazing wood, that came with little warning. He still lugged Bosco; but the burden mattered little. The Shadow couldn't rush that ring of flame.
He heard clangings beyond the wall of fire and knew that many minutes must have passed, for a rural fire department had arrived from some neighboring town. There was a hiss; a hose was streaming water somewhere. The Shadow stumbled in the direction of the sound.
He sprawled, still clutching Bosco. Vivid light showed wooden steps, half-burned by the flames, that led from the cellar to the outside air. Sheets of fire swept across that outlet, then subsided, as a hose sprayed the stretch of wall.
Up steps that were cracking under the double weight, The Shadow carried Bosco's inert figure. He heard the shouts of the firemen. The steam from the water had formed a hazy cloud; from it, masses of timber were popping toward the fire-fighters.
Dragging the hose, the firemen broke away from the menace of the bursting walls. Only the steamy mist remained; from it, there staggered a grotesque sight - The Shadow, with a half-dead crook sprawling from his shoulders.
Had the firemen seen that staggery exit, they might have mistaken The Shadow for some flame dwelling demon, carrying off a victim. For the black-cloaked figure, maroon-hued by the ruddy light against his blackened garb, looked anything but human.
The firemen happened to be few in number, and they were busy, getting the hose clear. They did not see The Shadow. He did not halt within their view. He kept onward, toward clustering trees that blocked the fire's glare.
There was a coupe in the darkness, revealed by the flickers reflected through the tree boughs. It was a car belonging to some of the perished crooks; Quill's crew had neglected to take it. The Shadow rolled Bosco into it. He found the key in the ignition switch.
The motor's sound was inaudible, thanks to the hissing roar of the big blaze. It wasn't until The Shadow was away, driving hard along the outlet to the road, that the firemen saw his speeding car. They raised a shout. Volunteers leaped into cars to take up the chase. They were too late even to sight the car again.
HITTING the highway into New York, The Shadow calculated the time element. He realized that half an hour had been lost; perhaps an even longer period. Quill and the prisoners were back in Manhattan, or almost there. There was no chance to intercept them.
Bosco was breathing weakly, but steadily. Propped by the open window, the thug was reviving from the cool air that whistled into the coupe. Keeping the car at its top speed of seventy, The Shadow jogged Bosco with his elbow. The crook muttered something in a gargly voice.
'Snap out of it, Bosco!' The Shadow's tone was gruff. 'This is Pike - hear me? We got The Shadow!'
Bosco's next mutter was almost coherent. He was lying back, his burned coat sleeve across his scorched eyes.
'Hear me, Bosco?' demanded The Shadow in the same hard tone. 'Know who I am?'
'Yeah -' coughed Bosco. 'You're Pike - Pike Fengel!'
The Shadow had learned one important point: Pike's last name. He needed it for future reference, if his present bluff worked.
'Lucky I was with you, Bosco,' growled The Shadow. 'I seen you drop, and got to where you was.'
'The Shadow' - Bosco's cough brought blood - 'did you see him?'
'Sure! He was layin' cold. I drilled him an' left him to burn. Quill's goin' to like that, ain't he?'
'Yeah. It's lucky - lucky I brought you along with the mob. I told Quill you'd come in handy. He knows you're good -'
Bosco coughed, pawed at his lips, then added:
'Quill knows you're good - even though he ain't never met you.'
The Shadow gripped the steering wheel tightly, kept the car at full speed as he hit a long curve. He'd heard more news, of the sort he liked. Just one more thing was needed. He was preparing to put another question, when Bosco brought up the subject on his own.
'You gotta get there, Pike!' gulped Bosco. 'Back to the main joint - Quill's hide-out.'
'Sure!' gruffed The Shadow. Then, smoothly: 'Gimme the dope on how to get there.'
Bosco mouthed an address on the East Side. The place wasn't many blocks from the corner where The Shadow had staged a fight beneath the elevated.
'I got it,' informed The Shadow, in the style that did for Pike. 'What about the password - ain't there any?'
'Give the buzzer two pushes' - Bosco's words were weak - 'then wait half a minute. Give it a short an' a long. When a guy calls down to you, say 'Hello, Hoppy' - an' that's all -'
Racked by a sudden coughing spasm, Bosco came upright. A sudden recollection had gripped him. His eyes bulged open; for the moment, they were sightless as the crook snarled:
'Say - I spilled all that dope to you before! You ain't Pike -'
They were taking a curve to the left; the lights of a car coming from the opposite direction bathed the interior of the coupe. In that sudden glare, Bosco's tortured eyes saw the driver beside him.
'The Shadow!'
