A futile thing, that brief dive for cover, with guns already barking at the
spot where Chet had disappeared. At least it would have been quite futile, if a
figure hadn't appeared to take the brunt that Chet deserved. Out of the receding
darkness behind the final freight car whirled a cloaked fighter equipped with a
pair of automatics, that started a sharp tattoo of their own!
The ghost come to life!
Chet didn't witness how this creature of his fancy had projected itself
into reality. Around beyond the box cars, he was racing alongside their bolted
doors, trying to stay in the moving shelter afforded against the searchlights
from the other side. So Chet didn't know that a cloaked fighter had kept pace
with him, to appear as if from nowhere at a timely moment that aided Chet's
flight.
Of the many who did see the black-clad arrival, only one man realized who
the being was. Vic Marquette, the investigating Fed, identified the mystery
figure as The Shadow.
Weird battler who waged all-out warfare against crime, The Shadow was a
logical factor in this fray. Undoubtedly he'd learned of sabotage at the Pyrolac
factory and had come to take a part in its undoing. Unfortunately, the thing was
working in reverse. The Shadow had become a scapegoat for Chet Conroy, the man
upon whom crime was so solidly pinned.
Shouting for his men to ignore the black-clad fighter and go after a
different fugitive, Vic Marquette couldn't make himself heard above the din of
sirens and the clatter of the short freight which by now was rattling rapidly
through the big gate. Even the sound of gunfire was muffled by those louder
sounds.
Wheeling across the yard, The Shadow looked completely trapped between the
zealous Feds and watchmen who were firing full blast. The clang of the great
gate, slamming shut, seemed to seal the doom of this intrepid battler.
Until Vic Marquette, his throat gone hoarse, stopped yelling long enough to
hear a strange tone that rose as a taunting challenge amid the huge hubbub.
The laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER III
RIDE OF DOOM
USUALLY, The Shadow reserved his taunting laugh for men of crime. Tonight
he was flinging the mockery at guardians of the law, purely that he might escape
the dilemma into which he had so openly precipitated himself.
However clouded his original purpose, The Shadow's present intent was more
than plain. He was drawing pursuers, taunting them into gunnery in order to
thoroughly elude them. Witnessing the process, Marquette marveled. He'd seen The
Shadow in action before, but never on a scale so large as this, nor with such
handicaps.
True to form, The Shadow was jabbing with both guns, but he was pulling
those shots. Otherwise, his opponents would be dropping, instead of merely
dodging, when those big automatics coughed their way. Still, The Shadow's
marksmanship was flawless, for he was placing bullets very close to human
targets; close enough to keep men on the dodge.
