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THE SALAMANDERS

Maxwell Grant

CHAPTER I. FIRE OF DOOM

"FIRE! Fire!"

The shouts rose hoarsely on the midnight air. The glare of rising flames showed wild-eyed men as they dashed to spread the alarm.

Madness had gripped the town of Riverport; excitement of a sort that the little Southern city had never before known. The crackling blaze that had come into sudden life was a threat that promised great disaster.

The fire had started in the Capital Hotel - the principal structure that adorned the main street of Riverport. The blaze had arisen like a living monster coming out of hiding.

A burst of flame; smoke pouring bodily through ground-floor windows; then demonish tongues of fire, lapping upward, crackling on to fury.

The Capitol Hotel was a fire trap.

"Fire!"

Faces were answering the shouts. White faces peered from upstairs windows. Staring eyes saw the flickering reflections of the flames. Faces disappeared from sight. Occupants of the hotel were hastily preparing for escape.

The wail of a fire siren split the night air. The alarm had been given. The clanging of bells told that Riverport's fire engines were emerging to fight the flames; Those engines were coming to a hopeless task. Nothing could stop that fire. The flimsy, wooden walls of the old frame hotel were perfect fuel for the devouring flames.

Within the burning building, commotion reigned. Men were dashing about, pounding upon doors, shouting through corridors. Their one hope was to arouse their fellow guests, then make a dash for safety. There was no time to linger.

Nevertheless, in all that bedlam, there was one man who acted with calmness. He was the occupant of Room 408. His name was Harry Vincent. Aroused by a hammering upon his door, Harry had shouted his response. Out of bed, he was donning his clothes by the light of the fire that other buildings reflected through his window.

There was a reason for this man's precision, his ability to avoid the panic that had overtaken others. Harry Vincent was an agent of The Shadow. He was a man trained to remain calm in the face of danger.

Though he knew that speed was necessary, Harry had other thoughts than those of escape. He was remembering the mission that had brought him to the city of Riverport, to register at the Capitol Hotel.

Chester Woldorf.

THE name drummed through Harry's brain, more vividly than the clanging of bells, or the wailing of the shrieking siren. Woldorf was the cause of Harry's presence here. Like Harry, Woldorf was a guest at the Capitol Hotel.

Harry had seen Woldorf in the lobby last night. He knew the man's room number: 411, almost across the hall from Harry's own room. Woldorf had retired at eleven o'clock. He had left a call for seven in the morning. Harry had left a call for the same hour.

Harry had guessed that Woldorf would take the eight o'clock train to New York. It had been Harry's plan to do the same. Woldorf, for some reason not yet determined, was a man who feared a threat.

That fact had been learned by The Shadow. Threats indicated crime; The Shadow, always at war with men of evil, had delegated Harry to take up Woldorf's trail.

Bells were clanging from the street below. Water from fire hoses was fizzing uselessly, drowned by the increasing crackle of the flames. The light of the fire had become a ghoulish, crimson glow. The glare outlined Harry Vincent as he yanked open the door of his room.

Dressed, Harry was ready for departure. An overwhelming cloud of blackish smoke greeted him in the corridor. Harry was prepared for it. Burying his face in the bend of his elbow, he groped his way across the hall. His free hand found the knob of Woldorf's door.

Smoke had cleared partially, thanks to the draught created when Harry had opened his own door. The flames had not reached this floor. There was time to make sure that Woldorf had heard the alarm. Harry pounded furiously upon the door of Room 411.

There was no response. Smoke thickened as it floated along the corridor. Holding his breath, Harry backed away, then launched himself like a battering-ram against the door of Woldorf's room. Shoulder first, he splintered the rickety barrier. Stumbling, Harry caught himself before he sprawled upon the floor.

Smoke had followed Harry's charge. Clutching like a shroud of doom, it was filling Woldorf's room. The opened window sucked smoke outward. Flickering flame light became dim, but the glow remained enough for Harry to view the room. Steadied by the broken door, The Shadow's agent gazed in horror.

On the floor, beside the bed, lay an upturned figure clad in pajamas. Harry saw a pale face, with lips half opened, fishlike beneath a droopy mustache. Below was a mass of crimson, splotched and streaked across the front of Woldorf's pajama jacket.

That blotted mass of crimson was Chester Woldorf's lifeblood. The man had been stabbed in the heart!

A CRACKLING drilled Harry's numbed brain. Yellowish flicker weaved across the inner walls of the room. From somewhere came the muffled crash of falling beams. Harry turned about toward the corridor.

The fire had reached this floor. Brief minutes would make the room a trap. There was no aid for Woldorf - no time to search for clues. Harry had gained enough. He had learned what some assassin had sought to cover; namely, that Chester Woldorf had been murdered before the fire had begun in the Capitol Hotel.

Springing from the room, Harry chose a direction away from the flames. Smoke had lessened. Though he was choking, Harry knew that he would be safe if he could reach a stairway or a fire escape.

Smoke destroyed the lighting effect of the flames. It was only by pressing his hand along the wall that Harry found the stairway he wanted.

Harry stumbled as he struck the first steps. He caught himself against a rail beside the heated wall. A fist clamped his arm; he heard a gasped voice beside him:

"Steady, friend. Take it easy. We'll get out this way."

Harry coughed his thanks. He turned his head as they descended. The flickering flame light from a stairway window showed the features of the man whom he had encountered. Harry took the fellow for another guest who had blundered toward this path to safety.

The man on the stairway was sallow of countenance. His hair was dark; his eyes, bulging, carried a blackish glitter. Seeing the man's profile, Harry noted a solid, out-thrust jaw.

As the man's face turned and grinned toward him, Harry observed a hardness of the lips that was matched even by the wrinkles of the furrowed forehead.

"We'll make it."

The hard-faced man spoke raspily, as they reached a landing and continued downward.

"Easily," returned Harry. "The smoke has thinned. We are almost to the second floor."

"We're there. Keep your head down. it's going to be smoky the rest of the way."

The hard-faced man was right. He and Harry continued their descent blindly, clutching to the rail. Harry took a false step as he reached the bottom. His heel clanked stone. He knew that he had struck a side exit on the ground floor of the hotel.

Blinking in the smoke, he saw his companion. Ruddy light from the interior of the burning hotel showed the hard-faced man stumbling toward another flight of steps.

"Hold it!" coughed Harry. He sprang across to block off his companion. "Don't go any farther! Those steps lead down into the basement!"

The hard-faced man no longer wavered. He straightened. His grin was livid as he saw Harry, arms outstretched, at the very top of the stone steps. A hoarse gasp came from Harry's lips. At that instant, Harry knew who this man must be.

The hard-faced man was the murderer of Chester Woldorf!

Harry's cry told what he knew. It was all that the hard-faced man wanted. Before Harry could bring his arms up, his leering companion swung a tough, swift fist. The punch clipped Harry's jaw.

WITHOUT an outcry, The Shadow's agent tumbled backward. Slugged clear of the top step, he went tumbling, rolling to the bottom of the stone stairs.

Leering, the hard-faced man saw the final crash. Rolling over twice, Harry Vincent lay still and helpless, deep in the basement of the doomed hotel.

Smoke enveloped the prone body. The hard-faced man turned about. As he stumbled toward the exit, it was wrenched open. Rescuers from outside grabbed the murderer and helped him to the outside air. Coughing, two firemen clattered inward and stared through thickening smoke.

"See if there's any others," ordered one. "Maybe down those steps -"

"There's nobody there. That's the basement."

Smoke had totally obscured Harry Vincent's unconscious form. The opening of the outside door had brought the smoke upward. Peering through the dense smoke, the firemen saw nothing. They stood, shouting at the exit. They heard no answering calls. While they waited, the finish came.

Fire crackled wildly from above. Walls trembled. Beams burst with a roar. Downward, a flaming mass, came the whole interior of the old hotel. As the firemen leaped to outside safety, the walls crumbled.

From a blazing framework, the hotel was transformed into a pitlike furnace, where flames rose rampant and sparks soared high into the night.

The bed of that furnace was the basement where Harry Vincent had sprawled. No human being could have lain there and survived.

Crushing timbers, ablaze from end to end; masses of flaming woodwork; an entire ruin that crackled anew like a mammoth bonfire - such was the remains of the old hotel.

Survivors had scattered. Other buildings were ablaze. The fire had reached an office building; it had swept to a garage in back of the hotel. Automobiles were being removed by frenzied owners. Puffs of flame formed twenty-foot torches as gasoline tanks ignited.

Firemen were everywhere, working like madmen to save other buildings. Riverport's small police force was on hand. Tumult reigned as the holocaust continued. Volunteers were joining in the fight against the flames.

The ruins of the Capitol Hotel were forgotten by all men except one. He was the hard-faced murderer, the last to grope his own way out from the interior of the hotel fire, alive. A block away, he was standing beside an automobile. His face showed an evil gloat, his dark eyes surveyed the spreading flames.

The hard-faced man was pleased. He had slain Chester Woldorf. He had removed Harry Vincent - the only man who had learned that Woldorf was murdered. All evidence of crime lay buried in that fire-seethed pit that had once been topped by the old Capitol Hotel.

The murderer's leer showed that he expected no reckoning. In that, the gloating killer was to find himself mistaken.

Crime would soon receive its challenge from The Shadow.

CHAPTER II. THE LONE TRAIL

SMOLDERING ruins marked the business section of Riverport. The spreading hotel fire had not been curbed until dawn. Twelve hours more had passed; at last the fiery pit had cooled sufficiently for searchers to approach it.

Just outside the fire-devastated area was an undertaker's establishment that had been called into service as a morgue. There, searchers were bringing whatever objects appeared to be human remains.

They had made few finds. The principal exhibit at the morgue was a typewritten list of guests who had been at the hotel.

This list had been prepared by a hotel clerk who had a good memory. The hotel register had been lost in the fire. One clerk, who had gone off duty earlier, had perished in the blaze. As near as could be guessed, there had been about a dozen victims. The names of the survivors had been checked with a red pencil. The other names stood barren on the list.

Among the persons who studied the list of names that afternoon was a tall, calm-faced stranger who had arrived at Riverport on the later afternoon train. Though distinctive in appearance, he had attracted but little attention, for his quiet manner rendered him inconspicuous.

This arrival was The Shadow.

In New York, The Shadow had read of the holocaust at Riverport. There had been no word from Harry Vincent. Though the newspapers had classed the fire as accidental, The Shadow was sure that it had been designed.

Two names - unchecked in red - showed on the list to prove The Shadow's belief.

One was the name of Chester Woldorf. Though the public did not know the fact, Woldorf had been a man of considerable wealth - a shrewd speculator who had kept his affairs strictly to himself.

Woldorf had moved out of sight some months ago, to bob up at intervals in unexpected places. He had shown by his actions that he feared some menace. That was why The Shadow had decided to learn more about him.

The other name was that of Harry Vincent.

Fire had struck the hotel where Woldorf was located. That, in itself, was significant; yet The Shadow could concede that Woldorf might have perished through an accident. But with Harry also named on the death list, the aspect changed.

Harry, alert and on duty, ready for any emergency that might arise, would have learned of the fire soon enough to leave the doomed hotel.

THERE was only one answer. Something had happened to Woldorf. Harry had investigated. He had met with trouble before he left the hotel.

Walking from the morgue, The Shadow approached the ruins of the hotel. A small group of men were clustered at one corner. Their discussion told that they were officials who had taken charge of the search. The Shadow paused close by the cluster. Unnoticed in the settling dusk, he listened to the conversation.

"Some of the victims may have blundered into the basement," one man was saying. "A couple of firemen told me they found one fellow who nearly stumbled down there."

"That sounds likely," came the comment, "except that there haven't been many human remains picked up."

"There won't be. That fire lasted long enough to burn them to a frazzle. It was hot enough inside that fire to melt that old safe that was in the hotel!"

"Who says that? A safe won't melt!"

"This one must have. There's no sign of it. Nobody could have lugged it away."

"What was in it? Anything important?"

"No. Old Millick, who owns the hotel, says the safe didn't count for much. It wasn't often that folks put things there while stopping at the hotel."

The speakers moved away. The Shadow gained an immediate deduction. One hotel clerk had survived the fire, to give from memory, the names of registered guests. The inclusion of Woldorf's name was proof of that clerk's honesty.

But there had been a second clerk - off duty - who had presumably died in the blaze. It was possible that Woldorf had given the dead clerk valuables for deposit in the hotel safe. To The Shadow, the absence of a safe amid the ruins was a matter of high importance.

Could that safe have been removed during the fire?

The Shadow's answer was yes. His decision, however, was modified to suit the circumstances. The safe could not have been carried away openly. It must have been removed in some secret fashion.

STARING across the ruins of the hotel, The Shadow saw the grayish-white outline of other crumbled walls. They represented the garage that had adjoined the Capitol Hotel. Skirting the smoldering pit, The Shadow reached the site of the garage.

Between the hotel and garage was an elongated pit, half filled with debris. A man in overalls was poking about with a long stick, dislodging chunks of charred wood and stone.

The Shadow approached the man and spoke an affable greeting. When the man looked up, The Shadow made a casual inquiry.

"Was this the storage tank," he questioned, "where they kept the gasoline for the garage?"

The searcher shook his head.

"The storage tank was up there, sir," he replied, pointing to the remains of the garage. "This was the cellar of an old annex that used to run back from the hotel. They tore it down a couple of years ago."

"And left the cellar covered over?"

"Yes, sir. 'Twouldn't have done for gasoline storage. Too close to the hotel. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered much, though. The hotel burnt like a tinder box as it was."

In the dusk, the man noted that The Shadow was well dressed. He looked like a stranger who might have been a guest at the burned hotel. The man questioned:

"You had a car, sir? In the garage?"

The Shadow nodded.

"Maybe it was saved, sir," informed the man in a hopeful tone. "You'd better inquire down at the Southern Garage, just past the depot. That's where they took what cars they could."

The Shadow headed for the Southern Garage. Strolling toward that destination, he checked his new information. The old cellar in back of the Capitol Hotel had existed as an unseen route from the hotel to its garage. Through that underground passage, men could have easily carried the missing safe.

To do so, they would have been forced to dare the flames. A dangerous task; one so formidable that it seemed almost impossible. The hotel had burned with amazing rapidity; and the interval of action had, therefore, been brief. These facts pointed definitely to a scheduled fire. They were bringing The Shadow along a trail that showed crime.

ARRIVING at the Southern Garage, The Shadow entered to find a crowded floor. Cars were jammed into every foot of space. No attendants were about. The Shadow pressed his way between crammed automobiles and found an office.

There, a grimy-faced man was seated at a battered desk, going over account books. He looked up as The Shadow entered.

"Good afternoon," greeted The Shadow, quietly. "You are the manager here?"

"Yes, sir."

"I came for my coupe," remarked The Shadow. "It was brought here from the garage at the Capitol Hotel."

"You were in the fire, sir?"

The Shadow made no response to the manager's question. Instead, he merely continued his statement.

"Unfortunately," he said, "I no longer have the owner's card. Of course, I can identify the car. It was a green coupe, with a New York license -"

"I know the car, sir. It's right inside the front door. You can drive it out without any trouble -"

The car in question was Harry Vincent's. It actually belonged to The Shadow; hence his statements were correct. The garage manager took them at their face value. Riverport was a town where most men were accepted at their word.

The manager accompanied The Shadow from the office. As they pressed their way between stored cars, The Shadow made a quiet comment.

"Odd that you have no trucks stored here."

The garage manager turned quickly. He had reached the side of Harry's coupe; an overhead electric bulb showed a troubled look on the man's face.

"Why did you say that, sir?"

"For no special reason," replied The Shadow. "I suppose that few trucks choose the route through Riverport?"

"There was a truck here," declared the manager, biting at his lip. "It came from the burned hotel garage last night. The men who brought it wanted storage here; I told them that there was no space. They kept the truck outdoors until early this morning."

"And then?"

The Shadow's query was impressive. Almost in spite of himself, the garage manager answered. His tone was cautious.

"I overheard one of the truckmen making a telephone call," he stated. "He was in my office, without permission. He was telling some one that he would bring the truck on to Westhampton, about fifty miles from here.

"He was arranging storage at Westhampton, sir. To keep the truck there all day, in a garage. He said something about driving on to New York tonight. It sounded like they didn't want that truck to be seen by day. Right after that, the truck left here. It wasn't daylight; they had time to reach Westhampton before dawn. Maybe I'm suspicious, sir, but -"

With an amazing spring, The Shadow leaped into action. Coming from the front of the coupe, he interrupted the garage man with a wide, swinging left arm, that sent the astonished fellow sprawling to the running board of Harry's car.

His right hand jabbing upward, The Shadow stopped a swinging arm that was coming downward. A huge, sweatered thug had sprung from behind a parked car.

A MASSIVE monkey wrench in his clutch, the hoodlum had delivered a vicious swing for the garage manager's head. Only The Shadow's swift intervention had prevented the crushing blow. With one stroke, The Shadow had hurled the garage manager from the path of the deadly bludgeon, had caught the thug's arm in the middle of its drive.

The attacker writhed. With a harsh oath, he wrested his sweatered arm free and took a sweeping sidewise swing at The Shadow's head. The wrench whisked space. Dropping, The Shadow ducked the sweep by a clear inch.

Bobbing up, he drove a hard fist straight across the thug's arm before the attacker could recover and ward off the punch.

Knuckles landed just beneath the thug's chin. An ugly gargle told how deep The Shadow's fist had driven into the attacker's windpipe. The thug thudded floorward, his head cracking against the coupe's bumper.

The garage manager came to his feet and blinked. The Shadow was stepping aboard the coupe; the thug was lying senseless on the stone floor.

"Inform your local authorities," ordered The Shadow, quietly. "You will have ample time. That fellow will not recover within the next fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"Say nothing about the truck that went to Westhampton." The Shadow pressed the coupe's starter as he spoke. "I shall investigate the matter."

"I understand."

The garage manager was impressed by the hawk-visaged stranger who had saved him from a murderer. He thought that The Shadow must be a Federal agent, who had trailed the missing truck to Riverport. He saw no connection between the hotel fire and the truck.

The coupe rolled from the garage. It swung toward the road that led to Westhampton. The garage manager scurried forth and dashed toward the local police station, which was less than two blocks away.

AN approaching pedestrian had stopped short when he saw the coupe pull from the garage. Lost in the dusk, this arrival watched the tail-light twinkle as The Shadow turned the corner toward the Westhampton road. Still watching, the pedestrian spied the garage manager's hasty exit.

With a growl, the man from the dusk hurried into the garage. Electric lights showed his features. He was the hard-faced man who had steered Harry Vincent into the flaming basement of the Capitol Hotel.

Dark eyes showed an ugly glint as they saw the thug flattened on the floor. Hard lips uttered a savage curse. Striding to the fallen thug, the hard-faced man raised the fellow's shoulders and growled:

"Broddy! What happened here?"

Questioning Broddy was useless. The thug was senseless. The hard-faced man moved rapidly between the packed cars. He reached the office, seized the telephone and quickly gave a number. He was holding a watch when the response came. In choppy tones, the hard-faced man snapped orders:

"Car due at seven ten. Coupe with New York license. Handle it, then wait."

Smashing the receiver back on its hook, the hard-faced man hurried out into the garage. He shoved an arm under Broddy's shoulders and hoisted the thug into the back seat of a parked touring car. Springing to the wheel, he drove from the garage.

As he took the turn at the corner, the hard-faced man saw figures emerging from the police station. The garage manager was bringing two of Riverport's policemen. They were coming on a vacant quest. They would not find the stunned thug whom The Shadow had left upon the garage floor.

Like Harry Vincent, The Shadow had crossed the path of a dangerous murderer. Driving full speed for Westhampton, hard on the trail of the missing truck, The Shadow was heading into unexpected disaster. The chance arrival of the hard-faced man boded ill for The Shadow.

The lone trail had suited The Shadow for the present. It had promised him a chance to encounter enemies who dealt in crime. But the encounter which The Shadow sought would be gained much sooner than he believed.

Peril lay along The Shadow's lone trail.

CHAPTER III. THE BROKEN TRAIL

THE road from Riverport to Westhampton was a lonely highway. For miles, it followed the river gorge between the two towns. Sharp curves impeded continual speed but the lack of traffic on the highway partly offset that disadvantage.

The Shadow had left Riverport at ten minutes of seven. He was managing an average of fifty miles an hour. Fifteen minutes out of Riverport had carried him slightly more than a dozen miles along his way.

Hands firmly clutching the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, The Shadow observed the contour of the highway. Every curve was different; yet all bore one point of similarity. To the right were rugged, towering slopes; to the left a guard rail that fringed the river bank.

The rail was one that had been built to stand a severe test. Taut wires ran between stout wooden posts, fixed deep beside the left shoulder of the highway. In all that monotony of posts, the ordinary observer would have seen no change. To The Shadow, however, differences were apparent.

Certain posts had weakened. Though they remained upright, there were tell-tale depressions at the base, sure signs that freshets had washed away supporting soil. Those posts needed strengthening supports. The Shadow made a mental note of that fact. Curiously, his observation was to serve him well before his trip was ended.

Except for those infrequent weaknesses, the guard rail was strong enough to resist the onslaught of a ten-ton truck. It needed to be strong. The river that lay below was deep and blackly sinister.

This gorge was narrow; its waters were slow, for the river was dammed some miles ahead. Fully thirty feet of depth lay below the dark surface of the river.

Mile after mile, The Shadow saw no other cars. He was traveling at the highest speed that any car could maintain along this winding road. At a fifty-mile-an-hour average, there was a chance that he might reach Westhampton soon after the departure of the mysterious truck. Inquiries; new clues; then The Shadow would resume pursuit. He was confident that a trail could be picked up at Westhampton.

The clock on the coupe's dashboard showed seven ten. It was the exact minute mentioned in the hard-faced man's telephone call. Timed almost to the second, The Shadow whizzed past an obscure side road that led upward to the right, through the ravine of a little stream.

THOUGH his headlights were pointing ahead, The Shadow was conscious of a small house nestled at the outlet of the dirt road. His momentary glimpse gave him the impression that the house was deserted.

The impression was justified. Supposedly, that house had been vacated a month before. Tonight, however, it was occupied. Peering eyes were stationed at a blackened upstairs window, to note The Shadow's coupe as it whirled past. Observers saw the New York license plate.

The hard-faced man at Riverport had made a perfect estimate of the time interval. He had done better than produce a haphazard guess. He had been familiar with the river road; he knew the maximum speed that its curves allowed. He had assumed that whoever had departed in the coupe would be riding at the fastest possible clip.

Gripping the wheel of the coupe, The Shadow swung hard as he finished a leftward curve. The road swung to the right; then left again, to a jutting point that hung above the river. The turn was one that required brakes. Safety signs showed twisted lines to indicate the sharpness of the turn. The right side of the road was a mass of mixed rocks.

The Shadow's foot moved to the brake pedal. There it halted, momentarily. His ears had caught a muffled boom, dimly heard despite the closed window of the coupe.

It was a blast from the jutting hillside straight above.

Almost coincident with that muffled blast, The Shadow's keen eyes saw a quivering of the rocks to the right side of the road. Stones rocketed to the highway.

Some drivers would have applied their brakes, to stop short of the falling stones. Others might have preferred to run the gantlet, hoping to get past before the hail of stones increased. To The Shadow, both courses were hopeless.

He knew the meaning of that blast. Those stones were the forerunners of a man-made avalanche. A wall of rock had loosened. Already, high above, a stretch of massive stone was dropping to overwhelm the coupe.

There was no escape for any car upon this stretch of road. Neither a halt nor a burst of speed could carry The Shadow free in the brief moments that remained.

Instinctively, The Shadow chose a course entirely his own; one that was based upon previous observation.

A quick foot left the brake pedal. It drove the accelerator to the floorboard. Swinging the wheel hard to the left, The Shadow launched the coupe straight for the nearest guard rail, at the river side of the road.

No time to learn if that rail was held by loosened posts. Chances were that the supports had weakened; for here, the gorge was steepest. Conditions favored The Shadow. Speed, plus luck, should serve him. His hope was that the rail would meet a test that would prove too severe.

CABLES twanged as the coupe struck. They bellied outward like the string of a bow, threatening to resist the strain. One post gave way. Its yield was sufficient.

The rear of the coupe lurched upward; as the wires sagged, carrying over a dangling post, The Shadow's car catapulted into a huge somersault toward the river, thirty feet below.

As the car dived toward the gleaming water, a terrific roar sounded from above. Tons of rock crashed upon the highway, shattering the concrete paving as if it had been flimsy pasteboard.

A mammoth cliff had been blasted loose, along a stretch of fully sixty yards. Dynamite, drilled deep into the rock, had accomplished its devastating work in the space of three brief seconds.

As The Shadow's car hit the water, a landslide followed. Rocks buried the ripped guard rail. Scattering stones poured into the river, adding to the splash of the coupe. The downpour lasted for a dozen seconds; then came a sifting trickle of powdered stone and loosened dirt.

A feeble gleam showed dimly from the bottom of the river. The glow came from the lights of the coupe, sunk at a depth of more than twenty feet. The gleam ended. In its overturn, the coupe had nosed in toward the river bank. Stones and mud blanketed the headlights.

The Shadow was still in the coupe.

Water had filled the interior of the car. Gripping the wheel, The Shadow could feel the pressure about him. One deep breath, gained before the plunge, still served him as he waited. Half a minute of this ordeal would mean that the landslide had lessened.

Stones thumped the coupe, but their landings were puny. Slowed by the water, the chunks of rock had no effect. The coupe was intact. It afforded complete protection while The Shadow remained within it. The danger that faced The Shadow was the possibility that the entire car would be buried by debris from the road.

That, however, was unlikely. The Shadow preferred to chance it. Too early a departure from the car might bring him up into a delayed downpour of stone. The Shadow waited a few more seconds, then gripped the handle of the door to his right. The coupe had tilted on its left side. It was imbedded among rocks; but the right door was clear.

BRACING his feet upon the lower door, The Shadow pressed his shoulder upward. The door forced open, against the pressure of the water. The car itself was filled with water; that rendered The Shadow's task possible.

Crawling through the half-opened door, The Shadow gave an upward push. His body shot toward the surface; those final seconds seemed interminable. Suddenly, The Shadow's head bobbed clear.

Propelling himself with hard strokes, he made sure of his self-rescue by swimming away from the bank where overhanging rocks still threatened to plunge upon him.

The Shadow found no current. He swam northward, along toward the portion of the bank which he had followed in the coupe. Clear of the rock-shattered area, he took strong strokes to the shore. Clutching clusters of tough shrubs, The Shadow climbed the bank and reached the guard rail.

As he gripped the lowest cable, The Shadow heard the purr of a motor. He saw a red light turning on the road. A touring car was swinging about; it had come from the direction of Riverport and had stopped when it had reached the fallen mass of rock. The Shadow edged down the embankment completely out of view from the road.

A moment later, a powerful searchlight glared above The Shadow's head. It formed a glaring path toward the river. The Shadow watched the beam sweep across the waters.

The searchlight's rays scoured the surface of the river, pausing near the very spot where The Shadow's coupe had performed its plunge.

The searchlight clicked off. The Shadow heard voices at the guard rail. He distinguished words that came in a rasped tone. A voice said:

"That was the fellow we were after, all right. He'll give us no more trouble. Come along back to the house. We'll clear out by the dirt road."

Men boarded their car. Weaponless, The Shadow had no way to deal with these murderers who had sought his life. Beyond the guard rail, he was unable to gain the road in time to board the rear of the departing car.

Rising to the guard rail, The Shadow watched the headlamps of the touring car as they weaved their way back along the road. The lights diminished, then blinked from view.

ON foot, The Shadow followed. He had an objective; that house which had been mentioned. There, even should he find no clues, The Shadow could remain for the night. Crooks would be gone before he arrived.

The Shadow had been balked in his pursuit; nevertheless, he had thwarted criminals in their attempt to eliminate him. He had heard the voice of one man who must certainly be a leader of the crooked band. The Shadow would recognize those rasped tones when he heard them again.

Beneath the towering slopes beside the lonely road, a grim laugh quivered in quiet night air. Fierce, strident, that mirth was heard only by the one who uttered it.

That laugh was The Shadow's new challenge. It boded ill to men of crime.

CHAPTER IV. CROOKS AGREE

WITH his hearing of the voice beside the guard rail, The Shadow had formed a mental picture of the man who had spoken. He had visualized a hardened face with stony lips and sharp, glinting eyes. The image that The Shadow composed was accurate.

The man who had sneered his evil glee was the hard-faced rogue who had steered Harry Vincent into trouble - the same man who had visited the Southern Garage in Riverport. He had followed The Shadow's car after his telephone call ahead to warn the others.

That man of crime had left no trail. When morning came, he was far from the deserted house near Riverport. In faultless attire, a cane beneath his arm, he was riding in an elevator to the fiftieth story of a Manhattan skyscraper. With a cigarette pursed between his sallow lips, he looked like a New York business man en route to his office.

When he stepped from the elevator, the hard-faced man went directly to an office that bore the legend:

GREAT AMERICAN POWER COMPANY

The door was the entrance to a suite. The hard-faced man entered a large reception room and spoke to a girl who was seated at a desk. His lips were eased into a confident smile; his tone held but a slight touch of its harshness as he announced:

"I have come to see Mr. Huxley Drune."

"Your name, please?"

Politely, the hard-faced man tendered an engraved card. The girl read it; then picked up a telephone. She pressed a button and received a response.

"Good morning, Mr. Drune," said the girl. "Mr. Gordon Colgarth is here to see you."

Words came across the wire. The girl hung up and nodded to Colgarth.

"Go right in, sir," she said. "Mr. Drune's office is straight ahead."

HALF a minute later, Colgarth was closing a door behind him. He turned to face a gray-haired man who was seated behind a large, flat-topped desk. Windows beyond showed a panorama of New York's sky line. Withered of face, the gray haired man studied his visitor solemnly. Colgarth delivered a hard smile.

"Hello, Drune," he greeted. "Here's the bacon."

Approaching the desk, the hard-faced man produced a slender stack of papers and planked them in front of Drune. The gray-haired man thumbed the papers slowly. His withered face displayed a satisfied smile. Drune laid the papers aside.

"Good," he asserted, in a cold crackle. "Woldorf was worthwhile. You had trouble, though."

"Not much," returned Colgarth. "There was a chap who looked like he was covering Woldorf. I ran into him while I was leaving the hotel - right in the middle of all the smoke and fire."

"You left him there?"

Drune's crackled query was significant; his face showed an expectant gloat. Colgarth returned a hard grin.

"Better than that," he declared. "I gave him to the Salamander's."

Drune leaned back and chuckled.

"The truck left yesterday morning." continued Colgarth. "I met it at Westhampton and kept it there until night. I went back to Riverport to see how matters were."

"And found them satisfactory?"

"Not quite. Some meddlesome stranger found out about the truck. He slugged Broddy and headed for Westhampton in a car. I was lucky enough to head him off. I telephoned ahead and they gave him the blast. That was your idea, Drune, having that charge set in the hill. It proved useful."

"I read about it," chortled Drune, tapping a newspaper on his desk. "Down in Riverport, they think it was a new disaster. A landslide. No lives lost."

"There was one lost," put in Colgarth. "They'll never guess it, though. That car was bowled down into the river underneath twenty tons of rock!"

Drune had swung about in his swivel chair. He was staring through a side window; his face appeared reflective. Colgarth expected a question. Instead Drune turned around. He picked up Woldorf's papers.

"We needed these," clucked Drune. "They are worth the trouble that we took to get them. Woldorf had ambitions. He could never have realized them. This stock gave him full control of one holding company; but that was all."

"Worth a full million," inserted Colgarth. "That's pretty good money."

"Only a trifle. With other securities, with options, this should be worth ten millions. But Woldorf could never have secured the other stocks that he needed."

"While we can."

Drune nodded as he replaced the papers on the desk.

"WE had three objectives," he asserted. "Woldorf's holdings were the first. They have been gained. Next will come our acquisition of the securities held by Lincoln Breel."

"Which will be easy," stated Colgarth. "The Salamanders worked perfectly at Riverport. They can do as well here in New York."

"After that," continued Drune, "we must obtain the securities that belong to the Cruikshank estate, in Sheffield. That means a bank robbery, Colgarth."

"We can handle the Sheffield National Bank. Everything is arranged, Drune. The torches will be ready. The dynamite will be on the railroad siding. We know that we can count on the Salamanders. There can be no trouble interrupting -"

Drune raised his hand in interruption. Solemnly, he shook his head.

"Remember, Colgarth," he asserted, "one job is not enough. We must hold all the securities that we need. We must control every company involved. That accomplished, we shall have a fifty-million-dollar proposition. I can make Great American Power dominant. You say there can be no trouble. There was trouble."

"Only from some dub who found out about the truck. He knows nothing else."

"Why did he suspect the truck at all?"

Drune's query was a sharp one. It made Colgarth wince. The hard-faced man had no answer. His eyes showed alarm.

"I shall tell you why," asserted Drune, his crackly tone harsh. He leaned across the desk and glared at Colgarth. "Because he traced everything, step by step. He knew that Woldorf was in danger. He learned that the safe could have been removed from the hotel. He went to find out about the truck."

Drune leaned back. Colgarth protested.

"That can't be!" he exclaimed. "No one could be wise enough to -"

"No one?" queried Drune, with a quick interruption. He chortled an ugly laugh. "Do you call The Shadow no one?"

"The Shadow?"

Colgarth blurted the name. His hard lips quivered, then gained their stony front. Drune watched the man's fists tighten.

"You're right, Drune!" rasped Colgarth. "It was The Shadow! I should have known it, the way he handled Broddy! But I finished him. The Shadow is through!"

"So others have thought," reminded Drune. "They have invariably found themselves mistaken."

Rising, the gray-haired man exhibited hunched shoulders. Tightening a clawlike fist, he pounded hard upon the desk. The words that came from his dry lips were emphatic.

"Be sure of nothing, Colgarth!" pronounced Drune. "Nothing where The Shadow is concerned! Unless you see him dead, an absolute corpse, you can not be sure that he is gone. Even then, he should be cremated; his ashes scattered to the winds.

"You say The Shadow is buried in that river bed? Bah! He is as much alive as you or I! Earth, water, even fire - those are mere elements. The Shadow can conquer them. Those tons of rocks - that - river -"

Drune paused. His eyes showed shrewdness.

"Earth - water -" he repeated the words slowly. "They would not suffice. But fire might. Very well, The Shadow shall have fire. We shall see, if he is still alive, whether or not he can withstand the same ordeal as our Salamanders."

"You're taking too much for granted, Drune," scoffed Colgarth. "I admit that the meddler could have been The Shadow. It was also possible that he escaped death. Nevertheless, we can forget him.

"The truck has reached New York. Every trail has been covered. The Shadow - if he lives - cannot even guess the secret of the Salamanders. They are ready for their next duty, here in New York. Then to Sheffield, where my estate will be our final headquarters. The spoils are ours, Drune. Fifty millions will belong to us."

Drune was smiling sourly; his elbow was on the desk, his chin in his hand.

"We must cash those millions, Colgarth," He reminded. "Do you think we can accomplish it?"

"You yourself have arranged the method, Drune. It will be a simple matter."

"While The Shadow lives?"

New alarm registered on Colgarth's hard face. Drune raised his head. Wagging a forefinger, he drove home his message:

"Sooner or later, Colgarth, The Shadow will divine our game. We accomplished crime in Riverport. We shall succeed here in New York and at your home city of Sheffield. With the Salamanders to aid us, our work is purely mechanical.

"But The Shadow will remain a menace, if we permit him to stay at large. Even if we proceeded too rapidly for him to overtake us, our venture will be threatened later. We have only one logical course, Colgarth."

"And what is that?"

Drune chuckled as he heard Colgarth's question. Tilting back in his chair, the power magnate spoke sagely.

"The Shadow will seek a trail," he predicted. "Very well. He shall gain one - a trail that shall lead him straight to the scene of our next crime."

"To Breel's house?"

"Yes. Where disaster will overwhelm The Shadow. You tried earth and water, Colgarth. I shall use fire."

Colgarth's eyes shone in admiration of his evil partner's scheme. Then a question rasped from his lips:

"How can we bait The Shadow?"

IN answer, Drune opened a drawer of the desk. He produced a letter. Holding it between his hands, he eyed Colgarth and stated:

"Chester Woldorf had an office here in New York?"

"Yes," returned Colgarth. "In the Greystone Building. His name, however, was not listed."

"The Shadow, nevertheless, should find that office."

"Yes, if he is as good as he is supposed to be. But The Shadow will find no clues there. You removed them, Drune."

"I shall replace one clue."

Chuckling, Drune held up the letter. "Chester Woldorf wrote to Lincoln Breel," he reminded. "That is how we learned that Woldorf intended to be at Riverport."

Colgarth nodded.

"Breel replied to Woldorf's letter," continued Drune. "This letter came from Breel. Woldorf never received it. I found the letter, unopened in Woldorf's office at the Greystone Building."

Another nod from Colgarth.

"Very well," concluded Drune, in a precise tone. "I shall replace the letter where I found it. The Shadow, when he discovers the office, will read the letter."

A pause; then Drune added:

"The Shadow will come to Breel's."

Colgarth stroked his hard chin; anxiously, he inquired:

"Will that be before or after we make our stroke at Breel's?"

"Neither," returned Drune, with a savage chortle. "We shall hold crime until a definite moment. We shall await a signal; then we can make our thrust."

"And that signal?"

"Will be The Shadow's own arrival. All will be prepared for that occurrence. Our torches will be ready; our watchers posted -"

"And the Salamanders?"

"They will be at their station. Everything will move as scheduled, Colgarth. We shall gain our spoils; and with that gain, The Shadow will be destroyed."

Leering, Colgarth thrust his hand across the desk. Drune received it with an iron grip. The pact was made. Partners in crime had agreed upon their plan.

Colgarth departed. Soon afterward, Drune strolled from his office. Clad in hat and coat, the power magnate paused in the reception room. In a dry tone, he told the girl there that he would return within an hour.

In his pocket, Huxley Drune was carrying the letter that he had shown to Gordon Colgarth. Drune was on his way to plant the missive that would seal the Shadow's doom.

CHAPTER V. THE TRAIL REGAINED

LATE that same afternoon, a pedestrian stepped aboard a taxicab near Times Square. In level tones, he ordered the driver to take him to the Greystone Building. Glancing over his shoulder, the taxi driver caught a glimpse of an impassive, hawk-faced passenger.

The Shadow had returned to New York. Hours of investigation had produced the result that Huxley Drune had expected. The Shadow had learned of Chester Woldorf's office at the Greystone Building.

As he rode along, The Shadow studied report sheets. Aided by competent agents, he had gained some facts concerning Chester Woldorf. The man who had died in the Riverport hotel fire was something of a mystery figure in financial circles.

Wall Street men had known Woldorf. They had guessed that he had money, but had finally classed him as a speculator. Only The Shadow had divined Woldorf's real purpose. The Shadow knew that Woldorf had been acquiring securities that would give him control of important holding companies.

The dead man had posed as a speculator merely to cover his real activities. He had succeeded, in that game, so far as the public was concerned. The Shadow knew, however, that crooks had learned of Woldorf's true capacity.

Men of crime had slain Woldorf to gain his holdings. But of what sort were those holdings? Oil - mines - shipping - manufactures - power?

Any one might be the answer. So might a host of others. The Shadow knew only that Woldorf had sought mastery of some specialized field, that the dead man, though shrewd, had been honest in his efforts.

There was a chance that the riddle of Woldorf's purpose could be answered through a visit to the office that had been Woldorf's mailing address in New York.

ARRIVING at the Greystone Building, The Shadow entered the lobby in a leisurely fashion. Apparently, he was unconcerned with persons about him. Actually, he was eyeing every face.

The Shadow noted the man behind the cigar stand. As he made a purchase and paused to light a cigar, he observed the elevator starter; also the operators of all the cars that were waiting with opened doors. Well did The Shadow know that Woldorf's office might prove to be a trap.

Satisfied that no agents of crime were watching, The Shadow entered an elevator and rode to the eighth floor. When he stepped from the car, he waited a few moments, then chose a stairway that led up to the ninth.

Reaching the corridor above, he studied various closed doors. Sure that no lookouts were posted, he approached a door that bore the number 906.

The Shadow produced a ring of skeleton keys. His first choice was the right one. Probing the lock of 906, The Shadow was rewarded by a slight click. He turned the key and entered the office. Closing the door behind him, The Shadow pocketed the keys and produced a heavy automatic pistol. He laid the weapon upon a near-by desk, in case of trouble.

The Shadow doubted that there would be a surprise attack in this well-tenanted office building. Nevertheless, he was prepared for any emergency.

Daylight was fading. The windows, however, still produced sufficient light for The Shadow to make a search without betraying his presence by turning on the electric lights. There were two places that called for inspection. One was the desk; the other, a small filing cabinet.

Five minutes was all that The Shadow required to complete his preliminary search. In that time, he found nothing of consequence. The desk drawers contained pencils, blank stationery and paper clips. The filing cabinet held nothing but steamship circulars and railroad time-tables.

Either Woldorf or some other person had cleared this office of all telltale contents.

The Shadow removed the drawers from the desk. Peering into the hollow, he saw something white. It proved to be an envelope, stamped and postmarked, torn open at the top. The envelope was addressed to Chester Woldorf, at this office.

The Shadow removed the letter from the envelope. He unfolded it and read a brief, scrawled note:

Dear Woldorf:

Sorry, but your plan does not appeal. Do not expect to hear

from me when you reach Riverport. Am leaving tonight for the

Adirondacks. Will be home in about ten days, perhaps sooner.

Sincerely,

Lincoln Breel.

Studying the letter, The Shadow promptly gained its full meaning. He had been right. Chester Woldorf must have held control of important companies. To strengthen his position, Woldorf had sought some arrangement with Breel.

A logical procedure. Every one knew of Lincoln Breel, wizard of finance, whose contacts were many and whose methods were devious. Breel had lost millions in a stock market crash.

He had gone into retirement, apparently soured with the world. But those who knew Breel held their doubts. They claimed that despite his losses, he still held wealth.

SOME day, it had been predicted, Lincoln Breel would come out from retirement and begin a new campaign of finance. It was believed that Breel had acquired key stocks that would give him dominance in certain fields of industry.

No one, however, had hazarded a guess as to Breel's particular specialty. When it became known, it would arrive as a bombshell.

From one riddle, The Shadow had arrived at another. He still had no clue regarding Woldorf's plans. He knew only that they must be identical with those that Breel had undertaken. That, however, shifted the mystery from Woldorf to Breel.

What Woldorf, dead, could not answer, Breel, alive, could. At present, however, Breel was still absent from New York. The postmark on the envelope - the date on the letter - both showed the correspondence to be eight days old. Breel had stated that he would be home in about ten.

A soft laugh issued from The Shadow's disguised lips. A super-sleuth, The Shadow had seen another meaning to this letter.

Chester Woldorf had never received it!

The deduction was plain. Had Woldorf received the letter, he would certainly not have misplaced it. Nor would he have gone to Riverport, for the letter stated that he would not hear from Breel when he reached that city.

Woldorf had written Breel. Convinced that the financial genius would be interested in his terms, Woldorf had not waited for a reply by mail.

Who, then, had opened the letter?

The Shadow knew the answer. Some man behind the game of crime. There could be only one reason why the rogue had not kept it. He had planted it in this very office as bait for just such an investigator as The Shadow.

Though The Shadow did not know the identity of Huxley Drune, he clearly traced the super-crook's game. He knew exactly what Drune wanted. That was a visit, by The Shadow, to the home of Lincoln Breel.

Pocketing the letter, The Shadow stowed his automatic beneath his coat. He left the office and took an elevator on the same floor. He had no further need to look for spies. He knew that the master crook would have posted none. Watchers might have spoiled the bait.

In the lobby of the Greystone Building, The Shadow entered a telephone booth and put in a call. He gave instructions over the wire. Facts were to be assembled promptly; all available data concerning Lincoln Breel must be gained by agents and sent through to their chief. With such at hand, The Shadow would prepare his next move.

EARLY evening found The Shadow in his sanctum - the hidden abode that served him as headquarters in New York. Beneath a bluish lamp, long-fingered hands opened a six-by-nine mailing envelope. From this, The Shadow produced papers.

Agents had done well. From Mann, an investment broker, The Shadow had gained accurate facts concerning Lincoln Breel. The financial wizard's home was a secluded brownstone mansion in a block on the West Side. Breel, it appeared, had chosen that locality because the houses close to his were untenanted. Breel had no love for neighbors.

It was known generally that Breel had gone to the Adirondacks, but no one could give the location of his obscure hunting lodge. Breel had not returned from his trip to the mountain region; but his arrival was expected. Breel was accustomed to go and come as he chose, with no set announcement of his plans.

There were three servants at Breel's home; all were old retainers who had been in his service for many years. Except for these employees, Breel lived alone.

From Burke, a newspaper reporter, The Shadow had a report that tabbed closely with Mann's. In addition, he found a photograph of Lincoln Breel. It showed a heavy-browed face distinguished by a Vandyke beard. The Shadow studied the flowing hair above the forehead; he noted every detail of the countenance.

The Shadow had seen Breel in the past; he remembered the financier's precise manner of speech in addition to these facial characteristics. The photograph enabled The Shadow to improve his recollection of Breel's appearance. A soft laugh whispered in the darkness above the shaded lamp. The Shadow picked up the photograph, then clicked off the light.

Soon, a light glowed elsewhere in the sanctum. The illumination showed The Shadow's hawkish features reflected in a mirror. Set against the looking-glass was Breel's photograph. The Shadow opened a make-up kit.

Then began a remarkable process.

Dab by dab, feature by feature, The Shadow changed his countenance. Long fingers pressed waxlike substance against the hawklike face. Molding his face, The Shadow built up the contour of his forehead. He added constructive touches to his cheeks, filling them, tapering their shape to resemble the outline of Breel's countenance. The Shadow's nose lost its hawkish aspect.

With spirit gum, The Shadow added a goatee that was a perfect replica of Breel's. His final touch was a wavy wig that resembled the financier's flowing hair.

This required rearrangement; artfully, The Shadow perfected the final feature of his disguise. He lifted the photograph and compared it with his own reflection.

DETAIL for detail, The Shadow's physiognomy matched the distinguished face of Lincoln Breel. Had The Shadow chosen to visit Wall Street in this disguise, Breel's own friends would have passed the word that the financier had emerged from retirement.

Wall Street, however, was not The Shadow's goal. His destination was to be Breel's own home, where servants, instead of friends, would believe that their master had returned. As Breel, The Shadow saw opportunity for an investigation that might lead him to men of crime.

Schemers would be watching for The Shadow. Unquestionably they were covering Breel's home. Battle with a cordon of crooks would produce no material gain for The Shadow. His desire was to enter the trap while watchers maintained their vigil; to keep them lulled and waiting while he had time to learn all that was possible concerning Breel's affairs.

Through this clever process of deception, The Shadow could arrive at Breel's home openly. By fooling Breel's own servants he would be able to go through the house as he chose. The Shadow was planning craft instead of stealth.

The light clicked off beside the mirror. A final laugh quivered through the sanctum. The Shadow was departing amid total darkness; within the next hour he would be at his goal. The Shadow had prepared a game to out-match the scheme of his unknown foeman, Huxley Drune.

Well had The Shadow planned; but he had not yet learned the full extent of Drune's machinations. Clever though his method was, The Shadow had chosen an unfortunate method.

Due to circumstances unknown to him, The Shadow was adding to the danger that awaited. In using craft instead of stealth, The Shadow was playing straight into the hands of Huxley Drune.

CHAPTER VI. THE VOICE OF DEATH

IT was exactly nine o'clock when a taxicab stopped in front of Breel's old mansion. All was silent on this obscure Manhattan street. One spot alone was free from darkness. That was the top step of the brownstone flight that stood in front of Lincoln Breel's home.

There, servants had turned on a brilliant light. The glare testified that they expected their master hourly. The light was to The Shadow's liking. It offered him an opportunity to display his guise to watchers from the darkness.

As the taxi rolled away, The Shadow ascended the steps. He was carrying a suitcase; he placed it beside the door. Turning half toward the street, he removed a pair of gloves and began to reach in his pockets as if searching for a key.

The glow from above the doorway shone directly upon The Shadow's face. It showed the detailed features of Lincoln Breel. The Vandyke beard was conspicuous in the light.

The Shadow showed annoyance at being unable to find his key. He thrust his gloves into his pocket. He shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the door. With short jabs, he pressed the doorbell, in impatient fashion.

Eyes were watching.

The Shadow had almost felt their presence. With sidelong gaze, he had spotted a vacant house across the street, where shuttered windows tilted outward at a trifling angle. Behind those shutters were men of crime, noting the arrival of the pretended Lincoln Breel.

The Shadow gave no inkling of his knowledge. He had chosen to play the part of an unsuspecting man returning to his home.

The front door opened. A servant eyed The Shadow, then bowed in welcome. Entering, The Shadow handed the suitcase to the servant, then turned to another menial who had also arrived at the door. The second servant helped The Shadow take off his coat.

"Carry that suitcase upstairs, Yocum," ordered The Shadow, in a precise, but short-clipped tone. "Place it in my study."

"Certainly, Mr. Breel."

"And you may go, Tobias," added The Shadow, to the second servant. "I shall be in the strong-room, where I do not wish to be disturbed."

The second servant bowed and departed.

THE SHADOW walked to the rear of the hall. Reaching an alcove, he paused before a heavy door. This time, when he reached into his pocket, he produced a set of special picks.

In the report concerning Breel, The Shadow had not only learned the names and descriptions of the financier's servants; he had also gained facts regarding the house.

Breel had a strong-room on the ground floor. It housed a large safe that probably held Breel's private fortune. The second-floor study was a room wherein Breel received occasional callers.

The Shadow expected a task with the strong-room door. The fact that Breel was willing to leave the house in charge of his servants was proof that both the strong-room and its safe would be formidable.

The Shadow had deceived the servants completely with his disguise; but he had dismissed them abruptly because he did not want them to watch his efforts at the door of the strong-room. He knew that they would wonder why he did not unlock the door immediately.

Picks clicked softly within the lock; but the door did not yield. The Shadow had encountered a formidable obstacle. This barrier required patience. Once in the strong-room, The Shadow would have time to dally with the safe. For the present, however, he had to remember the servants. Their possible suspicions could not be disregarded.

Close against the door, The Shadow continued his probe. One pick was working. Deft fingers pressed. The pick failed to hold. Carefully, The Shadow started to repeat his maneuver. He stopped abruptly as he heard a faint sound from upstairs. It was the ringing of a telephone bell.

Stepping from the alcove, The Shadow listened at the foot of the stairs. He heard the voice of the two servants. Yocum had met Tobias in the upstairs hall.

"A call for Mr. Breel -"

"He is in the strong-room, Yocum."

"I shall inform him."

"The master does not wish to be disturbed."

"But the call may be important, Tobias."

"I am repeating the order that was given me -"

The Shadow thrust his face past the post at the bottom of the stairs. He called up to the servants.

"Come! What is the trouble?"

It was Tobias who answered: "A telephone call, Mr. Breel."

"Very well." The Shadow spoke testily as he pocketed his picks. "I shall answer it."

THE SHADOW showed no haste as he ascended the stairway. At the top, he saw the open door of a lighted room and knew that it must be the study. In dignified fashion, he walked past the servants. At the doorway, he turned and delivered an impatient gesture. The servants went downstairs.

The study door was open, inward. Its base was blocked tightly by a rug.

Apparently, Breel seldom closed the door; but The Shadow decided to do so. Chances were that this call would be for him.

Burbank, The Shadow's chief contact man, knew that his chief had gone to Breel's. To talk with Burbank, The Shadow needed privacy.

Despite The Shadow's caution as he turned the knob, the latch clicked sharply. The sound did not trouble The Shadow. The two servants had gone downstairs; they could not have heard the sound.

A telephone was resting on a desk beside a curtained window. The receiver was off the hook. The Shadow raised it and spoke in Breel's precise tone.

"Hello."

There was no response. The Shadow spoke again, in testy fashion.

"Hello... This is Mr. Breel..."

A harsh chuckle sounded from the receiver. It carried a gloating tone. That chortle was issued by Huxley Drune.

Though The Shadow did not know the identity of the master foe, he recognized at once that he was in direct contact with the criminal whom he had sought to thwart.

Was this a message for Lincoln Breel?

The Shadow had a way to learn. That was to continue his role of Breel. Impatiently, he demanded:

"Come! Who is on the wire?"

Drune's answer was raucous in its glee. Avoiding all mention of his own name, Drune expressed a fiendish challenge that marked him only as the foe that The Shadow sought.

"You found my bait," came Drune's triumphant crackle. "You are The Shadow. You were crafty, to play the part of Lincoln Breel. But therein lay your own folly. You, The Shadow, gave away your game. It was impossible for Lincoln Breel to return to his home.

"Breel is dead. His life was ended three days ago, by my own hand. His body lies buried deep beneath his hunting lodge. When you entered Breel's house tonight, I knew you for The Shadow."

A pause; then with evil emphasis, Drune added: "You have served my purpose well. You came as Lincoln Breel; you shall die as Lincoln Breel. Servants will bear testimony to the fact that Breel returned to New York. You are trapped. I heard the click of the door that locked your prison. Earth and water did not doom you. Fire will!"

A CLICK followed Drune's prophecy. The Shadow was standing with a dead receiver in his hand. He clattered it upon the hook. He swung toward the window and hauled back the curtains. Massive iron shutters showed beyond the glass. The Shadow knew that the master fiend had seen to it that they were clamped on the outside.

The Shadow reached the door. The knob spun uselessly in his hand. Another of Drune's devices. Arranged for Breel but never used. Murder in the Adirondacks had made it unnecessary in Breel's case. The self-locking door had served to snare The Shadow.

The door was massive, heavy-paneled, as formidable as the barrier that blocked Breel's strong-room on the floor below. It was an obstacle that no one man could conquer bare-handed. It stood between The Shadow and the path to safety.

For, already, shouts were proving Drune's prediction that fire would be The Shadow's foe. From below came the frenzied shrieks of Breel's servants. They were giving the loud-lunged alarm in one wailed word:

"Fire!"

The Shadow heard the cry within his prison.

Grimly, he faced the door that blocked escape.

CHAPTER VII. FOEMEN OF THE FLAMES

FRANTIC footsteps pounded on the stairs. The Shadow heard beating fists against the heavy door. Voices of frightened servants shouted in confusion:

"Mr. Breel! The house is ablaze!"

The Shadow waited until the hubbub subsided. Then, in loud, testy tones, he answered:

"The door will not open. Smash it down."

"No time, sir!" It was Yocum who gasped the cry. "The fire is everywhere, Mr. Breel -"

There were scudding footsteps. The other two servants were fleeing downstairs. Yocum blurted something about getting aid. The Shadow heard him dash away. With their last chance for escape, the servants had been forced to abandon their supposed master.

A hissing crackle told The Shadow that the servants had not exaggerated the menace. The odor of smoke was heavy through the crack beneath the door. The Shadow realized that incendiaries had been posted in the empty houses that adjoined this one. Paid "torches," they had fed the flames with oil.

Breel's house was doomed. Despite its stone walls, it was a fire trap, with wooden beams, laths that would flame like kindling. Its fate would soon match the destruction that had overwhelmed the hotel in Riverport.

The Shadow had waited in hope that the servants might effect a rescue. He had entered this house as Breel. He had intended to depart in the same guise, to prove his contempt of Drune's prophecy. That chance was ended.

With quick hands, The Shadow plucked away his false beard. He tugged the puttylike mold from his face. He whisked away the wig that topped his head.

THIS room contained no object that could be used as a battering-ram to smash the door. Drune knew it: that was why he had fully depended upon the trap. But The Shadow, himself, had dispatched a useful item to the room.

He turned to the suitcase that the servant had carried upstairs. Deliberately, The Shadow placed the flat bag upon Breel's desk.

From the bag, he produced a black cloak that he immediately slid over his shoulder. He lifted a slouch hat and clamped it to his head. A brace of automatics went beneath his cloak.

The Shadow then picked up thin, black gloves and laid them to one side. From a little pocket at the side of the bag, he removed three small bottles, which were separately packed.

One bottle contained a black powder that resembled graphite. Stepping to the door, The Shadow poured a line of powder along the opening at the bottom of the barrier. From the second bottle, he added a thin stream of grayish powder that formed a weaving line through the black.

The last bottle held a colorless liquid. Uncorking it, The Shadow blobbed the entire contents along the line of mixed powder. Wheeling, he crossed the room. Crouched behind the desk, The Shadow muffled his head in the folds of his cloak and waited. The intermission was brief.

A sudden blast shook the room. The air shivered as it compressed and coughed a puffing echo to the explosion. When The Shadow arose, he sniffed a pungent odor that was stronger than the oily smell of the fire.

The heavy door was loose upon its hinges, half-tilted into the room. It was a barrier no longer. Springing to the door, The Shadow wrenched an opening. He pressed outward into the upstairs hall.

The Shadow had come prepared to blast his way into Breel's strong-room, if all other devices failed and entrance would have proved necessary. Trapped in the study, he had made use of the chemical powders that he had brought for another purpose. The Shadow had offset the snare devised by Drune.

Had he escaped too late?

Volumes of smoke were pouring upward from the floor below. His head muffled deep in folds of his black cloak, The Shadow groped his way downward. He was taking the outlet that Breel's servants had utilized; but they had gained a start before the fire had reached its present intensity.

Even through the black cloth of his cloak, The Shadow could see licking tongues of flame, devouring the woodwork on the ground floor, gnawing at the rails of the banister.

Outside, alarms were clanging; sirens had joined with a wail. Manhattan fire engines were arriving; but even efficient firemen would be balked.

The flames were fed by oil.

THE ground floor was an inferno when The Shadow reached it. The whole front of the house was ablaze with fire. Crackling from the other direction told that the rear of the building was a furnace. One spot alone offered temporary security. That was the alcove in the very center of the house, where the door of the strong-room loomed.

The Shadow retreated to that refuge. He placed his hand upon the knob of the strong-room door. He wrenched. The door swung inward. Firelight, vivid everywhere, gave The Shadow a complete view of the strong-room before blackish smoke poured inward.

The strong-room was completely empty.

The Shadow's laugh came strident amid the crackling of devouring flames. His sinister mirth was significant. The Shadow had expected this discovery.

As at Riverport, a safe had been removed under the cover of a terrific fire. The strong-room had been opened while The Shadow was still trapped in the study. Drune's henchmen had come, carrying Breel's own keys. They had opened the strong-room; they had removed the safe bodily.

Outside, clangor told that no criminals would have dared to leave by any door. The Shadow knew their only route. They had come through the cellars, from one house to another, until they had reached Breel's. Their only outlet was the path by which they had arrived.

Beneath the stairway was a door, also protected in this alcove. The Shadow ripped the door open; he saw a stairway to the cellar: He, too, had a route to safety. Through keen deduction, The Shadow had gained his chance for escape. Stumbling through the smoke, he descended, yanking the door shut behind him.

Fierce flames hissed; a burst of fire swept the alcove. A wall tumbled; blazing beams covered the very spot where The Shadow had been, but moments before. Sizzling, crackling, the fire roared like an angry monster deprived of a helpless victim.

Free from the fire's wrath, The Shadow had reached the bottom of the steps. There was smoke in the cellar; from the cloudy mass, flames were rising to consume wooden bins and boxes. The blaze, however, had not reached a high intensity.

The stone floors offered pathways. The Shadow groped through sweeping smoke. He knew that the cold air from some pathway was blowing the smoke in his direction.

His head enveloped in his cloak, The Shadow continued through the smoke. Despite his upraised arm, with its folds of cloth, he could sense the thickness of the oily cloud about him. Suddenly, the atmosphere cleared. The Shadow had passed through the smoke. He was near the outlet that he knew existed. The Shadow dropped his arm; he stopped his progress instantly.

Off to the side of the cellar was an opening in the wall. It was a passage leading to the house next door. Flames, shooting sparks, showed that the adjoining cellar was ablaze. The outlet offered hazard. But it was not that fact that caused The Shadow's halt.

FRAMED against the glow of the passage were enemies, perhaps the strangest that The Shadow had ever encountered. Grotesque foemen stood to block The Shadow's path.

They were men, attired in bulky garments that looked like diving suits. Above their chunky shoulders were round helmets with glass fronts, through which peered glaring faces. In this distorted scene, they had the appearance of demons.

There were eight men in the group. Each was provided with a hose line that came through from the adjoining cellar. Just as divers are equipped to fare to the ocean's bottom, so were these interlopers protected against flames.

Massive gloves formed a portion of each uniform. With clumsy hands, these brawny invaders were setting down a heavy iron box. It was Breel's safe, that they had lugged from the strong-room on the floor above. The fireproof men had heard The Shadow's approach. They had stopped their departure in order to meet the lone pursuer.

They were human Salamanders, these foemen of the flames. Like mythical creatures who could live in fire, they had no fear of the blaze about them. Drune, the master crook had chosen fire as the cover by which he could accomplish robbery. He had also devised equipment that enabled his henchmen to do their work with safety and precision.

The Salamanders had removed the safe from the Riverport hotel. They were carrying off Breel's strong-box in the same bodily fashion. They were capable, however, of a different duty. They were ready to fight any one who tried to block their work.

Odds were with the Salamanders. They could defy the flames. The Shadow, unprotected against the roaring fire, was confronted by a double menace. The blaze was behind him; the Salamanders stood in front. Moreover, they had weapons, a sort more deadly than guns.

With clumsy hands, the human monsters were drawing pipe-like torches from belts at their waists. Thick-gloved thumbs were fumbling with catches that topped the strange weapons. The Shadow could guess that those pipes were designed to issue withering blasts of flame.

FROM above, a crackle told that minutes of safety were few. The ceiling of the cellar was yielding to the fire. Soon beams would topple, blazing. The Shadow would be entombed in a fiery pit.

Already, the stairs from the ground floor were on fire. The Shadow could see bright tongues amid the smoke as he turned for a quick glance over his shoulder.

Venomously, two Salamanders were advancing; another pair were ready for the march. Creatures of doom, they intended to drive back The Shadow at close range; to force him to a corner where either flame or blowtorches would wither him to death.

In coming from the upstairs trap, The Shadow had found another mesh, more desperate than the one that he had left.

CHAPTER VIII. THE ODDS FAIL

EVEN in this moment of complete desperation, The Shadow chose a course. He took the choice that no other would have accepted, a return to the flames. Close-range battle with the Salamanders would have been suicidal. It was better to dare the fire.

Whirling about, The Shadow plunged into the smoke at the front of the cellar. Beams fell, blazing. Flames licked from the stacks of burning boxes. The smoke, itself, was blinding. Yet The Shadow leaped forward, almost to the toppling stairway.

Escape was impossible up the steps. They were a mass of flames. The Shadow, however, had not intended flight. As he reached the front wall of the cellar, he turned. From his cloak, he whipped a pair of automatics.

Smoke obscured the Salamanders; but they gave signs of their deliberate advance. Long jets of flame roared from their blowtorches, jabbing through the smoke, blindly seeking The Shadow as a target. Those singeing blasts did not reach the wall beside the stairs.

The Shadow had understood the reason for the prompt advance that the Salamanders had made. Their blowtorches could work only at close range, within a radius of about twelve feet. The Shadow, through his quick dart, had placed a full twenty feet between himself and the icemen. Through that strategy, he had gained short seconds in which to use weapons of his own.

The Shadow jabbed shots with his automatics, firing toward the fiery jets that sought him as a target. Somehow, his bullets seemed futile. The smoke - the weaving firelight - all distorted The Shadow's vision. Dropping beams made him shift as he fired.

Moreover, only two of The Salamanders had led the advance. Despite their fireproof suits, they did not care to come beneath a mass of falling timbers. Two thrusts of withering fire jets were advancing in the face of The Shadow's shots. A few seconds more, those blasts would sweep The Shadow's wall.

Suddenly, one fire jet stopped. The Shadow had scored a hit. One Salamander clipped, he aimed grimly for the other, pumping bullets through the smoke. The jet ceased; then began again. The second Salamander was retreating.

THE SHADOW ceased his fire. He waited amid terrific heat, close against the wall, one cloaked arm raised to protect his stinging eyes. He realized why his shots had not been accurate. Blinding smoke had handicapped his vision.

Nevertheless, The Shadow had gained hope.

One Salamander down, the other had wavered. When The Shadow had ceased firing, the surviving Salamander had been ready to believe that his torch had found the victim or that The Shadow had succumbed to the flames. That Salamander was returning to the others, to tell them that there was no need to stay.

Huddled in the smoke, The Shadow lingered, undetermined how soon he should proceed in the direction of the Salamanders. His decision was forced by the blaze about him. A roar sounded in the cellar; the entire stairway gave. A huge sheet of fire, the entire mass tumbled sidelong toward The Shadow. With it, beams thundered downward. The whole front ceiling was in collapse.

The Shadow took the only possible course. He hurried through the smoke, toward the rear of the cellar, seeking the Salamanders in preference to the hot flames. Spark-shooting woodwork crashed about him.

One burning beam glanced from his shoulder. Half staggering, The Shadow stumbled clear of the smoke and sprawled upon the stone floor. Rolling over, he looked for the Salamanders.

They were through the opening to the next cellar. Five were lugging Breel's safe; two were hauling away the prone Salamander whom The Shadow had dropped with a bullet.

This pair saw The Shadow as he sprawled. They reached for their blowtorches. They were too late. The Shadow had an automatic in his fist.

Dropping their comrade, the two Salamanders leaped beyond the five who carried the safe, showing speed despite their clumsy garb. The Shadow fired twice; again, his smarting eyes handicapped him. The Salamanders had shifted, to present a broad side of the safe toward The Shadow. The bullets from The Shadow's .45 were flattened as they clanged the steel surface.

Two cartridges were all that remained in that gun. The Shadow whipped up his second automatic. He did not use it. As he aimed, a huge beam fell between him and the Salamanders. Blazing sparks formed a curtain; smoke poured downward and completely blocked the scene.

The seven Salamanders were gone. The Shadow was caught in a seething oven. Even the stone floor was scorching. Flames from the adjoining cellar told that the Salamanders had departed through another pit of roaring heat.

RISING, The Shadow followed. He stopped short at the opening in the wall. The Salamanders had gone from sight. The next cellar was an inferno. Prompt death faced The Shadow. For a moment, he stood motionless, ready to accept his doom.

A peculiar hissing hissed steadily at The Shadow's feet. Blinking as he peered downward, The Shadow saw the Salamander whom he had shot with a chance bullet. The man's body was half beneath a burning beam. No longer bulky, the grotesque figure looked pitiful.

Grasping the clothy shoulders, The Shadow dragged the Salamander to one clear spot beside the wall. The rogue was dead; the reason for his deflated uniform was explained. It involved that steady hiss.

The Salamander's suit was of asbestos cloth, much oversized. It was rubber-lined; the air hose, also of asbestos, kept it inflated under ordinary conditions. The Shadow's bullet had punctured asbestos and rubber; the suit had emptied like a broken toy balloon.

Nevertheless, air was still issuing through from the hose. It was cool air, that sizzled from the bullet hole. Off in another house, the Salamanders had a portable air-cooling plant, that provided them with air, not only fresh, but constantly cool. They were protected against heat as well as suffocation.

The helmet was a metal framework, covered with asbestos cloth. It had not lost its bulk. Fumbling at the neck of the helmet, The Shadow found a tiny lever. He pressed it the helmet came open. The Shadow saw a sweat-streaked face that glared, even in death.

Tugging the helmet free, The Shadow pulled at the Salamander's uniform and stripped it from the dead man's body. The fire was encroaching upon this last spot of refuge. The heat was stifling; it was with difficulty that The Shadow managed to don the uniform and fix the helmet in place.

His hands were in clumsy gloves. The Shadow found trouble in clasping the spot by the bullet hole. At last he gripped it and twisted asbestos and rubber into one tight mass, which he held firmly with both hands. The fire suit inflated. The air from the hose brought a terrific chill.

Keeping a firm hold on the punctured portion of the suit, The Shadow followed the route of the Salamanders. His eyes could see clearly through the glass. He entered the next cellar and picked his way through a tumbled mass of ceiling that threw up sparks as his asbestos boots encountered it.

The Shadow reached another cellar by following the line of the hose. In this house, the ceiling was still solid; but the cellar itself was filled with oily, burning rubbish.

All seemed secure until The Shadow saw a motion of the hose ahead of him. It was moving forward, rapidly. Doubled coils came snakily from behind The Shadow and passed him with speed.

The Salamanders had reached their base - a cellar free of fire. They were hauling in the loose hose to drag the body of the dead Salamander to them.

THE hose tightened suddenly. As The Shadow groped to another fume-filled cellar, he could feel the steady pull. Suddenly, it stopped. Off ahead, the Salamanders had begun to wonder. The Shadow knew the questions that perplexed them.

Why had the hose pulled so easily, then suddenly offered resistance?

The Salamanders must have guessed the answer. Until this moment, The Shadow had been conscious of a hiss behind his ears, the working of a safety valve that prevented over-pressure from the air that was continuously pumping through. That hiss ceased. The suit dropped loosely from The Shadow's shoulders. The air supply had ended. The Salamanders had kept up pressure in hope that their comrade was still alive. They had known, though, that he could not march through to follow them. That was why they had tugged the hose. The Salamanders at last knew the truth.

The Shadow could not go on to meet them. Entrenched, the Salamanders would be ready with scorching flame, once they had blocked the path. Without the air supply, the asbestos suit would smother its wearer. The Shadow's one chance was to try escape from this house, two doors away from Breel's.

Divesting himself of the Salamander's suit, The Shadow again groped through the smoke. He was looking for a stairway, like the one at Breel's. He found it and gained an unlocked door at the top. His path was lighted by a mass of flames.

Drune's torches had seen to it that there would be fire here. They had made a long route of fire to cover the movements of the Salamanders.

The blaze, though furious, formed a shell about the inner walls. The woodwork had been oiled. The stairs to the second floor were greasy; but the flames had not commenced to lick them. No longer encased in a Salamander's outfit, The Shadow climbed the stairs in agile fashion.

His speedy action was necessary. As he reached the top of the stairs, flames licked the bottom. With a roar, the fire came ripping upward, dashing devastating tongues along The Shadow's trail.

Smoke was everywhere; but The Shadow found a doorway. He pressed into a rear room of the house and saw an outlined window. With sweeping arm and shoulder, The Shadow smashed the glass. Coughing, he crawled through to an outside sill, lowered himself to full length and dropped to a courtyard beneath.

The entire block was burning. Fire engines were parked by a rear-street hydrant when The Shadow reached it. Pausing in one sheltered spot that the ruddy glow of flames did not reach, The Shadow looked along the street. He saw a truck pull from an alleyway where there was no blaze.

The Salamanders had gone. There was no chance to overtake them. Creatures of fire had escaped with their spoils.

AN old roadster came along the street. It stopped abruptly near where The Shadow stood. Firemen shouted angrily at the occupants, who growled in return. The firemen maintained that the roadster had no business coming through this thoroughfare; the men in the car argued that they had no other route. The roadster was ordered to turn about, to avoid running over a fire hose.

As the car backed up on the sidewalk, almost at the spot where The Shadow stood, The Shadow sprang forward to the rear bumper. The car had no rumble seat. Its rear section was a large luggage compartment, with a knob at the bottom.

The Shadow opened the luggage compartment, while the driver still argued with a fireman. Twisting forward, The Shadow wriggled into the ample space. He let the container close above him but stopped it before the catch could lock.

The roadster jolted from the curb. The Shadow lay motionless within, puffing the air that came from a crack at the bottom of his hiding place. Even this poor source of air seemed tinged with ozone. It was reviving compared to the smoke-filled atmosphere which The Shadow had just escaped.

The car rode a few dozen blocks, then jounced upward on a ramp and rolled to a standstill. Growling men were climbing from the front seat. The Shadow could hear their muffled voices; but he made no move.

He had weakened from his ordeal. His only course was to rest. When the men had gone, however, The Shadow wedged the top of the container higher, so that he could gain more air.

This scarcely improved The Shadow's condition. He was in an atmosphere tinged with the odor of gasoline. Bare walls, dimly lighted, proved that the two men had left their car in a large public garage. Nevertheless, as he waited, The Shadow experienced a slow return of strength.

AFTER fifteen minutes, The Shadow resolved upon departure. He crawled from the roadster, steadied himself upon the stone floor. He carefully noted the license number of the car; that done, he picked his way through clustered automobiles and found a side door to a darkened alley. Stopping outdoors, The Shadow took deep breaths that gradually eased the burning of his smoke-racked lungs.

At last, a whispered laugh sounded in the darkness beside the silent garage. The Shadow's tone carried a note of triumph. The Shadow had done more than escape Drune's trap and the power of the Salamanders. He had found a trail for the morrow.

One reason only, could have brought that roadster along the street where fire engines were at work. The two men in the car were henchmen of the master crook. Like others, they had been ordered to cover the departure of the truck that carried the Salamanders and the spoils.

The Shadow had ridden with minions of crime. He had marked their car; he would remember this garage. When crooks came here again to get their roadster, The Shadow would be prepared to follow on their trail.

CHAPTER IX. THE THIRD CAMPAIGN

REPORTS Of the fire dominated the next day's headlines. Throughout New York City, eager readers devoured newspapers as hungrily as the flames had consumed the fuel of the night before. The blaze at Lincoln Breel's had been one of the most startling in the history of Manhattan, excepting, perhaps, the burning of the Capitol Hotel.

Only the heroic efforts of competent fire fighters