Maxwell Grant.........................................................................................................................................1

CHAPTER I. CRIME POINTS THE FINGER.......................................................................................1

CHAPTER II. THE FRAME THAT FAILED........................................................................................6

CHAPTER III. RIDE OF DOOM ..........................................................................................................10

CHAPTER IV. THE WAY OF RIGHT................................................................................................13

CHAPTER V. CROOKED JUNCTION ................................................................................................16

CHAPTER VI. A MAN'S BEST FRIEND ............................................................................................20

CHAPTER VII. THE VICTIM VANISHES .........................................................................................25

CHAPTER VIII. CHET FINDS A JOB................................................................................................29

CHAPTER IX. THE BLACK TRAIL ...................................................................................................33

CHAPTER X. CRIME'S FORCED HAND..........................................................................................37

CHAPTER XI. BLAZE OF DOOM ......................................................................................................41

CHAPTER XII. TRAILS TO NOWHERE...........................................................................................45

CHAPTER XIII. THE ROCKY SNARE ...............................................................................................50

CHAPTER XIV. LINK BRINGS LINE ................................................................................................54

CHAPTER XV. TWO CLUES TO CRIME ..........................................................................................58

CHAPTER XVI. A DEAL IN MAGNESIUM ......................................................................................62

CHAPTER XVII. THE SECRET BUSINESS......................................................................................66

CHAPTER XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT .....................................................................................70

CHAPTER XIX. CRASH OF DOOM..................................................................................................73

AGAINST the gathering dusk, the lights of the Pyrolac Co. formed a solid array that spoke of overtime.

Every window in the outspread buildings was aglow, proving that this plant was doing its utmost to crack

Around the plant, a wall surmounted with barbed wire was patrolled by armed guards, whose presence

marked Pyrolac as a vital industry. The wall was broken only by a huge steel gate, at present open but well

guarded. Through the gate ran a siding from the railroad that passed the humming factory.

A switching engine was backing through the gate to pick up a short string of box cars, to take them for a mile

haul down to the yards, where a freight would pick them up for a run across New Jersey to a junction with a

By tomorrow, Pyrolac would be racing on its way to serve as airplane dope and play its part in paint jobs at

the shipyards. Another batch of freight cars would be loading for another night trip to supply the hungry

As a quickdrying, weatherproof lacquer, nothing could equal Pyrolac. It was costly, but worth the price.

From his office near an inner corner of the yard, Chet watched the switcher coast in through the gate and felt

a surge of satisfaction. They'd said that Pyrolac wouldn't deliver its full quota for another three months, but

Chet had done his part in showing it could be done. For weeks, the stuff had been going out in carloads, to a

total value that would soon be represented by figures as high as the numbers on the cars themselves.

Though Chet Conroy was young, he held an important job. More important than his plain office indicated.

Chet handled the inspection department. Outside his office was the room where the belt line ended. There the

gallon cans of Pyrolac were stacked, stamped, and turned over to the loaders. At present, the room was

empty, but soon the belts would teem. Which meant that it was time for Chet to be starting through the plant

It was good business, though, to watch the loaders. Their work took up where Chet's left off, and things might

happen, even to certified goods. That was why Chet's eyes kept following the shifting engine until it reached

The blot looked huge, vaguely human, as it detached itself from the front of the shifter. Oddly, it seemed as

though a chunk of the locomotive had broken loose to come to life. Crouched in the engine's own gloom,

such living blackness could have passed the guards unnoticed, riding right into the yard of the Pyrolac

The blotch of blackness was gone, so suddenly that it could not possibly be a thing alive. Just the jolt of the

shifter, cutting off the lights of the building opposite, that was all. That, plus Chet's eyes, which had been

bothering him lately, from overstrain at test tubes, studying the reaction of Pyrolac samples. No wonder he

Rubbing his eyes, Chet took another look from the window, this time at the loading platform. The loaders

were sliding one car door shut, so that it could be double locked and sealed. Chet looked for a familiar face,

but didn't see it. He wondered what had become of the swarthy man with the dark mustache, who usually

Chet hadn't yet become acquainted with the chief loader. His own associates were the chemists who so

zealously handled every stage in the manufacture of Pyrolac. Chet was something of a chemist too, otherwise

The telephone on Chet's desk seemed to agree as it tingled furiously. And when Chet answered the call, the

voice he heard corroborated his opinion. Chet found himself talking to none other than Hiram Biggs, the

president of Pyrolac. And Biggy, as he was nicknamed, wanted the inspecting chemist to come to his office

ADMITTED to the president's office, Chet found Biggs surrounded by half a dozen visitors, all as serious of

manner as the head of Pyrolac. With a wave, Biggs introduced them, and Chet heard names he recognized.

It was Humphrey Thorneau, and the man fulfilled all specifications. Thorneau's name, like his industries, was

widely known. He was a man whose slogan was one word: results. And every factory that Thorneau

Under Thorneau management, aircraft factories sped their output. So did the plants that handled instruments,

or products needed in anything from shipping to munitions. Thorneau was the man who opened bottlenecks

wide. Having helped on such a task in the Pyrolac factory, Chet was more than pleased to meet the man who

The mere name Thorneau told Chet why this individual dominated the group of customers. They had

automatically chosen Thorneau as their spokesman. Meeting Thorneau face to face, Chet was impressed by a

blunt visage with keen, though deepset eyes; lips that carried a friendly, understanding smile, yet delivered a

heavytoned greeting. In Thorneau's handclasp, Chet could feel a grip that stood for power, even though its

Perhaps the satisfaction of meeting Thorneau caused Chet to overlook the gloom that clouded this

assemblage. It was Biggs who bluntly supplied the news that these customers, Thorneau included, had not

"Those recent shipments, Conroy," spoke Biggs, abruptly. "Our customers say there is something wrong with

"See for yourself." Biggs proffered an open can of Pyrolac that he brought from beside his desk. "You won't

Chet took a look at the gummy liquid. He poured some into a glass that Biggs supplied. The stuff was muddy.

"It was Pyrolac," announced a voice near Chet's shoulder. "At least it was branded as such when it left your

Turning, Chet faced the swarthy man with the dark mustache who had been absent from the loading platform.

"If you mean I certified faulty lacquer," declared Chet, coldly, "I'd suggest that you reconsider the statement.

Nothing leaves my department unless it tests one hundred percent. But my job is finished when the shipments

That was tossing it right back at the swarthy man. Chet didn't bother about noting how Biggs reacted. Instead,

he glanced toward Thorneau and saw that the bluntfaced man still retained his firm smile. Evidently

Thorneau approved Chet's way of meeting an issue squarely. The fact made Chet like Thorneau all the more.

Unfortunately, Biggs wasn't so impressed. It happened that Biggs was the one man qualified to settle the

present issue. Looking straight at Chet, Biggs waved his hand toward the swarthy man, and announced:

"Perhaps I should have introduced you, Conroy. This gentleman is Mr. Marquette. He and the more important

members of the loading crew are operatives from the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Chet found himself in a mental whirl. With F.B.I. men on the loading job, nothing could have happened to

the Pyrolac during the loading operation. Therefore the responsibility lay somewhere in the plant.

STEP by step, Chet could recall every portion of the tested process, doublechecked to the sealing of the

cans. He'd have sworn that there couldn't be a faulty gallon of Pyrolac in all the loads shipped. Chet shook his

Lifting the can of Pyrolac, the F.B.I. man held its tilted lid to the light. Through the metal, Chet could see a

"They've been spiked," affirmed Marquette. "Needled is another term for it. Needled lacquer, that's what. It

reminds me of the way they doctored booze in the prohibition days. Only this time it isn't done to make the

"This needle job was meant to ruin these Pyrolac shipments, and it did. Whatever stuff was injected, it turned

the lacquer into a lot of gummy goo. Those holes were jabbed right through the can lids, then plugged with

Chet met Marquette's impeachment with a distant stare. His voice, though, was emphatic:

"Because," began Chet, "I check all those containers personally when they ride past on the belt."

"They go into the shipping room, where they're waxed and stacked, ready for removal to the loading platform

Chet halted suddenly. He'd stated the very fact that Marquette wanted; namely that the inspection preceded

the simple waxing process that solidly affixed the labels and inspection stamps, along with making the

Pyrolac cans rustproof, should they encounter moisture during shipment. In simpler terms, Chet had marked

himself as the logical man behind the sabotage occurring in the Pyrolac factory!

Logic appealed to Chet Conroy. He decided that he could use it in his own behalf.

"Those shipments travel in freight cars," reminded Chet. "It would be easy for people to get at the containers

during transit. Plenty of time to jab them with the neutralizer, apply another coat of wax "

"Hold it, Conroy," interjected Marquette. "We bolt the doors of those box cars and seal them. Our operatives

ride the caboose of the main line freight and check the cars when they're picked up at the junction. We use

Looking at the faces around him, Chet saw silent accusation. The pudgy face of Biggs was typical of the lot.

The others seemed to be matching the expression shown by the president of Pyrolac, with one exception. In

Humphrey Thorneau wasn't committing himself for or against Chet Conroy. Rather, Thorneau was taking

keen interest in the verbal duel between Chet and Marquette. Thorneau reminded Chet of a judge on a bench,

the way his deepset eyes took in the scene. Right now, he was looking at Chet, as though expecting him to

There wasn't any smile on Thorneau's lips, but his expression was at least impartial, if not sympathetic. So

"I'd like to analyze this stuff," declared Chet, gesturing to the muggy glassload that had once passed as

"You've already told us." Marquette's voice carried the trace of a sneer. "You spoke of some neutralizer."

"That was your idea," reminded Chet. "You said the stuff was needled, so I took your word for it. But that

Again, Chet had scored. Even Marquette looked interested. But Chet was more concerned with winning

Thorneau's approval, for he calculated that this big man could prove a real friend.

"Pyrolac goes through several processes," reminded Chet. "Anywhere along the line, the introduction of

adulterated chemicals could ruin the formula. It's my job to inspect from start to finish, but I have to allow for

Hiram Biggs started to say something, but Marquette waved for silence. Bluntly the Fed asked:

"They might be a blind," returned Chet, promptly. "Maybe the caps are punched and waxed before this

Again Biggs opened his mouth but shut it promptly when Marquette picked up the glass of muggy fluid.

However, Marquette wasn't going to suggest that Biggs taste some of the faulty Pyrolac. Instead, the Fed

Triumphantly, Chet bowed himself from the office, smiling at the dumb stares of Biggs and the Pyrolac

customers. For again, Chet saw a face that was an exception. In the gaze of Humphrey Thorneau, Chet saw

Crime had pointed its finger at Chet Conroy, and he was ready to nullify that accusation, confident that his

proof of innocence would be accepted by the man whose opinion counted most: Humphrey Thorneau. But

Chet's confidence would not be enough to overcome the mass of evidence which would soon pile up against

WHEN Chet Conroy reached his little office, he placed the glass of muddy liquid on his battered desk.

Stepping outside the door, he examined some gallon cans of Pyrolac that were coming through on the belt.

There wasn't a thing wrong with the lids that Chet could see. Still, the needle holes, if present, wouldn't show

Soon the shipping crew would be back. But Chet doubted that any of them could spike the containers during

the waxing job. There were so many that they'd keep tally on each other and Chet knew the whole crowd

personally. Honest fellows, who couldn't possibly be harboring more than one crook among their number, if

Back in the office, Chet looked from the window. The yard was dark, except around the loading platform.

There, Marquette's men were flashing lights in one box car while others were bolting the door of another,

applying the heavy seals that the Fed had mentioned. Chet had never watched that operation before. His own

Opening the desk drawer, Chet found a slip of paper that he wanted and smiled, despite his worry. The slip

carried the combination to the safe in the corner of the office. It was an old safe for which Chet had no

particular use, since he kept nothing of great value in the office. In fact, Chet hadn't opened the safe for

He wouldn't be opening it now, except for the fact that the safe contained some laboratory equipment, Bunsen

burner, test tubes and other common items. Being one of the few men who knew what went into Pyrolac from

start to finish, Chet wouldn't need more than simple apparatus to probe the muddy emulsion in the glass on

As he squatted in front of the safe, Chet took another glance from the window. Again, his eyes bothered him.

Blackness, like a sheaf of life, flitted away from the door of a box car as two men approached it. Odd, that

illusion, as though some blackgarbed ghost had been making an inspection of its own, to certify the job that

So quickly did the shape merge with shrouding darkness that Chet immediately forgot it. He wasn't even

bothered because the imaginary figure had seemingly glided toward the door that led from shipping room to

loading platform. Chet simply rubbed his eyes, looked at the combination slip, and turned the dial of the safe.

When it came to friends or enemies, Chet wouldn't worry about ghosts or optical illusions. He'd depend on

Thorneau to see that he had a fair hearing, when he argued this question with Marquette. To prepare for the

renewal of hostilities in the president's office, it was Chet's present task to find out all he could about the

Once Chet tested that stuff, Marquette could do the same with the remainder, the contents of the gallon can

that Biggs had on his desk. Whatever Chet's analysis, they'd find out it was right. Such was Chet's thought

IN the safe, crowding Chet's few belongings, was a squatly, solid implement that Chet had never seen before.

It looked like one of the capping machines used in the Pyrolac factory, except that those were huge, whereas

Moreover, this device wasn't used for capping containers. If it had a name, it could be properly termed a

The thing had an arched base, with clamps that could affix it to the belt line. There was a metal regulator

forming a semicircle shaped to the circumference of a gallon can. The device was just the right height, too,

Down from the thick flat top came an array of needle points, the spikers. Up went the regulator,

automatically. When Chet raised the lever, needles and regulator reversed their direction. It was all so simple

With this device planted on the belt, one man could use the lever as fast as the gallon cans came through. The

regulator would stop each can, the needles would spike it, and the container would be on the way without a

stop, for Chet saw that the regulator worked on an eccentric that would swing it forward with every catch it

Of course it was Chet's job to slap approval stamps on the containers. He usually began that after they

accumulated, and then worked back along the belt. But Marquette wouldn't accept such an alibi. He'd say that

Maybe the machine was rigged to feed the stamps, too. In that case, Chet would be framed all the more

That thought was buzzing amid Chet's flood of new impressions, all stimulated by sight of this strange

machine. Then Chet saw something that made him forget the minor angles. The thing was a glass cylinder

made to fit the screw top of the machine. This was the jar to hold the neutralizer that the needles jabbed into

Obviously, the needles would have to be hollow, like those on a hypodermic syringe. To check that fact, Chet

lifted the portable machine and swung it toward his desk. There, he stopped, his bewilderment passing one

In the doorway stood Marquette, with a leveled automatic. Behind the Fed, Chet saw the faces of Biggs and

the Pyrolac consumers. Like Marquette, they looked convinced by the evidence before them.

"You fell for it, Conroy," gruffed Marquette. "We didn't tell you that we'd checked every department except

yours. Letting you come back here was just part of the system. I knew you'd try to get rid of any evidence you

The witnesses were crowding into the little office, and with them Chet saw Humphrey Thorneau. No longer

was Thorneau's face friendly, though it lacked the glare that others displayed. Rather it registered

disappointment, as though Thorneau considered this a sad sequel to Chet's earlier show of initiative.

Being caught with the goods was bad enough, in Chet's opinion. The fact that the goods weren't his made it

worse. Chet could stand the accusations, because he expected them, but disdain from a man like Thorneau

was too much. They could brand Chet as a crook, but he wouldn't let himself be classed a fool.

Marquette's gesture ordered Chet to place the needler on the desk. As Chet complied, the Fed relieved him of

the glass container used for the neutralizing fluid. Sniffing the jar without result, Marquette nudged his gun

Chet let Marquette see it, at the closest range possible. The Fed took the gummy juice right in the face when

Chet, on sudden impulse, dashed it at him. The office reverberated when Marquette's gun began to blast, and

the shots were echoed by a clatter of glass, the jar that the Fed dropped. As for Chet, he wasn't anywhere near

Marquette's gunfire. Chet was headed the other way, out through the office door.

In that mad moment, Chet thought that his path was blocked. The door was filled with blackness so solid that

Chet couldn't see past it. Oddly, the black blockade evaporated as Chet arrived; indeed, it seemed

momentarily transformed into a lifesized shape that whipped away, like a figure in a cloak. Chet hadn't any

HAVING started this bolt for freedom, Chet intended to see it through. He jabbed an elbow into Biggs, when

the Pyrolac executive made a grab at him. Next in line was Thorneau, bulkier and more formidable, but Chet

bowled him aside with a straightarm shove. Out through the shipping room, Chet didn't stop to look for the

cloaked figure that had receded there. Instead, he sped straight toward the exit to the loading platform.

There were shouts from the office, a scurry of pursuing feet, Marquette's voice yelling for others to get out of

the way. Clearing the belt line, Chet turned and grabbed at cans of passing Pyrolac, to bowl them back at his

Not only did they stop the surge from the office; one container clipped Marquette, who was mopping his face

with a handkerchief, while aiming with his other hand. The Fed took a spill like a tenpin, his automatic

The only man that Chet didn't see was Biggs. The reason was explained a moment later, when a great

clanging broke through the factory. Biggs had yanked the emergency alarm which was connected with every

That situation roused Chet's wits the more. Looking back, as he reached the exit, he saw that he was clear of

all pursuers, unless he counted a streak of sweeping blackness that couldn't be real, although it did appear

grotesquely human. This was no time to debate the subject of ghosts, or consider getting a pair of glasses.

Straight ahead was a figure real enough, one of the regular factory watchmen who recognized Chet and was

amazed by his rapid flight. The watchman held a gun, but he wasn't aiming it. Instead, he was expecting Chet

to explain what was happening in the shipping department. So Chet did, in his own terms.

Perhaps the watchman caught a glimpse of the same blackness that Chet saw, but it was too evasive to be a

target. However, Chet took advantage of the watchman's hesitation to grab the gun the fellow held. Jabbing a

couple of shots in air, Chet sprang after the imaginary fugitive, to give the idea that someone other than

By then, Marquette was at the exit from the shipping room, bawling to the men on the loading platform.

There were Feds among that crew and they caught the idea promptly. Pulling their own guns, they swung to

Clanging alarms had given way to wailing sirens, sounding a general man hunt. In turn, the sirens produced a

flood of searchlights from the walls of the factory yard. Watchmen were springing from various directions,

There, men were ready to clang the gate shut, waiting only for the shifting engine to haul the loaded box cars

through. For the engineer of the shunter, knowing that the gate would seal all egress for a while to come, was

giving his boiler full steam for the portal. In the midst of all this, Chet Conroy was no longer hunted; he was

Chet had ducked for the darkness beside the freight cars, only to be spotted by the glare. And now the cars

were being hauled away from him, leaving him helpless in the very center of the yard. Madly, Chet sprang

across the track as the last car clacked past him; observing darkness on the other side, he made a quick dart in

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

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

Of the many who did see the blackclad arrival, only one man realized who the being was. Vic Marquette,

Weird battler who waged allout 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

Shouting for his men to ignore the blackclad 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

Until Vic Marquette, his throat gone hoarse, stopped yelling long enough to hear a strange tone that rose as a

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

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

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

As long as return shots were hasty, they couldn't find The Shadow, the way he weaved to all portions of the

thoroughly illuminated yard. From wall to wall, he seemed to ricochet like the leaden slugs that were missing

him. Watching Feds and watchmen go wide with their fire, Marquette saw and appreciated the chief item of

It was this: Whenever a gun talked toward The Shadow, he spotted it instantly, or sooner. Whether by sight,

hearing, or sheer instinct, the cloaked fighter was a human direction finder. It was weird enough, the way The

Shadow wheeled and picked out marksmen the moment they fired, purposely missing them by scant inches in

But when Marquette saw The Shadow's jabs literally point the way to aiming sharpshooters before they fired,

Vic was ready to believe the most fanciful things that he had ever heard regarding this cloaked superfighter.

Those shots were most effective, since they put The Shadow's foemen entirely off stride. Watching the

scattered gunners scoot, Marquette kept thinking what it would be like if they were crooks. Had The Shadow

How it would end was Marquette's worry. It really was Vic's worry when it did end. Spinning suddenly from

a corner of the yard, The Shadow left a batch of converging searchlight beams behind him. Sweeping after

The Shadow, those big lights picked the exit from the shipping room where Marquette was standing with a

They saw blackness when they blinked, for it was right among them. A swirl of living blackness that

scattered the men who grabbed for it. If any of that group held the false impression that Chet Conroy had

somehow became the cloaked figure, they were immediately disillusioned. The Shadow went through them

Smart technique, The Shadow's. Men were grappling, shouting so loudly above the dwindling sirens, that

Marquette piled into their midst, thinking they'd clutched The Shadow, and were suppressing him too

forcefully. But there wasn't a trace of slippery blackness in the entire throng. The Shadow had simply spun

these antagonists against each other, leaving them at mutual grips while he himself had gone.

Naturally, the shooting was over. Some of the Feds and watchmen had emptied their guns; the rest couldn't

aim into the human tangle at the shipping room door. Arriving there on the run, astonished marksmen not

only found The Shadow gone, but were nonplused by Marquette's order to give up the chase.

It took Vic a few minutes to explain that they still wanted Chet Conroy; not The Shadow. Sending them on

the proper hunt, Marquette emphasized that The Shadow represented justice, not crime. Rather a paradox that

statement, considering that Chet, wanted for crime, had escaped because of The Shadow's interference.

For when the searchers scoured the yard, the searchlights going with them, they couldn't find a trace of the

young chemist whose flight had practically branded him as the man responsible for ruining at least a hundred

thousand dollars' worth of special lacquer desperately needed by essential industries.

That paradox should have explained itself to Vic Marquette when he heard a trailing laugh from some

window of the Pyrolac factory. To Vic, that departing mirth was a token only of The Shadow's escape, not to

Had Marquette thought further, he might have realized that The Shadow's heroic efforts were all on Chet's

account; that justice could better be served by letting an innocent man remain at large, rather than having him

SINCE such fine points slipped past Vic Marquette, it wasn't surprising that Chet Conroy failed to consider

them at all. For Chet hadn't seen even the beginning of The Shadow's amazing circuit of the factory yard. At

Chet was a mile away from the Pyrolac factory, perched between two of the box cars that the switcher had

hauled through the closing gate. He'd simply done the obvious thing. Needing those cars as shelter, he'd

grabbed a handrail when he saw that the short train was gathering speed enough to pass him. Clutching the

grab iron, he'd hauled himself between the cars, hoping he wouldn't be seen when the train went through the

Clattering cars had drowned the gunfire in the yard. Chet didn't know that the guards near the gate had dashed

inward to start shooting at someone else. At present, Chet considered himself quite safe where he was. The

switcher was late from the factory, hence its cars were being kicked onto the waiting freight without further

waste of time. Not being informed of the excitement back at the Pyrolac plant, none of the brakemen

Chet kept crouched when the freight rattled from the yard. The train was a fairly long one, but except for the

box cars from the Pyrolac plant, it was made up mostly of empties. Keeping low, Chet wasn't noticed by the

This train was going in the wrong direction. The crew had "horsed her over," reversing the whole train in the

yard, so it was going back past the Pyrolac factory. With the lighted buildings heaving in sight, Chet was

ready to hit the dirt on the other side of the track if a roving searchlight decided to pick up the passing freight

But the searchlights were still busy inside the plant. The clatter of the train's increasing speed was music to

Chet as he went by. He was glad when the train reached blackness past the corner of the final building, even

though it meant farewell to the place where he had worked so long and liked so well.

Thick blackness this. Too deep to remind Chet of the fleeting blotch that had looked so singularly human. So

far, Chet hadn't begun to think in actual terms of his rescuer, The Shadow. If he had, he might have realized

that this passing freight could prove useful to The Shadow, too; that the fringe of darkness just beyond the

Pyrolac buildings was the place where a cloaked passenger would logically swing on board the full train,

THERE were other things for Chet to think about. First, that sabotage job back in the plant. Knowing that he

hadn't manipulated the needler that was in his safe, Chet recognized that the machine must be a blind; hence

his mind reverted to the idea that the Pyrolac had been doctored during processing.

Chet hadn't forgotten Marquette's taunts which included the statement that the Feds had checked the other

departments. That being the case, every shipment of lacquer must have been the pure stuff when it left the

plant. Marquette's arguments to the contrary, things must have happened while the goods were in transit.

The game itself was certainly over. An outside crew would not need to cover up, as inside crooks would.

Those two factors didn't jibe. The riddle kept clattering through Chet's brain until at last an answer struck

This was something more than sabotage. It was wholesale robbery on a lavish scale. Crooks were highjacking

Pyrolac, replacing it with messy stuff worth only a fraction of the valuable lacquer!

Chet knew two things that added up to such an answer. He knew what went into Pyrolac and he knew that he

hadn't needled the finished product. The lacquer could be adulterated easily enough, but it would be even

Crooks wouldn't even have to learn the secret formula. All they'd have to do would be to make a cheap

imitation as many companies had tried. Stuff that looked and smelled like the expensive lacquer would pass

as an adulteration of the genuine article, well enough to fool the average investigator.

But it wouldn't have fooled Chet, if he'd gained his chance to test it. That was why the needler had been

planted in Chet's safe, an easy thing, considering the way he'd let the combination lie around. Being the key

man who could guess the fraud, Chet was the person upon whom suspicion necessarily had to be placed!

Chet was riding to his own vindication. This freight train that he'd grabbed by chance was more than a means

of escape. Crooks, whoever they were, would have to seize the present load of lacquer in order to back the

false blame that they'd placed on Chet. In return for that phony evidence against himself, Chet could gain real

It wouldn't do to stay between these laden box cars that would somehow be crime's target. What Chet wanted

was the security of an empty up ahead, where he could get inside and keep watch on whatever happened. So

Chet decided to "go high" and follow the running boards along the car tops to reach the vantage spot he

Squirreling the ladder, Chet followed the catwalk and clambered across to the car ahead. Continuing past the

Pyrolac consignments, he reached an empty, only to find it was a refrigerator car with its swinging door

clamped tightly shut. So he kept on to a box car, clearing the gap between without bothering to look below.

Halfway along the box car, Chet paused to survey chances for a swing down into the open door. A ticklish

proposition, though it might be maneuvered if a sharp curve gave the speeding train a helpful list. With that

Over the front edge of the box car came a head, its face obscured by the visor of a cap. But the headpiece

didn't hide the glittering revolver that pointed straight for Chet. In guessing that crooks were on the job, Chet

Frozen on the toe path, Chet was a perfect target. He could almost see the squeeze of the trigger finger that

was about to pronounce his doom. Above the clatter of the train came the horror that Chet expected, the sharp

Odd how the revolver recoiled, the gunner with it! The thing happened so suddenly that the marksman was

gone before Chet realized that the gun hadn't spurted flame. Then came the startling recognition that the

Again, a mysterious rescuer had acted in Chet's behalf. Before Chet could turn to view the friend in question,

that personage identified himself. From behind Chet came the same laugh that Marquette had heard from a

FROM the speed with which The Shadow had clipped one murderous gunner, it seemed that crime's thrust

was through. Whether the crook at the head end of the car had recognized Chet, or simply classed him as an

The main thing was the way in which The Shadow had disposed of the killer. Clipped by a timely shot, the

crook was down between the box cars, lucky if he still could manage to clutch a grab iron. While Chet,

looking back, was more mystified than ever, since all he could see was blackness.

Quite ready to accept the incredible, Chet felt a surge of confidence. Things were certainly rallying to his

benefit, when an invisible marksman popped off enemies in such timely style. But it was too early to indulge

in congratulations. As at the Pyrolac plant, one thing was simply leading to another.

Again a head poked up from the car front, the hand with it jabbing a gunshot as it came. That stab was echoed

by another from the rear of the car and Chet could hear two bullets whine past him. A new duel was under

A jar of the train lurched Chet forward. Turning his sprawl into a lunge, Chet reeled for the front of the car

and grabbed at the head and arm as they came up again. This wasn't the first crook; that fellow was hanging

from the handrail below. Instead, Chet was met by a hard, wiry fighter, who relished this type of

His arm hooked to the ladder, the thug slashed with his other hand, glancing a gun barrel from Chet's

forehead. Groggily, Chet grabbed, and his fate was in a balance as tipsy as his lunge. Right then, the thug

could have finished his swing with a close range shot, but the fellow was still thinking of The Shadow, and

Up came the gun hand to deliver another murderous swing. The crook's head was descending as his hand

poised; he wanted to be below the edge when he cleared Chet from the deck, with a single swipe.

A hand was still in sight to serve The Shadow as a target. Timed to a jerk of the train, the master marksman

fired. He clipped the wrist below the gun hand as it started its descent. The swinging weapon missed Chet's

head, and its owner flopped down between the cars, to jolt the crook who was hanging there.

Two thugs were thudding the cinders along the right of way, when The Shadow arrived to catch Chet as he

started a dizzy tumble from the car top. Up came Chet, half to his feet, his collar clutched by a gloved hand.

He heard a hissed laugh in his ear, a tone of reassurance; then, as though taunting the very man that he had

rescued, The Shadow gave Chet a long forward pitch that carried him through space.

DURING what seemed an everlasting moment, Chet's halfdazed mind jumped to conclusions. He accepted

the obvious; namely, that this blackclad fighter that he couldn't see, must be an enemy like the others.

Maybe Chet was an object of dispute, but both sides seemed against him. Landing all fours on the car ahead,

Chet took a grip. Then, as The Shadow thumped the toe path beside him, Chet came up and around, to punch

Up ahead, another thuggish marksman was firing quick shots which fortunately were wild. But when The

Shadow tried to answer in kind, Chet's interference ruined his aim. Suppressing Chet's blind punches were a

job all its own, calling for another heave that sent Chet forward to the runway.

Again, Chet gripped; this time, The Shadow reached him before he could rise. A knee in Chet's back, The

Shadow aimed for a ducking head up front, then gave a sudden waver, to flatten beside Chet.

That crook had a real edge on The Shadow, what with the foolish interference Chet supplied. Seeing The

Shadow sink, the thug decided to take better aim and make the next shot sure. What he didn't see were the

hanging ropes across the track, announcing the entrance to a tunnel. Nor did he feel those slappers, because

Such was the reason for The Shadow's sudden drop. He'd seen the hanging menace up ahead. He was saving

Chet's life again, and his own with it. As for the tunnel, the thing that really threatened, The Shadow was

Looming confidently from the front of the car, the crook picked the darkness that surrounded Chet and aimed.

He wanted to clip The Shadow for a start, but the tunnel had first say. Like a mammoth bludgeon, an arch of

rock met the back of the crook's head and flattened him. A moment later, Chet was eating smoke, amid a

Chet knew then that The Shadow was a friend. He realized, too, why he had been pitched to the forward car.

This was a steel car, with a metal runway built like a grille; not the type of stripboard toe path that ran atop a

wooden car. Half groggy, Chet couldn't have kept his grip on the car in back, which was why The Shadow

Smoke vanished with the roar as the train shot out from the tunnel. Coughing, choking, Chet needed all the

grip that he could give, as the freight whipped hard around a curve. Cloaking his gun, The Shadow took a

clutch on Chet's arms, to swing him from the runway, and Chet offered no resistance. All he did was glance

ahead, to look for the menacing sharpshooter. But there wasn't anybody up ahead. The tunnel had swept away

Strange how The Shadow seemed to grip Chet's thoughts along with the physical process. He had Chet's own

idea; that of getting placed where he could learn the outcome of this ride. For Chet was swinging from the

high side of the box car as the train still took the curve. Curiously, the sensation was mild, compared with the

things that had gone before. Dangling from the side edge of the car, Chet could feel the space of the open

doorway with his feet, as he looked up to see the face of the friend who gripped him.

But The Shadow's face was out of sight. Only his hands projected from the car edge as he kept a foothold on

the metal toe path. Then The Shadow's hands let go in perfect timing. Already partly in the open doorway,

Chet felt the car swing farther toward him as the freight hit the straightaway. He was rolling on the car floor,

Chet expected The Shadow to join him in that spot of refuge, but there were other things to be finished while

the freight whistled its way along the Jersey branch line. Three fighters didn't constitute the sum total of the

crooks on board this train. Two more were coming in The Shadow's direction, from the spot where the tunnel

LIKE the thick smoke from the tunnel, The Shadow dived forward to meet them, as their guns fired just

above his head. Chet didn't hear the gunshots, but he knew that a scuffle had begun, from the sounds that

The Shadow was showing these crooks the way of right, his system being to strew them along the right of

way. But in meeting a savage pair in a slugging fray, he was taking a risk that equaled theirs. This was a time

when men of crime were willing to take chances. If they could clout The Shadow off the top of the steel box

It was a matter of minutes, in terms of miles, that struggle, with The Shadow locked and reeling with his

enemies. He had an ally, the branch line itself, for he sensed its curves as he had in Chet's case and used them

to advantage. Half a dozen times, the lurch of the train threw The Shadow back to a level he had lost under

Then came the curve The Shadow wanted. He twisted hard at the vital instant and sent his enemies spinning

apart. They came around with guns and The Shadow, whipping a .45 from his cloak, beat the first crook to

the shot. Two guns spoke together, but The Shadow's spurt literally lifted his adversary from the car top and

Barely grazed by the rival bullet that dented the steel beside the toe path, The Shadow gave a spinning roll.

He was just ahead of the other crook's fire, for bullets had begun to ricochet beside him. And then, as The

Shadow came face upward, his gun hand lifted, the fingers of his free fist gripping the metal grille, the clatter

Without an instant's hesitation, The Shadow loosed his hold. His jabbing gun provided the recoil that

slithered him over the car edge, a split second ahead of the return shot that would surely have drilled him had

As he went, The Shadow saw his final foeman stagger and knew that the shot from the .45 had winged home.

Wavering on the car top, the crook shrieked happily when he saw The Shadow go. Then, collapsing suddenly,

the thug went flopping as the clatter of the wheels renewed their former heavy cadence.

Sprawling from the car, the staggered crook hit the rock ballast headlong, the smash completing the job that

The Shadow's bullet had begun. For the change in the song of the car wheels, the renewal of their battering

clang, meant that the train had passed across the bridge that The Shadow recognized from the altered tune.

The Shadow hadn't traveled that far along the right of way. He was showing what could happen to those who

chose the way of right. From far behind the speeding freight and many feet below, came a resounding splash,

Briefly, grim silence hovered over the water's darkened surface. The train, with Chet Conroy still a passenger,

was whistling mournfully for a distant road crossing, when a new sound stirred the stream beneath the bridge.

Weird, like a ghostly answer to the fading whistle, yet with a tone as firm and strident, came the token of the

mighty fighter who had survived battle unscathed, to renew his warfare against crime.

That tone was the laugh of The Shadow, the challenging mirth that evil could not drown!

THEY called it Crooked Junction, where the branch line met the main pike. Chet Conroy had heard the name

Crooked Junction was well named. Here the branch line followed the river bend through the rugged New

Jersey hills. The single track was picked up by two others that had once been the main line, before the Jersey

From the doorway of the box car, Chet saw the rusted tracks of the old main line and mistook them for

sidings. In fact, they were used as such and looked the part. Once those tracks had emerged from a tunnel,

right into Crooked Junction. But the tunnel mouth had caved because of disuse and was now a mass of fallen

The new main line came in a mile ahead, crossing the river on a high level bridge. But the freight halted

before it reached the new junction. Again, the crew horsed her over, and during the reversal Chet heard

wheels grind as the cars veered. A brakeman had dropped off to switch the rear cars onto one of the rusted

Since those rear cars represented the consignment from the Pyrolac factory, Chet decided to stay with them.

As soon as the train stopped, Chet dropped off, found some sheltering bushes where the old tracks curved

toward the solid hillside, and stowed himself from sight while the cars were being uncoupled.

The darkness was thick without the bushes, but Chet feared that passing lanterns might betray him if he didn't

take to cover. However, the only lantern that did pass was a red one, swung by the brakeman who had gone

Then the way freight was jarring forward. Chet saw the refrigerator car go past. On the tail of the reefer (note:

Reefer is another term for refrigerator car, while the hind shack is the caboose Ed.) was the hind shack with

the lantern, and the red eye soon dwindled off into the thick darkness. Standing silent on a siding were the

cars that bore the load of Pyrolac, but before stealing toward them, Chet took a final look ahead to make a

The way freight was taking a right swing along a Y to reach the main line. There were lights along the high

bridge and by them Chet could distinguish a through freight waiting to proceed in the opposite direction.

Obviously, the locomotive of the fast freight would back down from the high iron as soon as the branch was

So Chet moved toward the sidetracked cars, intending to perch between them later. For the present, he

preferred the bushes in the gully, for he was quite sure that Feds would be riding the scoop of the engine

when it arrived. Their job would be to inspect the cars from the Pyrolac plant while the hitch was being made.

Future precaution proved its present value. Hardly had Chet stowed himself beside the tracks, before a light

appeared, at the very rear of the siding. With it came a rumble, muffled and vague, that couldn't be the sound

SMOOTHLY, steadily, the hillside was moving up into itself. Literally, overhanging rocks were swallowing

those that sloped below, though the effect was quite the opposite. Rather it seemed that the hillside had begun

Into that cavern, which was dimly lighted, ran the two tracks that ostensibly ended against the rocky wall that

If Chet had known about the old main line and its forgotten tunnel, he'd have understood the whole thing in a

flash. As it was, he grasped the setup conclusively enough. That hole in the hill was certainly a tunnel that

Since that date, alterations had been made, though normally there was nothing to show it. Clever craftsmen

had rigged a false front for the blocked tunnel, a mass of canvas coated with paint and stucco to exactly

duplicate the fallen mass of rock and earth. It was the simplest sort of camouflage, that job, a thing that Chet,

The rest was equally plain. Behind that screen of imitation debris, workers had removed the rubbish that it

represented. Outwardly, no change was visible, until they raised the camouflaging curtain which hoisted

through a cleft within the overhanging rocks. Then, like a ghost from the past, the old tunnel shook off the

And now, a thing even more ghostly was manifesting itself. Out from the tunnel came a gray shape on

wheels, a pintsized Diesel shifter that nosed to the line of box cars. Chet saw shady men making a quick

coupling. Smoothly, rhythmically, the cars containing the lacquer shipment started on a new trip, rearward.

On impulse, Chet popped from the brush and caught a passing grab iron. Doubled between two cars he was

repeating his original trip, hoping that the tunnel crew wouldn't spot him. Having slipped past the factory

watchmen by this ruse, Chet had every reason to suppose that it would work again.

Even yet, Chet didn't realize that the cloaked fighter had paved the way to his earlier escape. And Chet's

present excursion into the jaws of trouble was without benefit of the unique assistance that The Shadow alone

Yet the hand of The Shadow could still be felt. It was behind a thing that Chet thought was luck.

As the freight cars stopped within the dimly lit tunnel, men came along beside them. Still, Chet found time to

drop from his perch and crouch on the other side of the cars, close to the tunnel wall. To the past belonged the

Crooks hadn't the least idea that a stowaway could have come into the tunnel, because their own accomplices

had ridden the way freight in order to dispose of such unwanted passengers. In wiping out that entire crew,

Absence of torpedo men indicated that they had nothing to report. Crooks took it that their pals had dropped

The name drove home to Chet Conroy. It was appropriate in more ways than one. Definitely suited to the

work that was going on, for Chet was viewing crooked business on a scale that appalled him. A sneak to the

There were two tracks in this tunnel and on the other stood a string of freight cars that duplicated the stolen

batch. It wasn't a case of haphazard replacement; the cars were the twins of those that had come from the

They were of the same color, bore the same names, even the numbers and distinctive markings of the

originals. Their doors were bolted, sealed and stamped in the same identical fashion! A brawny man with

beakish nose and lips that wore a habitual leer, was studying the two strings of cars. Other men, more

thuggish in appearance, were coming to this husky supervisor and handing him photographs that he scanned

"A good job," spoke the beakfaced individual. "Give those seals another check, though, while they're going

The brawny man swung his arm in answer. The Diesel shifter, uncoupled from the stolen cars, swung over on

a switch and jarred the duplicate line, where the men had scrambled to check the bolts and seals. Evidently

those matched the work of Marquette's loading crew, for Dorgan received a prompt O.K. from every car.

Then the line of duplicates were shunting out from the tunnel. They swung another switch just within the

mouth, which put them on the siding where the way freight had left its original load. Staring ahead, Chet

looked vainly for the lights of the mainline locomotive, only to realize that it could hardly have begun its

There wouldn't have been a chance for Chet to ride out with the duplicate cars and tip off the Feds to this

amazing game. He considered a sneak along the tunnel wall, but thought it better to wait until the Diesel

backed in again. There was some delay up by the tunnel mouth, a thing that gave Chet various hopes, until he

The shifter wasn't coming back. It wasn't necessary. It had stopped within the confines of the tunnel, simply

letting the freight cars coast ahead, to be braked by men on board them. Men who would simply scatter in the

Coincident with the coasting of the cars, the great curtain had come down again, once more turning the exit

into a chunk of hillside that would stand average observation by day and close inspection at night. Beyond

that screen, unwitting Feds would find the waiting cars and tally them as the originals that Marquette had

In one swoop, Dorgan had taken over several carloads of expensive, highly processed Pyrolac, a shipment

valued at thirty thousand dollars, or more. In its place, he'd sent out a load of gumbo worth less than the cans

that contained it, though the stuff would necessarily contain some of the cheaper fluids forming the base of

Fake Pyrolac cans, their tops punctured and waxed to make it look like a needle job! Again, Thorneau and

other important customers would register a proper complaint that Biggs would blame on Chet. As for

Marquette, he wouldn't gain a glimmer of the racket whereby highjackers were acquiring Pyrolac at less than

ONE thing gave Chet grim satisfaction. Dorgan's men were unbolting the cars that they had highjacked, to

remove the stolen lacquer. They were pouring some genuine Pyrolac into cans of readymixed paint, because

of its quickdrying properties. Parading along the line, Dorgan was displaying a new collection of

photographs, calling off names of railroads, lists of boxcar numbers, and giving particular attention to color,

Evidently, this crew had photographed the next batch of cars that were to enter the Pyrolac factory, which

was easy enough, considering that those cars were already waiting in the freight yard. They'd have

fortyeight hours to fake this string of stolen cars to match the next batch due at Crooked Junction and load

Those hours would mark Chet's opportunity, which was why he began a rearward sneak through the tunnel.

Figuring the tunnel had another end, he wanted to get through it and be on his way toward what would prove

Chet found the other end of the tunnel. The rusted tracks continued out through and stopped abruptly on the

edge of a ravine that no longer had a bridge across it. Following the rocky brink, Chet found a dirt road that

A mile along the highway, Chet flagged a lumbering truck and gained a lift. The driver was friendly and

mentioned his destination when Chet asked it. The truck was going to Packensaw, a Jersey town some twenty

miles from the Pyrolac factory. But that wasn't why Chet decided to go there too. He considered Packensaw

First, the place had become a boom town, due to the establishment of new industries. As an itinerant worker,

Chet could easily escape notice in the newlythriving community. Second, Chet happened to know that

Packensaw had first gained industrial importance through the efforts of Humphrey Thorneau, who lived on

Chet wanted freedom until he could gain a fair hearing. He was confident that Packensaw would provide the

former; that Thorneau would give him the later. Thus Chet's satisfaction was tinged with only one regret.

That regret concerned The Shadow, the intrepid, unknown battler who had done so much in Chet's behalf.

Though he hoped that his cloaked friend had survived the conflict on the way freight, there was no sensible

chance for Chet to check on the situation. The Shadow had dropped off the train many miles before it reached

CHET'S hopes concerning The Shadow were at that moment being realized by the cloaked fighter, himself.

Up from the river, The Shadow was retracing his route along the branch line, hoping to find and question

Hearing a sing of the rails behind him, The Shadow moved to deeper darkness beside the right of way,

without a swish from his watersoaked cloak. The sing became a clatter and a motorized handcar rattled past,

Those weren't section hands riding the pop car, though The Shadow learned it too late to stop them. Their big

light was dancing like an overgrown lightning bug, when they took the next curve. Instead of inspecting

Crooks were searching for their kind, whether dead or alive, to gather up evidence of crime, along with

possible squealers. Which proved to The Shadow that this game went deeper than appeared, though as yet he

had gained no clue to the tunnel job that constituted crime's big ace in an actual hole.

The Shadow was still thinking in terms of Chet Conroy. Assuming that Chet had continued his path to

freedom, his future career would prove important. However Chet figured as a scapegoat, crooks wouldn't care

Though The Shadow had lost the trail far short of Crooked Junction, he might cross it again, somewhere

beyond. His calculations now concerned the probable place, in terms of Chet's likely actions.

One man had shown a reasonable belief in the innocence of Chet Conroy; one man among those who held the

conference at the Pyrolac factory. That man was Humphrey Thorneau and Chet would probably remember it.

The Shadow could also visit Thorneau. As his other self, Lamont Cranston, The Shadow would be more than

welcome, since Cranston, like Thorneau, was a man of large investments who had much at stake in

businesses that used products such as Pyrolac. By arranging an appointment with Thorneau in the latter's

home at Packensaw, The Shadow could be on hand if new danger threatened Chet Conroy.

A whispered laugh stirred the darkness, like a tone of weird prophecy. The Shadow had gained his answer.

FROM the dirty window of a dingy hotel room, Chet Conroy surveyed the town of Packensaw and the hill

beyond it. This poor lodging was the best that he could get, but it suited Chet's circumstance. Bedraggled by

his flight, his finances limited to less than ten dollars that happened to be in his pocket, Chet preferred

It was well into the afternoon, and so far, Chet had accomplished but two things. He'd phoned the Thorneau

Brass Works and had learned that Humphrey Thorneau was in New York. Thorneau was expected back this

evening, but not at the brass works. He could be reached at his residence, when he returned.

In fact, Chet gained the impression that Thorneau seldom bothered to visit the brass works, which wasn't

surprising. The business was one of his earliest enterprises that had long since dwindled in relative

importance. Thorneau had bought up other businesses in Packensaw, everything from woolen mills to

brickyards, but his policy was always to unload one good asset for something better.

At present, as Chet already knew, Thorneau had been buying into aviation plants, shipyards, and other

important lines where his ability to get results could gain its full expression. His new interests were scattered

far and wide; indeed, Chet could picture Thorneau smiling at the present boom in Packensaw, rating it as very

small time in comparison to the nationwide speedup with which Thorneau was so familiar.

It didn't surprise Chet, though, that Thorneau still lived in Packensaw. The reason was very visible; it stood

on the hillside that dominated the town, a mammoth residence built of gray stone, surrounded by a large

Chet could gauge the size of Thorneau's preserves by the great stone wall that surrounded the grounds. It ran

through woods, up slopes, and out of sight behind the hill. Thorneau's house, with its huge walls and conical

turrets, was a veritable castle, in the style of a French chateau. It even had extensive stables and other

A gloomy old place, perhaps, but Chet was anxious to reach it. The second thing he'd accomplished would

help him when he reached his goal. Chet had sent his suit out to be sponged and pressed, and the job had been

well done. Right now, the wavy mirror in the hotel room reproduced Chet Conroy in the fashion of a

As he pondered on that problem, Chet noticed motion at the distant gate that fronted Thorneau's estate. Two

cars were drawing aside, each to let the other pass. One was a station wagon, coming out. The other was an

Chet's eyes followed the station wagon, though his mind was on the larger car, for he knew the limousine

must be bringing Thorneau home. But the chance way in which Chet's gaze trailed the less important vehicle

proved much to his advantage. As he watched, Chet saw that the station wagon was not only coming into

FIVE minutes later, Chet had checked out, which wasn't difficult, considering that he'd paid for his hotel

room in advance. Five more minutes, and Chet was again a stowaway. This time, instead of being on a freight

train, he was huddled in the back of a station wagon, parked outside a grocery store.

The chauffeur came from the store, laid some packages in the seat in front of Chet, and started for

Thorneau's. Out of Packensaw, up the hill, through the gate unchallenged. Then the wagon was parked near

an ample fivecar garage that was dwarfed by the more than ample stables close beside it. When the

Apparently the chauffeur had entered the house by a back door that looked like the sally port of an ancient

fortress. But it wasn't Chet's plan to use the service entrance. Keeping clear of the gravel, he took a wide

detour around the house, benefiting by the early dusk cast by the great boughs of spreading elms that flanked

the sloping lawn. Striking a flagstone walk that led toward the castellated residence, Chet approached the

front door in the style of a visitor who had been passed by the gatekeeper and various caretakers who

A liveried servant answered Chet's bold ring. When Chet stated that he'd like to meet Mr. Thorneau, the

servant turned him over to a mildfaced man, who looked like a private secretary, which he was. Politely, the

Prompted to say "yes," Chet did. He was immediately conducted through a tier of magnificently furnished

HAND on the knob, Chet paused until the secretary had turned a corner. With his other hand, Chet then

produced the revolver that he had snatched from the watchman at the Pyrolac plant. Opening the door, he

Thorneau was seated behind a large oak desk, signing letters that lay on the glass top. Hearing the door's

thud, he looked up. Again, Chet was impressed by the blunt, deepeyed visage, with lips that could flicker

one of those half smiles that many artists sought so vainly to portray. Indeed, Thorneau's manner was

amazing. Not a hair'sbreadth did it vary from his expression of the evening before, when the strain had been

"Good afternoon, Conroy," spoke Thorneau, his tone a low boom. "I did not expect to see you so soon, or so

"Of course," replied Thorneau. "That is why I placed watchers about the grounds. I am surprised that you

managed to slip past them. Perhaps I was too casual when I ordered them simply to watch out for strangers. I

Chet's gaze was frankly bewildered, whereat Thorneau's smile increased. With a wave of his hand, the

"Put the gun away, Conroy. If you ever intended to use it, you would have done so at the Pyrolac plant last

Putting away his gun, Chet stared so blankly that Thorneau lifted his heavy eyebrows.

"You mean the calls weren't yours?" queried Thorneau. "Marquette was sure they were. He is still trying to

"I get it," spoke Chet, bitterly. "It's all part of the frame. Dorgan, or whoever is behind him, is trying to back

Thorneau picked the name from the midst of Chet's harangue. Tilting his head, the big man inquired:

"That's right," replied Chet. "If you'll listen, Mr. Thorneau, I'll tell you just where and how Dorgan figures

Listen Thorneau did, while Chet told the story. Not knowing that Thorneau had personally seen The Shadow

in action, Chet didn't stress the freight train fight too strongly. He wanted Thorneau to believe the tale of the

camouflaged tunnel. Apparently, Thorneau did, though he raised his eyebrows at intervals. Each of those lifts

was Chet's cue to emphasize more credible details, such as a description of the Diesel shifter, or Dorgan's

"Most amazing, all this," he declared, in his firm basso tone. "But I believe you, Conroy. Actually, I believe

your story because it seems too fanciful to be a lie. I only wish you had informed me sooner."

"I never am," explained Thorneau. "I retain that business, like several others, purely through sentiment. Yet

Chet thought that Thorneau was changing the subject, but he wasn't. His remarks were much to the point.

"This highjacking that we thought was sabotage," explained Thorneau, "has produced an alarming shortage of

Pyrolac in the essential industries with which I am connected. Fortunately, we have been able to buy

"But their quotas can't last indefinitely," declared Chet. "Not if this highjacking continues."

"It won't continue," assured Thorneau. "You have already cracked it, Conroy. Our only question is how we

should convey your information to Marquette. I doubt that he will believe your story, Conroy."

Before Chet could answer, there was a knock at the door. Thorneau gestured for Chet to remain calm.

Stepping from the desk, Thorneau opened the door. The man outside was the chauffeur who had brought Chet

"Hello, Thomas," said Thorneau. "I was just going to call you. Have my coupe ready outside. I shall meet the

"They were all false," interrupted Thorneau. "Nobody wants to kill me after all. It was merely a bluff,

Turning as he closed the door, Thorneau looked inquiringly toward Chet, as though hoping he had some

"Why don't you call Marquette?" Chet asked. "Tell him you've had a hunch about those shipments being

Smilingly, Thorneau shook his head. He remarked that it would sound implausible. So Chet modified the

"Tell Marquette you heard from me," said Chet. "Give him the story just as I told it. Let him stage a surprise

trip to the tunnel. He won't have to know where I am, until he has found the evidence that clears me. The

FOR the next few minutes, Chet felt that his cause hung in the balance. His deepset eyes half closed,

Thorneau was considering the proposition, and Chet was wondering whether Thorneau himself was fully

convinced. In the sunset that trickled through the highbuilt window of the study, Chet watched for doubt to

So far Thorneau had trusted him. Chet preferred to see it through on terms of mutual confidence. Then, when

Thorneau did speak, Chet was more than glad that he'd restrained himself. Thorneau's doubts were fair

"If I call Marquette too soon," declared Thorneau, "he might start for the tunnel before dark, and give himself

away. But if I wait until dusk, we run the risk of having Dorgan and those other criminals waylay another

"I wish they would," asserted Chet, quite at ease again. "It would clinch the proof against them. But "

"But we can't afford to risk another loss of such a badly needed product," put in Thorneau. "I hope that is

"It wasn't," admitted Chet, bluntly, "but I'll concede the point. What I was going to say amounts to the same

thing. I was starting to tell you that there won't be a shipment of Pyrolac until tomorrow night. That way

"Probably not, but that ought to make it easier for the Feds to sneak in and take over. Maybe they should

stage it after the inbound freight arrives from the main line. It comes in one night, and goes out the next "

Thorneau interrupted with a chuckle. He clapped a hand on Chet's shoulder and gestured toward the door.

Together, they walked through the hallway to a library. By then, Thorneau had decided what to do.

"We can't dictate to Marquette," decided Thorneau. "The most I can do is wait until after dinner before

calling him, which will certainly prevent him from starting too soon. I'm sorry I can't invite you to dine with

"However, your dinner will be served here, and I shall join you at intervals, to keep you posted on

Marquette's progress. By the end of this evening, you will be completely exonerated, and if Biggs doesn't

double your salary at Pyrolac, I will, by giving you a choice of half a dozen jobs."

Chet relaxed comfortably as soon as Thorneau left. He no longer had any right to worry. Last night, he'd

survived one ordeal, thanks to a timely friend, The Shadow. Today, he'd found a new friend in Humphrey

The next few hours were to change that opinion. In counting on his friends, Chet was forgetting that he still

had enemies. They had thrown suspicion upon Chet before and they could do it again, to a point where Chet

The time was coming when Chet Conroy would decide that a man's best friend was himself. Once more he

THE elaborate dinner that was served Chet in the library must have matched the fare in the dining room, for

between the courses, Thorneau came in to hold brief conversation. On his second visit, Thorneau stated that

he'd contacted Marquette and had given him the facts about the highjacking. By that time it was quite dark

About an hour after dinner, Thorneau again rejoined Chet and conducted him to the study. There Thorneau

"Marquette should have reached the tunnel by this time," declared Thorneau. "I am sure we shall hear from

"But I'm not supposed to be here!" exclaimed Chet. "You surely didn't tell Marquette "

"Of course not," interposed Thorneau, with a smile. "When he phones, just say that you're my secretary, and

take the message. I'll have to leave before then to meet Cranston. His train arrives in half an hour."

Who Cranston was, Chet didn't inquire, because he didn't consider it important. Chet simply knew that

Thorneau's coupe was waiting outside, and that Thorneau would have to tear himself away from his guests

within the next halfhour. Left alone again, Chet kept counting the minutes expectantly, until fifteen of them

It was Marquette, all right, and he didn't recognize the disguised tone that Chet used, which was fortunate.

Taking Chet to be the secretary, Marquette put a blunt demand. He wanted to know if Thorneau had heard

anything more from Chet Conroy. To which Chet bluffly replied that he didn't think so.

"That's good," gruffed Marquette. "At least it's good for Mr. Thorneau. Tell him to sit tight for another ten

"That's right," snapped Marquette. "That yarn of his was phony. Tell Mr. Thorneau we went to the tunnel and

found just what was supposed to be there, a cavein. There weren't any repainted freight cars, no Diesel

"That's easy enough to guess," replied Marquette, as though expecting the surprised tone of the question. "He

wanted to make sure that Mr. Thorneau was at home. And the answer to that one is that Conroy is going

The telephone sagged from Chet's numbed hand. Out of a whirl of thoughts came the real answer to the

tunnel situation. He'd missed the right guess, Chet had. Dorgan's crew were through with highjacking

Pyrolac. They had to be, because they wouldn't have Chet as the goat for future jobs. Last night had really

It wasn't being done to switch another lacquer shipment. Crooks were simply fixing those extra cars to put

them back into circulation. Naturally, they couldn't send out empties that were duplicates of the faked cars

still in transit. So they'd painted them with different names and numbers, probably to replace the original cars

Tonight, at dusk, the Diesel had probably shoved those cars to the main line to join a string of other empties.

Returning to the tunnel, the compact switcher had been dismantled and taken away along with a few

remaining tracks. The rockpainted curtain was also a portable proposition, and a real cavein simply a

VOICES reached Chet's ears. They were outside the house, the tones of Thorneau and some friends. About to

start for the station, Thorneau was wondering where he'd left his car keys. Chet could hear the real secretary

saying they must be in the coupe, since the chauffeur had brought it from the garage. But Thorneau said he'd

It was nice of Thorneau. Actually, he wanted to stop by and learn if Chet had heard from Marquette. Chet's

hand went to his pocket and tightened on the borrowed gun; then, numbly, his grip relaxed. His last vestige of

innocence would be gone, if he even drew the weapon. To threaten a friend like Thorneau would be bad

Flight was the only course and there was an easy way to make it. Spurred to action, Chet hurried from the

study, stepped into the library when Thorneau appeared, and then kept on his way. Reaching a side door, he

saw Thorneau's car parked where the chauffeur had left it. On the chance that the key was actually in the

The key was there. Chet was turning it when he heard shouts from the grounds. Men were appearing, brought

by the sounds of Chet's mad race across the noisy gravel. But Chet didn't wait to exchange courtesies.

Headlights glaring, Chet whizzed down the driveway and through the gates. He saw the gatekeeper dart back

into his house. The man had started to give a wave of salute, thinking that Thorneau was in the car, only to

find that it wasn't safe to stay anywhere near the coupe's path. Chet gave a laugh, nervous, despite its

He was in the clear again, on his own, even though he didn't want to be. Thorneau belonged to the past, just

like The Shadow. Both were friends in need while Chet needed them, but he'd be his own friend in the future.

All he wanted was a road where he could make speed in this borrowed car. If anybody tried to stop him, he'd

A car was coming in Chet's direction. He saw a road to the right and swerved. As he did, he whipped between

two pairs of headlights that seemed focused ready to receive him. Even before Chet could pass them, those

So Chet thought as he jabbed the accelerator pedal. Then, as the coupe fairly hopped across the rough surface

of a railroad crossing, Chet saw the lights of a station, and a new thought seized him.

This was the road that Thorneau would have taken to meet his friend Cranston. The car in which Chet rode

was Thorneau's due at this very time. The Feds dispatched by Marquette couldn't have foreseen that Chet

would be taking flight in Thorneau's car. Therefore those pursuers couldn't be Feds.

It was adding up just like the mileage on the speedometer. Crooks had framed Chet and backed their game

with death threats, against Thorneau. What could be smarter than to go through with those threats to clinch

To finish Thorneau would mean a murder rap for Chet. That was the next crime on the book. There was grim

solace in the fact that crooks were gumming their own game, by going after the very man they were trying to

blame for their own misdeeds. Still, crooks could turn it to their own advantage.

Guns were chattering from the cars behind. If those shots found Chet, what difference would it make? He was

driving a stolen car and therefore fair game for anyone. Should he be wrecked and killed, his name would still

be blemished. If the crooks were blamed for the kill, public opinion would class them as friends of the

notorious Chet Conroy, who had turned against him through some misunderstanding.

That guess was halfway right. As Chet swung a curve, the rattle of guns ended, and he saw the pursuing cars

veer to a side road. After that glance in the mirror, Chet saw something else. New cars were starting to the

THIS was one of their stations. That was why the crooks had quit the chase. They'd done enough to scare the

wits out of Thorneau or what they thought to be Thorneau in his coupe and make the death threat pass as

real. Hearing shots, seeing a wildriding car, the cops were naturally picking up the trail. By the time

But Chet wasn't Thorneau, and he couldn't stop at all. Already a fugitive from justice, he was determined to

Within three miles, the State police were overhauling the coupe. With bullets stinging the road behind him,

Chet took a wild veer from the turnpike. He hit the dirt of an old road and bounced. He thought he was going

to bounce right over the rail fence by the roadside, but he didn't. Instead, the coupe split the fence to tinder,

landed upside down, and began a long, leaping roll down a hillside that resembled a ravine. Dully, Chet heard

FUNNY, that the smash should seem so far away. Odd, too, that the flashlights were going past Chet, instead

of stopping around him. Maybe this was what it was like to be dead. You just stayed wherever you were

Up above, another car was stopping on the dirt road. Its lights snuffed out and left blackness. Maybe that

meant that Chet's eyes had ceased to function. Horrified, he stared below, and saw the flashlights, deep in the

Then voices. The cops were talking it over. The wrecked car was empty, which meant that its driver had

dropped out of it. Those turret tops were tough, but doors weren't. They ought to make them stronger. But

that wasn't the business of the State police. Their job was to find the guy who had been doing the shooting.

The guy in question was starting a crawl. Numbly, Chet realized he was still alive, somewhere on the rocky

slope. All the while, he could hear the chatter of the State police, divided between himself and Thorneau's

car. They'd find the guy and have the wreck towed to a junkyard. Only if Chet could keep on going, they

A weird laugh hissed close to Chet's ear. Ghostly mirth that literally numbed him. A whispered tone spoke his

name; mechanically, Chet answered. Funny, the way his friends kept moving in a circle. First The Shadow,

next Thorneau, then Chet himself. And now The Shadow, beginning the cycle all over again.

That car he'd met just before the crooks spotted him. The Shadow must have been its driver. He'd trailed

along, ready to pick up what was left of Chet, after the crooks and cops were through with him. There was

plenty left of Chet, though he was very, very dazed. He let The Shadow lift him to his feet and steer him into

blackness, by the easiest route, which was downward, away from those flashlights coming up the slope.

More cars were arriving on the scene, among them a limousine bringing Humphrey Thorneau. Clambering up

the hill after a futile hunt, the State patrolmen recognized Thorneau and learned that the wrecked car

belonged to him. When Thorneau added that its driver was Chet Conroy, the police decided to renew the

"I want Conroy found," asserted Thorneau. Then, to make his reason plain, he added: "He may be innocent of

that sabotage charge. Give him a chance to surrender if you find him alive. I can't understand why he stole

"Speaking of your car, Mr. Thorneau," put in a patrolman, "I'd say it belonged to a junkyard, one hundred

"Then summon a wrecker," said Thorneau. "He can send me a salvage statement later. If you will excuse me,

A quiet voice spoke from Thorneau's elbow. He turned to see the friend he expected: Lamont Cranston.

Thorneau was more than puzzled; he was baffled. Nor did the cryptic smile on Cranston's hawkish face

enlighten him. Then, with an idle gesture, Cranston indicated a speedy roadster, parked near the remains of

"I drove out from town," Cranston explained. "The chase started, just as I was coming up your road. So I

followed along and arrived here after the crash. Suppose we help search for this man Conroy."

The search was a long one. It continued until after the wrecking car arrived along a rough road through the

gully and towed away the nodoor coupe that had once been Thorneau's pride. By then, Feds were on the

scene, and their information silenced Thorneau's protests concerning Chet's innocence.

Even Cranston's testimony regarding other cars, was valued at zero minus. The Feds claimed that Chet must

have called upon a coverup crew, consisting of unidentified accomplices. In snatching Thorneau's car, he'd

run into his own trap, only to shake it and encounter the State police instead. So the thing to do was find Chet

With the slope scoured, the hunt moved to the gully, but still Chet wasn't found, much to the mystification of

the State police, who swore that the fugitive couldn't possibly have slipped through the cordon they

established. The only answer to that mystery was provided by Lamont Cranston, when he returned to his

Alone, Cranston expressed his opinion of the riddle that concerned a vanished victim named Chet Conroy.

WHEN he opened his eyes, Chet Conroy wondered what was happening at the Pyrolac plant. It was broad

daylight and a fearful clatter was going on outside his window. Only it wasn't his window as Chet learned

Chet was on a cot, and the window revealed a scene that certainly wasn't the Pyrolac yard. Such a mess of

junk was something that Chet could hardly have pictured. He was looking at a mountain of it: tin cans, old

farming implements, battered garbage cans, fenders and bodies of automobiles. As if the pile needed more of

such useless stuff, a big truck was unloading an additional supply, which accounted for the clatter.

Chet stared until the glitter of the sunlight made him blink. He was rubbing his hand across his eyes, to offset

The voice couldn't possibly be wrong. It was so friendly, so genuine, and withal so assured, that Chet could

actually picture the girl while he was turning to look at her. She belonged to the voice; that was apparent at a

A rounded face, that smiled with its eyebrows instead of its lips. Not that anything was wrong with those lips.

They could probably smile too, if they wanted, but they were occupied in speaking a casual question. As for

the nose between the smiling eyebrows and the straight lips, it was shapely and a trifle saucy. Just as it should

Whether the girl was blonde or brunette, Chet didn't care. Her eyes didn't provide the answer; they were a

hazelgray that could have gone with either type. When Chet saw those eyes, they held him. He tried to say

something, so the girl would speak again in that tone that made the word contralto mean something.

"I'm Joan Merrick," she announced, by way of introduction, "and you're Chet Conroy. I've been reading about

you, half the morning. You were frontpage news yesterday, but you only had a single column. Now you've

Chet gave a feeble grin. The mention of the want ads produced it. He was wanted all right, but somehow the

"You're there already," declared Joan, "judging by the picture on the front page. Only it doesn't look like you,

She handed Chet the newspaper. The picture was an old one taken five years ago for the year book at Chet's

"Lost and found," remarked the girl. "That's really your department, Mr. Conroy. Lost last night, found this

"You were a tow job," replied Joan. "You came along instead of a couple of doors that are still owing us,

before we can give Mr. Thorneau an appraisal of what's left of his deluxe coupe. But we won't include you in

the list. When people leave people lying around in wrecked cars, that's their business, not ours."

OUT of a very black cloud, things straightened for Chet. He remembered The Shadow steering him down the

slope; after that, everything had been very vague. No wonder the newspaper talked of a man hunt that had

The Shadow had put Chet in the one place where nobody would look for him: the wrecked car that had

marked the starting place of the search. From then on, The Shadow had left Chet in the hands of fate and

Merrick's Junkyard, for from the window Chet could see a big sign that named his present location.

Inasmuch as the spirit of the junkyard happened to be Joan Merrick, Chet gave the girl another inquiring

"If everybody who works here did," replied Joan, very calmly, "we might not have anybody left to run the

place. Sorting junk is better than cracking rock, which means that if you want a job, we have one for you.

BY mid afternoon, Chet was wading through the heaps of junk, sorting various items according to Joan's

orders. The girl had assigned him to a sector where he was quite alone, and Chet could think of no better

hideaway than this. It was certainly better than a rock pile, a term which meant more than prison to Chet

There was a rock pile back at the mouth of a tunnel near Crooked Junction. To the world, that debris was

evidence that Chet Conroy had lied to Humphrey Thorneau. But Chet regarded it as evidence against a gang

of crooks who had outwitted him along with the law. The longer he stayed free, the more chance he would

Whether or not Thorneau was still his friend, Chet did not know, but he definitely doubted it. On the

contrary, Chet knew that he had retained one friend in The Shadow. Otherwise he wouldn't be sorting scrap in

Merrick's Junkyard. Whatever Chet's destiny, it seemed that The Shadow was taking a major part in shaping

There was another element which seemed to dominate Chet's present life; namely, dusk. It was growing dark

when he heard footsteps behind him; turning quickly, Chet prepared to dive from sight beyond a junk pile. He

didn't recognize the person who approached, until she spoke. The arrival was Joan Merrick.

Attired in oversized slacks and flannel shirt, the girl looked like a junkyard worker. She was wearing a

longpeaked cap which added to the illusion; indeed, the cap reminded Chet too much of the headgear favored

by those thugs who had ridden the way freight until The Shadow blasted them off.

Joan laughed lightly when she saw Chet halt. Realizing that the cap had startled him, she took it off. Fluffing

in the last rays of sunlight, her hair took the tint of burnished copper. The question of blonde and brunette

The auburn hair fitted Joan's peppery disposition, but it seemed that she had merely a dash of both. The girl's

voice was modulated when she informed Chet that it was safe for him to return to the junkyard shack. As they

walked along together, Chet noted that Joan's hair lost its coppery hue away from the sunlight, much as her

"I'm going to introduce you to my father," informed Joan. "Not by name, though. I'd rather give you a title."

"I mean it." Chet's tone was serious, too. "I can do wonders with this junkyard, Joan. It's foolish to go picking

"Like an industrial plant. Or better still, a mining operation. That's what it is, in a sense. You have a mountain

load of raw materials awaiting scientific treatment. You've got a large yard here, with about a dozen workers.

Joan's eyes sparkled as she stopped to study Chet more closely. His enthusiasm impressed her more favorably

"You don't have to answer this question, Chet," said Joan, quite frankly. "But I'd like to ask if that tunnel

"It was," replied Chet, "but the newspapers told less than half of it. If the Feds will act on the information I

"For one thing," explained Chet, "I learned the name of the man who was handling the tunnel job. Naturally,

"And you can do the same," interposed Joan, as Chet showed momentary hesitation. "I've already told you

Chet decided not to name Dorgan. Apparently it wouldn't be in keeping with the local policy, though it did

strike Chet as odd that the junkyard crew all seemed to be so secretive. Here, Chet had been given refuge

while he straightened his own affairs, so he wasn't one to question the status of others. If he named the man

he wanted to find and the person in question learned of Chet's secret hunt, the fact could reflect on the

junkyard personnel. By not naming Dorgan, Chet was keeping his business to himself; should any slip occur,

Joan could not possibly be responsible. Joan didn't have to state such facts. Chet understood.

JOAN stopped Chet again, outside the junkyard shack. Workers were coming from the door, roughlooking

fellows, but pleasant enough. What pleased them was the money they were counting, for this was pay day at

the junkyard. When the last had left, Joan conducted Chet into the shack. There, Chet Conroy met James

Merrick. The girl introduced her father by name, but simply termed Chet the new technician.

Chet had expected Merrick to be a knowing sort of person, like his daughter. He'd also pictured the junkyard

Merrick was a thin, frail man of the very old school. Old enough, it seemed, to be Joan's grandfather. He was

dated by his Vandyke beard and hornrimmed spectacles. His handshake was the sort that belonged in

midVictorian drawing room. When he spoke, Merrick delivered a weak tone, and his smile was both vague

and vapid. Only his tired eyes showed a brief play of life, explained by his words.

"Ah! A technician!" Merrick was quite pleased. "Ah, times are changing and we must keep up with them.

Ours is an old established business" Merrick waved a thin hand toward the junkyard "but we cannot

"That's right, dad," agreed Joan. "And now it's time to go over to the mansion. Dinner will be ready soon."

Bowing politely to Chet, Merrick made his exit. Chet saw him cross the junkyard to a house that was larger

than the shack, though more dilapidated. All the way, Merrick limped, leaning heavily on a stout cane he

carried. Nor was his eyesight good, for he paused at intervals to feel the path with the cane.

"I know what you're thinking," said Joan to Chet. "If dad could see better, he'd know that our rickety house

"On the contrary," expressed Chet frankly, "I was thinking just the opposite. His imagination would outmatch

"You're a truthful chap," commended Joan. "Still you have a nice way of saying that you know insanity when

"I'm not criticizing anyone's imagination," returned Chet. "Not while I know I saw a tunnel where everybody

It was the bluntness of Chet's statement rather than its humor that won Joan completely. On sudden impulse,

the girl stepped to a battered desk, opened a bottom drawer and brought out a yellowed sheet of writing

Chet read the letterhead on the old sheet of stationery. It was printed in a type style that looked forty years

"Yes, they were partners," asserted Joan, "until well, until dad became ill, which was a long while ago.

"Not exactly. Actually, Thorneau saw dad through his hardest times. Ever since, dad has been sympathetic

toward anyone in trouble, which applies to you. Only it wouldn't apply, if my father linked you with those

Chet saw the logic in Joan's argument and nodded, and also a reason for the strange junkyard personnel. The

"Thorneau wasn't very wealthy when he took over the brass business," said Joan. "He made his real fortune

later. He bought brickyards, mills, other property in Packensaw. But he's sold about everything he owned

Joan's description of Thorneau's castellated residence produced a smile from Chet until he realized that it

"The house really was an arsenal," explained Joan. "It belonged to an ammunition works that Thorneau

bought. Of course, Thorneau tried to help dad along in business, too, but" she gestured toward the junkyard

A CAR was drawing into the junkyard. Joan motioned Chet from sight while she went to the door. The car

was Thorneau's limousine and a minute later, Chet saw the man himself chatting affably with Joan at the

entrance to the shack. Thorneau was asking about his wrecked coupe, and when he learned that the doors

were missing, he said he'd see that they were sent along to complete the junk valuation.

With Thorneau was another man, who could only be Cranston, the visitor who had arrived the night before.

Noting Cranston's calm, immobile face, Chet was impressed by the man's appearance. So much so that he

forgot that he was in hiding until he noted Cranston's eyes fixed in his direction. Quickly, Chet slid farther

Then both were gone, Thorneau and Cranston, and with their departure Chet felt safe again, so safe that he

wondered why he'd worried. Thorneau hadn't even mentioned Chet and Cranston had never met him, so could

not have recognized him. Indeed, there had been something in Cranston's gaze that made Chet consider him a

He'd been thinking of someone else at the time he was watching Cranston. Someone whose path should have

They were busy days for Chet Conroy, in his new capacity of technician at Merrick's Junkyard. Already the

first of Chet's improvements was in operation in the form of a stamping machine that he affectionately called

On the platform of an old trailer, Chet had mounted a steel rod that had once been part of an elevator plunger.

The rod ran through a huge casting shaped like a horseshoe, which was fitted to improvised swivels. Thus the

pounding iron could be swung from vertical to horizontal in order to change the stamping plates. These were

simply flat squares of metal that needed occasional replacement. Powered by a belt line connected with an

old truck motor, the Pounder was constantly mashing metal from the junkyard, thus putting the material in a

So far, nobody seemed to know or care who the new technician was. Chet scarcely resembled his newspaper

photograph and a stubbly beard further hid his identity. Though Chet was doing some chemical research, he

kept such work under cover, using the back room of the shack as his temporary lab.

Only Joan knew of Chet's side line. On this particular afternoon, she was watching Chet prepare his

laboratory equipment. He was stating that he could manufacture poison gas or high explosives from

"Better try something else," the girl suggested. "We don't want to blow the roof off this shack. What about

"I could beat the gummy stuff those crooks shipped out," declared Chet "Needled lacquer! If those fools at

Joan nodded sympathetically. She realized that Chet's chance of vindication had dwindled. His theory had

been rejected because of the evidence against him. So to change the subject, Joan remarked that the Pounder

had stopped. She suggested that they go outdoors and find what might be wrong with Chet's new pet.

Nothing was wrong, except that the Pounder had mashed all the junk consigned to it and the workers were

uncovering a new batch of cans. Chet eyed the fresh material with a practiced eye; then experienced a sudden

mental jolt. Though the others didn't recognize these gallon cans, Chet had handled so many that he

Could it be that Merrick's Junkyard was linked with the black market? Since these were only a fraction of the

stolen total, they might be the cans that Dorgan and his crooked crew had used in repainting the freight cars!

"Better let this lot wait," Chet told the men around him. "Clear up that big pile over by the creek. We'll start it

Joan didn't realize what was going through Chet's mind. When Chet asked who had brought in the latest loads

of junk, Joan simply replied that her father handled all negotiations with truckers. Chet remarked that more

junk would soon be needed, so the girl went to find her father, while Chet continued over to the creek.

BY the time Merrick and Joan arrived, a new find was under way. In shoveling up the old cans, the workers

came to the ruined foundations of an old mill. There, the spades encountered a springy material and the shout

went up that they had struck a real bonanza in the shape of old automobile tires poking up through the debris!

Merrick arrived in the midst of the excitement. Leaning on his cane, he stroked his beard and smiled.

"I remember!" exclaimed Merrick. "After the old mill burned, I went into the tire business. I bought a

secondhand stock that nobody else wanted. I had to dump it somewhere" Merrick's smile brightened, as

though recalling a stroke of genius "so I used this old cellar, which wasn't good for anything else!"

"A whole cellar full of rubber," enthused Chet. "I'll construct a vat to reprocess it and "

Chet halted suddenly, remembering that it wouldn't be good policy to identify himself as a chemist. Joan

"Take a look at the evening paper," said the girl, "and you'll find it isn't easy to reprocess rubber. The United

A sudden interest seized Chet. He decided to look at the newspaper, so he went to the shack with Joan,

leaving Merrick to instruct the men at the junk pile. After reading the news that Joan mentioned, Chet gave a

"Lack of quality in reprocessed rubber," asserted Chet. "Those brains behind the black market are at work

again, Joan. Pyrolac had its troubles; now United Recovery is in for a similar deal."

"Then you may be vindicated!" exclaimed Joan. "Surely no one can suspect you of this, Chet!"

"I'd like to get to the bottom of it," Chet decided. "Tell me, do any of the local truckers haul old rubber to the

"They haul most anything," Joan replied. "Dad says a big Alliance truck will be dumping some junk this

evening. You might ask the driver if he wants to haul away those old tires and sell them to United Recovery."

"I'll think it over," decided Chet. "At present, I want to learn more about this funny business at United

There was much for Chet to think about. What had started out to be a simple framing job on him, to make

him the goat for a robbery, grew bigger and bigger as it went along. Now, with United Recovery in a similar

position, Chet was sure that he was not the only one involved. It looked bigger than ever whatever it was,

whether a black market scheme, or something even more involved. He made up his mind that he would find

IF Chet Conroy had still been as welcome at Thorneau's mansion as he was at Merrick's Junkyard, he might

have gotten a firsthand picture of the reprocessed rubber situation. At that moment, Humphrey Thorneau was

seated behind his desk, drawing the ends of a thin sheet of rubber. Stretched to half its proper extent, the

"That's what United Recovery calls reprocessed rubber!" boomed Thorneau. "I term it an inferior chewing

Vic Marquette picked up the ruined pieces, examined them and handed the exhibits to Lamont Cranston. Of

late, both Marquette and Cranston had been frequent visitors at Thorneau's residence.

"The Pyrolac business all over again," declared Marquette. "Another inside job, but the saboteurs are getting

"There's something deeper," argued Thorneau. "The black market may be behind this game, clearing the way

to peddle its illegal products. Cranston can bear me out on that point. For instance, we both have interests in

"In my case, my own brass works helped me out with lacquer, but it took about fifty other little concerns to

fill everybody's needs while Pyrolac was bottlenecked. And now we're paying premium prices on reclaimed

Completing his assertions, Thorneau turned to Cranston for corroboration. Though Cranston's expression

gave silent assent to all that Thorneau said, he was unable to speak before Marquette intervened.

"You're getting ahead of the story," insisted Marquette. "We'll handle the black market angle when we come

Marquette brought out a pile of report sheets that included diagrams. He showed how United Recovery

received its shipments of old rubber by freight. Long trains pulled into a shed beside the factory to unload old

tires and other ancient rubber goods in dozen carload lots. The everaccumulating stock pile was placed

immediately in a vast storage room from which it went through the reprocessing machinery. Marquette talked

of immense vats, bubbling with a solution of caustic soda; he described giant rollers that pressed out sheets of

"It looks right when it comes out," explained the Fed. "They test it and they ship it. But it's no good when the

"Half a dozen trucking companies," replied Marquette. "Their names are in these reports. Sometimes they

"There's your leak," asserted Thorneau. "The exchange of bad rubber for good must happen during transit."

"Not a chance," returned Marquette. "We check those trucks every five miles along the road and none have

ever shown up late. When they separate, we tail them. They deliver the very goods that they pick up at the

Glancing at Thorneau's desk clock, Marquette saw that it was after seven. He decided he'd have to leave, and

Cranston, remembering that there was a seventhirty train to New York, decided to go too. Since Cranston

THEY reached the station in ample time for Cranston's train, had he chosen to take it. Instead, Cranston

watched Marquette's car speed away, on a journey to the United Recovery Co., which was located about

twenty miles from Packensaw. Therewith, Cranston stepped to a dark coupe that was parked near the station

platform. Merging with blackness, Cranston became a literal part of it. His system was to slide his arms into a

black cloak and pull a slouch hat down upon his head. As Cranston's coupe pulled away, its driver was

The sharpest eyes could not have detected the cloaked figure of The Shadow in the gloom behind the steering

Driving past Merrick's Junkyard, The Shadow stopped and glided from his car. Moving past the tall specter

of the Pounder, which had stopped work for the night, The Shadow halted as he heard the muffled thud of

earth, to the accompaniment of rattling metal. In the moonlight, The Shadow saw Chet Conroy, shoveling dirt

Another black mark against Chet, this burying of valuable evidence. To The Shadow, however, such marks

were to Chet's credit. Framed as he had been, everything that Chet might say or do would be used against

him. The crooks had provided for that outcome. The mere fact that Chet was burying something, stood as

proof that enemies were still hounding him, even though Chet might not suspect it.

Big headlights glared suddenly across the junkyard. Dodging them, Chet circled to the shack, to gain a close

view of a truck that had just arrived. Following with his inimitable glide, The Shadow saw Chet step up to

talk to Joan. The truck driver was chatting with James Merrick and from a distance The Shadow noted the

The Shadow had heard of Alliance. It was one of the companies handling shipments from the United

Recovery plant. This truck was hurrying a junk delivery to get back on the rubber route. It would be late, but

that didn't matter to The Shadow. It was his intention to do some checking of his own by picking up the trail

of inbound trucks. This truck was particularly suited to The Shadow's requirements.

Entering the shack, The Shadow found a telephone. Calling the United Recovery factory, The Shadow used

the calm tone of Cranston and asked for a man named Vincent. Then, in whispered tones, The Shadow gave

Meanwhile, the Alliance truck had unloaded. Joan had left Chet to rejoin her father. Peering intently, Chet

was hoping for a good glimpse at the truck driver and he finally gained one. Etched against the glow from the

It all added up swiftly. Dorgan, supplying the black market with Pyrolac, getting rid of discarded cans in

Merrick's Junkyard. Now Dorgan again, bound for United Recovery, to pick up a shipment of rejuvenated

rubber. This was a ride that Chet intended to take for himself, regardless of the cost!

As the truck wheeled around, containing only Dorgan and a helper, Chet made a quick sneak to the rear.

Hoisting himself over the back board, he lifted the canvas curtain and became a stowaway. Only one pair of

eyes could have spotted the waver of that canvas. Those eyes were The Shadow's. The master of darkness had

Speedily, The Shadow shifted through the junkyard, to reach his wellsecluded car before the truck had

maneuvered from the yard. It was as if night itself had become The Shadow's cloak, and that illusion grew, to

include his car as well. Without benefit of headlights, The Shadow glided his coupe in behind the big truck

Again, Chet Conroy was seeking dangerous adventure, this time as a stowaway on Dorgan's truck. Once

more, The Shadow was taking up the trail, a black trail that promised tonight to lead him to a scene where he

IN the president's office at the United Recovery plant, Harry Vincent was listening to what went on. As an

agent of The Shadow, Harry had served in numerous capacities, but being private secretary to the president of

The job had been open so Harry had taken it, at The Shadow's behest. Of course there'd been a lot of red tape,

but it was easily cut. Harry's interview with Dudley Considine, president of United Recovery, was the

clincher. Old Considine was a man of many quirks and The Shadow had learned them all. Posted on the trick

questions that his future boss would ask, Harry produced a score of ninetyeight and won the job.

Of course, Harry's personality helped. He was cleancut in appearance, and could be both keen and silent. He

gave the immediate impression of efficiency and backed it by his actions. Considine had particularly wanted

Vincent on the pay roll, after meeting him. He felt that this capable young chap would help solve the riddle

that perplexed the Feds: namely, what was going wrong with the regenerated rubber supplied by this great

So far, nobody had helped. Facing a whole board of directors, Dudley Considine gave an imitation of a

"We've made fools of ourselves!" Considine bellowed. "We've bought equipment that we don't know how to

use. Reclaiming rubber by the alkalidigestion process! Bah! It sounds like a cure of acidosis that some

"Look at what we invested in those big rollers and slashers that mangle our profits along with the old rubber.

Those autoclaves we use to stew the caustic soda; why we could have bought a whole battery of giant

"Big laundry tubs, I call them, big enough to wash up our entire business. And if washing, screening, and

drying wasn't enough, we have to use those big rolling mills to flatten the rubber into sheets that aren't any

good. This isn't a rubber factory, it's a laundry, right from tubs to clothes wringers, on a scale so big it isn't

Nobody could dispute Considine's point. His listeners were quite inclined to agree. Noting it, the war horse

"Let's scrap the whole works. We'll switch to a process that we understand. Reclaimed rubber can be

redispersed when mixed with hydrophilic colloids: glue, soap, even clay. Artificial latex has plenty of

Protests came from the directors in bellows as loud as Considine's. This would be limiting the market,

delaying production and decreasing output. There was the cost of scrapping one whole setup of machinery

to install another. They couldn't see Considine's argument that anything would be better than something that

"Go through the plant, Vincent," he said wearily, to Harry. "See if our brain committee has gotten over its

By the "brain committee" Considine meant certain experts who still insisted that United Recovery was

turning out good rubber when it wasn't. It was hardly necessary for Harry to interview those experts; they'd

still argue the same point. Considine was sending Harry just as a sop to the directors, and Harry was

Harry had just time to get out through one door before Marquette entered by the other.

THEY were acquainted: The Shadow's agent and the F.B.I. man. On good terms, too, for Vic had more than

an idea that Harry's boss was The Shadow. That was just the trouble; The Shadow didn't want his hand to be

recognized at the United Recovery factory until he'd learned what was really wrong there.

And The Shadow had set this evening as his own deadline on the proposition. He didn't want chance

interference from anyone, not even Marquette. Harry maneuvered his quick departure so Vic wouldn't know

Going through the big factory, Harry ignored the huge manglers and colossal vats called autoclaves.

Mammoth contrivances, those, but Harry felt that United Recovery was overmechanized, which was why

the reason for the rubber failure remained so elusive. Fact was, the rush and roar of the mammoth process

was bound to turn out some batches of poor goods. Hence the blame for a bigger percentage kept bounding

Yet the experts had checked and rechecked, without finding why a five percent margin of loss should have

climbed up close to ninety. It looked like another case of the Pyrolac type, which was classed as an inside job.

That was why Harry went out through a door and followed the line of the loading platform, which was long

enough to be the deck of a large troopship. Freight cars were lined beside the platform, all empties. Workers

were finishing their task of carrying the raw goods to the storage room beyond the freight platform.

Harry saw the storage room as he went by. It looked like an airplane hanger. There was a mountain of old

rubber inside it and the rest was going to that stock pile. Some of the fresh lot looked comparatively new and

Harry noted that some batches of worn tires had been dusted with powdered talc, so there would be no

BEYOND the storage hangar, Harry found the department that he really wanted. This was the trucker's

platform, beside it were towering piles of thick sheet rubber, ready to be shipped. The brain committee was

holding session while bored truck drivers looked on, wondering what all the technical terms meant. At last

the word was given to load and the truckers pounced upon the stacks of rubber like beetles biting into leaves.

Nothing wrong so far. The trucks were being loaded in record time, by a few dozen men who looked anxious

to earn their honest dollars as swiftly as they could. They were all here, the Alliance Motor Express and other

One Alliance truck was missing; it was probably late. But out near the fringe of the loading yard, Harry saw

an independent truck, a newcomer tonight. The Shadow had told Harry to be on the lookout for it. Going over

The driver's chiseled face traced a grin, something unusual for Cliff Marsland. He was pokerfaced to the

extreme, this sockandrock'em chap, who, like Harry, was an agent of The Shadow. In the truck with Cliff

were some others who could give a real account when needed, as might be the case tonight. The only one

who happened to be in sight with Cliff was a wiry reporter named Clyde Burke, who was likewise to be an

"I brought these papers from the office." Harry thrust them into Cliff's fist. "They're official, so you've got as

much right as anybody to shove up to that truck platform. You're supposed to get a load of rubber with

"You mean if they go wrong," rejoined Cliff in hardset tone. "The chief said we might find trouble tonight.

We're here to take it when it comes. Our attitude is if it does come, things will be going right."

"That's a good slant to take," conceded Harry. "All right, Cliff, move up. If things get tough, remember the

INSTANTLY events proved that The Shadow had laid his finger on the source of trouble with the rubber

shipments. Crime's hand was forced the moment the independent truck shoved up to take a load. However,

Instead, they ganged up in trucker's fashion. One truck poked in from an angle so its driver could complain

about a dented fender. Another purposely neglected to use his own brakes; banging the rear of Cliff's truck,

he jumped out to argue that the blame was Cliff's. Others sprang into the picture, to take sides with the gang.

Arguing that Cliff was in the wrong, they told him to get his crate out of the line. They wanted to see his

papers and when Cliff showed them, he was told they weren't in order. Truckers yelled at loaders to ignore

Cliff's truck and pile shipments into others that stood farther back. All the while, Cliff rode the tempest

That settled it. Since Cliff wasn't going to move his truck, they'd do it for him. Truckers began to climb on

board. Cliff swung from behind the wheel and met them with punches. When foemen popped up with

monkey wrenches, Clyde produced a pair of the same appliances, handing one wrench to Cliff.

From the platform, Harry saw three husky truckmen pile into the rear of Cliff's van, but it wasn't necessary to

shout a warning. The trio came flying out, as though a battery of mules had kicked them. Right then, Harry

expected the alleged truckers to show themselves up for what they were, a crowd of crooks. But they were

Instead, one waved a signal that only Harry saw. From in and around the trucks piled a crew of men in

overalls. They'd come with the trucks, but they were garbed to look like workers in the rubber factory. They

Dropping behind the last few piles of rubber, Harry sparked a signal to Cliff and his companions. Harry's

signal was the opening shot; he delivered it with an automatic that he pulled from his hip. Harry aimed above

the heads of a crooked crew, just as a warning, but he might as well have used a bean shooter for that

Thanks to Harry's touchoff, The Shadow's agents were as quick with their guns as the crooks. But they

should have sprung from the truck before they started shooting. Recognizing it, Cliff was shouting for

everybody to jump out on the one side that offered a quick exit. The Shadow's agents would still have been

What prevented them was an arriving truck that bore the name of Alliance Motor Express. Its driver,

wheeling in through the gate, guessed exactly what was happening, and countermanded it. That driver was

Skewing hard, Dorgan's truck sideswiped Cliff's, covering it completely. Forced to an exit on the other side,

The Shadow's agents were faced by a gamut of guns, wielded by crooks who had scrambled to the loading

platform like a batch of monkeys. Harry was springing forward, hoping to clip a few when he was spotted by

Cliff turned to give the order for an outward lunge; he was willing to be its spearhead, though it meant sure

death, in the face of those gathering guns. Sure death, perhaps, for others in Cliff's compact crew. If ever The

That was why he delivered his famous laugh, a challenge to all men of crime. It explained, too, why The

Shadow did not stay in his favored element of darkness. Turning as they heard his defy, the crooks saw The

Shadow, wheeling in from the blackness outside the loading yard, into the glow of lights from along the truck

It was suicidal, that sortie by The Shadow. He was delivering more than challenge; he was giving the crooks

their opportunity. The Shadow, master foe of crime, was tossing himself to the wolf pack. At such a moment,

Even the pair who were suppressing Harry forgot him as a foe and wheeled to aim at the blackclad target

below the platform. To Harry's strained eyes, the whole platform glittered with a horrifying brilliance, the

sparkle of two dozen guns, swinging as a single weapon that their muzzles might blast in concert.

Guns converging upon a single target, ready to voice a unanimous roar that would say, not in words, but

TWO guns stabbed from the loading yard, the opening shots in this fray where massed strife threatened

permanent disposal of an individual. Harry recognized The Shadow's guns; they were beating all others to the

Harry was swinging his own gun for a thug's head, to add one to The Shadow's score. At least it would help

toward vengeance. For as Harry swung, he heard The Shadow's automatics speak again, only to be drowned

So Harry thought, as his swing landed home, staggering one crook as the fellow fired. He'd packed it hard,

that swing, still it shouldn't have shaken the platform the way it did. Wheeling about to look for another head,

Crooks by the dozen were sprawling in tune with Harry's stroke, but he wasn't the cause of it. He'd accounted

for one; others had taken the rest. With the first bursts of The Shadow's guns, the side of Cliff's truck had

Along with Cliff and Clyde were two others. One was Miles Crofton, a capable fighter who had often served

The Shadow. Another was Hawkeye, a pintsized fellow who acted as Cliff's sidekick. But size wasn't the

real index to Hawkeye's fighting quality, unless his half quart was measured in terms of wild cats.

They came with a surge, those four, each slugging down a crook and then going after more. Their attack was

in the nature of a complete surprise. Seeing only two men in the truck, the crooks hadn't expected a thrust

The fifth man supplied the rest. He was the other fork of the V and he packed the power of a flying wedge.

He was a giant African named Jericho Druke, whose ways of battle were unique. It was Jericho who had

ejected three invaders from the back of the truck; now, in the open, he was showing how he could duplicate a

Jericho didn't bother with guns. They would have handicapped him, because he preferred bludgeons. The

clubs he used were crooks themselves. As he launched from the truck, this modern Goliath plucked a foeman

with each giant hand and used them to bash two others. Through with those human weapons he flung them

The Shadow was counting on such titanic assistance. Shifting as he fired, he winged his nearest enemies,

chopping down four before they could shoot back. With Jericho cutting a giant's swath through the next batch

and the other agents blocking out the gang beyond, The Shadow was nearly out of range of the volley that

Before other crooks could gain a bead on him, The Shadow was gone, somewhere among the maze of trucks.

Having diverted the attack from his agents, he was letting them return the favor, which they were now

qualified to do. In the midst of the crooked crew, the agents were slugging right and left.

The only danger lay from closerange shots, but Jericho was settling that problem. Plowing into the throng,

the human juggernaut snatched up his favorite weapons and slung them ahead of him. It was crook against

The crooks broke and fled. Even the cripples among them managed to get going. Those who turned to fire

back were forestalled anew by The Shadow. He'd reached a new angle and was opening fire, changing shelter

Foemen were dodging everywhere, toward the freight shed, the storage hanger, even into the factory. Their

hope was to lose themselves among the workers, being disguised as such. After that fleeing tribe trailed a

SO utter was the rout that it seemed impossible for the crooks to stage a comeback. They'd shown their hand

and failed to make it good. Crime was cracking apart, with little to be done about it. So little, that the crooks

The scattered strongarm squad had at least diverted suspicion from the truckers, so far as the witnesses

around the factory were concerned. So the truckers decided to clear the premises in a hurry. They wheeled

from the yard in mad procession, giving an excellent imitation of honest men alarmed by some pressing

danger. Naturally, The Shadow and his agents weren't bluffed by the procedure, but it produced unfortunate

In clearing the yard, the trucks left The Shadow in the open. Likewise a few batches of hiding crooks were

disclosed. The Shadow hadn't seen those stragglers circle back to the shelter of the trucks, so for the first

Fortunately, they lacked full numbers; moreover, they gave themselves away. Two shots barked in quick

succession, both delivered by hasty marksmen anxious to take credit for disposing of The Shadow. Because

of their hurry, both missed; by then, The Shadow was wheeling away from the rest, employing his quick

This time The Shadow took to the platform. Cliff's truck proved an excellent barricade, it's only fault being

that the agents still were around it. They'd done their part in a closerange slugfest and The Shadow didn't

want them clipped by stray shots. Between his gun stabs he gestured them back into the truck, with a final

Cliff put it in motion, fast. Zooming from between the platform and Dorgan's stalled truck, Cliff cut a circle

through the yard and out the gate, sending the crooks to another scatter. Outside the factory grounds, he

Dropping into the gap that Cliff's truck had left, The Shadow revolved like a mechanized turret and used

bullets to ward off thrusts from both directions. Hearing new shouts from the platform, he whirled around the

DORGAN and another man were yelling for the company guards. Smartly, Dorgan was trying to cover for

the other truckers. Bringing in the guards was smart work, too, for when they saw The Shadow, they'd

mistake him for the source of all the trouble. Evidently Dorgan had a good idea of what had happened at the

Pyrolac plant, though he'd been in the Crooked Junction tunnel on that occasion.

Hearing Dorgan's shouts, a few crooks near the truck lunged desperately to halt The Shadow. They met him,

even though they couldn't see him, in the gloom behind the truck. Clutching living blackness, they tried to

hammer it against the truck back, which wasn't pleasant for The Shadow, even though he was twisting from

He was Chet Conroy, leaping out from Dorgan's truck, where he'd been hidden all along. Chet landed

headfirst among The Shadow's attackers, swinging for their heads with the borrowed gun he still carried. If

anything, Chet's sluggery helped better than The Shadow wanted. Given time, The Shadow could have

conquered his disorganized assailants and kept them where they were, in which case he'd have shifted blame

But Chet's arrival was too much. To the crooks he seemed something that The Shadow had conjured from

nowhere. Remembering Jericho, the crooks didn't wait to see if they were dealing with another giant. They

Now The Shadow had a real problem on his hands. There wasn't time to get Chet back into Dorgan's truck,

for guards were already on the scene. To have Chet found or even recognized, would label him as guilty in

another case of alleged sabotage. The only course was to get him elsewhere, which The Shadow did, although

Shoving Chet along the overhanging platform, The Shadow turned him past a flight of steps, where Harry,

coming from behind the last piles of newmade rubber, took charge of Chet to talk sense into him. Reversing

his course, The Shadow cut across the broad paved court, drawing a flurried fire from the misguided guards.

GONE briefly from sight, The Shadow was spotted anew, near the great storage building. Shouts and gunfire

told that real workers had joined with the false, to hunt the cloaked trouble maker who was getting blamed for

Things would work out all right. The Shadow would lead them all a wild chase, then reverse his course and

keep a rendezvous with Cliff in the waiting truck. Such was the order of things as Harry had relayed them

Harry simply said that The Shadow could handle matters best if left alone and the logic impressed Chet. But

there was something happening on the platform that didn't please Chet at all. Dorgan, his helper, and some of

the factory hands were loading the Alliance truck with the last consignment of rejuvenated rubber.

"That's Dorgan!" Chet exclaimed to Harry, pointing the big man out. "He's the fellow who superintends the

Chet caught himself. Maybe he was telling too much to this new friend. At least Harry didn't seem inclined to

do anything about it, so Chet did on his own. Hopping to the platform, he pulled his cap down over his eyes

Hurrying around the platform edge, Harry was just in time to see Chet and Dorgan's helper heaving the last

batch of rubber into the rear of the truck. The helper made a gesture and before Harry could draw his

automatic, a revolver swung from the rear corner of the truck to clip Chet a glancing blow.

Dorgan was the swinger. The helper gestured as Chet slumped, but Dorgan shook his head. They weren't

taking Chet for a ride. It was better to leave him here, where he would be found and recognized. Nothing

Chet might say would be believed, if the Feds linked him with the present case of crime.

As soon as Dorgan and the helper went to the front of the truck, Harry acted on his own. His theory was that

whatever Dorgan wanted, the opposite was preferable. Reaching Chet, Harry brought him to his feet and

boosted him into the rear of the truck. Though dazed, Chet had enough strength to help. He rolled across the

back board and among the stacks of rubber. As the truck started, Harry hoisted himself in with Chet.

Looking back, Harry saw a few gun stabs from near the storage building. Men were darting out from the

hangar as though The Shadow had uncovered them. There were flickers of flame, a curl of grimy smoke. The

To Harry, it seemed that the fire would prove helpful. Workers would have to fight it, thus The Shadow's

getaway would be simplified. But The Shadow, closer to the scene, saw something that foreboded huge

From among those flames came brilliant spurts, white light that was almost blinding. One flare lit up a stock

pile of old tires coated with the grayish stuff that Harry had supposed was talc; a moment later, that heap was

GENUINE workers were rushing toward the great shed, to fight the fire. They'd forgotten The Shadow when

he suddenly arrived to intercept them, a weird figure in black, against the rising flame. His laugh was more

than a taunt; it carried sinister mockery. There was viciousness in the way the cloaked fighter brandished his

Men scurried for safety from the cloaked fighter whose wrath seemed wholly evil. Guards began to shoot,

without questioning the workers who were gunning along beside them. The workers shouldn't have been

Singularly, The Shadow's rapid fire clipped those very workers, but not the guards. It simply happened that

The Shadow was weeding out the disguised crooks from the men who really belonged here. But that only

made his case look worse. Even Vic Marquette, arriving at that moment, could not understand The Shadow's

actions. Apparently The Shadow was favoring crime in letting the fire in the storage building continue

unmolested. If so, he would pay the penalty for his rash mood. The guards, driven desperate by the sight of

They were bearing down upon The Shadow, a dozen of them, all shooting at his weaving figure. All that

saved the cloaked fighter was the dazzling light behind him. New bursts of magnesium were making it

impossible for the guards to clip their target until they were almost within reach of him. Then The Shadow

flung himself into their very midst, literally against the muzzles that were ready to blaze!

Not even The Shadow could have survived the blast had guns supplied it. But the guards didn't produce that

The mighty puff came from the storage building. A whole display of pyrotechnics seemed to spout at once. In

a dazzle that made daylight pallid, the stock piles lifted and flung themselves through the bursting walls of

The fire had reached the main heap of magnesiumsprinkled rubber. It blew like an ammunition dump

receiving an incendiary bomb. The roof lifted and came down to smother the blinding display, that left men

Not a gun talked. The guards had dropped them, which was well. Otherwise they would have slain the very

person who had prevented them from reaching the blaze of doom, where rescue would have proven

impossible. They owed their lives to The Shadow, but he wasn't around to be thanked for it.

When blinking men could see again, they looked toward the blazing doorway from which they had reeled. All

they saw was the holocaust that could now be battled, since the magnesium menace had finished its share of

Yet amid the roar of flames, the crash of masonry, and the metallic clang of falling girders, a strange tone

ROARING steadily along the highway, Dorgan's truck was catching up with the caravan ahead. It was

making such good time that Harry had lost sight of the blaze back at the rubber factory before the magnesium

But the final flare, rising like a sunburst above the slopes, told too fully of disaster. How The Shadow had

fared; whether he'd been able to save unwary men from doom, were questions that could only be answered

Meanwhile, however, Harry felt that same urge for vengeance that had gripped him earlier. Just in case

something had overwhelmed his chief, Harry would have liked to take it out on Dorgan. He desisted for two

Chet was coming around nicely. The blow on the head had slowed him, without stopping him. He was sitting

up among the rubber piles and he nodded when Harry whispered for silence. Asking Chet if he knew where

There were trucks ahead, for Dorgan was easing speed. Soon they were following the caravan at its proper

speed of slightly under forty miles an hour. Trust these crooks to obey the rules of the road! That was part of

They'd grown bolder since Chet first met them. Then, they'd worked secretly from their tunnel at Crooked

Junction. Now, they'd taken over the trucking trade, in a seemingly legitimate style. Clever business, this, a

bunch of crooks mooching in as drivers for smaller trucking companies and inserting themselves one hundred

In fact, it was too clever for these fellows. Whatever the thing behind it was, whether a huge black market

scheme, or some other swindle, Harry was sure that a bigger brain than Dorgan's was behind it, although he

Even the things that already happened were proof of that fact. But there must be more to it than the mere

delivery of rubber shipments. Just as Pyrolac had been diverted, so would the cargoes carried by these trucks.

Such were the thoughts that Harry and Chet held, without needing to exchange opinions verbally.

The trucks pulled to a stop. Both Harry and Chet were eager to learn what happened. They soon found out;

this was the first of the checking stations that Marquette had established. The trucks were being passed

through. Evidently a call had been dispatched from United Recovery, giving the time that the trucks left.

Harry nudged Chet to lay low, on the assumption that an inspection would be made. But the Feds were

merely chiding Dorgan for having caught up so soon. He apologized for the speed he'd shown. He said he'd

lost his place in line. He belonged ahead with the other trucks belonging to Alliance Motor Express.

So Dorgan was forwarded to his proper place. There was just one other point to be noted. The Feds didn't call

Dorgan by his right name. They called him Kilgare. Evidently that was the name on the license card that

The Feds were very efficient. As the trucks moved along, each one was tallied by its license number. Harry

and Chet heard Dorgan's called aloud, also the exact time at which it left this checking station. Then the

IT was a hilly road, with long, sweeping curves that cut down the grades. At intervals, Harry and Chet took

turns peering through the canvas curtain to see how the rest of the caravan was coming. At the bends, it was

easy to see the sides of the trucks in back, even to read their boldly painted names in the increasing

Finishing a look through the canvas rear, Chet leaned back against the rubber stack and rubbed his head. He

"I'm feeling better," said Chet. "I can read things in the moonlight. Of course, when you know what you're

"Like Alliance Motor Express," replied Chet. "There's another of their wagons right in back of us."

"It can't be," he said. "They put Dorgan at the tail end of the Alliance outfit. That truck in back of us belongs

"We must have passed one of our own bunch," decided Chet. "If you don't believe me, look. Wait, though,

"You can't be feeling better," he argued. "You just gave me the number of this truck. We both heard the Feds

Chet was seeing things all right. So was Harry, when he took a look. Chet hadn't misinformed him. Big as

life, an Alliance truck was next in line and its license plate was identical with Dorgan's!"

A long, continued curve revived Harry's wits. It gave him a view of the line of trucks, far back. The caravan

had increased in number; in fact, by Harry's calculations it had about doubled its length. Dropping the canvas

"I've got it! Some other trucks have been sandwiching into the line, from some of these side roads. We were

keeping the right distance apart to make it easy. Another truck for every one in the caravan and each new job

"Even to the license number!" added Chet. "Like the freightcar proposition. Only this is being handled while

they're on the move and being timed, at that. But what happens when we hit the next checking station?"

"We won't hit it," rejoined Harry, emphatically. "Before that, we'll be on a road to nowhere."

Harry was right. Before the long curve ended, Dorgan's truck went straight. A slight jounce was the giveaway

that it had left the main road. From the curtain, Harry and Chet saw that they were taking a dirt road. But the

In regular procession, the following trucks did the same. Alternately, they chose dirt and concrete. For a few

miles, perhaps less, the steadymoving caravan had been doubled; now it was returning to normal and would

A whole set of different trucks, yet to all appearances the same. The original caravan, carrying its shipments

of goodgrade rubber, had been replaced by another line of trucks, all carrying the inferior product that had

"What a highjack job!" exclaimed Harry. "Why, this shipment rates close to sixty thousand dollars. That

"Less than a tenth," corrected Chet. "You know what this load is? It's spoilage from a dozen plants like

"You've hit it!" exclaimed Harry. "These truckers have been picking up the rejects and substituting them for

the product of United Recovery. That's what has fooled the experts. They can't understand what's wrong

because the stuff has really been reprocessed. It looks like rubber, feels like rubber, and smells "

The truck was jouncing on its road to nowhere. The speed was so reduced that at moments the caravan

seemed ready to stop. During that tense period, Harry and Chet undertoned further facts that occurred to

CRIME'S game was simple to review. The black market was definitely behind it, though who managed the

black market was another question. Certainly Dorgan was nothing more than the chief stooge in the racket.

The name of Merrick was in Chet's mind. But he could hardly bring himself to believe that Joan's father

would be the kingpin in such an ugly game. Still, Merrick's plea of poverty, his lack of all normal business

sense, could be his way of covering his real activities. This, however, was something that Chet could not

fairly judge, considering how Joan had befriended him. Tactfully, Chet switched to the subject of the black

That hidden octopus had scored heavily in the case of Pyrolac. Dozens of huge consignments had been

diverted before criminals had found it expedient to fake the thing as sabotage and pin the blame on Chet. All

the while, those same insidious hands had been grasping into another business, robbing United Recovery of

Vicious business, this, creating huge, hidden stores of valuable products needed in the war effort. And even

now, the same tentacles that had loosened their grasp in two directions, were probably probing in a third or

more! For all that Chet and Harry knew, other great industries might be suffering from the same insidious

thievery that nonplused legitimate operators in the fields of synthetic lacquer and reprocessed rubber!

That was indeed a mystery, quite as great as the riddle of how and when the black market intended to peddle

its illicit spoils. Perhaps The Shadow could solve the deepeyed game. As for Chet and Harry, the thought of

"where next?" concerned them in a very personal way. Their talk of the black market switched to their own

situation; the plans they would have to make when they reached the end of this strange ride in a caravan of

MEANWHILE, the substituted caravan was pulling into the second checking station right on time. Since its

line of trucks matched those that had taken the jouncy route, the ruse defied detection. At the checking

station, the drivers showed license cards which bore their names and photographs. The pictures of course

What thoroughly satisfied the inspecting Feds was the fact that the trucks arrived on schedule. One thing was

certain: the distance between the checking stations was too short to allow for any funny work, without a

corresponding delay. However, the Feds had orders to hold the caravan on this trip.

That point was noted by the occupants of a truck parked on a paved side road. The Shadow was with his

agents in the truck that Cliff was using. Having reached it after the magnesium blast, he had ordered a

shortcut ride over the hills to intercept the heavyladen caravan which would necessarily take the longer but

Cliff had pulled the truck into a deep space beside the road, so it was properly out of sight. Beside the driver's

seat, The Shadow was listening to conversation in the back. Clyde and Hawkeye were discussing the first

"Was Cliff good?" queried Clyde. "I'll say he was. He didn't need the wrench I handed him. His fist was

"You're telling me," put in Hawkeye. "He pokes them in the eye, that's what. If they can't see, they can't

"He did it double in spades tonight," claimed Clyde. "He laid one wallop right between a bruiser's eyes and

The Shadow spoke for silence. A car was humming in from the short road. It passed the truck and halted.

Cliff turned to speak to The Shadow, only to find that his chief was gone again.

The arriving car brought Vic Marquette. He held a conference with the Feds and insisted that the drivers

leave their trucks in order to be fully identified. While that was going on, blackness hovered close behind the

Feds, its background the bushes that fringed the highway. The Shadow was studying faces, though he didn't

The inspection ended, Marquette sent the caravan along. By then, The Shadow had returned to Cliff's truck

and it was coasting from the turnout. Before the truck reached the bottom of the hill, The Shadow had

The truck came to a halt. The Shadow showed the map to Cliff and beckoned for the other agents to peer

across his shoulder. The map showed an old side road to which The Shadow pointed. Along with roads, the

map had contours, denoting elevations. Those curves thickened on both sides of the road in question,

"A road that leads to nowhere," spoke The Shadow. "On its way, it enters a ravine. I shall take the short route

that the map shows, but the grades would be too heavy for the truck to reach the higher ground."

"I can get around to that lower road," said Cliff. "Straight through the ravine, chief."

"That will be satisfactory." The Shadow turned to Jericho, and remarked. "You brought the crate, of course.

Jericho grinned and nodded. He went to the rear of the truck to unload the crate in question. Meanwhile The

"My compliments," said The Shadow. "To you, Marsland, for doing it; to you, Burke, for remembering."

"I have just seen all the truck drivers," informed The Shadow, his tone carrying the trace of a cryptic laugh.

By a single, personalized clue, The Shadow had cracked the game as it stood to date. He hadn't needed to ride

along in one of the diverted trucks like Chet and Harry. That one clue gave him the whole story of the

highjacking activities used by the crooks who served an unknown master who in turn represented the black

There were limitations to the game and The Shadow recognized them. Confident that trucks had been

switched, as freight cars had been before, The Shadow knew from his map the only route that the original

His task was to intercept that line of crookmanned vehicles, deal a smashing blow at crime, and seek further

HIGH, craggy walls were rising on both sides of the narrow road that Dorgan's trucks had taken. Along this

forgotten byway, the lost caravan was safe from observation. The best proof was that the system of

interchanging trucks had been working regularly, with United Recovery as the victim.

Detailed maps, of the sort The Shadow favored, showed certain features of this gully road. First, how the

grade stayed level, making the first byway suitable to burdened trucks; again, the map revealed a widening of

the ravine at its deepest point, perfect spot for trucks to turn about, or be hidden off the road.

Beyond the narrow valley, this road crossed another that led back along the highway toward the rubber

factory. By taking the roundabout route, trucks could be waiting for the caravan to pass and thus replace

them, leaving the road into the ravine wide open for the original vehicles to take.

Thus the map told the whole story to anyone who suspected the truth. But while The Shadow was building

his information from a slender clue and taking steps to follow it, Harry and Chet were gaining firsthand

From Dorgan's truck, the stowaways could hear the lowthrottled motors echoing from rocky walls, proving

that the road was hemmed in closely. When those echoes ended, it was obvious that the ravine had widened.

Fake truckers began to unload rapidly. They started with the trucks up ahead, which gave Harry and Chet

several minutes of grace. Suspecting what was going on, the stowaways slid from the back of the truck and

Shaped like a bowl, the bottom of the ravine was well stocked with trees, except where slashes were cut

through the woods to make parking places for the trucks. Here one caravan remained while the other picked

up a load at the rubber factory; a switch and the second caravan waited for another night.

Duplicate trucks, like duplicate freight cars, but in this case the game was easier, fully arranged in advance.

Always one set of trucks on the road, another ready to replace it. Already, Harry and Chet had seen such

A row of great, bulky moving vans were waiting at the rendezvous. Though a smaller fleet they were more

imposing than the trucks. Their sides were solid, but covered with painted cloth that hid the name of the

It was into these great vans that the rubber shipments were being transferred, the capacity of the storage

"There's a new angle," muttered Chet. "Funny, though, why they need those big babies when they've got so

"Simple enough," returned Harry. "They can't risk using the duplicate trucks on the open road. Those vans

bring the reject rubber here and take the good material away. Nobody would look for rubber shipments in

"They'll come back again," continued Harry, "with another load of castoff rubber "

"Hold it," put in Chet. "You're getting ahead of yourself, the way I did at Crooked Junction. That's what I

thought would happen. I let things cool for a whole day before I saw Thorneau and had him tip off the Feds.

"But Dorgan's crowd was one move ahead. They'd taken their final payoff the night I was there. I was just

dumb enough not to realize that they couldn't keep on with the racket after all the fuss they'd raised at the

Considering Chet's argument, Harry saw its present application. There'd been plenty of commotion at the

rubber factory, this evening. Again, crooks were playing the system of making things look like an inside job.

They hadn't made anyone the goat, as in Chet's case, but the symptoms were the same. The fire that the

"We'd be suckers if we simply sneaked out of here," declared Chet bitterly. "Suppose we went back and

tipped off the Feds to this setup. By the time they got here, there wouldn't be enough evidence to prove

"This gang of Dorgan's covered up the tunnel business. It will be a cinch for them to clean up this layout.

What I should have done was stick with the lacquer shipment. So I'm going along with the rubber. Want to

For answer, Harry edged from the trees. Having won his point, Chet was quite willing to follow his new

friend's lead. Together they neared the vans, just as the rapid loading was being completed.

Men were slapping the big vans shut. There wasn't any chance of crawling into those vehicles as with the

trucks. The back doors were huge, but solid; too many men were on hand for Harry and Chet to try cracking

into the vans. Gloomily, they watched the huge vehicles lumber away, off through the other end of the ravine.

Harry grunted his corroboration. He'd seen Dorgan climb into the leading van. Turning around, Harry noted

that the remaining truckers were starting to smooth the traces of this rendezvous. Some were rolling large

stones into the cleared spaces; others were bringing loose brushwood to scatter in the proper places.

As a final touch, men moved into sight with undersized trees and large bushes that had dirt clinging to their

roots. They were actually going to plant those items in holes already due for them!

"Back to the truck," suggested Harry, in an undertone. "We'll stick with these fellows, anyway. They're the

HIGH above the ravine, a motorcycle was cutting off its motor. This twowheeled speedster was the vehicle

that The Shadow had chosen for his shortcut trip. It was the thing that Jericho had uncrated at The Shadow's

In scaling a narrow road to these heights, The Shadow had let the motor roar its utmost, but in nearing the

brink, he'd chosen a coasting course. Now, picking his route by a light that was almost negligible, The

Shadow was silently inviting disaster by the way he wangled his machine toward the brow of the deep gully.

Having gauged the distance on the map, The Shadow was estimating it in actuality, confident that he'd stop

short of the brink. His whispered laugh denoted satisfaction as he chopped the cycle to a stop. At that very

Where all looked solid in the darkness just ahead, The Shadow saw the twinkle of bobbing lights that might

have been the lanterns of gnomes, prowling deep in the earth. The Shadow was right at the edge of the ravine;

the little lights were moving in its depth. The crooks were at the rendezvous where The Shadow had expected

Parking the motorcycle, The Shadow moved forward, picking his way uncannily in the dark. It seemed for

the moment that ground was moving ahead of him, for he was past the brink where he had stopped. Then,

reaching forward, The Shadow placed his hands upon a jagged mass of stone. It was a great rock, jutting out

The Shadow had noted that blocking mass upon the gully's fringe. He leaned his weight against it, to gain a

better look below. As The Shadow did, the great rock trembled. Seemingly it was on a balance point,

otherwise it wouldn't have wavered under human pressure. But The Shadow held his ground, confident that

It would take more than mere pressure to dislodge that mass of stone. Moving sideward, The Shadow kept his

footing on the turf in which the rock was rooted and gained the view he wanted. Moving lights were

producing a kaleidoscopic effect, as though they were being blinked; but there was no reason for the crooks

The answer, therefore, was that trees lay between. Thin trees, scrawny saplings, down the ravine's steep

slope. Passing beyond that maze of trunks, the lights naturally seemed to be twinkling off and on. They were

flashlights, which proved that men were busy with some task. Their work was almost over, for some of the

lights disappeared into blank blackness only to reappear again. Correctly, The Shadow surmised that the men

Lights gave a sudden bob. Then, in the time it took for sound to carry, The Shadow heard excited shouts.

Amid the calls, big headlights flashed from several directions. Although the trees gave the scene an oddly

The crooks had discovered two men hiding in a truck. Out from cover, the fugitives were racing through the

ravine. Shots spurted from behind them, but the pair kept on. They reached a mound of earth that looked

much like an ant hill and flung themselves beyond it, to return the fire. Though too tiny for The Shadow to

identify, he knew that those two figures must represent Harry Vincent and Chet Conroy.

THOUGH Harry and Chet had escaped the first fusillade, they were trapped. Wary gunners, skilled in this

sort of fray, were peppering the beleaguered pair from the shelter of the trucks, drawing all the shots that

Then, knowing that a mass attack was ripe, the crooks rose in one accord to charge across the open ground.

The Shadow could have stopped them, had he been below, but this eminence that gave him a bird'seye

The range was too distant to deliver a telling fire. Moreover, the intervening trees were so numerous that they

formed a curtain against gunshots from above. Had The Shadow delivered the entire output of his automatics,

It was a rocky snare, that bowl below, an amphitheater wherein a drama of death was rising to swift climax.

The Shadow, whose hand alone could stay the tragedy, was relegated to the role of spectator, unless he could

Guns couldn't turn the tide. The Shadow needed a titanic weapon. He seized one, on the instant. Lunging

forward, upward, the cloaked fighter threw his weight anew upon the projecting rock; but this time he chose

The force of The Shadow's lunge, the fling of his entire weight at once, plus the leverage gained by applying

that drive to the far end of the rock these were the elements that produced the needed result.

Quivering to its earthbound base, the jagged projection wavered; then gave. Perched upon the outer peak, The

Shadow was like a clinging beetle, clawing at a pebble brushed from a window ledge. He was toppling into a

A suicidal effort, beside which The Shadow's recent hazards were trivial. He'd risked much in the strife back

at the rubber factory, but there he'd been dealing with human elements, not with those of nature. In launching

the brink of a precipice upon fighters below, The Shadow was writing his own ticket to disaster.

Yet, as the great rock heaved free and lurched like a missile from a giant's sling, it was accompanied by the

fierce defiance of the reckless battler who had thrown himself into the avalanche.

Along with the massive chunk of uprooted rock that tobogganed down the slope, slashing all before it, came

HALTED like toy dolls with rundown mechanism, pygmy crooks heard the crash of the battering rock as it

shattered saplings into matchwood. Splintering echoes volleyed from the walls of the craggy bowl in tune to

If he wanted death, The Shadow had chosen the right way out, for he was hurling the same destruction into

the ranks of a dozen foemen. Small comfort that the increasing roar of the stony juggernaut drowned the

Like a Samson loosing a pulverizing doom upon his enemies, The Shadow could die content. The fade of his

laugh denoted that his fate had been the first, but the mere memory of that mirth was a prophecy that the

Rooted, with guns dropping from their shaky fists, none of that clustered crew knew which way to turn. With

a speed resembling a meteor's, the great rock had swiped a flat path down the slope and was looming squarely

The rock didn't bounce. The crashing trees prevented it. Only two men in the bowl below were clear of the

horrendous missile. Those two were Harry and Chet, the men The Shadow knew that he could save, even

A cluster of larger trees was the last barrier between the crooks and the approaching rock that was proving the

law of gravity's full force. Those trees might as well have been jack straws. The jagged boulder splintered

them apart, clearing a path of carpet smoothness, except for one remaining obstacle.

The thing that intervened had not been visible until the trees were bashed away. Now it reared itself, cold and

gray, within a few dozen feet of the frozen men who were marked for the doom that they had attempted to

The rearing object was a chunky slab of granite as hard and jagged as the mighty block that was pounding

They met, the loosened missile from the cliff and the firmly imbedded shield that jutted from the earth. Stone

against stone, with a shower of sparks that skyrocketed all about. An irresistible force was striking an

immovable body and the material, hard though it was, could not stand the strain.

The loosened rock was the one that provided the momentum and took the consequences of its own rash drive.

It split cleanly in the middle and its two halves opened wide as they roared past the immovable obstacle. So

One chunk cavorted off between the trucks. The other cut a swath between the crooks and the mound where

Harry and Chet were isolated. The stroke into which The Shadow had put every ounce of his strength, was a

With the passage of the stony segments, echoes arrived from the smooth path down the steep slope. Among

them came a tone that the crooks felt could be forgotten, the fading taunt of The Shadow, the foe that they no

There was something that the crooks didn't notice in that tone; its note of singular satisfaction, more of a

The Shadow had actually catapulted himself across the brink of doom, without a possible place to gain a grip,

except upon the plunging rock itself. But nature had a habit of providing compensation to those who put its

In this instance, the compensation was the hole that the uprooted rock left behind it. In clutching space as the

rock whirled from beneath him, The Shadow had found something more. It was still space, but with an earthy

Elbowdeep, The Shadow was hanging in the gritty soil that couldn't keep its clutch upon the unbalanced

rock, but was able to support The Shadow's lesser weight. The later laugh that reached the gully was not an

Completely in the hole by then, the cloaked master was working upward, over the ledge. Pausing to look

below, he saw what looked like a corduroy road, the path that the great rock cleaved. Saplings tumbled at a

downward slant, were all pressed deep in the slope. But the lower scene did not fulfill The Shadow's

Crooks were coming from their cringe. Triumphantly they were turning to deal destruction of their own upon

two helpless men who had not gained safety through The Shadow's efforts. The crooks had reason for their

triumph. Even if The Shadow still lived, which they regarded as impossible, he couldn't reach them before

Swiftly, be sprang through the darkness, seized the motorcycle and lunged it for the edge of the ravine.

Boarding the machine as it hopped the brink, The Shadow opened the throttle wide.

Down the path hewn by the boulder, The Shadow was riding a mechanized avalanche that outstripped the

speed the rock had shown. A creature as black as night, as swift as the wind, was hurtling upon the rallying

A few minutes before, The Shadow could not have traveled that route, any more than his guns could have

found a free path of fire. But in hurling the giant rock along its way, The Shadow had not only opened a

The corduroy track of saplings was The Shadow's route to vengeance. True, there were stretches where the

slashed trees came together like a groove, but those only favored the speed The Shadow wanted. Likewise

there were gaps, where the path was carpeted with brushwood only, but the cycle cleared those without

Rocks were the only hazard and the great chunk of toppled cliff had literally skimmed such obstacles from

the path, with one exception, the jagged tooth upon which the boulder had split. But the anchored rock was

no longer hidden among a cluster of trees. The Shadow could see the obstacle that he would have to pass.

The Shadow used the proper system. Just what his speed was at the moment, no one could have judged, for

the cloaked rider was doing other things. A mere nudge of the handlebars forked the motorcycle to one side

of the blocking rock, the side toward the mound where Harry and Chet were sheltered.

Slapping the brakes as he veered, The Shadow took a swerve in the opposite direction. He banked against the

mound, the wheels kicking a shower of dirt that half buried Harry and Chet. Spun almost about by its

daredevil driver, the motorcycle completed the hairpin loop and gave another cough as The Shadow spurted it

Cut off from their prey, those killers were now confronted by a guided juggernaut compared to which the

shattered boulder seemed a mere preliminary. If they'd still been coming to the attack, The Shadow would

have hewn a new path, this time through men instead of trees. But the crooks had broken when they heard the

They couldn't match that incredible fighter, The Shadow, who not only lived when he should by rights be

dead, but topped one devastating exploit with another. The crooks fairly expected the rest of the crag to come

thundering down upon them like a tidal wave of rock. Terror had given power to their legs; they were darting

No longer loaded, the trucks were quick on the start. Like a line of mad elephants they snorted toward the

upper end of the ravine, taking the same route that Dorgan had used with the vans. The first truck was off so

soon that it bore hard upon The Shadow, as if to give him a taste of the avalanche business.

The crooks were elated when they saw The Shadow spring from the motorcycle and dive into a clump of

trees. The first truck mangled the motorcycle while guns were blazing toward the spot where the cloaked

fighter had gone. Then the rest of the trucks were hammering through, all delivering a broadside of revolver

He and Harry were safe enough behind their mound, provided that the trucks didn't stop to deal with them.

But it seemed that The Shadow was really finished. Harry knew better, for he understood his chief's tactics.

Long and strident was the mockery that came from deep amid the trees, telling men of crime that The

Shadow had countered their juggernaut scheme by using their own method of earlier protection. Having been

unable to deliver a satisfactory gunfire through screening trees, The Shadow was placing the crooks at the

Their bullets were chopping boughs and nicking trunks, nothing more. Now, with the trucks under way, The

Shadow was free to wheel from shelter and take further measures. Hard upon his laugh came the stab of his

guns as he reached the rough dirt road. But The Shadow's pursuing gunfire was nullified by a swerve that the

trucks were taking, through an angled pass that marked the outlet of the rockywalled bowl.

REACHING the motorcycle, The Shadow found it useless for immediate pursuit. The lead truck had bent it

badly; repairs would require at least a halfhour. Still, The Shadow wasn't giving up the chase. A roar was

arriving from the lower end of the ravine; with it appeared Cliff's truck, coming by the normal route.

Flinging the motorcycle toward Harry and Chet, The Shadow indicated that they could keep it and apply the

necessary repairs. Then, as Cliff's truck went ripping by, in response to The Shadow's wave, the cloaked

With one great stride, The Shadow overtook the truck, gave a mighty leap into the air, and disappeared as

though his bound had carried him at superspeed in through the open back. How The Shadow managed that

was baffling to Chet, unless the cloaked whirlwind was fitted out with springs and geared with a motor.

The giant's hands were reaching out when The Shadow made the spring. The lift that Jericho provided carried

The Shadow farther on, turning a remarkable leap into something quite stupendous. Thanks to that

catchandcarry assistance, The Shadow hadn't lost a single second in joining his crew of agents. In response

The trucks ahead ignored the dirt route that would have taken them over to the main highway. Their drivers

were determined to keep away from the rubber factory and the nests of Feds in that terrain. Reaching other

roads they scattered, hoping to outdistance The Shadow. By separating, they at least managed to limit the

Along a secondary road much like the one where Chet had raced the State police, Cliff was trailing the last of

the crookmanned trucks, gaining on it along every straight stretch. Alongside of Cliff, The Shadow was

jabbing intermittent shots to get the precise range. A few more gains and he'd be punching holes in the rear

As a warning for the crooks to halt their flight, The Shadow delivered his laugh, amid the gun spurts, but it

only spurred the fugitives to madder effort. Unable to gain along the straight road, they tried to do it on the

Cliff's headlights hit the bend in time to show the truck careen against a guard rail. Stout boards splintered,

the way The Shadow's rock had done with saplings. With a long, revolving heave, the vehicle was gone,

down a slope that was anything but gentle. Wild screams accompanied the crashes that reverberated back.

The cries died first, before the clattering was drowned by a final crash far below the brink. Silence took over

when Cliff halted his truck. With a low, grim laugh, The Shadow alighted and picked his way down past the

broken guard rail. The waiting agents could see the tiny twinkles of a sharply focused flashlight; all they

WHEN The Shadow returned, the laugh he toned was mirthless. Its knell implied that the crooks had met

their death. With him The Shadow brought a few exhibits that he had gathered during his trip, odd items that

the truck had thrown off. One was a cap, with a badge attached that belonged to the dead driver.

This and a few more souvenirs were The Shadow's only trophies of the chase. That he was satisfied, was

proven when he ordered Cliff to drive ahead. The truck pulled away, leaving blackness by the shattered guard

Empty blackness, for The Shadow had departed with his agents. Doubly empty, that darkness, for the great

gap in the rail still yawned, even though night veiled it. From below came the murmur of the passing creek,

its rippling tone a laughter of its own, as though it had caught The Shadow's mirth and understood.

The Shadow had stopped crime, but crime would still go on. It was like the progress of the creek, dammed

momentarily by the shattered truck that had obstructed it; yet The Shadow could claim more than a temporary

He was closing in on crime, this master investigator. Given another opportunity, The Shadow would deliver

doom in a permanent way, not merely to crooks, but to the black market that they represented. With such

destruction The Shadow would include the hidden head of this insidious business, once that villain could be

Where crime would strike next might still be a mystery, but that it would strike was a certainty. The

operations of the black market were too manifold to be halted overnight. Already other industries must be

feeling its insidious grip and the game would have to break eventually. The black market had gone too far,

Tonight The Shadow had gained a clue to the crooks. Perhaps, through those same events, he had gained a

If so, only The Shadow knew, but it was not his policy to tell. Rather The Shadow preferred to wait and

SOON after The Shadow's chase had begun, Harry and Chet completed repairing the motorcycle and

backtraced from the gorge. To Chet, Harry was his companion in a misery that had certain compensations.

Just as Chet was linked with the Pyrolac trouble, so did Harry appear to be connected with the complications

That was enough to make them comrades and to Chet, it was a step toward vindication. In his turn, Harry

could feel sure that people would believe his story of innocence, since Chet could tell a similar tale. At least

that was the way things added up in Chet's mind, since he had no idea that Harry was working for The

Shadow. To Chet, The Shadow was simply a mysterious avenger who played a lone, long hand, in aiding

Since Chet had found refuge at Merrick's Junkyard, he offered the same haven to Harry. In his turn, Harry

played the proper part by acting as Chet expected. When they reached the junkyard, all was quiet, so they

parked the motorcycle in the shed. Chet promised to introduce his new friend as another stranger who had

stopped off at the junkyard, where strangers were always welcome provided they were willing to work.

Newspapers carried large reports of sabotage at the United Recovery plant, but Harry Vincent did not come

in for notoriety. Somehow his name had been lost in the rush, which left him free to work around the

junkyard with none of the risk that Chet had taken. Introduced to Joan Merrick and her father, Harry was

Chet Conroy did not envy his new friend's status. Rather, he was pleased that Harry should remain

unsuspected as it made matters easier all around. Furthermore, Chet was able to turn over some outside duties

to his new assistant and could therefore give time to the work that he preferred, the experiments that he was

Constantly, Chet and Harry were keeping tally on all trucks that came to the junkyard. But in those few days,

they saw no arrivals who resembled Dorgan or any of his fellow truckers. Whether this was good or bad, was

a matter of opinion. Certainly if James Merrick happened to be the brain behind the black market, this was

the time for him to avoid all connection with it. Therefore the lack of suspicious truckers coming to the place

could be more than mere coincidence. It might be regarded as a definite precaution on Merrick's part.

Naturally Chet was still inclined to give Merrick benefit of doubt, on Joan's account. He didn't express that

point to Harry, but the latter recognized it. The giveaway was the fact that Chet was more than courteous to

Merrick whenever he met the old gentleman. As for Joan, she was doing her utmost to keep Chet in her

Limping on his cane, smiling through his beard, Merrick was beginning to view the junkyard as an industrial

"All the money you lost, dad," said the girl, "is coming back. The businesses you had to junk are paying

better than if they'd kept going. Look over there; see how the Pounder is mashing material that sells for ready

Supported between Joan and his cane, Merrick hobbled back to the miserable house he termed a mansion.

Joan left him to meet Chet near the headquarters shack. She noted that Chet was watching some trucks that

came in for a load and she wondered at the way his eyes narrowed. Observing that the trucks were manned by

"This business is showing some real profit," declared Chet. "We're going to change that hovel into a mansion

and I don't mean or else. Unless your father would prefer to buy an arsenal and turn it into a residence the

"We'll be satisfied with a new paint job," laughed Joan. "How about those chemical experiments of yours.

"They will be," assured Chet, "unless I blow up the place first. It's likely to go if I don't get back to my

Bunsen burner. There's plenty of pepper in the soup that has just begun to stew."

PUNGENT smells from the shack hurried Chet back to his work. He had just attended to a bubbling mess

when a door swung open at his elbow. Chet sidestepped to save a hydrometer jar that he was clutching. He

"How about it, Vincent," queried Chet. "Any sign of suspicious looking truckers?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," replied Harry. "I saw you looking at some out front."

"None of Dorgan's tribe among them," he said. "I'd say that the black market gang has deserted Packensaw

"Or bad," modified Harry. "Anyway, that gives me a chance to take the motorcycle for a tryout, since there's

nobody around to recognize it as The Shadow's. I've replaced the parts that gave us trouble getting back here

Swinging out from the shed, Harry snorted the motorcycle across the yard, to attract Joan's attention. He

wanted her to look and learn that Chet had hired a good repair man. Though references weren't needed at

Merrick's Junkyard, workers were expected to make good on any jobs they claimed they could handle.

It wasn't odd that Harry should be taking the motorcycle for a test, because dark was beginning to settle. It

was therefore safe for Harry to go out, even if the Feds wanted him, as they did Chet. But Harry's actions,

when he cleared the junkyard, were somewhat uncommon for anyone wanted by the law.

Harry didn't spin the motorcycle through back alleys. He kept along the main street of Packensaw, what there

was of it, in order to reach the railroad station by the shortest route. Off from the distance came the blare of a

railroad locomotive, bringing the express bound for New York. As further proof that time was short, Harry

saw the lights of an automobile speeding down the hill road that came from Thorneau's mansion.

Wheeling past the station, Harry skidded the motorcycle past some bushes beyond the platform. He was

strolling nonchalantly toward the waiting room, when the car arrived. It was Thorneau's limousine and

Harry's nonchalance was but an imitation of Cranston's leisurely perfection. Though Cranston, too, was in a

hurry, he didn't show a trace of it. He shook hands with Thorneau, thanked him for the ride, and bowed

himself away, remarking that he'd have to buy a ticket. By then, the big searchlight of the locomotive was

Only a minute or two for the contact that The Shadow wanted to make, yet he managed it without losing an

iota of his Cranston calm. He already had a ticket, so he strolled past the office, around the corner from

Thorneau's car. His keen eyes picked Harry on the instant and in the simple act of striking a cigarette lighter,

Harry simply shook his head. No further report was needed. Nothing of importance had happened at the

junkyard. Of course Harry discounted the fact that trucks other than Dorgan's had been picking up legitimate

As the locomotive hammered by, Cranston spoke, his tone the whisper of The Shadow. Odd how that

"Marquette was at Thorneau's," informed The Shadow. "He left an hour ago. Still on the rubber job and calls

it sabotage. No more trouble at the plant; the rubber is coming through in good shape. The crooks must have

doubled back to find the truck that wrecked itself the other night. They faked the truck so it wasn't recognized

That summary took twenty seconds, during which the train had stopped. Turning to step on board, The

"Keep Conroy under wraps. We can clear him more easily if he doesn't show himself. Besides, he may be

needed when the test comes. We were too late with lacquer and rubber, but we'll be ahead of the next case

The train was starting and Cranston was on the step. Almost forgetting that this leisurely individual was his

cryptic chief, The Shadow, Harry jogged along beside the moving train. and exclaimed:

That one word was enough. As the train clattered across the grade crossing, Harry turned back toward the

place where he had left the motorcycle, wondering why he hadn't thought of it himself. The fire at the United

Recovery factory had been sparked by large quantities of powdered magnesium, but Harry hadn't bothered to

He'd classed the magnesium as a clue to crime. Moreover, he'd decided that if crooks could obtain one

quantity of such an essential material, they could acquire more. With two highjacking rackets washed up,

because of the increasing strain, men of crime would turn to something else. The stuff in question would be

BACK at the junkyard, Chet was wondering why Harry had not returned. Noticing how dusk had deepened,

Chet listened for a moment; then, hearing no sounds of the motorcycle, he decided to go into the junkyard

Halfway there, Chet saw a car stopping just outside the junkyard. Three men stepped from it; one opened the

back and ordered two others to carry some cartons that were filled with odds and ends. Chet noted that the

first man went to Merrick's house, while the others were dumping the contents of the cartons a short way

Sneaking over as soon as the men had gone, Chet crouched low and struck a match. In the assortment of

dumped tinware, he saw something that electrified him. License plates, the sort that trucks bore, and one

Of course, there were two trucks like Dorgan's, but it didn't matter which one had carried these plates. The

point was that the crooks had covered up the past. They'd probably done a repaint job on the duplicate trucks

that formed the twin caravan and were operating those vehicles under their proper licenses.

Just as Merrick's Junkyard contained evidence that lacquer had been highjacked, so did it hold the proof of

wholesale crookery in rubber. Evidence that would add another point to Chet's score, when the time came to

Chet could bury this evidence later. For the present he wanted to see who Merrick's visitor was. Sneaking

over toward the house, Chet arrived there and crouched by the corner as the side door opened. At this close

range, with a light to help, it was easy to recognize the man who was stepping out.

That wasn't all. Merrick was with Dorgan, clapping him approvingly on the shoulder. Chet heard the words

"All right, Dorgan, you can take the load tonight. But it won't go on the books, because it isn't wise for Joan

to know anything about it. Whenever she hears one thing, she always finds out more."

"Our little profit isn't too bad," added Merrick, with a chuckle. "Right tidy, I'd say. It's been that way all

Chet saw Dorgan's parting grin, if it could be called such. Considering that the fellow's face was gifted with a

permanent leer, it was difficult to gauge Dorgan's opinions. Chet preferred to go on what Merrick said, and

It would be a jolt for Joan, to learn that her father was the brain behind the black market in which Dorgan

played no more than a minor part. But crime was crime; there could be no other choice. Much though Chet

Tonight, at the right time and place, Chet would place the goods where it belonged, on James Merrick. He'd

become a hero, even though he didn't want to be. Unless somebody else stepped in to crack crime before Chet

found his chance; but that seemed impossible, considering the clue that Chet alone had gained.

Chet Conroy should have forgotten his own dilemma, to think in terms of The Shadow, the being to whom

That was what they called it, in the printed prospectus that lay upon The Shadow's table. But The Shadow

wasn't studying such details; he knew all about magnesium. Lighter by far than aluminum, the wonder metal

was essential to airplane construction, valuable as a solid material as much as in the powdered form in which

There had been mention of the metal, at Thorneau's. The demand for it was on the constant increase, but so

was the supply. Of recent years, a new source had been tapped. Magnesium was being extracted from the

ocean, and of late a new plant had been established on the Atlantic seaboard, fairly close to New York.

The prospectus on The Shadow's table gave the location of the new plant, along with its plan of operation.

Though such an industry should preferably be inland, the choice had certain merit. First, the magnesium

makers had taken over an abandoned industrial property; again, the location offered a valuable asset to the

Intended for investors, the bulletin explained the purpose of the mollusks. Millions of gallons of water were

being pumped in daily through pipes leading to an arrangement called a flocculator. There the brine was met

by limewater from another pipe. The lime was the product of oyster shells, dredged from another portion of

The mixture, reaching immense tanks, formed milk of magnesia; this precipitate, when filtered and piped to

another tank, was treated with a weak solution of hydrochloric acid, to produce magnesium chloride, which

Located near a workedout oyster bed, the plant had access to an inexhaustible supply of shells, and was

therefore obtaining quicklime at the mere cost of dredging. Hence the enterprise was making money, or

would be, as soon as it began shipping magnesium on a large scale. That would be very soon, for already

stocks of the metal were being stored near the plant, to await the linking of transportation facilities.

In mentioning the new magnesium plant, Thorneau had declared that it would increase deliveries in the East,

a thing much to be desired. Magnesium wasn't scarce enough to be a worry, but certain industries were

finding it necessary to ship some of their excess supplies to others. In two industries, aircraft and munitions,

Thorneau was finding the drain quite heavy and hoped that it would soon be ended.

It would be, if all went well at the new magnesium plant. A whispered laugh told that The Shadow intended

to see that all went well. A gloved hand clicked off the bluish light that shone upon the table; the room was

Nowhere could darkness lie more heavily than in this hidden room which The Shadow used as his secret

sanctum. Compared to its thick gloom, a total blackout would seem mild. The absolute darkness was stirred

by a weird laugh that seemed alive, amid that Stygian setting. Then the gloom itself engulfed the echoes to

WITHIN the next hour, The Shadow was hovering close to his destination. He was lost against the gloomy

bulk of a mammoth storehouse erected on the Jersey flats. Off to one direction, great pumps were at work,

drawing in their millions of gallons of water. At another angle, powerful dredges were working overtime to

Useful things, oyster shells. They even surfaced the roads in this area, highways along which lumber trucks

were bringing material to erect more houses for the workers. Already there were dozens of such dwellings

clustered hereabout. People were moving into them, as was evidenced by the furniture vans that came across

A rail connection was also coming through. It was the needed link to start the shipping of magnesium which

by then would fill the warehouse. By that time, with hundreds of new workers quartered close at hand, the

plant would be able to replenish its magnesium stores as fast as they were hauled away by freight. Such was

Facts inside the warehouse, where accumulated magnesium was stored in the form of metal bars. Entry to the

place was easy for The Shadow. A group of inspectors were just beginning their evening tour, accompanied

by watchmen. Behind them, unnoticed in the gloom, flitted the cloaked shape of The Shadow.

The warehouse was divided into many sections, like the bulkheads of a ship. One room, which served as the

receiving department, was fitted with wooden partitions, which served as temporary terns. Here, the bricks of

lightweight metal glistened in silvery piles, standing upon low rolling platforms.

The inspectors were checking the various bins, tabbing those from which the magnesium had been assigned

to the regular compartments. Finishing their tabulation, they marched off through various doorways to learn if

the assignments had been properly placed. Instead of following, The Shadow waited in the gloom cast by a

This was the place where things might happen, rather than in those deeper strong rooms. Yet it was difficult

to see how anyone could manipulate great heaps of magnesium in between times, particularly when any theft

might be noted promptly afterward. Nevertheless, The Shadow played a hunch and remained, observing two

One watchman spoke to the other and received a nod. The second man went through the outer door, bound

upon some trivial errand. His departure put the whole receiving room in the custody of one man, who

immediately behaved in a sneaky but efficient fashion. Going quickly to the nearest bin, the fellow tapped its

Hardly had the watchman drawn away, before the partition slid upward like a window sash. Through the gap

went the welloiled rolling platform, carrying its load of lightweight metal. The wooden truck swerved as it

passed beneath the lifted barrier, but the view was immediately blocked by the arrival of a duplicate roller,

coming out through the gap, bearing what appeared to be an identical stack of magnesium.

The watchman went to another bin, where the process was repeated. At intervals along the wall, the same

thing happened, until finally, he encountered a delay, the reason evidently being that his accomplices were

out of roller trucks. However, it wouldn't take them long to unload the first carrier and get it ready.

About to repeat the signal, the watchman saw the inspectors returning. They glanced at the bins and one

inspector did something that he had neglected before. He picked up some blocks of magnesium, one by one,

Being so light of weight, magnesium was difficult to imitate, yet the bricks that the inspector certified were of

As the inspectors started out, the crooked watchman dallied. He found his chance to signal the final rap. In

smooth style, a partition lifted, and the last roller slithered through, to be replaced by one that carried a fake

load. Hardly was the partition down, before an inspector returned to find out why the watchman had tarried.

The crook faked a reason. He began probing about with his flashlight and The Shadow was forced to do some

artful gliding from one magnesium pile to another. At last he arrived within one of the bins behind the

watchman's back. Joining the inspector, the watchman went out, and the lights were promptly turned off.

THE beam of a tiny flashlight cut the darkness. It focused on a pile of false magnesium blocks. For his own

satisfaction, The Shadow tested a few by weight, and his findings exonerated the inspector. These blocks

weren't overweight. What was more, they were definitely metallic, as they should be.

When The Shadow knuckled the bars of magnesium, they gave a dull metallic sound, but it didn't quite

satisfy him, considering the substitution that he'd witnessed. On the wall of the bin was a cardboard placard

that bore its number; taking it down, The Shadow laid it flat and placed three magnesium bricks upon it.

In laying them, The Shadow put two side by side, but set the other crosswise, so that its length represented

the width of the other two. The cardboard was thick and stiff; it supported the three lightweight bars as The

Shadow pressed his hands together, underneath, to serve as the central balance point.

Set together like a single block, the three bricks should have balanced evenly, but they didn't. The side of the

placard that held the single brick began a downward tilt. That solved the riddle of the fake magnesium.

These blocks were metal, made of a cheap alloy of commoner substances like zinc or iron, perhaps even lead.

The weight of those metals didn't matter, because the blocks were hollow. That was why the tilt was wrong.

The empty centers of two blocks were on one side of the balance; that of only a single block upon the other.

When tapped, the blocks didn't reveal a hollow note. Therefore they must be filled with something. Tilting

them one at a time, The Shadow listened. He heard nothing, but from one block, a faulty specimen of fakery,

he sensed a slight interior shift. The Shadow decided on the substance with which these blocks were stuffed.

Here was highjacking on a new and lavish scale. Blocks of valuable magnesium metal being removed by

thousands and supplanted by junk metal packed with the residue from sawmills. It showed a new quirk of the

The old game was over. The business of grabbing materials during shipment and blaming the thing on earlier

sabotage, had served with lacquer and rubber. The first job had fooled the Feds completely, but they were still

uncertain about the second, not having found a suitable suspect like Chet Conroy.

If things began to happen to magnesium, the Feds would look beyond the factory. But it wouldn't help them

to lay the blame on future transportation. This highjacking job would be a thing of the past. As such, it fitted

with The Shadow's own findings. The use of magnesium flares in the arson work at United Recovery had

One point was evident. When blocks of faked magnesium began to arrive at shipping points, there wouldn't

be any talk of a needling process or an inferior product, as with lacquer and rubber. These blocks of base

metal stuffed with sawdust, would give away the game. But by then, the master manipulator wouldn't care.

He'd made his cleanup in lacquer. His black market was stocked to the hilt with regenerated rubber. He

would own a stock of magnesium large enough to fill a warehouse. All these materials were in heavy demand

and could be dovetailed into industry at will, at a milliondollar profit. The kind of profit that could be

counted double, considering that it was operating free of taxes and other limitations.

Yes, the brain behind it had designed well, to make this crime a business of the past. But that rule only

applied to the future. The proposition was still current, so far as The Shadow was concerned. He still had a

MOVING from the bin, The Shadow reached another which stood empty. Entering, he tapped the partition

and waited. The wooden wall slid upward and hands reached through to grab another stack of magnesium,

but they didn't find it. Instead, they discovered solid blackness, or more correctly, it discovered them.

With slugging guns, The Shadow met a pair of husky foemen and battered them insensible. Leaving them

sprawled beside the opening that proved their part in crime, he moved toward a doorway that he saw ahead.

This was an unused compartment behind the receiving room, an unfinished annex to the warehouse that

Outside the door, The Shadow saw a flashlight blinking, two longs and two shorts, so he answered with the

same signal, knowing that if the response was incorrect, he could deal swiftly with the man who gave the

flash. But the signal proved satisfactory; it was the word to go. Big vehicles came lumbering by, in slow

They were moving vans, presumably bringing furniture to workers' dwellings. Instead, they were running

magnesium metal, even bringing the fake stuff that replaced it. The door of the final van was swinging

invitingly; it was meant for the two men who had met The Shadow in the warehouse. So The Shadow took

The van was well filled with stolen magnesium, but it had no human occupants. Pulling the door shut, The

Shadow delivered a whispered laugh, so subdued that it was confined to his own hearing, alone. Vans like

these fitted the description of Dorgan's fleet that Harry and Chet had seen departing from the trucking

Wherever they were going, they were carrying The Shadow too. And the laugh that came from hidden lips

WHILE The Shadow was riding toward crime's final goal, all lay quiet around Merrick's Junkyard. The big

Pounder had ceased work for the night. Tired workers were sleeping in their little shacks, smallsized

replicas of the headquarters wherein Chet Conroy conducted his chemical experiments.

There was a light in the room that served Chet as a lab; another in the shed where Harry Vincent was doing

repair work on bicycles that he had found around the junkyard. But the bubbling sounds that Harry heard

from the improvised laboratory were no proof that Chet was on the job. Deliberately, Chet had faked that

At present, Chet was outside a window of the Merrick house, watching Joan's father in the living room. Joan

wasn't around; she was tired and had just gone up to bed. Chet was more than confident that Merrick had

been waiting until Joan left, before contacting Dorgan. Therefore, Chet's real vigil was beginning.

Results were prompt. Rising from his chair, Merrick proved himself the fake that Chet suspected. The

bearded man didn't reach for the cane that he always carried publicly. Instead, he moved spryly across the

room, opened an oldfashioned clock that stood on the mantel and removed a sizable wad of currency.

Then he remembered his cane. It was back beside the easychair where it belonged. As Merrick returned to

get the stick, Chet saw his face quite clearly. Weary eyes looked tired no longer; instead, they were sparkling

with zest. Nor did Merrick's smile look feeble. It was eager to the point of avarice.

As sneaky as a cat, Merrick reached the side door and stepped outside. He closed the door softly behind him;

then moved across the junkyard. He kept looking back across his shoulder, but Chet expected that precaution.

There was just one mishap. Chet stumbled across a batch of old tin cans and sent them rattling. But it

happened when he was well off Merrick's course and he was confident the old man hadn't heard, for when

Chet took a look across the junk heaps, he saw Joan's father continuing his rapid strides.

Quite tired from a heavy day, the girl had fallen half asleep upon her bed. Awakening with a start, Joan found

herself in her darkened room and wondered for the moment where she was. Then, sensing the clatter's

Two figures were visible from this elevation. Joan saw her father hurrying along the street, with Chet

sneaking from the junkyard to trail him. With a gasp that expressed considerable knowledge of the situation,

Joan decided to follow them. But it took her a few minutes to get into the clothes that she had taken off before

Finally dressed, Joan dashed downstairs and out through the side door, slamming it behind her. The bang

jarred the rickety old house and brought rattles from the window. Harry heard the commotion as he was

The bubbling ingredients in the crude laboratory impressed Harry as a blind. Chet must have gone

somewhere, and it was evident that Joan was starting for the same place. Returning to the shack, Harry

looked up an address in the phone book. He didn't know Packensaw well enough to locate the place exactly,

THE place in question was the Packensaw Monument Co., a fitting memorial to the dead enterprises of James

Merrick. Failing in everything else, Merrick had gone into selling tombstones only to have his entire stock

seized by the sheriff. All he had left was the property, which nobody else wanted, so Merrick had turned it

into a brickyard. Finding no customers, he'd reverted to his present junk business.

At present, however, the place was stocked with bricks, large piles of them, covered with burlap. Merrick had

passed those stacks and was reaching a dilapidated office, when Chet overtook him. Clutching Merrick's arm,

"Why... why, it's nothing," stammered Merrick. "That is... he's just helping me buy and sell bricks. I haven't

told Joan yet. I wanted to prove to her that I could really make money on my own."

"Dorgan pulled the lacquer grab," asserted Chet. "He was in the rubber racket. All the while he was working

They went together, Merrick at the point of Chet's gun. Whipping off the burlap, Chet began to lift the bricks.

Under the first layer, he struck a batch that looked like silver. Lifting one, its light weight surprised him.

"Magnesium!" exclaimed Chet. "That's the only stuff that would heft as easy as this. Say is that the new

It was Joan who replied. She'd arrived to witness this climax. She gave Chet a scathing glance that turned to

"I knew all about this, dad," the girl said. "That is, the legitimate part. Dorgan told you where you could buy

"So you let him bring them here and stow them," Joan continued. "When he found a customer, he delivered,

and you received a percentage. You were afraid I wouldn't like it, so you didn't tell me."

As Merrick gave another nod, Chet stepped into the discussion. He gave a passing gesture at the silvery

bricks, which didn't happen to be magnesium. These were the substitute stuff that Dorgan and his crowd were

"These bricks are nothing," expressed Chet. "Back at the junkyard, I'll show you some evidence that counts.

Leftover stuff from Dorgan's highjack racket that your father let him dump there!"

Joan looked toward Merrick, who stared blankly. Convinced of her father's innocence, the girl turned

defiantly to Chet. He didn't give her a chance to talk; instead, Chet hurled accusations at Merrick.

"A clever gag, this brickyard," Chet argued. "I suppose this is where Dorgan unloads all the stuff he steals for

you. First the lacquer, but you were rid of it when the rubber came along. Then Dorgan stored the rubber until

"You're a faker, Merrick!" Chet continued. "You with your invalid act, limping around on a cane when

people are watching you. Pretending you're a failure, so nobody will guess you're the big shot behind the

"Tell him everything, dad," the girl said seriously. "I'm sure that Chet will really understand."

WEARILY, Merrick shook his head. But Joan was firm; she took the key that Merrick was holding loosely in

his hand, unlocked the door of the little office and gestured her father inside. Chet hesitated, a tight grip on

"Conroy won't believe me," protested Merrick in a plaintive tone. "You're merely asking me to convince him

"There's someone he will believe," snapped Joan. "So tell him your story while I'm gone. You'll hear from me

With that, Joan flaunted away, while Chet, intrigued despite himself, followed Merrick into the old office.

Turning on the light Merrick squatted in front of a battered safe that looked like a fugitive from his junkyard.

Old newspaper clippings caught Chet's eye. A picture of Merrick, much younger than at present,

accompanied the headlines. Like Chet, Merrick had made frontpage news in his time. The headlines

"Yes, I served my time in prison," declared Merrick, simply. "Perhaps I deserved it, for folly if not for crime.

I'd always invested certain funds when Thorneau and I were partners. I didn't know that it would be illegal

"Nor did I know that I was buying fraudulent stock. We never did locate the swindler who sold it to me.

Thorneau stood up for me, but the new members of our corporation wouldn't listen. The business went broke

Thumbing through the clippings, Merrick showed how his story tallied. Scanning these relics of an almost

"One thing is sure," declared Chet, bluntly. "Thorneau did all right for himself later on."

A flicker trembled on Merrick's lips as the old man gave a hesitating nod. Considering his own recent

"He could have," replied Merrick, warily. "His fortunes really began after he acquired the brass works from

"Two ways," asserted Chet, "if you figure he was the brain behind the swindle that put your business on the

"I couldn't believe that of Thorneau," began Merrick. "He has been very kind, helping me start in business

"Always with failure for a finish," inserted Chet, angrily. "He put you down and kept you there."

"Thorneau is my only friend," persisted Merrick. "Joan knows it; that's why she left to see him. You'll hear

from Thorneau soon. He will tell you that I'm really honest, even though I am a faker. It was just my pride

that made me pretend to be so feeble. It was easier for Joan to explain that ill health was the cause of my

Chet thrust his revolver deep in his pocket and picked up the exhibits that lay on the desk.

"We'll burn this trash," began Chet. "You can't forget it, while you keep it in your safe."

Merrick's pleased smile faded abruptly as a hand reached into the light and clutched the papers that Chet held.

Wheeling about, reaching for his gun, Chet stopped abruptly as he faced Harry Vincent.

"I'd keep the evidence," suggested Harry. "It may help in clearing Merrick's past, which seems a lot like

yours, Chet. I know all about those lacquer cans in the junkyard. What was the new evidence you found

Chet described the license plates that Dorgan had dumped. Harry gave an understanding nod. He looked from

"You're being framed together," asserted Harry. "The Shadow knew it all along, and I can tell you why. The

crooks tried their best to murder you, Chet, but you were safe when you hid out in the junkyard. Which

proves that Merrick couldn't be the brain, otherwise your life wouldn't have been worth a nickel where you

As that truth drove home to Chet, a telephone bell jarred a discordant note. Merrick answered the call; his

eyes brightened momentarily, then faded to an expression of alarm. He was gulping, nodding as the telephone

began dropping from his hand. Grabbing the instrument, Chet heard the last words across the wire.

"You have half an hour, Merrick," a voice completed. "Unless you summon the Federal agents within that

The voice ended abruptly as a receiver clicked, but Chet had recognized the tone. It belonged to Humphrey

Thorneau. Grimly, Chet turned to Harry, who gave an understanding nod. It was just the sort of assent that

"Let's go," declared Chet. "If Thorneau thinks we can't reach him inside of half an hour, we'll show him

So firm was Chet's assertion that Harry accepted it as the only choice. In this emergency there was no time to

He relished the situation, this big man of big brain. As a master of crime, Thorneau was no different in

expression and pose than when he advertised himself a wizard of finance. Indeed, as head of the black market

Thorneau's blunt visage was just the same, it's deepset eyes showing their usual keen glint, his smile as wise

as always. He left it to others to analyze him as they chose; such was the whole secret of his mask. Nor could

he have chosen a better method, considering that Thorneau had built his name into a synonym for integrity,

that convinced people before they even met him. That rule had applied in the instance of Chet Conroy.

Now, before an audience of one, Thorneau had chosen to remove his mask. His audience was Joan Merrick.

Though there were others present, they did not count. They were stooges of Thorneau's, two servants who

flanked the girl with drawn revolvers while Thorneau sat at his huge oak desk and smilingly gestured toward

"It was wise of you to telephone your father," spoke Thorneau, in his booming tone. "By doing so, you

"I'd have been wiser if I hadn't come here," the girl retorted, bitterly. "What a fool I was to mistake you for a

"I am still your friend." Thorneau's tone was smooth, despite its rumble. "Your father's case is not your own.

"There is one good reason why you shouldn't," snapped Joan. "If you did, dad would never stand by the false

Thorneau's smile showed an appreciation of Joan's foresight. With his heavy hand, he gestured toward a

"Make yourself comfortable," said Thorneau. "I sent your father to the depot, to meet a Federal agent named

Marquette, who is coming here this evening. With this loudspeaker" Thorneau thumbed a switch beside

Thorneau didn't specify where Joan would be when the incident occurred. She could picture some dank

dungeon, deep in this house that had once been an arsenal. While she pondered, Joan could hear the rumble

of motors outside the mammoth mansion. They sounded like the motors of big trucks.

"This is a twoway switch," declared Thorneau, blandly. "When your father brings the Feds here, he will be

able to hear your voice, when I so choose. That can be arranged when he and I are alone here. I am sure" to

Joan, Thorneau's smile was Satanic "that Marquette will allow Merrick to hold a few private words with his

Again, the rumble of the motors, but they weren't arriving, as Joan had thought. They must have been out

back when she reached the mansion. With sudden hope that she could block Thorneau's scheme, Joan leaped

to her feet and sprang toward the door, defying the guns displayed by Thorneau's men.

The pair didn't use their guns. They simply grabbed Joan and twisted her arms behind her, letting her kick at

will. All that suffered was one of Thorneau's chairs, the one in which the servants finally tossed Joan after she

"All quite useless," declared Thorneau, patiently, as he approached the wearied girl. "No one can hope to

spoil the plans that I devised so many months ago. Who could suspect me as the head of a ring that

blackmarkets such materials as lacquer, rubber, and magnesium? Through my local brass works and a dozen

other plants, scattered far and wide, I obligingly fill shortages for bigger factories, thanks to my foresight in

"No one can ever trace those operations. I handle them as skillfully as I did the swindle which caused your

father to be convicted for embezzlement. The same swindle that enabled me to buy a bankrupt business and

expand it with its own stolen funds. I have used the same technique, ever since. Now, after many years"

Thorneau's voice took an impersonal note "I am finding Merrick useful again. The total losses suffered by

producers of lacquer, rubber, and magnesium, will be traced, not to my thriving industries, but to Merrick's

Thorneau finished with a laugh, a cold, grated discord that made Joan shudder. At that moment, she felt that

FROM the doorway came a peal of sinister mockery that made Thorneau's insidious tone seem amateurish.

Low, ghostly in its quiver, the arriving laugh crept into the room and filled it, sending back jarring echoes

from the walls, like the answer of myriad ghoulish tongues. Yet, despite its fearful note, that mirth brought

Weird mirth that stood for justice, sinister only to men who stood for evil, such as Thorneau and his two

Glaring, Thorneau saw the figure just within the doorway, a cloaked shape that might have been a creature

from another world. Burning eyes gleamed from beneath the slouch hat that hid The Shadow's visage. Below

those eyes were the muzzles of automatics, each covering one of Thorneau's servants.

Caught flatfooted, Thorneau couldn't turn back to his desk. Had he swung in that direction, either of The

Shadow's guns could have tagged him, and gone right back to cover the servant. Thorneau's stooges were

letting their fists go open, to drop their guns upon the floor. The Shadow had taken over, here in crime's own

Then, at the very instant when his iron will seemed broken, Thorneau gained an insidious inspiration. He

lunged his bulk toward Joan's chair, whipped the girl to her feet and swung her as a shield between himself

and The Shadow. Before the cloaked fighter could stab a shot at Thorneau's shoulder, the big man was half

behind the desk, dragging Joan along. Artfully, he'd made himself invulnerable against The Shadow's guns!

The bellow that Thorneau gave was bringing a flood of followers. His murder squad had arrived, Dorgan and

the fake truckers, for it was their vans that Joan had heard outside. The Shadow had glided into the mansion

with them, through the sally port where they had carried the magnesium blocks. Their unloading finished,

Triumphantly, Thorneau hurled Joan forward, as a missile to thwart The Shadow's fire. Wheeling, the

cloaked fighter could hardly hope to beat the shots of three guns already bristling through the doorway.

Thorneau's bellow was one of victory as he dived below his desk to snatch a gun from a handy drawer. He

Frantic shouts told Thorneau that something had gone wrong. Popping up, the big man saw Dorgan and the

others scattering outside the door. Driving toward them was The Shadow, but no one was shooting at the

This was once when The Shadow could turn crime's favorite trick the other way about. Thorneau had seized

the girl as a buffer because he knew The Shadow wouldn't harm her. But The Shadow, in his turn, knew that

Thorneau couldn't afford to let Joan die not yet. Unless Joan lived, her father wouldn't go through with his

Without that confession, Thorneau's perfect crime was weak. Dorgan knew it and was howling for his men to

spread, so that they could clip The Shadow without hurting Joan. Thorneau himself was the first to try as he

aimed his gun across the desk top. By then, The Shadow was whirling through the doorway, carrying Joan

along. Amid that spin, Thorneau saw only the girl he couldn't harm. With a snarl, Thorneau halted his finger

Across the hall, through vast reception rooms, The Shadow continued his twisting course. Thorneau was after

him, and the crooks were arriving from everywhere, but with no result. They could drive The Shadow ahead

of them, while he was carrying Joan along, but no marksman was quick enough to gain an angle of fire that

Joan understood and helped by letting The Shadow sweep her as he chose. Not only did his whispered laugh

encourage her; there were times when he used his free hand to jab shots. Out of the dizzy whirl, Joan saw

men stagger, unwary foemen who had almost found the needed angle when The Shadow spotted them.

This couldn't keep on forever. Thorneau knew it, as well as did The Shadow. That was why Thorneau kept

shouting for Dorgan and the rest to box the intrepid fighter, since they couldn't clip him. The crooks went to

it, hurling furniture, slamming doors and bolting them, limiting The Shadow's field as he ranged through the

WITHIN a few minutes, there was but one exit left, a doorway leading to the cellar. The Shadow took it,

carrying Joan along. He knew of an outlet, the door through which Dorgan's men had brought the stolen

magnesium for storage in Thorneau's vast cellar, but when he retched that portal, The Shadow found it closed

In from the flanks sprang more of Thorneau's minions, for the first time blasting with their guns. The Shadow

saw them a split second before they fired and reversed his course. Off through the cellar, still keeping Joan as

a whirling buffer to discourage further fire, The Shadow found himself close to a storage room where stacks

Lacquer, rubber, magnesium, samples of all the black market's wares; but there was plenty of space to boot.

Caught in a vortex of arriving crooks The Shadow swished through the doorway, sending Joan ahead of him.

His cloaked form was gone when guns roared and from the doorway, foemen heard a challenging laugh.

The Shadow had found a stronghold within a stronghold, a pillbox from which he could stave off any attack.

Unfortunately, he hadn't reckoned what this room might be. It was more than a mere storeroom; it was a

This was the very box that Thorneau had hoped The Shadow would reach. Arriving among his men,

Thorneau pressed a button beside the open doorway. Before The Shadow could jab a shot, let alone emerge, a

steel door slithered across the opening, imprisoning the cloaked fighter with the girl who had accompanied

With a gloat of triumph, Humphrey Thorneau paused to mop his forehead. As he did, he heard shouts from

the floor above, telling that strangers had arrived outside the mansion and were hammering at the door. That

news merely produced another grated laugh from Thorneau. He had settled affairs within his stronghold; he

feared no trouble from without. The Shadow's guns would prove puny against the steel door of the vault; the

men outside could hardly hope to dent the mammoth portals that made this house a veritable castle.

Fifteen minutes more would bring the Feds; then strangers would be forced to flee. That hookup in

Thorneau's study was connected with the vault; Joan could talk to her father, even with The Shadow present.

With Merrick bluffed, the vault would automatically become a tomb for Joan and the cloaked fighter whose

Much could happen within fifteen minutes, both inside and outside the black market's stronghold. Things that

OUTSIDE the great front door, Chet Conroy finished hammering the metal with his gun butt. Turning to

"Apparently not," Harry agreed. "Well, Chet, you've brought the cure for such a situation. Do you still want

"She'll be worse off later," Harry argued. "We decided that much on the way here."

Chet nodded. He turned toward the darkness and beckoned. Gravel crunched heavily in the driveway and into

the light of Thorneau's portico came a squad of assorted fighters, as irregular as any group that had ever

They were the workers from the junkyard, enlisted by Chet and Harry. Men with pasts that they were anxious

to redeem, all ardent to show their gratitude to Joan Merrick, the girl whose father had befriended them.

Despite their ardor, they were puny compared to the citadel they wanted to smash. But there was nothing

The thing that crunched the gravel was a trailer, heavily weighted by the great crusher that Chet had devised

for mashing junk metal into pulp. Along with the halfton Pounder, Chet's crew had brought the motor which

Thanks to the swivel mounting, the Pounder had been swung from vertical to horizontal. What was more, it

could operate from that position. The plate had been removed, and when the Pounder was pushed forward,

the round end of its great steel rod poked snugly against Thorneau's heavy front door.

Chet started the motor. As soon as it gained speed, he threw the lever. The Pounder went into action like a

mammoth piston, hammering its mighty butt against the barrier that fronted it. Thorneau was wrong. These

attackers could dent his front door, and not merely in a style that spoiled its polish.

Under the incessant driving, the door began to bend. Its crackles carried deep to its inside hinges; they began

to buckle. Under this bruising treatment, the door was sure to yield within the next few minutes. Leaving the

supervision job to Harry, Chet went back to the truck that had hauled the trailer.

There Chet began to sort tin cans, separating those that were labeled tomatoes from others that should have

contained evaporated milk. The cans didn't hold their proper contents, for they were junkyard specimens that

were empty when Chet found them. He'd sealed them again, with thick tape, so that whatever they did

DEEP in the cellar vault, The Shadow heard the hammering at the front door, and recognized its cause.

Considering that the jolts could be felt all through the great mansion, the motive force couldn't be anything

less than Chet's giant Pounder, converted into a huge battering ram. The door couldn't last much longer;

Puzzled by the incessant pounding, Joan was quite as mystified by what was happening in the vault. She was

holding the flashlight while The Shadow worked. The Shadow was using a pocket knife that had a blade like

a nail file, only thicker. He was using it to file the corner of a metal block that looked like silver.

The magnesium filings were falling on the edge of a thick rubber sheet, made up of many layers. The Shadow

was making separate heaps of the silvery powder, spacing them a few inches apart. The rubber sheet was the

top one of a low pile close to the door. In front of that pile stood a row of lacquer cans.

A new note came to the distant pounding. Its clangs were bringing crackles. The Shadow listened to the

change in tune; then gave a whispered laugh. Brushing the last flakes from the file, he closed the blade and

opened another that formed a can opener. He used the new blade to open the lids of the lacquer containers,

Next, he began building the rubber pile, tapering it forward above the sheet that still had the magnesium

filings on its outer edge. This work started, The Shadow called upon Joan to help him with the thick mats,

thus speeding the process. Thus they produced a buffer between themselves and the door.

That done, The Shadow started a similar barrier behind them. This pile proved a shield that covered a hoard

of magnesium blocks and lacquer containers against the rear wall. Heaving the rubber pads as Joan supplied

them, The Shadow was completely burying the other materials that Thorneau had stolen.

OUT through the shattered front door came a deluge of bullets. marking Thorneau's effort to stave off

invasion. The leaden hail raked the trailer that held the horizontal Pounder, but scored no casualties. Harry

was on the ground, reaching up to cut off the motors, while Chet had ducked behind the trailer and was

The tomato cans flew. Striking inside the mansion, they cracked open, delivering puffs of noxious gas, a

byproduct of Chet's lab. Whether the stuff was poisonous or not, Thorneau's tribe didn't wait to see. Their

retreat became a flight as more cans arrived among them. The way into the mansion was open.

It was Thorneau who saw the invaders coming through the brown smoke that their missiles had produced.

Knowing that the gas couldn't be poisonous, Thorneau rallied his men and drove them to a counterthrust.

Side by side, Chet and Harry saw the gunners coming and knew that tomato cans were out of date. Ducking

for the corners of Thorneau's great hallway, both called for the evaporated milk.

The cans came and things evaporated with them. Such articles as chairs, book cases, doors, and even portions

of the wall where the missiles struck. The "milk" that Chet had manufactured was highexplosive stuff.

Acquaintance with such was the qualifications that had given Chet his job with the Pyrolac Co., since

Thorneau's men beat another rapid retreat with the first bursts of the improvised bombs. Seeing Thorneau in

the background, Chet dashed toward him, as soon as the barrage was over. Chet wasn't in any mood to heed

Harry's warning him that the bomb supply was exhausted. All that Chet wanted was a crack at Thorneau.

It wasn't that Chet particularly realized his own treatment at the hands of this arch doublecrosser. Of course

it was Thorneau who had decoyed Chet along the path to near doom, the evening when he had listened so

sympathetically to Chet's story. Having faked death threats against himself, Thorneau had purposely planted

his car where Chet could seize it and drive right into a trap prepared by Dorgan, under Thorneau's own

Naturally, Thorneau had told Chet's story to Vic Marquette, because the tunnel evidence was a thing of the

past. But with equal foresight, Thorneau had failed to mention Dorgan's name in connection with the ease.

That point should have occurred to Chet, but he had overlooked it. The Shadow was the person skilled at

But all that belonged to the past. The present involved Joan and it was on her account that Chet made his

headstrong drive to reach Thorneau. In his mad desire to find the missing girl, Chet was pitching himself into

disaster and dragging others too. For Harry and the junkyard crew had to surge along in order to save Chet

HARSH was Thorneau's tone as it came across the loudspeaker. He had reached his study and was booming

orders at Dorgan and the other crooks who served them. Orders to turn and meet the foolhardy invaders with

a rapid sortie that would route them before the Feds arrived. And Thorneau wanted that route to be followed

through. He demanded doom for the entire junkyard squad. It could all be smoothed, since they worked for

Horrified by the orders that she heard, Joan didn't realize what The Shadow was doing during those critical

moments. In the darkness, The Shadow was hurling his full weight against the stack of thick, wide rubber that

fronted the prison vault. His drive jogged the projecting edge of rubber above the open lacquer cans,

Flakes of silvery powder fluttered into the fluid that awaited them. The incendiary qualities of magnesium

were suited to the explosive properties of this particular lacquer in a very special way. Not only was the result

The stuff blasted like cordite. Forward, upward, it lifted the steel door from its moorings and hurled the

rubber pile like a tidal wave. But the rubber, itself, was a buffer against the concussion. Buried by the

resilient matting, The Shadow and Joan were thrown back against the other stack of elastic material that

Thanks to the very ingredients that Thorneau had stolen and stored for his black market, The Shadow had

blasted the prison wide and at the same time saved himself and Joan from harm. But in allowing for the force

This was the final crash of doom, an upward blast that ripped the floor above. The room that took the

devastating blow was Thorneau's study, since it was directly over the vault. Outside the study door, Harry

was valiantly dragging Chet back from the aiming muzzles of Thorneau's murder squad, when the whole

Instead of bullets, guns came flying, bringing the owners with them. Hurled back among their friends from

the junkyard, Harry and Chet stared dazed and aghast as they saw the result of the crash that The Shadow

Killers lay bashed and mangled amid the wreckage of the walls that had received them in midair flight. Then,

as the flooring sagged, those crumpled forms slid back through into the pit from which The Shadow had

already guided Joan, their route being the shattered door of the impregnable vault.

One crook alone survived, the master of them all: Humphrey Thorneau. Deep behind his desk, Thorneau had

been hurled to the far wall. The desk went with him, taking the explosion's brunt; from its wreckage,

Thorneau paid no heed to the figures that were pouring through the floor. The last of the lot was Dorgan, his

head twisted crazily about so that its frozen face gave Thorneau a parting death leer; but the master crook

All Thorneau wanted was to thin the ranks of the intruders who had battered into his citadel and he preferred

to begin with their leaders. Rising in the path of Thorneau's aim, Chet and Harry were open targets, when the

The stab came from a darkened passage near the cellar stairs. Arrowing straight for Thorneau, the bullet

found the man of supercrime. Thorneau was jolting when his own gun spoke; its muzzle, hoisted toward the

ceiling, merely brought down chunks of wreckage that the explosion had left hanging there.

That futile shot was Thorneau's last. Pitching forward, he plunged amid a shower of plaster, into the death pit

Black was the hole that swallowed those victims and the hue was appropriate. It was a black market of its

own, dealing in human lives on a wholesale basis and its wares consisted of men who deserved their fate.

Like a weird knell came the mirthless laugh of the marksman whose gun had had the final word: The

As the strange tone faded, voices sounded from the hallway. Vic Marquette and the Feds were arriving with

James Merrick, their candidate for the brain of crime. Flinging toward them, Joan poured the true facts of

A trip to the cellar wasn't necessary to prove Joan's statement that Thorneau, not her father, was crime's

master mind. Through the shattered floor the Feds could see the evidence, the stolen goods piled in the

wrecked vault which had become a tomb for men of crime. Promptly, Merrick was released, and from her

When Chet returned the smile, Joan understood. Their thoughts, though meant for each other, included their

mutual thanks to a cloaked friend who had made this reunion possible. As if in answer to those smiles came a

Weird, mysterious, that mirth, as though its author, having conquered one reign of crime, was preparing