The Plot Master by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781934943052
Amazon: 1934943053
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1935-02-15T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII. FROM THE NIGHT

CLIFF MARSLAND was helpless. Backed against the front wall of the car, he was standing with arms pinned behind him. The fake brakeman, the pretended salesman, were the pair who held him at bay. The second bandit–the fellow whom Cliff had slugged–had not removed his mask.

This man was Wenshell. He and Hasker had led the expedition. The others– all disguised–were crooks who had served with Wenshell's fake air circus. Gangsters all, Eric Hildrow had relied upon them to pull this coup.

Death to Harry Vincent. Such had been Hildrow's order. The others– Cliff Marsland and the two men who had intervened–could wait. Wenshell did not know that Cliff was with Harry. The two men from the back of the car sat cowed in chairs, covered by revolvers. Wenshell looked on approvingly while Hasker aimed his revolver for Harry's heart.

Wildly, Cliff Marsland struggled. Curbed, he resorted to a momentary subterfuge. To turn Hasker's attention, he shouted a warning that the man thought came from Wenshell.

"Look out!" cried Cliff. "Look out for the door of the platform!"

Instinctively, Hasker turned his eyes in that direction. So did others, including Cliff. Then The Shadow's agent stared, as amazed as the others. His wild cry had become a prophecy. The door of the platform was swinging inward.

THEN, from the blackness of the night appeared a looming form. A figure with a cloak that wavered in the wind; burning eyes that glowed from beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat. Beneath those eyes were the looming muzzles of mammoth automatics. Guns that were held in black-gloved fists.

Cliff had heard that thump on top of the car. He knew its meaning. The Shadow had arrived in his autogyro. Entrusting the controls to the hands of a skilled pilot, he had ordered a landing on the rear car of the speeding train.

The ship must have taken off immediately; but The Shadow had remained. Gripping the roof of the observation platform, he had swung downward and inward to the platform itself. Too late to join the train at the last stop, he had overtaken it by air!

The Shadow could have fired from darkness. Such was not his choice. Viewing the scene within, he had stepped into sight that he might draw the aim of desperate marksmen. The Shadow's scheme worked.

Hasker swung his revolver upward. So did Wenshell. Leaders of the crew, crooks at heart, these two knew the menace of the black-cloaked stranger from the night. Both sought to fire.

Hasker failed. As Wenshell's revolver barked, The Shadow's automatics flashed tongues of flame. With those shots, the cloaked avenger did a fading sweep to the side, timed to a lurch as the train took a curve.

Wenshell's bullets shattered the windows at the back of the car. Hasker, clipped by an opening shot, sprawled forward upon Harry Vincent's senseless form. Then a skimming slug found Wenshell's heart. The second crook dropped.

Four others were yanking guns. Cliff Marsland was forgotten. His automatic had been wrested from him. He was a nonentity now, so far as the other crooks were concerned.

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