The Shadow - 167 - Realm Of Doom by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1939-01-31T23:00:00+00:00

Hastings Bleer saw them first, for The Shadow had started him ahead. The Oxotone magnate had his precious shotgun, and wasted no time using it. But in valuing time, he simply wasted shots. The gas-masked men ducked at sight of Bleer’s weapon. He blasted both barrels into the space ahead, then stumbled in front of the headlights, choking from the gas.

The Shadow was driving forward, his left sleeve across his nostrils, his right arm raising the rifle to his shoulder. He didn’t notice that Baybrock and

the men who had piloted the bus were sagging as they tried to follow.

Swinging the rifle back and forth, The Shadow delivered one-handed shots that ripped the old boards in the bridge wall. Men were banging back at him with their revolvers, but his flaying fire had them on the dodge, which marred the accuracy of their aim. Despite the recoil of the rifle, The Shadow clipped two of the men who harried him. Five strides more, he would have been beyond the bridge.

One attacker prevented that by chucking a smaller gas bomb, the size of a hand grenade. The object hit at The Shadow’s feet, puffed its deadly contents up beneath his arm. Stifling, he staggered; then gripping the rifle barrel with

both hands, he swung the heavy butt toward heads that clustered about him.

Mechanically, The Shadow felt the jar that one thump brought. He had flattened one crook; he tried blindly to fell others, despite the choking effect of the gas. His swinging arm, seemingly, melted in air. He was floating into space; the bridge had vanished, along with the roar of the water beneath it.

The Shadow had flattened, although he did not know it. The floating effect

came from the hands that dragged him back into the bus, along with Baybrock, Bleer and the senseless drivers.

Vaguely, a roar came to The Shadow’s ears during one of those moments that

he fought valiantly for consciousness. It was the sound of the starting bus motor. Crooks had taken the wheel.

Then a voice - a growl that seemed oddly muffled, though the tone was uttered not far from The Shadow’s ears. Only a snatched portion of a statement,

but one that dented sharply on The Shadow’s muddled mind:

“We’re driving for old Oxotone -“

A mobster had uttered those words. They had some curious reference, perhaps to Hastings Bleer. The words thrummed through The Shadow’s fading thoughts: Old Oxotone

Life returned to The Shadow’s numbed hands. His eyes tightly shut from the

effects of the tormenting gas, he shoved his fists up from the bus floor where he lay, seeking the throat of the crook who had spoken those growled words.

As the bus heaved forward, The Shadow found that throat and gripped.

There

was a gurgle from the confines of a gas mask, which the crook had half lifted when he spoke. Then came another foemen that The Shadow could not see. A gun butt thumped The Shadow’s head behind the ear.

The blow brought blackness. No longer did The Shadow try to solve the riddle of the words that he had so vaguely caught.

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