The Shadow - The Golden Dog Murders Part 8

"Never mind about that. You can take my word that I'm not a crook. I'm a lawman. I'm here to save you."

He leaned forward. He raised his knife to sever the short length of cord that was still knotted around both of Mason's swollen thumbs.

"You dirty, double-crossing rat!" a voice screamed.

IT was Turk. He was standing halfway down the trapdoor steps. There was a leveled gun in his hand. The gun pointed toward Marsland's heart as he whirled.

"You rat!" Turk snarled. "I knew there was something phony about that shot outside. You were too anxious to get rid of me! So I played dumb and pretended to fall for your bluff. I gave you a chance to show your hand. And now -"

Marsland's hands were lifted, empty, above his head. Rodney Mason lay helpless, unable to interfere. Turk leaped grimly downward to the cellar floor.

His blazing eyes remained watchfully on Marsland as he jumped. Because of that, he miscalculated the distance from the step to the floor. He stumbled slightly as he landed. That was all the break Marsland needed.

His diving attack brought him head-down toward Turk. A bullet flamed abovehis hunched shoulder. Then Marsland was clutching for the gun. His fingers caught at the barrel. But with a furious swerve of his arm, Turk brought the jerking weapon around in a quick arc. The barrel struck across Cliff Marsland's temple with a slicing motion. It laid open the skin and sent blood pouring down his cheek.

Cliff sagged weakly to his knees. He tried to throw himself sideways. But again the b.l.o.o.d.y gun smashed at his skull. Cliff's body was like soft glue. He was unable to move a muscle to defend himself.

He slid into merciful blackness THE thing that roused him finally was a steady and repeated agony in his ribs. He opened pain-glazed eyes. Turk was kicking him viciously with the blunt toe of his heavy shoe.

"Wake up, you d.a.m.ned spy! I wanna talk to you!"

Cliff Marsland rolled over with a groan. Furious hands jerked him to his feet. He was thrust into a chair. His arms were bound tightly in a webbing of cord. The cords fettered him at shoulder elbow and wrist.

"You dirty stool pigeon! How d'yuh like it, huh?"

Turk's laughter was like the rasping sound of a hyena. He whirled toward Rodney Mason. But Mason was still helpless. Turk had sneaked back too swiftly to allow Marsland time to free the chemist's tied thumbs.

"Who is this guy?" Turk growled at Mason. "A pal of yours? What's his real name?"

"I - I don't know," Mason gasped. "I swear that's the truth!"

Turk's fist brought blood pouring from Marsland's nose.

"Who planted you in Baron's gang, you d.a.m.ned stoolie? Who are you working for?"

Marsland didn't reply. Turk uttered a crow of ugly laughter.

"A tough guy, eh? You won't talk? That's swell! I like tough guys.

They're fun to work on!"

He got to work at once. The "persuader" he used was Cliff's own knife.

The keen point of the blade brought crimson welling from beneath Marsland's fingernails. He gritted his teeth to choke off a groan.

"Feel like talking, pal?" Turk leered.

"Go to h.e.l.l!"

The knife point slashed open Marsland's s.h.i.+rt. The ridged muscles of his bared stomach were tense with pain. Cliff closed his eyes tightly, as the torturer straddled his body and leaned closer.

There was a brief silence. Then Marsland screamed!

The convulsive leap of his body almost toppled the crouched figure of his foe. But Turk hung on like a leech. Again, his knife moved deftly.

Marsland's teeth grated in his clenched jaws. His eyes had a glazed look.

He began to shout thickly.

Cliff could stand no more - and Turk knew it. He withdrew the knife point from the bared flesh beneath him.

"Wanna talk now, pal?"

"Yes - yes!"

"Start with your real name. It ain't Pete. What is it?"

Marsland hesitated. The knife began to descend again. Its touch against Cliff's blood-spotted skin made him cringe. He whispered two agonized words.

"Cliff - Marsland."

But the name did not register on the listening ears of Turk. For one thing, slurred with pain, it was barely audible. For another, it was blanketedby an unexpected sound echoing from the stairs that led down from the trapdoor: A whisper of icy, sibilant laughter!

Turk whirled on his knees. A startled glance brought him leaping to his feet. He was staring at a black-robed figure who confronted him with sardonic mirth.

All he could see were burning eyes, a strong beaked nose, a grimly slitted mouth. A slouch hat covered the intruder's forehead and slanted low over his gleaming eyes. A black cloak hid the outline of that figure. The hands were gloved.

But Turk knew who it was. Fear bubbled in his shrill cry: "The Shadow!"

CHAPTER XI.

THE SHADOW'S EXPERIMENT.

TERROR in the cry that burst from the lips of Turk was cunning camouflage.

He cringed backward, pretending to trip over the p.r.o.ne body of Marsland. As his figure swerved, his arm swung wildly as though to preserve his balance. But the fingers of his right hand brushed close to his hip. His gun jerked into his hand.

Flame streaked toward the spot where The Shadow stood. But that spot was no longer occupied. The slug from Turk's smoking gun tunneled into bare wood.

The Shadow's mocking laughter sounded from the other side of the cellar.

He had glided like a black-wraith from the spot where Turk had first seen him.

His swift, noiseless movement had taken place in the time it took Turk to draw and fire his gun.

The Shadow had a logical purpose in delaying his attack. He did not want to kill Turk. He wished to capture him alive, to make him talk. For The Shadow was aware that behind the theft of Mason's synthetic sapphires, and the murder of Peter Randolph, was an unknown super-criminal working in the dark for gigantic profits.

The Shadow's mocking laughter was intended to trick Turk, to make him vulnerable to an attack less fatal than gunfire. It succeeded. At the sound, Turk whirled. His profile exposed the hollow of his left temple. The Shadow had s.n.a.t.c.hed up one of the heavy tins of canned goods from the floor.

He flung the missile in a straight, whizzing line as Turk's gun spat flame. The heavy can struck Turk in the temple, sent him staggering backward.

His accurate squeeze on the trigger was offset by the convulsive jerk of his arm as the missile struck him. The gun muzzle slanted upward.

Turk's bullet clanged against the stone ceiling of the hidden cellar.

Instantly, The Shadow was leaping forward like a thunderbolt. His fingers darted for Turk's throat.

At the moment he had seen The Shadow's back-flung arm, Turk had sensed that he could not dodge the missile. His head rolled sideways as the heavy can struck him. His collapse to the floor was a fake.

As he rolled headlong in a seeming daze, the gun fell from his grasp. But the moment The Shadow dived to choke him into easy insensibility, Turk's hand darted into view from beneath his coat.

Again, he was holding the knife with which he had tortured Cliff Marsland! THE blade slashed across The Shadow's fingers, leaving a b.l.o.o.d.y furrow.

His grip loosened from Turk's gasping throat. But The Shadow was no longer underestimating the strength and fury of his foe.

Now began a grim struggle for possession of the knife. Rodney Mason was helpless to interfere. So was Cliff Marsland. Cliff tried to rise to his knees, and fell back dizzily with a groan.

The Shadow had a death grip on Turk's knife hand. He tried to reach backward for the b.u.t.t of his own gun. It was nearly a fatal mistake. Turk's strength was prodigious. The Shadow missed the plunging whiz of the knife into his chest by a miraculous contortion of his body.

One hand on the knife was not enough to hold the powerful Turk. The Shadow gave up any thought of ending the fight with a blow of his pistol b.u.t.t. He had to use both hands to keep himself from being ripped to b.l.o.o.d.y tatters.

Neither man uttered a sound except the panting grunts that came from his parted lips.

The Shadow was conserving his strength. Turk, on the contrary, was expending his efforts recklessly. He sensed it almost immediately. A cunning glint came into his eyes. He stopped his fierce efforts to rip The Shadow. The two men lay chest to chest in a breathless, gasping truce, while Turk gathered his strength for a final effort.

Both knew it. The knife remained taut in their double grip. The Shadow was glad of the respite. Staring through sweat-dimmed eyes at the wrist and forearms of Turk, he knew he was at grips with a man who was a veteran of many rough-and-tumble brawls.

It was Turk who laughed now - a deep, husky rumble in his corded throat.

The Shadow waited silently for the final attack.

Suddenly, he felt the signal: a faint twitch of the nerves and muscles!

He could feet Turk's chest move slightly as the killer drew a slow breath into his lungs.

The Shadow's own chest inflated. Swiftly, he was rolled on his back by a powerful heave of the killer. The knife jerked wildly in a double grip; it plunged crookedly at The Shadow's heart. But as it did, The Shadow twisted with every atom of the power he had saved for this final death flurry.

He used Turk's own strength to defeat him. He didn't try to hold back the whizzing blade. He deflected its path! The point ripped sideways through the cloth of The Shadow's robe, tearing it into tatters. The next instant, the steel buried itself in flesh.

Turk's fles.h.!.+

The Shadow had tried to hold that plunging knife. But Turk's pent-up fury was irresistible. Unable to restrain the power of his expanding muscles, he drove the knife hilt-deep into his own chest as The Shadow twisted the blade.

The recoil from that fatal blow pulled the dripping knife from the wound.

Turk gave a shuddering cry as the steel left him; then he collapsed.

Blood gushed upward from the deep wound in his chest. One glance at the bright arterial blood, and The Shadow knew Turk was finished. He had pierced one of the ventricles of the man's heart.

The Shadow staggered to his feet. He was desperately tired. His fingers and hands felt as if they had been crushed in a clothes wringer.

Cliff Marsland was swaying on his knees. He pushed himself upright, staring at the expressionless face of The Shadow.

"Dead?" he voiced.

A nod from The Shadow. He had tried to avoid killing Turk. Now, the hope that Turk might betray the ident.i.ty of the unknown master criminal who ruledSam Baron's gang - that hope was gone forever!

The usefulness of Cliff Marsland as a spy in the gang was gone, too.

THE SHADOW wasted no further time. He released Rodney Mason from the cord that held his thumbs. He rubbed those white and paralyzed thumbs until blood flowed back into them and Mason was able to move his stiffened fingers and wrists.

Mason picked up the fallen gun that Turk had dropped. Cliff Marsland listened to the swift orders of The Shadow.

There was no time to delay their escape. Turk's dead body could be left where it was until the police were notified. In the meantime, there were living rogues waiting to be attended to.

The thug known as Squint, and Sam Baron himself, were lying bound and gagged on the mainland, inside their own parked sedan. The Shadow had conquered them before he had stolen their boat and crossed the lake to the island.

Rodney Mason gave a shrill cry of delight at this welcome news. Cliff Marsland's eyes glowed. The men followed The Shadow up the stairs and through the trapdoor. The Shadow led them a zigzag trail to the tiny indentation on the sh.o.r.e where he had left the boat.

Rodney Mason grinned as he saw the boat over Marsland's shoulder. He tried to struggle from the thicket to the open sh.o.r.e. A branch slapped backward across his face.

"Hold that branch away!" he cried, excitedly.

Marsland drew the branch aside.

The next moment, Rodney Mason leaped! He had slyly jerked a gun from his pocket - the same weapon he had picked up so casually from the cellar floor.

The b.u.t.t of it struck Marsland a heavy blow on the side of his skull. Cliff had antic.i.p.ated no treachery. Reeling, he dropped senseless to the mud.

Mason didn't wait to see the result of his treacherous attack. In one bound, he reached The Shadow. Again the gun b.u.t.t swung murderously.

The Shadow went down in a limp huddle beside the sprawled body of Marsland.

Mason uttered a croaking gasp of satisfaction. He hurdled the two forms and sprang toward the rowboat. A quick shove sent it sliding into deep water.

As it floated away, Mason vaulted over the bow. He darted along the perilously rocking boat and fumbled for the engine cord, A quick jerk and the outboard motor sputtered into life. The boat shot away in a creamy froth, circled out of sight around the s.h.a.ggy tip of the island.

THE moment the boat vanished, The Shadow was on his feet. He had not been knocked unconscious by the wily Mason. He merely wanted Mason to think so. He had seen the attack on Marsland and had allowed Mason to hit him a glancing blow.

His reason was coldly logical: He had not trusted Mason. He had seen cunning in the chemist's eyes when he had picked up Turk's gun in the cellar hideout.

The Shadow intended to know just what was behind the chemist's treachery!