tamper with the machinery.
The first wreck in the railroad yards had occurred when a switchman
highballed a shifting locomotive along the main track. The engine had taken the
siding instead, mowing down the switchman who stood in its path.
The second wreck had been a brakeman's error. He had been crushed when a
string of freight cars crashed into a motionless line of day coaches. In both
cases, additional lives had been lost.
Tonight's disaster at the steel plant resembled the others, in two definite
ways. First: that no one from outside had tampered with any machinery; second:
that old Joe Grandy, like others who had died before him, had been sound
mentally and alert in action. Not one of the men who had borne the brunt of
disaster could have chosen to make a deliberate mistake.
Behind disasters stood crime, engendered by some master-plotter. A genius
of evil was at work in Hampstead. Through some process, this unknown criminal
had managed to control the minds of unwitting men. A master of murder and
destruction had chosen to work with human tools, of whom old Joe Grandy was the
fourth.
The fact that this theory smacked of the incredible was something that gave
it strength. There was a reason, however, why The Shadow accepted it
immediately. A few days ago, The Shadow had sent a trusted agent to Hampstead to
investigate disasters there. That agent's name was Harry Vincent. No word had
been received from him since yesterday.
Harry's disappearance had brought The Shadow to Hampstead. The steel plant
disaster, at the very time of The Shadow's arrival, had simply added to the
supersleuth's belief that crime stood behind every accident that had struck the
city of doom.
EXTINGUISHING his flashlight, The Shadow left the company office. He
reached the bottom of the stairs to find total darkness. No guard was present;
if one had come on duty, he had gone when the officials departed.
The Shadow reached the highway, crossed it and arrived at his coupe, which
he had wisely parked in the shelter of a side road before beginning his
investigation. The car was just within the town limits of Hampstead. Ten
minutes' drive would bring The Shadow to the heart of the little city.
That short journey was to be fraught with danger. Starting his car, The
Shadow swung out to the main highway. He headed townward and came immediately to
a quarter-mile stretch where buildings were few. Hardly had The Shadow struck
this open space before a rakish touring car roared out from the darkness beside
a closed filling station.
Instantly, The Shadow knew what was due. Prowlers had spotted his coupe
near the steel plant. They had decided that the car belonged to some independent
investigator. They had gone into ambush to waylay the coupe when it arrived.
A machine gun rattled. Instantly, The Shadow veered his coupe from the
touring car's path. He swung his automobile into a ditch; let it careen and stop
with a jolt, tilted far to the left. The men in the touring car thought that
they had scored an instant hit. The rakish machine slowed as it swung toward
the halted coupe.
An automatic spoke from the darkness of the ditch, just behind the coupe.
The Shadow had dived from the wheel, unscathed. He had waited for close range;
