Determined to make his captive speak, Snooks Milligan ordered a new, slow torture. Cardona took it smiling. He showed a physical endurance that seemed impossible.

At last, the result was the same. Once more the detective lapsed into a state of senselessness. The winch was again released.

A full hour passed before the captive had revived sufficiently to suit Snooks Milligan's purpose. The gang leader glanced at his watch. It was well past midnight. Milligan made a gesture of impatience.

"We can't be here all night," he growled slowly, making sure that Cardona understood his words. "But we'll try once again. Wait about fifteen minutes; then take it slow.

"We'll work on him easy. If he talks, all right. If he passes out, we won't waste any more time. We'll give him the works and let him drop!"

Joe Cardona understood. One more round of torture would be his finish. He knew that the result would be the same, whether he framed a trumped-up story to explain his visit to Chicago, or whether he refrained entirely from speech.

At the end, this merciless tiger of the underworld would have no further use for him. Joe Cardona alive, would be a menace. Dead, he could make no trouble.

Those ropes would tighten once more. When their task was finished, they would be released. Guns would bark a message of death, and the captive's body would drop through the opened platform into oblivion!

Still Joe Cardona was game. Although he was sure that help could never arrive in time to save him, he was determined to hold on to life as long as he could.

He set his lips grimly, resolved to yield no cry for mercy.

The carelessness of a bell boy had kept The Shadow from warning Cardona of this trap. Now, he was caught!

Chapter XVIII — The Man from New York

The Napoli Hotel was the new hangout for Mike Gallanta's mob. A small, but fairly modern building, it had been purchased by the notorious gangster, and had been kept as headquarters. A year before, the Chicago police had worried about events that occurred at the Napoli, but now the place was an extinct volcano.

Mike Gallanta was doing time in a Federal prison, along with other income-tax dodgers. His principal lieutenants were going about their business in a wary way, during the absence of their chief. Control over such men as Snooks Milligan was exerted by Al Barruci, who had once been the right hand of Mike Gallanta. At present, Barruci was leading a peaceful existence. Still quartered at the Napoli, he kept an eye upon the tempestuous mobsmen.

Al Barruci was a diplomatic personage. As a result, he worked well with the former vassals of Gallanta. He, alone, knew their doings, and they followed his advice in all matters. When Barruci advised, he was actually giving orders. But he was crafty enough to make it appear otherwise.

To-night, Al Barruci was comfortably ensconced in his suite at the Napoli. The prestige that he had gained through Mike Gallanta was serving him well.

By being conservative, Barruci encountered very little trouble. But as the right bower of the absent big shot, Barruci was still a power to be feared.

It was a known fact that he seldom stirred from his comfortable abode. It was that very fact that made prospective enemies wary of him.

The telephone rang, and Barruci answered it. He listened in mild surprise as a name was announced from the desk downstairs.

"Tell him to come up," he ordered.

There was a rap at the door a few minutes later. Al Barruci opened the portal and a tall, hard-faced man entered. It was the visitor— Jake Quellan— a noted New York racketeer.

Barruci had met the man before, when Quellan had conducted secret negotiations with Gallanta. He was puzzled by this surprise visit.

"What brings you to Chicago?" he questioned affably, as they sat down in the living room. Quellan lighted a cigarette before he spoke. He looked firmly at Barruci, with cold, staring eyes.

"I'm after a guy that is here in Chicago," declared the New York gangster. "Maybe you've heard of him. They call him The Shadow."

"The Shadow!" exclaimed Barruci. "He can't be in Chicago!"

"Why not?"

"Because" — Barruci paused reflectively — "he was here once before. He made plenty of trouble, then. If he was here, he wouldn't be laying low. So I figure he isn't here."

"No?" Quellan's question was challenging. "Well, you're wrong, Barruci. He is here and he is laying low. That's why I've come to get him. Before he starts more trouble. We don't want him back in New York."

"We don't want him here, either!" Barruci exclaimed.

"Great. Then you can help me get him," Jake replied.

"How?"

Slowly, Jake Quellan began to unfold his plan.

"The Shadow," he said, "is on the run, for once. He does things pretty much his own way. Once in a while he crosses the police, and they never can do anything about it.

"Well, this time, they've got the goods on him — and there's a man on his trail who is outsmarting him."

"Who?" quizzed Barruci incredulously.