Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 057 - Charg, Monster

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CHARG, MONSTER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. EYES OF THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER II. A MASTER OF CRIME
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
? CHAPTER IV. MURDER UNSOLVED
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER VI. THE BROKEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER VII. HENCHMEN MOVE
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW SUSPECTS
? CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CRIME
? CHAPTER X. THE DECISION
? CHAPTER XI. CHARG'S REWARD
? CHAPTER XII. CHARG ORDERS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW CHOOSES
? CHAPTER XIV. AT WHILTON'S
? CHAPTER XV. CRIME FORESTALLED
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW SCHEMES
? CHAPTER XVII. HANDS OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XVIII. AGENT VERSUS AGENT
? CHAPTER XIX. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER XX. TITANS OF STEEL
? CHAPTER XXI. THE BRAIN BEHIND
? CHAPTER XXII. DOOM TO THE BRAIN
CHAPTER I. EYES OF THE NIGHT
"FIVE million dollars."
The man who uttered these words was seated behind a mahogany desk. His square-jawed face was
domineering. His words were raspy as they came from curling, puffy lips. His eyes—almost
glaring—were focused upon the man before them.
"I am not interested, Mr. Thorne." The reply came in a positive tone. It was voiced by the man in front of
the desk—a pale, bespectacled fellow who returned Thorne's glare in owlish fashion. Yet there was a
determination in the answer that brought a scowl to Thorne's dark features.
"You are a fool!" The man behind the desk was harsh and outspoken. "You are deliberately destroying
the greatest opportunity of your life. Here in this desk"—Thorne's heavy fist clenched and pounded the
woodwork—"I hold the contract, ready for your signature. One simple word of agreement—you,
Meldon Fallow, will become a millionaire."
"Like Frederick Thorne." There was unveiled scorn in Fallow's reply. His eyes, too, showed a glare.
"You want to make me like yourself—another plutocrat. You want me to grind my share of profit from
the weary and the oppressed. Unfortunately, Mr. Thorne, you have met the wrong man."
THERE was silence. In this oak-paneled room that served as office in his home, Frederick Thorne,
multimillionaire capitalist, was receiving a rebuke from a man whom he considered no better than a
pauper. With vast wealth held as a lure, this domineering man could not shake the will of Meldon Fallow.
It was Thorne, however, who ended the pause. The millionaire's fierce glare seemed to fade. His fist
unclenched. Thorne settled back into his swivel chair, as a smile formed slowly upon his lips. Fallow
watched. He suspected new strategy in the millionaire's act.
"Let us consider this less tensely," suggested Thorne, in a voice that showed smoothness. "You and I,
Fallow, should be friends. It is prejudice which places us at odds. Your ideas, it seems, conflict with
mine."
"And always will."
"I scarcely think so." Thorne shook his head. "Perhaps, Fallow, our views may be more similar than one
might suppose. We are both creatures of an existing economic system. Modern conditions have brought
you tribulation and misfortune; to me, they have meant the acquisition of tremendous wealth. I have
conformed where you have not - that is all."
There was persuasion in Thorne's tone. It was the same smooth system that had enabled this successful
capitalist to gain his millions. Fallow knew that fact, yet he could not avoid the reasoning power of
Thorne's argument.
Frederick Thorne was rising from his desk. His height was imposing; it gave him an advantage as he
gazed at a downward angle toward Meldon Fallow. Clad in tuxedo, Thorne had the appearance of a
dramatic actor as he stood before the velvet curtains that covered the broad window of his paneled
office. The electric lamps that illuminated the room showed the deepness of the maroon draperies that
hung behind the millionaire.
"Years ago"—Thorne paused reflectively with hands behind his back - "I began a career as a financier.
You, Fallow, were then beginning your work as an inventor. I have gained the ultimate in money. You
have reached the zenith of creative effort.
"You seem to think that our paths have differed. In a sense, they have; but basically, they have not. Both
of us—Frederick Thorne and Meldon Fallow— held the same ambition. We have gained it. Our
ambition was success. Remember that, Fallow. Success!"
Thorne paused emphatically. For a moment, Fallow seemed fully swayed by the millionaire's words.
Then the bespectacled man swung back to his antagonism.
"Success!" Fallow's exclamation was scoffing. "Call success our mutual ambition. But while I toiled, while
I starved, while people hooted me as a crack-brained inventor, you enjoyed luxury. You were the object
of envy—a demigod in the minds of those who worshipped wealth."
"Quite so," agreed Thorne. "That, however, does not change the circumstances. We followed different
roads, that is all. Mine was smooth and comfortable; yours was hard and trying. Nevertheless, the fact
that we meet in private conference here is proof that we have both arrived at a common destination."
Thorne was strolling forward as he spoke. The blackness behind him - the space where his body had cut
off the light began to fade as he reached the desk. The maroon curtains again showed their deep red hue.
Yet a patch of darkness still remained. Fixed on the floor was a long streak of black, extending inward
from the curtains. Its dark shape ended in a silhouette.
THAT projecting blackness was the token of another presence in this room. It told of hidden eyes,
peering from between the junction of the curtains. Frederick Thorne and Meldon Fallow were not alone.
"My success has been wealth." Thorne was speaking suavely as he seated himself at the desk. "Yours
has been creation. While I have been gaining millions, you have produced the last word in scientific
marvel.
"Your concentrated fuel; the mighty engine which it can drive; these will revolutionize the most vital of all
modern utilities: power. Under the existing conditions of society—which we must recognize as real—your
invention can be transformed to wealth.
"That is why I sent for you. It is why I insisted upon negotiations. I can offer the maximum of wealth. It is
plain business - profitable to us both. I have five million dollars, ready for immediate payment. You
cannot do better elsewhere."
Perhaps it was Thorne's tinge of satisfaction; perhaps it was his reference to money as the final
basis—whatever the cause, the effect upon Fallow was electric. Instantly, the bespectacled inventor
regained his former challenge. The lure of millions lost its final chance.
"Wealth!" Fallow's words came with a sneer. "You judge all by that one term, Thorne. You are the
fool—not I. You say that I cannot do better elsewhere. You are wrong. I shall do better—I have already
done better."
Fallow paused and his lips formed a triumphant smile. Again, the poor inventor was taunting the man of
wealth. Fallow seemed to gloat over his ability to pass up the chance for fortune.
"Why do you want my invention?" jabbed Fallow, bitterly. "I can answer. You see a chance to make
more millions. You see new masses of wealth for your bulging coffers. Through my invention you can
drive other corporations out of business. Power plants will lie idle. Present machines will become
obsolete. Small capitalists will be ruined."
"What of it?" interposed Thorne, with a hard smile. "You do not like capitalists. You will kill a budding
crop of them if you sell me your invention."
"Kill them for your benefit!" retorted Fallow. "Turn them into fodder that you may fatten. Let you control
a greater aggregate of wealth—you alone—than they all possess together.
"They are not the ones whom I consider. I am thinking of the workers. Thousands upon thousands of
men now working in factories will be thrown out of jobs if you gain my invention. That is why you will
never have it!"
With that final statement, Meldon Fallow arose. He plucked his shabby hat from the edge of Thorne's
desk. He backed away, a queer, bow-legged figure. His eyes, through the thick lenses, were those of a
zealot.
"The world must progress." Thorne was rising as he made his last insistence. "The misfortune that the
masses suffer cannot be avoided. Economic conditions are adjusting themselves to meet the world's
advance. Why show folly, Fallow? This offer of which you speak—it cannot equal mine—it must also
cause temporary misfortune -"
"It will bring happiness!" interrupted Fallow, as he stood with his right hand on the door knob. "A group
of honest men have gained the rights to my invention. They will not exploit it. Money!" Fallow's tone
showed contempt. "The little that I need will be supplied me. The rest will go to those who deserve it—to
the workers, to their superintendents, to salaried officers of honest concerns. Not one penny of profit will
be gained by exploiters like yourself!"
Fallow turned the knob. He stepped through the door, regardless of Thorne's angry protest. The barrier
slammed shut. Frederick Thorne was alone.
RESENTMENT showed upon the millionaire's sallow face. Pacing across the room, Thorne indulged in
furious scowls. Viewed from the slit between the curtains, Thorne's countenance was venomous. A
purplish shade had come to the millionaire's forehead; veins swelled as he clenched his fists in fury.
Striding suddenly to his desk, Thorne pressed a button. A few moments later, the door opened. A
liveried servant stood in view.
"Mr. Fallow left?" quizzed Thorne.
"Yes, sir," replied the servant. "He seemed in a hurry, sir—and very angry -"
"That will do. Summon Mr. Shelburne. He is in the library."
"At once, sir."
The door closed. Thorne paced more calmly. His course carried him across the path of darkness on the
floor. The millionaire, deep in thought, did not notice that motionless sign of an ominous presence. He
swung as the door opened.
A smug-faced man had entered. Tall, stoop-shouldered, the visitor had a manner that was half humble,
half crafty. Shelburne was of middle age; baldheaded, he made an odd figure as he tilted his pate forward
and peered upward toward Thorne.
"You were right, Shelburne." Thorne resumed his seat as the bald-headed man approached. "There is no
chance of changing Fallow's decision. The man is a fool."
Shelburne nodded in agreement.
"I was wise enough not to question him at length," resumed Thorne, opening a desk drawer and bringing
out a packet of papers, "but what he said substantiates your reports. He talked of the committee and
intimated that he had given them full rights to his invention."
Again, Shelburne nodded.
"The committee is our only chance." Thorne was looking through the reports as he spoke. "These men
have judgment. They are not fools, like Fallow."
"You will not gain results through them," interposed Shelburne, with a reluctant shake of his head. "I have
warned you, sir. You will find that my reports are accurate. They are determined to carry out the
arrangements which they have made with Fallow."
"Perhaps," remarked Thorne, dryly. "But when Fallow fades from the picture, it may be possible to deal
with them. I am relying upon you, Shelburne."
"Yes, sir."
Thorne flung the packet back into the drawer. He arose and made a gesture.
"It is time for you to leave," he said to Shelburne. "Return with a new report to-morrow."
Shelburne bowed himself out.
THORNE strolled about the room. At last he went to a corner closet, brought out a hat and light
overcoat and donned the garments. Thorne pressed the buzzer; he was at the door when the servant
arrived.
"I am going out," he told the man. "Straighten the office; then lock the door. I shall not be back until
midnight."
"Yes, sir."
The servant's work was brief. A few minutes later, he, too, had left.
It was then that the maroon curtains moved. From their rustling folds appeared a figure that seemed like
the solid counterpart of the silhouette which now shifted on the floor.
It was a form clad in black. Shoulders were concealed by the folds of a sable-hued cloak. The upturned
collar hid the features above it; so did the projecting brim of a slouch hat. A soft laugh came from hidden
lips.
That sound—a shuddering whisper—was token of the stranger's identity. This mysterious visitant was
The Shadow. Supersleuth opposed to crime—a master fighter who warred in behalf of justice—The
Shadow had an uncanny ability of prying into crooked schemes.
Black gloved fingers held a thin, curved pick of steel. With this instrument, they opened the lock of
Thorne's desk drawer. In the mellow light, the packet of papers came into view. Gloved hands spread
the documents while keen eyes, burning from inkiness beneath the hat brim, studied the reports.
His inspection finished, The Shadow replaced the papers. The drawer clicked shut. The Shadow merged
with the darkness of the curtains. A window sash raised noiselessly; then lowered.
The side wall of Frederick Thorne's Manhattan residence adjoined an unlighted courtyard. Unseen
against the blackened surface, a batlike figure moved downward from the window. Squidgy
sounds—lost in the murmur of the street—were indications of the suction cups which The Shadow had
placed on hands and feet.
(Note: In describing the remarkable adhesive power of his rubber suction cups, The Shadow mentioned
certain facts concerning the history of these pneumatic contrivances. Some forty years ago, an acrobatic
act was staged in Paris, wherein the performer walked upside down along a board suspended from the
dome of a theater. This feat was accomplished with the aid of suction disks that gripped and released
automatically by pressure of the performer's foot.
Each disk measured four and one half inches in diameter, with a thickness of five-eighths of an inch. One
disk proved sufficient to sustain the performer's weight while the other was being moved to a new
position. Short steps were necessary in the accomplishment of this act.
The Shadow's suction cups are similar in principle to the original devices used by the Parisian acrobats.
Though approximately the same in size, they have been improved for use on vertical as well as horizontal
surfaces.
In the acrobatic performances, a net was stretched beneath the performer in case of a fall. This is a
hazard against which The Shadow has no protection. His improved suction cups have, however, stood
the most exacting tests to which he has submitted them. MAXWELL GRANT. )
Off in the distance was the glow of Times Square. The glare of the metropolis did not reach the narrow
space beside the building. The Shadow was shrouded in blackness when he reached the courtyard. Only
the faint swish of his cloak betokened his departure toward the thoroughfare.
Eyes of the night! Such were the eyes of The Shadow. They had spied to-night, while listening ears had
heard the conversations in Frederick Thorne's paneled office.
Meldon Fallow had left; so had Shelburne. Frederick Thorne had departed. Last of all had gone The
Shadow. His was the final part in a drama that had opened with the rejecting of a five-million-dollar offer.
His would be the final part should the play become a tragedy of crime!
CHAPTER II. A MASTER OF CRIME
IT was precisely nine o'clock when The Shadow made his departure from the home of Frederick
Thorne. The mystery of The Shadow's presence; the keenness with which he was investigating the
millionaire's affairs—these were indications that the master sleuth suspected evil to be afoot.
Yet The Shadow had gained no evidence that immediate crime was pending. He had seen Fallow leave
in indignation; he had seen Shelburne depart to act the part of spy; he had seen Thorne follow with the air
of a man who intended to await developments.
The Shadow, therefore, was planning his own efforts along the channel of investigation. Until he saw a
move that promised menace, it was his game to watch the factors whom he might uncover.
Fallow—Shelburne—Thorne—three men involved in negotiations that involved five million dollars! The
fact that Fallow had spurned Thorne's offer did not alter the value of Fallow's invention. The rejection of
millions actually added new worth to the inventor's creation.
Desire for possession, craving for wealth—these were factors that could mean the beginning of crime.
Force could gain where other measures might fail. As yet, however, The Shadow had gained but one
important fact: namely, that Shelburne was a spy in the employ of Frederick Thorne.
Actual agents of crime—men who could be depended upon for theft and murder—were lacking in the
game. The Shadow knew that they might already be on the move; to trace them at present would be
impossible. Hence The Shadow, after leaving Thorne's, had no new lead to follow.
IT was half past nine when a stocky man appeared from the obscurity of a side street and began a
strolling pace northward on Tenth Avenue. This section of Manhattan was far from Thorne's.
Unwatched, unsuspected, the stroller continued at an easy pace. Street lights showed the hardened
features of his face. Blunt-nosed, with protruding jaw, this man carried an expression that seemed both
challenging and hostile.
At times there was something almost furtive in his bearing. Quick glances over his shoulder showed that
he was on the lookout. When he passed a corner where a uniformed policeman was standing, the man
showed no concern. It was evident that he had no present fear of the law. If a criminal, this stocky
stroller was certainly one who had managed to avoid clashes with the police.
Slackening his pace, the stocky man turned a corner. He gave a quick, searching glance. His pace
became more brisk. He walked half a block, passed a decrepit garage and entered an old-fashioned
apartment building. Here he found a secluded door in a back hallway. He produced a key and unlocked
the door.
The man turned on a light switch. Dull illumination showed a poorly furnished room; there was a door at
the further wall. It proved to be an entry to a bedroom beyond. The visitor, however, stopped midway.
He opened an obscure closet door; he found a hook and twisted it. Then, with methodical precision, he
gave three short presses, as one would signal with a button.
There was a short interval. Then came a dull, humming sound. A click; the wall descended like a panel,
revealing a small elevator. The man entered. The panel closed of its own accord and the car descended.
The shaft was about a dozen feet in depth. The stocky man arrived at an opening into a small anteroom,
with rough stone walls. There was a door straight ahead, revealed by a single light. He advanced and
gave three short jabs to a button beside the door. He waited; then came a sharp click.
The barrier moved upward, evidently into a wall of the apartment above. The visitor stepped forward
into a strange, subterranean room. The door dropped behind him. He stood in a mellow light, his hard
face solemn with awe.
THE room, despite its stone-walled simplicity, was impressive. Its first oddity was its shape. The room
was roughly triangular. The door through which the hard-faced man had entered was in the middle of one
side of the triangle.
Similar doors showed in each of the other walls. But the visitor's eyes were not turned toward either of
these inner barriers. The man was looking straight ahead, toward the apex of the triangle. That corner of
the room was occupied by a peculiarly woven screen.
The dull illumination came from shaded lamps—one in each corner of the room. That which occupied the
central corner was above the level of the low screen.
As the visitor, hat in hand, approached the screen, there was a click from beyond. Two lamps sent their
glow through the fantastic design of the curtained screen.
The visitor stopped short. His manner showed that he did not dare advance closer. Through the screen,
he could observe the dim outline of a seated figure. The white folds of a turban were discernible above
the head; glittering spots denoted jewels in the Oriental headgear.
The arrival waited. He could sense two steady eyes, fixed in a stare from beyond the screen. He knew
that the light of the room, greater than that of the small lamps behind the screen, made his own features
plain to any one who might be beyond.
Hence he, the visitor, was fully visible, while the seated being was to him no more than a dim outline. All
that the standing man could catch was the motion of an arm, apparently returning from the switch that the
hand had pressed.
"Who are you, intruder?" came a steady, raspy voice from behind the screen.
"I am Jerry Laffan," returned the standing man in a subdued tone. "I am the servant of Charg."
"Your token?"
"Three."
This was the number which Laffan had signaled by the pressure of the hook and later with the button.
The questions and the replies were routine ones, given as signs of identity...
"Make your report," came the commanding voice.
"The work is done," declared Laffan. "I have seen no changes since the delivery. All is ready for the
moving men. They are due to-morrow."
"That is well," came the voice of Charg. "Prepare for orders. Are you ready?"
"Yes," responded Laffan. "I am ready, Charg."
There was a slight pause; then in its harsh, monotonous tone, the voice issued its command.
"You will await the removal of the furniture," were the words from the screen. "Do not be disturbed if
circumstances cause delay. Immediately after removal, be prepared to purchase the desk.
"Be prompt in bringing it to the appointed spot. Remember: you, alone, are acquainted with that place.
Are my instructions plain?"
"They are," responded Laffan.
There was another pause. The moments seemed tense to the hard-faced man, despite the fact that he had
obviously held previous interviews of this sort. He seemed to be expecting ominous words.
"Charg has commanded," came the voice from the screen.
"When Charg commands," returned Laffan, "his servants obey."
"Then go." The words came in a deep monotone. "To linger with Charg means death."
Laffan saw the arm move behind the screen. A hand clicked off the inner lights. The fantastic surface of
the screen was no longer transparent. Laffan, however, did not wait for further observation. Those final
words had been significant.
Laffan turned. He heard a click; the outer door was rising. With hastening steps, Charg's servant made
his prompt exit. The barrier dropped a scant two seconds after he had passed.
ENTERING the elevator, Laffan went up to the apartment. The way to the little passage was open; the
wall closed as soon as Laffan was clear of the elevator. The hook turned automatically into place.
Laffan left the apartment. He was cautious when he reached the street. Satisfied that no one was present
to witness his departure, Charg's servant walked hastily away. His heavy shoulders shrugged with a
nervous twist.
Despite the fact that he was in Charg's service, Jerry Laffan, hard though he was, had undergone a nerve
strain during his brief visit to the subterranean abode. Such was the power of Charg over this henchman.
Cold, steady orders: Charg's words had been forerunners of crime. They had been the utterances of a
master mind; the statements of a grim personage whose commands meant life or death.
From a strange adobe beneath a secluded apartment, the orders of Charg had been issued in a tone of
finality. By to-morrow, the scheme of the plotter would be nearing its fulfillment.
Death. Charg had given the word as a sinister threat to his agent. If Charg ruled through death, it was
certain that murder formed the theme of coming crime. Death was in the making. It would be certain
death, dealt through the cunning of a crafty brain.
Such was the menace that existed unknown to The Shadow. Charg, strange exponent of evil, had
spoken. His hidden hand had already prepared the stroke.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
IT was ten o'clock. A group of three men were assembled in a small but sumptuous conference room. A
long mahogany table occupied the center of the chamber. About it were chairs; beyond were bookcases;
while a large radio cabinet occupied one corner and a filing cabinet another.
Seated at one end of the mahogany table was Meldon Fallow. The inventor's expression was as owlish
as it had been at Thorne's. With his present companions, however, Fallow showed no antagonism. The
light in his bespectacled eyes showed kindliness and enthusiasm.
One of Fallow's companions—the man midway at the table—was a silent person who seemed
preoccupied with his own thoughts. His rumpled coat; his shaggy, unkempt hair, gave him the appearance
of a scholar who concerned himself with little other than his own affairs.
The other man—at the end of the table opposite Fallow—was both dignified and keen of manner. His
well-molded face showed traces of practical genius. His air of authority made it evident that he was host
to his two companions. His nodding head indicated approval as he listened to Fallow's technical
discussion of motive power.
A telephone rang. The instrument was on top of the radio cabinet. The dignified man was closest to that
spot. With a gesture that stopped Fallow's discourse, he arose to answer the call.
"Hello..." The dignified man spoke in a brisk tone. "Yes. This is Mr. Towson's residence... Yes, I am
Bryce Towson... I see... I see... Very well. Thank you for the message..."
Hanging up the receiver, Bryce Towson turned to his companions. His features wore a pleasant smile that
signified good news.
"Herbert Whilton is on his way here," stated Towson. "The call was from the Cobalt Club, where he
stopped to meet a friend."
"Some one is coming with him?" questioned Fallow, anxiously.
"Apparently," answered Towson. "I can see no objection. Do you, Mr. Dyke?"
The question was put to the preoccupied man who sat at the side of the table. It brought a shake of the
shaggy head. Dyke had no objection. Fallow appeared mollified.
As Bryce Towson was resuming his seat, the door of the room opened and a stoop-shouldered figure
entered. The newcomer was Shelburne, Frederick Thorne's spy. The man advanced toward the table;
then stopped to speak to the seated three.
"How soon will the conference begin, gentlemen?" he questioned. "Shall I have the papers ready?"
"Yes, Shelburne," responded Towson. "Mr. Whilton will arrive shortly. The conference will begin as soon
as he is here."
Shelburne nodded. With catlike tread, he advanced to the filing cabinet and opened a drawer. He began
to draw papers from the files.
"Let us resume our discussion, Fallow," suggested Towson, with a nod toward the inventor. "You were
talking about the improved concentrate when we were interrupted."
"Yes," declared Fallow. His eyes shone with enthusiasm. "I was returning to the theory which first
inspired my invention. Internal combustion is the secret of practical power. Therefore, I considered the
extremes. First: a gasoline motor, in which much fuel is required; second, a motor utilizing nitroglycerine,
in which a minimum of fuel would be needed.
"The motor, itself, was the problem. Modern motors are far beyond the strength required to withstand
the combustion of gasoline. But could any motor ever hold against the racking force of nitroglycerine?
My answer was no. But I saw the potentialities of a fuel somewhere between the two. I produced such a
fuel and built a motor to withstand it. The fuel was M 7."
"Yet M 7 did not prove satisfactory," observed Towson. "It was not until you developed a less powerful
concentrate—F-M 5—that you were sure of success."
"That is true," nodded Fallow. "F-M 5 showed its worth. One pint of it could equal ten gallons of
gasoline. Yet FM 5 presented a problem which I was wise enough to foresee."
"Distance strain?"
"Exactly. My motor, though strong enough to withstand the explosions of F-M 5 over a distance of ten
thousand miles, would begin to crack after that goal had been gained. F-M 5 is excellent for
demonstration purposes. For practical results, we must use my newest fuel—Q-M 1."
"What is its power relation to F-M 5?"
"Approximately one half. We may say, roughly, that one quart of Q-M 1 will outperform ten gallons of
high grade gasoline."
"Without damage to the motor?"
"Not within a range of one hundred thousand miles."
"This is wonderful!" Towson's exclamation came with enthusiasm. "Do you hear that, Dyke? Q-M 1 will
show performance up to one hundred thousand miles! It's advantage over gasoline is forty to one!"
"Fallow is a genius," returned Dyke, in a rumbling tone. "I expected him to produce such a fuel."
"I owe much to your aid, Towson," broke in Fallow. "The use of your equipment—of your laboratory -"
Towson waved his hands to suppress the inventor's thanks. As Fallow reluctantly subsided, the door
opened. A servant appeared to announce the arrival of Herbert Whilton. A moment later, two men
entered. The servant stepped aside while Towson sprang forward to greet the visitors.
THE first was an elderly man, whose thin lips formed a perpetual smile. He was leaning on a cane; his
parchment face and pure white hair were evidences of his advanced years.
With him was a tall, firm-faced companion. The latter was attired in evening clothes. His features were
摘要：

CHARG,MONSTERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.EYESOFTHENIGHT?CHAPTERII.AMASTEROFCRIME?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWDEPARTS?CHAPTERIV.MURDERUNSOLVED?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWHEARS?CHAPTERVI.THEBROKENTRAIL?CHAPTERVII.HENCHMENMOVE?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOWSUSPECTS?CHAPTER...

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