Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 056 - The Crime Crypt

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THE CRIME CRYPT
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A MAN OF MURDER
? CHAPTER II. CROOKS OF A KIND
? CHAPTER III. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER IV. CRIME BREAKS
? CHAPTER V. TWO MEN MEET
? CHAPTER VI. THE ALIBI
? CHAPTER VII. MOBSTERS MOVE
? CHAPTER VIII. WITHIN THE HOUSE
? CHAPTER IX. GUNS BARK
? CHAPTER X. CRIME AND COUNTERCRIME
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S PART
? CHAPTER XII. THE STOLEN SCROLL
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW ACTS
? CHAPTER XIV. CROOKS SUSPECT
? CHAPTER XV. AT THE MUSEUM
? CHAPTER XVI. THE PILLAGERS
? CHAPTER XVII. BRODIE'S MOVE
? CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH AWAITS
? CHAPTER XIX. CARDONA'S CLEW
? CHAPTER XX. THE SNARE
? CHAPTER XXI. LIVING AND DEAD
? CHAPTER XXII. WORDS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW'S MIGHT
? CHAPTER XXIV. FROM THE CRYPT
CHAPTER I. A MAN OF MURDER
THE glare of a Manhattan evening flushed Times Square. Standing amid the brilliant illumination of the
Rialto, a young man surveyed the bright lights as though they were a sight that he had long forgotten.
Lost among the myriads who strolled this dense district, the young man remained unnoticed by those who
passed him. Yet there was something in his bearing that would have attracted attention had people
paused to look at him. His suave, mustached face; his shrewd, roving eyes; these were tokens of a clever
schemer - a man whose mind was trained to think in crime.
The young man noted a huge clock dial that glittered from the far side of Broadway. It told the time as
twenty minutes after eight. The observer shrugged his shoulders, strolled leisurely along the street and
hailed a taxicab. He gave the driver an uptown address.
Twenty minutes later, the cab stopped in front of an old brownstone house. The young man alighted and
paid the driver. He ascended the steps and rang the bell. A solemn-faced servant opened the door. The
menial stepped back and bowed as the young man entered.
"Good evening, Mr. Havelock," said the servant. "Your uncle is awaiting your arrival. His attorney is
here, sir."
"Very well, Calhoun," responded the young man. "I shall join them. Are they in the living room?"
"Yes, sir."
The young man crossed the hall, opened a door and entered a lighted room. Two gray-haired men
looked up as he came in. One - a stooped shouldered old fellow - arose to greet the visitor.
"Ah, Martin!" he exclaimed. "We have been awaiting you. This is Jason Thunig, my attorney" - he was
indicating the other gray-haired man as he spoke - "and this, Jason, is my nephew, Martin Havelock."
JASON THUNIG arose to shake hands with Martin Havelock. To the lawyer, the young man appeared
clean cut. He liked the friendly smile that Havelock wore. All traces of the schemer had faded from the
young man's visage during the cab ride from Times Square.
"Martin Havelock!" remarked Thunig. "Back in New York, after all these years. Cecil Armsbury's
nephew - in the flesh. You are to be congratulated, Cecil" - Thunig turned to the stoop-shouldered man -
"on having so fine a young man as your one surviving relative."
"Martin and I have become friends already," asserted Cecil Armsbury, as he took a chair and waved the
others to seats. "I was greatly pleased when he arrived from Mexico, two days ago. I have seen him but
occasionally, however" - old Armsbury was smiling - "because the lights of Broadway have lured him
downtown each evening."
"New York interests me," admitted Martin Havelock. "I haven't seen the old town in a good many years.
It is quite a change from Mexico. However, Uncle Cecil, I remembered my appointment. Here I am."
The three men settled back in their chairs. Armsbury and Thunig were smoking cigars. Martin Havelock
lighted a cigarette and puffed it idly while he surveyed the faces of his uncle and the attorney.
"Your arrival, Martin," remarked old Cecil Armsbury, "has proven a most fortunate one. I have recently
put my affairs in order; and Jason Thunig has come up to discuss all the matters which concern my
estate."
"Not a very complex task," declared Thunig, with a smile. "This home - your holdings in stocks and
bonds - those constitute your entire fortune, Cecil."
"The value?"
"Between thirty and forty thousand dollars."
"Perhaps a trifle more," remarked Armsbury. "The few curios which I still possess may bring fair value.
Ah!" The old man shook his head sadly. "The treasures which I once owned! I was forced to sell them,
Martin, to finance the many excursions which I made throughout the world."
"You were always a spender, Cecil," agreed Jason Thunig. "Nevertheless, you have managed to retain a
tidy sum of wealth. Your estate is a well-arranged one. The securities are sound. This property has held
its value."
"You are heir to it all, Martin," said Armsbury, smiling in kindly fashion as he turned toward his nephew.
"You - my one living relative."
"I appreciate it, Uncle Cecil," declared Havelock, in a voice which echoed the old man's friendly tone.
"My one hope, however, is that my inheritance shall be long delayed. In fact, uncle, chance might make
you my heir. All of my Mexican mining properties are willed to you. They are worth many thousands -
those mines in Hidalgo."
"The old usually die before the young, Martin."
"Perhaps. My father died young - my mother also. However, uncle, my purpose here is to enjoy a visit
with you. I shall stay as long as possible; after that, back to Mexico. My interests are too extensive to
neglect."
"You are wise, Martin," nodded Jason Thunig, sagely. "It is excellent to know that you have done so
well. A stranger in a foreign land, you met with great success. Commendable, Martin. Commendable!"
THE door of the living room opened as Thunig ceased speaking. It was Calhoun who entered. The old
servant was carrying a tray which bore a glass of water and a bottle of large white tablets. The three men
watched him set the tray upon a table. Solemnly, Calhoun opened the bottle and poured out three tablets
which he dropped into the glass of water.
"Your medicine, sir," he said, turning to Cecil Armsbury. "About this evening, sir - do you require me
further?"
"No, Calhoun," returned Armsbury. "You may go."
The servant stalked from the room. Cecil Armsbury settled back to puff at his cigar. His voice took on a
reflective tone.
"Years have gone rapidly," he declared. "I have traveled far and often. To many strange lands. Those
days of journeying are ended. I am growing old. My medicine! Bah!"
The old man scowled as he stretched forward a clawed hand and picked up the glass. The tablets had
dissolved while he was speaking. The water appeared almost as clear as before.
"Every night," mused Armsbury. "Three tablets in a glass of water. A stimulus for my weakening heart. I
wonder why Calhoun did not put in the tablets before he brought the glass in here. He usually does so."
The old man paused and frowned speculatively. "Calhoun is sometimes absent-minded. If he put three
tablets in before he entered - and three here - that would be a double dose."
"Would it be serious?" questioned Thunig, anxiously.
"Probably fatal." Armsbury laughed at Thunig's expression of alarm. "But do not worry. I can rely upon
Calhoun."
"Perhaps it would be best to prepare another glass -"
"Foolishness, Jason," scoffed Armsbury. "If I worried over every possibility of error that might mean my
life, I should live a burdensome existence. No, no. I have escaped death at the hands of wild African
savages. I have eluded well-aimed Tartar arrows. I passed through the Boxer uprising in China. Folly,
Jason, to think that a servant's error could possibly end my adventurous career! After these tablets have
thoroughly dissolved, I shall take this medicine as is."
With a quiet laugh, old Armsbury placed the glass upon the table. Thunig eyed it anxiously; then puffed at
his cigar. Martin Havelock, idly lighting another cigarette, showed little interest in the trend of
conversation.
"Do you wish these statements, Cecil?" questioned Jason Thunig, extending an envelope as he spoke to
Armsbury.
"No, indeed, Jason," returned the old man. "You are my attorney. Keep them."
"Very well." Thunig rose. "I must leave you, Cecil - and you, Martin. I am expected downtown before
half past ten."
Armsbury and his nephew arose. The old man conducted the lawyer to the door and Martin Havelock
followed. The nephew watched while his uncle showed Thunig to the front door. Calhoun had evidently
gone out.
Cecil Armsbury returned to find Martin Havelock standing just within the doorway of the living room.
The old man clapped his nephew on the shoulder.
"Wait here, Martin," he suggested. "I have some papers that I wish to give you. They will interest you. I
must go upstairs to obtain them." Armsbury's eyes noted the glass upon the table. "I can take my
medicine when I return. I shall not be gone more than ten minutes."
The old man turned and walked from the room. Martin Havelock's lips became suave as his ears heard
the fading footsteps. The young man's face had resumed its shrewd expression. From an idler, Martin
Havelock had become a schemer. Again, he was that keen, sharp-visaged individual who had stood in
the light of New York's Rialto.
WITH long, stealthy strides, Martin Havelock crossed the living room. His eyes were fiendish as they
gazed upon the bottle of white tablets. His hands were steady as they uncorked the bottle and removed
three of the large white pills. One by one, the treacherous nephew dropped the tablets into the glass.
Then, as an afterthought, he added a fourth and finally a fifth.
Twisted, leering lips showed him to be a man who contemplated murder. Carefully, Martin Havelock
corked the bottle. He placed it beside the glass. He noted that it still contained many pills. The fact that
more had been added to the tumbler of medicine would not be recognized.
Three might have been sufficient. Five was better. Dissolved pills could not be counted. Calhoun would
be to blame for this; and Jason Thunig, Cecil Armsbury's attorney, would be a testifier to the fact that the
servant must have erred.
Martin Havelock's smile was evil. The young man watched the tablets rapidly dissolve. The water was
clearing almost to its original color. Murder was in the making - murder that would be classed as
accident.
Still standing by the table, Martin Havelock drew a cigarette from his pocket. He placed it between his
evil lips. His expression began to change, turning mild for the part that he was to play upon his uncle's
return.
Then came a sudden rigidity. Martin Havelock's changing appearance froze. His face, half fiendish, half
friendly, was caught in the midst of its transformation. A chuckle from the doorway. Instinctively,
Havelock wheeled.
With staring eyes, the young man gazed into the muzzle of a glistening revolver. The gun was in the hand
of Cecil Armsbury. The stoop-shouldered old man, his lips spread in a gloating grin, had returned with
stealthy tread.
Cecil Armsbury had trapped his treacherous nephew in the act of preparing certain murder!
CHAPTER II. CROOKS OF A KIND
MARTIN HAVELOCK made no move as he stared into the muzzle of his uncle's gun. The young man
knew that he was caught; and in the face beyond that revolver, he saw no mercy. Cecil Armsbury, like
his nephew, had undergone a change. The placid face of the old man had become the countenance of a
fiend.
Again the chuckle. Havelock paled. He thought that he had previously deceived his uncle. Now he knew
that he was the one who had been fooled. There was something monstrous in Armsbury's evil gloat.
"Sit down."
The command was accompanied by a gesture of the revolver. Martin Havelock obeyed. Cecil Armsbury
pocketed his revolver, taking it for granted that his nephew was unarmed. The old man strode across the
room, showing unusual agility in his paces. With a cackling laugh, he picked up the glass of medicine and
drank it at a single draught. He set down the glass with a thump.
"Harmless," he chuckled. "White tablets of sugar. A little bit of by-play performed by Calhoun at my
order. It deceived you - as I expected. Well - what do you have to say, Martin?"
"Nothing very much," returned the nephew, in a tone which showed a resumption of his indifferent
attitude. "I suppose this changes the will. That's all."
"The law can deal with you."
"Hardly. You have drunk the evidence."
"A clever thought." The old man chuckled. "Well, Martin, I have put you to the test. You played for thirty
thousand dollars - perhaps forty - and you lost."
Martin Havelock merely smiled sourly and shrugged his shoulders. He did not feel concerned by his
uncle's malicious glare. Cecil Armsbury laughed.
"Thirty thousand. Quite a loss, Martin. Not much to a man who owns large interests in Hidalgo silver
mines, perhaps. But to a man who merely pretends to own such wealth -"
Martin Havelock stared at his uncle; paused. The old man drew a large envelope from his pocket.
"This contains the documents that I promised to show you," he declared. "I had them in my pocket all the
while. They contain proof that Martin Havelock owns no mining interests in Mexico. They prove,
moreover, that Martin Havelock has not been living in Mexico. They tell a great deal, in addition,
regarding the affairs of a certain international crook who is known as Duke Larrin -"
With a furious cry of interruption, Martin Havelock was on his feet. His spring toward Cecil Armsbury
was stopped only by the old man's quick action. Like a flash, Armsbury brought out his revolver and
pointed it at his leaping nephew. Havelock halted six feet from the old man's chair.
CECIL ARMSBURY cackled. He seemed to enjoy this turn of affairs. Martin Havelock, seeing the
threat in his uncle's eyes, retreated to his chair.
"Duke Larrin," announced Cecil Armsbury. "That is the name you have been using. You are Duke Larrin
- smooth crook who has worked in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, along the Riviera.
"Like most men who have turned to crime, you have spent all that you have made. Europe is no longer
open to you. But you remembered that your old self - Martin Havelock - had an uncle. You thought that
you might be my heir. You came to find out.
"Thirty thousand dollars! Bah! A paltry sum for a crook like Duke Larrin. I lost my respect for you when
I saw you, as a vulture, hovering by to wait for me to die. That is why I put you to the test - to see if you
would deal in murder."
Martin Havelock stared as he heard these words. A new expression had appeared upon his uncle's face
- a look that showed a strange approval. Before the young man could voice a question, Cecil Armsbury
spoke again.
"You were my heir," declared the old man. "Thirty thousand dollars would some day have been yours -
had you balked at the chance to murder me and lay the blame on someone else.
"But you made good in the test. You showed that murder was in your category of crime. You are my heir
no longer, Martin. You will be my partner - an equal sharer in a sum that will exceed a million dollars!"
Armsbury's face was gleaming. Martin Havelock wondered if his uncle had gone insane. The cunning
look on the old man's face might be that of a maniac; on the contrary, it showed amazing craft.
"To kill me, Martin," resumed the old man, with a cackle, "would be folly. Your crime would rest upon
you. Whatever you might reap would be lost. There are reasons. But to become my partner - ah, there
lies opportunity.
"I have been awaiting your arrival from Mexico ever since I gained this information." The old man tapped
his envelope with his revolver. "For I had need of a partner of Duke Larrin's caliber. I merely required a
test of your nerve."
With a gesture of new friendship, the old man placed both revolver and envelope upon the table. Each
had been a threat - one of death; the other of exposure. Martin Havelock, however, ignored them. His
uncle smiled approvingly.
"You are with me, Martin," he stated.
"For half a million?" The young man laughed. "Sure thing. How did you find out that I was Duke Larrin?"
"A friend who went to Mexico discovered that you were not living there. I thought, perhaps, that crime
was in your blood. The friend learned that you had been in three European capitals. Through another
man, I checked what was known about the famous international crook, Duke Larrin. I learned sufficient
to identify him as you."
"I quit the Duke Larrin stuff for a while."
"Because you knew it was becoming unsafe."
"Yes. I landed back in Mexico - my hide-out - nearly broke. That's why I -"
"Why you came here. It was clever of you. A wise step, Martin. It has paved the way to wealth for both
of us."
"Through theft?"
"Yes. Murder, also."
"What is our game?"
"To acquire objects," smiled Armsbury, "that are worth nothing."
HAVELOCK stared. Again he felt the impression that his old uncle had lost his mind. Armsbury saw the
look and chuckled.
"Articles worth nothing," repeated the old man. "That is why they must be gained. You may think that you
are clever, Martin. You cannot match your uncle. I have left a trail of strange swindles in my path. Once it
is covered, our way is clear to tremendous gain. Theft and murder are required."
The old man arose with surprising agility - a further proof that his presumed illness had been a pretense.
He crossed the living room and locked the door. Striding to the far wall, he reached into the huge
fireplace and pressed a hidden switch.
Martin Havelock stared as he saw the rear of the fireplace slide upward like a panel. The space revealed
was of considerable size. Stooping, the old man entered. He turned and beckoned. Havelock joined him.
Armsbury pressed another switch. The floor of the fireplace descended like an elevator, into blackness.
Then came light - a dim glow that showed a small vaulted room. An iron door lay beyond. Armsbury led
the way. He pressed at the side of the door. It slid away and showed a crypt beyond.
Into this larger chamber went uncle and nephew. Their footsteps awoke hollow echoes in the dim crypt.
Each wall had a door. Cecil Armsbury opened the farther one. His nephew gasped at the sight of
gleaming objects that flashed even in this dull light. Golden Buddhas with glittering emerald eyes; strange
scrolls of yellow metal; these were samples of the treasure that lay revealed.
"STOLEN goods," chuckled Cecil Armsbury. "Spoils from Chinese palaces; from Hindu temples; from
Persian mosques. Some are worth much because of the precious metal and jewels which they contain.
Others have value because of their rarity. The time has arrived, Martin, to turn the contents of this crypt
into cash. But before we can do so, we must steal - and slay!"
"Why?"
"Because of my past!" Armsbury gripped his nephew by the arm and spoke in a cackle that was harsh
within the confines of the crypt. "I have sold treasures in the past. I have gained fame as a discoverer of
unknown relics. But in my dealings with men who had wealth to spend, I used cunning methods.
"I sold them fakes! The jeweled Vishnu from Hyderabad" - the old man paused to raise one finger - "was
the first. The golden panel from the Temple of Heaven in the Forbidden City. That was the second. The
sacred scroll from Kaaba, in Mecca" - Armsbury was chuckling - "was the third. Last of all, the
collection of antiquities which I sold to the Egyptian Museum.
"All are impositions. I manufactured those supposed treasures. I gained large sums through their sale. I
kept my real treasures for myself. Now, however, I am faced with exposure. Should my swindles be
discovered, all would be lost. My reputation would be ended."
The old man paused in solemn fashion. Martin Havelock nodded with understanding.
"You mean," declared the nephew, "that your first step must be the regaining of the fraudulent items that
you have placed in other hands."
"Exactly," stated Armsbury. "More than that: the fake treasures must be destroyed and their owners
eliminated. Theft and murder must come from someone other than myself. The first three items that I have
named are owned by individuals. Those men must die when their treasures are taken.
"The antiquities in the museum can be regained last of all. No one need die when they are stolen; but
there, Martin, we can play a double game. With the fake items, we can also steal real treasure - objects
of fabulous wealth - which are in the Egyptian Museum along with the fake antiquities. The trail will be
ended. The road to millions will be ours!"
Martin Havelock was sober. His uncle watched him narrowly, as though divining the young man's
thoughts. A smile flickered on Cecil Armsbury's face even before the nephew spoke.
"Suspicion," declared Havelock, "is to be kept from you. Yet I - as your nephew -"
"Cannot commit the crimes," interposed Armsbury, with a cunning grin. "But as Duke Larrin, the
international crook, you have every opportunity. Your task will be to form a band of clever workers. This
crypt will be your headquarters. Here, as the leader, you can give your orders and send the henchmen
forth upon their work!"
STRIDING across the crypt, Cecil Armsbury opened a door at the side. He pointed to a darkened
corridor which formed a long tunnel leading from the crypt.
"This will be the mode of entrance," declared the old man. "The shaft to my living room will remain
unknown to your band. I shall not appear. You will live quietly in my home, as my nephew, Martin
Havelock.
"But as Duke Larrin, crook supreme, it will be your part to launch crime so baffling that no one in all
New York can ever suspect its source!"
Chuckling, Cecil Armsbury faced his nephew in the crypt. A leering smile appeared upon Martin
Havelock's lips. Uncle and nephew - both were crooks of a kind. They saw alike. The time had come to
act.
Amazing, baffling crime was in the making; its font was to be this hidden crypt where only men of evil
could assemble. Cecil Armsbury had found the man he needed. Lives were at stake and the schemes of
these potential murderers were buried as deeply as the crypt itself!
CHAPTER III. THE MEETING
DAYS had passed since Cecil Armsbury and his nephew had formed their plot of crime. New night had
come to Manhattan. The metropolis was again aglow.
There was one spot, however, that no illumination reached. This was a room in which pitch-darkness
reigned, irrespective of day or night. Somber silence marked the strange abode, until a slight swishing
sounded faintly through the gloom.
Something clicked. The rays of a bluish light appeared in the corner of the room. The flickering glare was
focused upon the surface of a polished table. Beneath that glow appeared two long white hands. From a
finger of the left sparkled a brilliant gem, that displayed a range of mystic, ever-changing hues.
The Shadow was in his sanctum. Those hands were his. The flashing gem - a priceless girasol - was the
emblem of this master being who balked all men of crime. An unseen visitant to a lost abode, The
Shadow was studying reports that concerned the underworld.
All crookdom knew of the existence of The Shadow. In the badlands, the very name of this weird
creature was pronounced with awe. Time and again, the mysterious figure of The Shadow had arrived to
foil the plans of master criminals.
A being clad in black - a fighter whose mighty automatics blazed a trail of death to skulking fiends - such
was The Shadow. Those who recognized his existence knew that The Shadow held the balance between
crime and order. When evil threatened to gain power over right, it was The Shadow who could turn the
tide.
Long white hands were opening envelopes. Report sheets and clippings fluttered to the table. These were
from The Shadow's agents - faithful workers who aided their master in keeping tabs on the pulse beats of
crime.
Strange hands - those of The Shadow! When the mighty fighter fared forth, his hands were gloved in
black, in keeping with the spectral attire that clothed him from head to foot. Crooks who had met him
had never seen the hands themselves. Long white fingers and the sparkling girasol were tokens of
recognition that none had ever gained.
Coded report sheets glistened with bluish ink. The Shadow read the word that his agents had reported.
The writing faded in uncanny fashion. Such was the way with all messages between The Shadow and his
agents.
THE SHADOW'S right hand brought forth a pen. Upon a sheet of white paper it inscribed a name that
remained in liquid ink of blue.
"Duke" Larrin!
This was the name that The Shadow had written. From two of his agents, he had learned that the famous
international crook was in New York. Yet neither informant had picked up Duke Larrin's trail.
Cliff Marsland, The Shadow's agent who played the part of a gangster in the underworld, had heard
whisperings that Duke Larrin had come to the badlands. No descriptions of the man had been given; it
was merely rumored that he was somewhere in Manhattan.
Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic, had gained the same information. Clyde was in touch
with Joe Cardona, ace detective at Manhattan headquarters. Through stool pigeons, Cardona had heard
the rumors of Duke Larrin's presence in New York. The ace sleuth was looking for the international
crook.
So far, nothing tangible had been learned. The Shadow divined the answer. If crime happened to be in
the making, Duke Larrin would be forming secret contacts. With whom? That was the question to be
considered.
Black gloves slipped over the long-fingered hands. The light clicked out. A soft laugh sounded in the
gloom. The swishing of a cloak; then silence.
The Shadow had fared forth. His destination was the underworld. There he would seek the undiscovered
connection between Duke Larrin and men of the badlands.
AT the precise time when The Shadow was departing from his sanctum, a man was strolling along an
uptown Manhattan street. The walker paused to study the entrance of an old apartment hotel. He saw
the name above the doorway:
RIDGELOW COURT
With a hasty glance up and down the street, the man entered the doorway of the building. He went
through a deserted lobby until he reached the obscure stairway. Another glance came from his dark eyes;
his crafty, heavy-browed features showed a cunning scowl. The man moved to the stairway. Instead of
going up, he took the downward steps.
No one had seen this visitor arrive. His identity would not have been suspected, even if he had been
observed in the lobby of Ridgelow Court. But in certain sections of Manhattan - particularly where
gangsters were wont to meet - this dark-browed man would have been promptly recognized. He was
"Brodie" Brodan, a gang leader who had ostensibly retired from the business.
Reaching the basement of the old hotel, Brodan passed the entrance to a furnace room and continued on
until he reached the rear wall of the cellar. He drew a key from his pocket and unlocked a door. He took
a flight of steps that went down to the little-used sub-basement.
All was dark below. Brodie's flashlight flickered in the darkness. The illumination showed the doors of
old storage rooms. Brodie picked one and unlocked it. He closed it behind him and pushed his way past
stacks of furniture until he reached the rear wall. He stopped in front of a wooden wall that had
apparently been erected to offset the dampness from the stone in back of it.
Brodie's flashlight showed a projecting nail-head. The gang leader pressed it, like a button. The nail came
back. Brodie waited. A slight clicking sounded. Brodie pressed upward. A portion of the woodwork
rose. Brodie went through the opening. He used his flashlight to find his way along a narrow corridor.
The wooden barrier slipped down after he had entered.
The passage was more than a hundred feet in length. It terminated in a metal door. Brodie Brodan
stopped at the barrier and gave four short raps. The door slid aside. The gang leader's flashlight clicked
off.
Brodie Brodan stepped into a dimly lighted chamber. A strange room - vaulted - with doors on every
side. Deep in the earth, this crypt had been reached through the cleverly concealed opening into the old
storeroom of Ridgelow Court.
The iron door clicked shut after Brodie Brodan had entered. Quizzically, the gang leader surveyed three
men who were seated on stools within the crypt.
THE dark-browed arrival knew them all. One - a smooth-shaven, languorous fellow - was "Fingers"
Keefel. A safe-cracker of remarkable skill, Fingers specialized in artistic crime. He was a crook who
looked for big jobs when he needed them.
The second, a tall man with firm-set jaw and cold, evil eyes, was "Croaker" Mannick. With Croaker,
murder was a pastime; yet this dangerous criminal was wary in his ways. He killed when people paid the
price and each scratch on his .38 represented the life of some big shot whom Croaker had assassinated
at another's order.
The police had never pinned a murder on Croaker Mannick. The underworld, however, knew his ability.
Brodie Brodan, cagey gang leader, felt that he was in select company with Fingers Keefel and Croaker
Mannick.
Yet it was the central figure of the group - the third man of the trio - toward whom Brodie finally looked.
摘要：

THECRIMECRYPTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.AMANOFMURDER?CHAPTERII.CROOKSOFAKIND?CHAPTERIII.THEMEETING?CHAPTERIV.CRIMEBREAKS?CHAPTERV.TWOMENMEET?CHAPTERVI.THEALIBI?CHAPTERVII.MOBSTERSMOVE?CHAPTERVIII.WITHINTHEHOUSE?CHAPTERIX.GUNSBARK?CHAPTERX.CRIM...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：83 页 大小：201.47KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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