Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 048 - Gray Fist

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GRAY FIST

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. DANGER STALKS

? CHAPTER II. WORD TO THE SHADOW

? CHAPTER III. MEN IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER IV. CARDONA DECIDES

? CHAPTER V. THE GRAY PAPER

? CHAPTER VI. MINIONS AT WORK

? CHAPTER VII. THE HOME THRUST

? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW COMPLIES

? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW SPEAKS

? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S FLIGHT

? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S STRONGHOLD

? CHAPTER XII. GRAY FIST SPEAKS

? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S CALL

? CHAPTER XIV. PRESTON GIVES ADVICE

? CHAPTER XV. GRAY FIST'S ANSWER

? CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST REFUGE

? CHAPTER XVII. CARDONA'S CLEW

? CHAPTER XVIII. IN CHINATOWN

? CHAPTER XIX. CARDONA'S LUCK

? CHAPTER XX. MOBSMEN STRIKE

? CHAPTER XXI. YAT SOON RULES

? CHAPTER XXII. GRAY FIST ARRIVES

? CHAPTER XXIII. GRAY FIST'S TREACHERY

? CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHADOW STRIKES

? CHAPTER XXV. THE TRIUMPH

? CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST LAUGH

CHAPTER I. DANGER STALKS

"HELLO... Hello... Detective headquarters?"

A gray-haired man was asking the question as he spoke into the mouthpiece of a telephone. A look of

relief appeared upon his strained lips as he received an affirmative answer.

"To whom am I speaking?" he inquired, in an even tone. "Ah! Detective Cardona... Very good; you are

the man I wanted. My name is Varden... Yes, Worth Varden, the importer... Here, at my home."

The gray-haired man paused. His face became tense. His voice lowered as he again took up the

conversation.

"It is important that I see you, Cardona," declared Varden. "Highly important... To-night... That is why I

called again to learn if you had returned. I was afraid that you had not received my message this

afternoon...

"I can't talk now—not until I see you... Yes, I shall be here. Come to the side door of my home. Bring

men with you. There is danger... Myself? Certainly, I am in danger. I shall leave here with you, after you

arrive..."

Varden's face seemed to pale beneath the light that came from a desk lamp beside him. For a moment,

stark fear flickered over his features. Finally, anger mingled with terror.

"A hoax?" Varden's question was blurted into the mouthpiece. "This is no hoax! Can't you take my word

that danger threatens me? Listen, Cardona"—Varden's voice was lowering tensely—"I can tell you one

fact right now... Yes, regarding this danger... It involves Seth Cowry, the missing racketeer... No, I don't

know where he is, but I can tell you who he's working for -"

An exclamation came across the wire. It was Cardona's statement that he would come to Varden's. The

gray-haired man smiled wanly as he hung the receiver on the hook. Despite the strain which held him,

Varden could not repress a smile at the quickness with which his statement had aroused Cardona's

interest.

SEATED at a heavy desk, in the center of a well-furnished study, Worth Varden was in a setting that

denoted wealth. His room was adorned with chairs of fine mahogany; the floor and walls were bedecked

with Oriental rugs of apparent value. Yet the man, himself, despite the dignity of his appearance, seemed

miserable. His eyes were glassy, his shoulders were bowed as though they bore the burden of an invisible

weight.

At the side of the room, a door stood ajar. There was blackness beyond. The partly opened barrier

indicated that Varden was apprehensive about what might occur from that direction. His furtive eyes

looked toward the door; his ears were listening.

Tap—tap—tap—

The rhythmic beat made Varden start. Some one was knocking for entrance, at a spot beyond the partly

opened door. The gray-haired importer arose and moved cautiously toward the door. He pushed it

slightly; slipped through and closed the door behind him. He was in a short hallway, which was totally

dark. The taps—they seemed as cautious as did Varden—were coming from another door at the end of

the little corridor.

Varden advanced. Locks clicked as he unfastened them. His trembling hand turned the knob. As the

door opened slightly under Varden's pull, a quiet voice spoke from outside.

"Ruggles Preston."

Varden opened the door quickly when he heard this announcement. A gust of chill air came from the little

courtyard outside of the house. A man stepped in from the darkness. Varden closed the door and locked

it.

Silently, the two men made their way to the study. When they had reached the lighted room, Varden,

with a sigh of relief, closed the door to the hall. He turned to face his visitor.

Ruggles Preston eyed him quizzically.

Ruggles Preston was a younger man than Worth Varden. Although a trifle portly, he possessed a strong

physique and a domineering gaze that was almost challenging. There was something in Preston's manner

that betokened confidence, and Varden sensed it. He waved his visitor to a seat opposite the desk.

Varden paced about; then sat down suddenly.

"Preston," he said, "I want to talk to you."

"To me as an attorney?" questioned Preston, with a smile. "Or to me as a friend?"

"As both," returned Varden. "I don't need a lawyer's advice, Preston, because I have already taken care

of affairs which might have involved me with the law. Nevertheless, as a lawyer, you will be interested in

hearing what I have to say to you as a friend."

"Something is troubling you, Varden," decided Preston, in a sympathetic tone.

"You speak the truth, Preston," stated the gray-haired importer. "I had not expected you so soon, this

evening. Had you arrived later, you would not have found me in such an apprehensive mood. However,

my troubles, though not ended, have been eased. Until this moment, I have feared to talk."

"But now?"

"I feel free."

Ruggles Preston nodded. There was sympathy, as well as keenness in his action. It brought an instant

response from his companion. Leaning forward on the desk, Worth Varden spoke in a serious tone.

"Preston," he said, "I have just freed myself from the power of a fiend."

"A fiend?"

"Yes. A fiend who would stop at nothing. A supercriminal whose schemes are but in the making. One

whose terrible power I intend to thwart to-night."

THERE was tenseness. Ruggles Preston seemed startled by the statement. Had it not been for the

determined look upon Varden's face, Preston could have taken the words as the utterance of a madman.

As it was, the lawyer simply nodded; with this encouragement, Varden continued.

"Months ago," he said, "I was visited by an agent of the fiend. My visitor introduced himself as Seth

Cowry. He admitted that he had been a racketeer.

"Cowry began to talk about my business. He pointed out certain connections which I had made. He told

me that my holdings in the San Salvador Importing Corporation made me liable to arrest, inasmuch as

that company had been heavily engaged in many illegal practices.

"It was news to me, Preston. Nevertheless, I was forced to hear Cowry through. I expected him to

demand money; instead, he proposed what seemed to be easier terms in return for his silence. He told

me that all would be well if I would take orders from his master—a man whom he called Gray Fist."

"Gray Fist!" ejaculated Preston. "Who is he?"

"I do not know," answered Varden. "But from that time on, I found myself in the control of one whom I

dreaded. There were no more calls from Cowry. Instead, I received messages like this."

Opening a drawer in his desk, Varden pulled out a sheet of gray paper, which he passed across to

Preston. The lawyer examined it in a puzzled manner.

"It's blank," he said.

"Hold it to the light," suggested Varden.

Preston did so. A surprised exclamation escaped his lips. The sheet of paper was double. Between its

surfaces was inscribed a coded message which showed plainly in black.

"What does this mean?" asked Preston.

"I received it to-day," returned Varden quietly. "It is an order for me to arrange the importation of a

quantity of silk from China. The negotiations must be made with the Kow Tan Exporting Company in

Shanghai. I never dealt with the concern before; but I can imagine its connections in China -"

"Dope?"

"Probably. This is the first order that I have received from Gray Fist. I can see that it is the forerunner of

others on the same order."

Preston nodded. His fingers beat a rhythmical tattoo on the polished surface of the desk.

"I see the game," he said, in a meditative tone. "This man called Gray Fist is a spider in the center of the

web. You are one of the flies whom he has snared."

"Exactly," declared Varden, in a tense tone, "and, like every fly in the spider's web, I have one penalty to

fear."

"Death?"

"Death. The sentence hovers above me now—for in speaking to you, Preston, I have violated the first

law imposed by Gray Fist. In preserving this coded message, I have also gone against his order."

ALARM flickered upon Ruggles Preston's face. The attorney seemed filled with anxiety regarding the

safety of his friend. Worth Varden gave a steady smile in return.

"Do not worry, Preston," he stated. "I have freed myself from Gray Fist's snare. This, as I have

mentioned, is the first order which has come from him. Should I follow it, there would be no escaping

from the web. But I do not intend to follow it. I intend to take my freedom."

"But your holdings in the San Salvador Corporation -"

"No longer exist," interposed Varden. "I anticipated this menace. I disposed of my holdings. I no longer

have any responsibilities in the affairs of that corporation. Hence I am free to expose Gray Fist."

"But you do not know his identity," reminded Preston.

"Agreed," answered Varden. "Nevertheless, I have proof of his game. I can tell the police all that I know.

I can name Seth Cowry—for whom the police have been searching, by the way—and thus give them an

inkling to a game which they have never suspected."

"You are sure of your own safety?"

Another smile from Varden was the response to Preston's question. From the desk drawer, the importer

lifted a stack of papers which were girdled with a rubber band.

"These documents," he remarked, "prove that I am out of the San Salvador Corporation. I intend to turn

them over to the police along with the other evidence that I have gained. I have not been nonobservant,

Preston. I do not know the identity of the Gray Fist, but I feel sure that I can point out traces of his work.

There are certain big business men who may also be beneath his sway. When the police arrive, Preston,

you will learn all that I know."

"When the police arrive!"

"Yes. I have called detective headquarters. One of the best investigators is coming here this

evening—Detective Joe Cardona. I shall place this case entirely in his hands."

Ruggles Preston said nothing, but Worth Varden's words had gained their effect. The lawyer realized that

events of magnitude were brewing.

"I have told Cardona," added Varden, "that I can give him information regarding Seth Cowry. That

impressed him the moment that he heard it over the telephone. He knows that the case is urgent. He will

surely stop in here to-night."

"I am glad you told me this, Varden," said Preston thoughtfully. "It enables me to suggest a plan whereby

I may be of aid."

"In the breaking of Gray Fist's game?"

"Yes. It is wise that you should be alone when Detective Cardona arrives."

"Why?"

"Because you should certainly tell him that you have revealed your facts to no one."

Varden nodded thoughtfully.

"Furthermore," continued Preston, "it is not wise that you should discuss matters here. You have told

Cardona that danger threatens. You should insist that he leave this danger spot before you speak."

"But where would we go?"

"To the most logical place under the circumstances. To see an attorney whom you know. It would not be

wise for me to come here; it would be preferable for you to bring the detective—and the documents - to

my home."

"You're right, Preston!" exclaimed Varden. "I'm glad you arrived early. If you leave now, you will be

home by the time that Cardona arrives. I can call you there."

"You can come there," returned Preston. "You can tell Cardona that you are sure I am at home. Forget

that you have told me anything regarding Gray Fist. From what you say, the man must be a menacing

fiend. Explain your story when you reach my home. Let me show the amazement that I would naturally

feel."

Worth Varden was still nodding. He arose from his chair, walked about the desk, and gripped Ruggles

Preston's hand. The lawyer received the clasp warmly.

"You give me confidence, Preston," declared Varden. "You must leave here at once—and be cautious

when you go. Though I have no evidence of the fact, I fear that Gray Fist may have watchers spying on

this house."

Walking back to his seat, Varden threw the documents and the gray paper into the desk drawer. He

locked the drawer, then held up a warning hand as Preston arose to go.

"Let me look first," said the importer, in a cautious tone. "I can peer from the side door to make sure that

all is clear. You can go as soon as I return."

Varden sidled from the room and closed the door behind him so that the light of the study would not

invade the hall. Preston was standing by the chair at the desk. A bitter smile crept over his lips.

From his pocket, Ruggles Preston withdrew an opened envelope. Out of it, he took a folded sheet of

paper. He spread it rapidly, and held it to the light. The paper was gray!

PRESTON read lines that lay between the double surface. His smile remained as his hands replaced the

paper in his pocket; then, as the door was opening, the lawyer resumed his steady demeanor.

Worth Varden was beckoning from the door. In response to his host, Ruggles Preston went to the hall.

Together, the two men reached the outer portal. Varden opened the barrier and whispered words of

caution.

"The way is clear," he said. "Be careful, however. There is danger, but I feel confident. Whatever his

suspicions, I feel sure that Gray Fist has not as yet placed watchers close enough to harm me."

Preston stepped into the outer darkness. Varden closed the door. He returned through the corridor, and

stood smiling in the light when he reached his study. The arrival and departure of Ruggles Preston had

allayed his fears; the visit of the lawyer had been a comfortable interlude during the fateful period that was

preceding the arrival of Detective Joe Cardona.

Gray Fist!

Worth Varden shuddered as he whispered the name. Gray Fist was powerful; Gray Fist had minions

everywhere. Yet, with the police to aid him, Worth Varden was prepared to thwart Gray Fist.

The police were not all. Worth Varden had gained new confidence. He was sure that he could rely upon

Ruggles Preston, the keen-eyed, fearless attorney who had come here as a friend.

Not for an instant did Worth Varden suspect that the man who had left this study was, like himself, within

the toils of a superfiend!

Ruggles Preston, supposedly the best friend whom Varden knew, had secretly revealed himself as a

minion of Gray Fist!

CHAPTER II. WORD TO THE SHADOW

DARKNESS had enshrouded the house where Worth Varden, self-freed minion of a superfiend,

awaited the arrival of Joe Cardona, ace detective of the New York force. Between Varden's lighted

study and the outer door lay a corridor of darkness.

Yet the gloom of that little hallway could not compare with the Stygian inkiness that existed in another

spot located in Manhattan. Somewhere, lost amid the furore of the huge metropolis, lay a room where

blackness and silence vied with one another for supremacy.

Solid, chunky darkness; such was the atmosphere in this mysterious room. Apart from the world,

inclosed in secrecy, this unique chamber was a veritable vault that gave no token of a living presence.

Such was the strange abode which served as The Shadow's sanctum.

Time did not seem to exist within this darkness-shrouded room. Yet silence and gloom alike could cease

when The Shadow made his presence known. The signal which marked their disappearance was a slight

click that sounded amid blackness. The flickering rays of a bluish lamp were focused upon the polished

surface of a table.

The Shadow's hands were busy. Into the light came an envelope. The long white fingers opened it. A

sheet of paper was quickly spread; hidden eyes from the dark perused its written lines, which were

inscribed in vivid blue.

The letter was in code. The Shadow read it rapidly, and as he finished, the inky lines began to disappear.

The paper became a total blank. Such was the procedure with all of the messages that passed between

The Shadow and his agents. Prepared with a special chemical, the ink was designed to vanish after its

perusal.

A whispered laugh sounded in the gloom. It was The Shadow's token of keen interest in a matter which

had attracted his attention. This message was from Cliff Marsland, one of The Shadow's active agents. It

had come through Rutledge Mann, a contact man who posed as a conservative investment broker.

Cliff Marsland was quartered in the underworld. There, reputed to be a mobster of prowess, Cliff had

the faculty of learning when crime impended. His messages to The Shadow frequently carried information

that enabled the master fighter to spring from nowhere and attack dangerous crooks unaware.

To-night, however, Cliff had reported total failure. He was engaged upon a mission in The Shadow's

behalf, and so far he had gained no results. The job to which Cliff had been deputed was that of learning

the whereabouts of Seth Cowry, a missing racketeer.

THERE was a reason why The Shadow wanted to know what had become of Cowry. Until a few

months ago, the man had been engaged in various enterprises that had branded him as a shady customer.

Yet no one had ever been able to pin the goods on Cowry. The police had been watching him. So had

The Shadow. Now, for no apparent cause, the man had disappeared.

Had Seth Cowry been put on the spot?

Cliff Marsland suspected so. Nevertheless, Cliff's coded report had given no assurance. Cliff had learned

simply that Cowry was missing. Any one of a dozen mob leaders might have arranged for him to get the

works. At the same time, Cowry's underworld connections had all been in perfect order.

It was unusual for a racketeer of Cowry's water to leave New York. Cowry's record had been getting

better and better. If he had been planning some clever scheme, Cowry should certainly not have

departed from Manhattan. That action, in itself, would be sufficient to bring the police upon his trail.

To The Shadow, this was obvious. Seth Cowry, dead or alive, must certainly have been engaged in some

peculiar enterprise. To trace it, The Shadow sought news regarding Seth Cowry. More than that, The

Shadow knew that Detective Joe Cardona was interested in what might have become of the missing

racketeer. That, too, was of significance.

The failure of his agent, Cliff Marsland, had been the cause of The Shadow's hollow laugh. When Cliff

encountered difficulties, it was a sure sign that mystery lay within the confines of the bad lands. The

Shadow's hand, resting upon the polished table, raised a pen and inscribed the name in bright-blue

writing on a sheet of white paper.

Seth Cowry.

The name faded from view. The memory of it remained with The Shadow's brain. It foreboded action on

The Shadow's part. Until now, the master sleuth had entrusted the work to an agent. With mystery still

enshrouding Cowry's disappearance, it was time for The Shadow, himself, to visit the haunts which the

missing racketeer had frequented.

A tiny light gleamed from blackness across the table. A white hand reached forward and produced a pair

of ear phones. The instruments disappeared into the darkness on the nearer side of the light. The

Shadow's voice was an uncanny whisper. It brought a quiet response over the wire.

"Burbank speaking."

"Report," came The Shadow's whispered order.

"Report from Burke," came Burbank's steady-toned response. "At detective headquarters. Cardona is

leaving to visit a man named Worth Varden. It concerns the disappearance of Seth Cowry."

"Report received."

Silence. The ear phones slid across the table. Then, from darkness crept an eerie laugh. Mocking tones

resounded through the blackened room.

THROUGH Clyde Burke, another agent, The Shadow, had gained a clew which Cliff Marsland had

failed to obtain. Clyde was a newspaper reporter, on the staff of the New York Classic. He spent much

time at detective headquarters, and was on the best of terms with Joe Cardona.

Evidently Cardona had received a call from a man named Worth Varden. The informant must have

mentioned the name of Seth Cowry. Cardona, perhaps inadvertently, had let these facts slip in Clyde

Burke's presence. The newspaper reporter had put through a call to Burbank.

This was in line with his duty to The Shadow. At night, when Rutledge Mann was not in his office, or on

occasions when emergency commanded, the active agents put in their calls to Burbank, who had a

special room not far from The Shadow's sanctum. Over a private wire, connected with the sanctum,

Burbank relayed such messages.

"Cardona is leaving -"

Such had been the word from Burke. It meant that the detective was probably on his way to keep an

appointment with Worth Varden. This was The Shadow's opportunity. That meeting was one which he

desired to witness.

The bluish light clicked out. A swish sounded in the darkness. Then came the tones of an eerie, rising

scale of mockery that broke with shuddering merriment. Gibing echoes came back with ghoulish taunts.

Blackened walls seemed to hide a horde of gnomes that cried in answer to their master's mirth.

When the sobbing reverberations had died to feeble, fading whispers, complete silence again pervaded

the inkiness of The Shadow's sanctum. The room was empty.

The Shadow had departed on his quest.

CHAPTER III. MEN IN THE DARK

SPLOTCHES of lamplight glow were visible on the street in front of Worth Varden's home. The

entrance to the side alleyway beside the importer's house was blank and black. Though not far from the

heart of Manhattan, this location formed a silent spot. On avenues, the current of New York's traffic

flooded; but little of it floated down this lone side street.

The figure of a man appeared close to a lamp. The stroller moved onward and stopped just past the

glare. A spot of light—the cigar that he was smoking—seemed to give a momentary trace of his identity.

The man was Ruggles Preston.

Not more than a dozen minutes had elapsed since the lawyer had walked away along this very street. His

prompt return could mean only that he had performed a simple but definite mission. Preston had gone to

a drug store on the avenue to make a telephone call. That done, he had returned.

Preston moved back into the fronting darkness of a building across the street. He was watching the

alleyway beside Varden's home. His cigar tip moved nervously downward; then upward. It glowed as

the lawyer puffed.

Minutes passed. The arrival of Detective Joe Cardona was becoming imminent. Why was Preston lurking

here? He had told Varden that he would be at his home. It was obvious that Preston had some purpose

all his own, otherwise he would not have returned to this spot.

An automobile swished down the side street. It came to a sudden stop beside the entrance to the

alleyway. Ruggles Preston strained his eyes. He watched as he saw the faint outline of a man who was

leaving the car. He thought he caught the murmur of subdued voices. Preston waited.

A man had stepped from that car. He was walking into the alleyway, heading for the obscure door at the

side of Varden's house. The token of his arrival came in guarded knocks that tattooed on the barrier

which Varden had told Joe Cardona to enter.

In his study, Varden, seated at his desk, became suddenly alert. He caught the sound of the raps. He

arose from his desk and went through the corridor. He softly opened the outer door. He noted that a

man was standing there.

"Detective Joe Cardona?" questioned Varden cautiously.

"Yeah," came the low response. "Are you Worth Varden?"

"Yes. Come in."

The door closed after the visitor had entered. The two men went to the study. There, Varden closed the

door and turned to meet the man who had come to his home.

HE saw a stocky, firm-faced individual who was watching him with steady eyes. The detective's

appearance gave some confidence to the importer. He had expected Cardona to be a man of action; but

not one of such challenging aspect as this fellow. Until now, Varden had held doubts regarding the course

that he had taken. Here, however, was a representative of the law who looked as hard-boiled as any

mob leader.

It was the visitor who opened the conversation while Worth Varden eyed him. The man's voice, though

dominating, carried a question.

"Well? Here I am. What's the dope on Seth Cowry?"

"I have a great deal to tell you," returned Varden. "But first, I must ask you questions. Are there others

with you?"

"Sure," came the prompt response. "You didn't give me any details. I brought a couple of men along. I

didn't know what to expect when I got here."

"Good," commented Varden. "Are you in a police car?"

"Say"—a laugh came with the answer—"you don't see me in a uniform, do you? You said there might be

people watching here. So I came in a regular car—a sedan that we had at headquarters."

"Excellent," decided Varden. "One point more. I have papers here." He opened the desk drawer. "They

are vital to what I have to tell you. I should like to place them in your possession after we have discussed

them. Therefore, to be sure that I am right, I suggest that we visit my lawyer, Ruggles Preston."

Varden saw a questioning expression on the detective's face. The importer hastened to explain that this

would not mean a long delay.

"I can go with you and your men," he said. "Preston's home is less than a mile from here. We shall be

undisturbed there—particularly since you have given no indication that you are connected with the

police."

The papers in Varden's hand were convincing. The importer smiled as he saw the man from headquarters

begin to nod. There was no use in further delay. Varden walked directly toward the door to the corridor,

carrying the papers with him. He beckoned his visitor to follow.

Varden was the first to reach the alleyway. His companion was crowding close behind him as the

importer turned to lock the door. The detective growled an order.

"Slide down to the car," he said. "I'll see that the locks catch. You've got me worried. Maybe there's

trouble around here."

Varden grunted his agreement, and moved toward the car, which he could see at the end of the alleyway.

When he reached it, his companion had overtaken him.

"That you, Joe?" came a question from the car.

"Sure," was the detective's response. "This fellow is coming with us. He's O.K."

The rear door of the sedan opened. Varden entered and sat down beside a man on the back seat. He

edged over to let Cardona take a place beside him. The car started forward as the driver shifted into

second on the slope.

The sedan rolled toward the avenue. It crossed that thoroughfare, and its tail-light twinkled into the

distance. It was then that Ruggles Preston, his cigar still between his teeth, stepped into the dim light of

the street lamp.

THE lawyer was smiling wickedly. He stepped quickly across the street, and reached the darkened

alleyway. He threw his cigar butt away as he neared the side door which gave access to Worth Varden's

study.

The door yielded to Preston's push. Evidently Cardona had not pulled it tightly enough to spring the

locks. Preston hurried through the corridor and into the study. He found the drawer of Varden's desk

unlocked.

There were papers there; Preston examined them quickly. He placed a folded note upon them, chuckling

as he did so. From his pocket he drew a sheet of gray paper. He held it thoughtfully; then dropped it into

the drawer. Turning, he went out through the corridor, and closed the side door behind him. Again, the

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GRAYFISTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DANGERSTALKS?CHAPTERII.WORDTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERIII.MENINTHEDARK?CHAPTERIV.CARDONADECIDES?CHAPTERV.THEGRAYPAPER?CHAPTERVI.MINIONSATWORK?CHAPTERVII.THEHOMETHRUST?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOWCOMPLIES?CHAPTERIX.THESHADOW...

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