Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 045 - The Embassy Murders

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THE EMBASSY MURDERS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. FOOTSTEPS TO CRIME
? CHAPTER II. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER III. THE CLUB RIVOLI
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER V. BIRDS OF A KIND
? CHAPTER VI. AGENTS OF MURDER
? CHAPTER VII. TRAILS DIVERGE
? CHAPTER VIII. ON THE SPEEDWAY
? CHAPTER IX. MARQUETTE REPORTS
? CHAPTER X. BURKE'S INTERVIEW
? CHAPTER XI. ROCHELLE RESPONDS
? CHAPTER XII. THE NEW GAME
? CHAPTER XIII. THE THEFT
? CHAPTER XIV. THE CODE BOOK
? CHAPTER XV. THURK STRIKES
? CHAPTER XVI. THE TRAP THAT FAILED
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW WITHDRAWS
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER XIX. THE STROKE OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XX. THE DEATH VATS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE FINAL REPORT
CHAPTER I. FOOTSTEPS TO CRIME
IT was midnight. From the brilliance of one of Washington's broad avenues, the lights of a large embassy
building could be seen glowing upon the sidewalks of the street on which it fronted.
Parked cars lined the side street. One by one they were moving from their places, edging to the space in
front of the embassy, where departing guests were ready to leave. An important social event was coming
to its close.
The broad steps of the embassy were plainly lighted. Upon them appeared two men dressed in evening
clothes. One was a tall, gray-haired individual; the other a stocky, square-faced man who leaned heavily
upon a stout cane as he descended the steps. The two men paused as they reached the sidewalk.
"You have a car here, Mr. Rochelle?" inquired the tall man, as a uniformed attendant approached.
"No, senator," returned the man with the cane. "It is not far to my residence. I prefer to walk. If you
should care to accompany me -"
"Gladly," interposed the gray-haired man. "Your headquarters is on the way to my hotel. The night is
mild. We can talk as we stroll along."
The pair headed from the direction of the avenue. Side by side, they followed the route that Rochelle
indicated. The embassy attendant watched them as they moved along the street. His gaze centered upon
the man whom the senator had addressed as Rochelle.
Coming down the embassy steps, Rochelle's manner of locomotion had seemed quite normal. Upon the
sidewalk, however, the man who carried the cane formed an odd and conspicuous figure. Every stride
caused his body to incline heavily to the right, where its sagging stopped by Rochelle's pressure on the
strong walking stick.
Then came a momentary stop. Rochelle's right leg, swinging forward, resumed its pace. His whole body
seemed to twist with the effort. The halting limp continued with regular precision; yet despite it, Rochelle
kept pace with the man beside him.
The man with the limp!
The embassy attendant knew him by sight. He was Darvin Rochelle, founder of the International Peace
Alliance. His halting, sagging figure could be seen at all the important functions which took place at
foreign embassies, for Darvin Rochelle was noted as a student of international problems.
TURNING a corner, Darvin Rochelle and his companion arrived upon a well-lighted street. Their faces
showed plainly beneath the shadowy crisscross of broad-branched trees.
The tall, gray-haired senator was listening with dignified pleasure to the words which his limping
companion uttered. Darvin Rochelle, his firm face gleaming with the fire of enthusiasm, was talking in
modulated tones that carried real conviction.
"World peace!" Rochelle's declaration came with emphasis. "It is not a dream, senator! It is reality. Look
at the world today. Do you see war? Only in scattered portions of the globe. Peace is the predominating
desire of our present era."
"Perhaps," maintained the senator dryly. "Yet the world has not changed. Nations - races - all have
differences. War, despite its futility, seems to be the only choice when difficulties must be settled."
"Agreed," stated Rochelle, turning his head as he limped. "Next, you will point out to me the failure that
seems to have gripped the League of Nations. I shall agree with you there. Nevertheless, world peace
can be maintained. To further it is the work that I have chosen."
"Commendable," remarked the senator. "Let us hope, Rochelle, that your plans will succeed. From what
you have told me, I realize fully that your work is worthy of support. The International Peace Alliance is
unquestionably a new idea."
"Yet a simple one, senator. It seeks to produce international understanding. That is all. We have
representatives in every country. All are pledged to throw their influence into the scale that will bring the
balance in favor of worldwide peace. They are workers in a common cause.
"There are barriers between countries. Such barriers were natural once, but today, with international
communication a matter of great ease, the barriers are falling. The International Peace Alliance has
stimulated trade relations between different countries. That, more than any propaganda, is the first step to
permanent peace."
"Certainly," rejoined the gray-haired senator. "When nations depend upon one another commercially,
their trend will be away from warfare. Yet international trade is handicapped -"
"By language," interposed Rochelle. "More than by any other single cause."
"You are right," agreed the senator.
"Therefore," resumed Rochelle, "the International Peace Alliance has found the way to remove that
barrier. We are preparing our new universal language, called Agro. With its completion, there will be a
positive form of international communication."
"Will it work?" questioned the senator. "The same attempt has been tried before. Esperanto -"
"Esperanto?" Rochelle's question was scornful. "Bah! Esperanto was a poor attempt at an international
tongue. It was launched before its time. It died a natural death. Today, however, when all languages are
becoming modern, the time is ripe for a universal system. Agro will fill the need.
"Agro will receive endorsement in every land. It will be taught in elementary schools. Each year, its
vocabulary will be expanded. Agro is designed to grow until it will predominate. Then, senator, world
understanding will be complete!"
THE two men had turned into another street. Rochelle's halting limp came to a stop. Resting upon his
cane, the enthusiast waved his hand toward a pretentious building.
"My residence," he stated simply. "Also the headquarters of the International Peace Alliance. Will you
come in, senator?"
"I should be back at my hotel -"
"Step inside for a few minutes. I shall order my limousine to take you to the hotel."
The senator agreed. With Rochelle, he ascended the stone steps. The door opened as the two men
arrived at the top. A bowing servant admitted Rochelle and his companion.
"Order the limousine, Gaillard," instructed Rochelle. Then, to his companion: "Let me show you our
arrangements, senator."
There were two doors on each side of the hall. Rochelle led the senator through the door to the right. He
pressed a switch; the light showed a room that was fitted like a museum. Shelves and show cases held
specimens of curios and products that came from all the world.
"Our display room," explained Rochelle. "It familiarizes all visitors with the customs and products found
throughout the world. This" - he paused as he opened a door at the rear of the room and led the senator
into what appeared to be an office - "is where all our detail work is done. At present, we have but a
small force. That is all that we can accommodate. Later, we shall take additional offices elsewhere."
Crossing to the left, Rochelle limped through a door that showed another rear room of the huge ground
floor. This place was equipped with tables covered with magazines and newspapers; its walls were lined
with books.
"Our international library," informed Rochelle. "Current publications from all the world. These" - he was
pointing to the books - "will all be translated into Agro."
"A great undertaking," commented the senator.
"Yes," admitted Rochelle, as he led the visitor through to the front room on the left, "but a worthy one.
Our publications will go everywhere. Here, senator, is our meeting room."
They were standing in the front room. The senator stared at the walls. Beautifully decorated in many
colors, they formed maps in mural style. The entire world was depicted. Darvin Rochelle smiled as he
observed the keen interest which the visitor displayed.
The senator was still walking about the room from map to map when Gaillard entered to inform Rochelle
that the limousine was in front. The senator heard the servant's statement. He glanced at his watch. He
walked toward the hall.
"Sorry," he said, "but I really must get back to the hotel. When I have the opportunity, Rochelle, I shall
come to see you. I want to hear more about your peace plans. You are here most of the day?"
"Nearly all the time." They were in the hallway, and Rochelle waved his hand toward a broad marble
staircase that led directly to the second floor. "My private office is above. Call at any time you wish,
senator. Good night, sir."
AS soon as the visitor had departed, Darvin Rochelle turned and limped toward the stairway. His halting
stride ended as he moved up the steps. It began again when he reached the top.
The man with the limp opened a door and entered a large anteroom, where chairs lined the walls. He
passed through to another door and stepped into an office that was furnished with expensive mahogany.
Here, Rochelle seated himself at a huge desk near the center of the room.
Directly to the left of the desk was a huge globe of the world. It was more than three feet in diameter; it
rested in a circular mahogany cradle atop a heavy metal tripod. Pausing by the globe, Rochelle rested
upon his cane. With his free hand, he spun the big sphere and watched it revolve.
A strange smile appeared upon Rochelle's face. Here in the lighted room, his features showed a curious
change of expression. From those of an idealist, they became the countenance of a gloating schemer.
The spinning globe slowly dawdled to a stop. Rochelle seated himself behind the desk. He opened a
drawer and reached inside. His fingers found a buzzer hidden at the top of the drawer. Rochelle pressed
the button and waited. He was looking toward a mirror at the right side of the room.
The glass showed the reflection of a doorway at the back of the office. While Rochelle watched, the
door opened and a stoop-shouldered creature entered with stealthy tread.
The newcomer was a dwarf, twisted in body, vicious in face. An ugly smile was on the deformed man's
puffed lips.
"Over there, Thurk," ordered Rochelle quietly. He indicated the opposite side of the desk.
The dwarf complied. He took his stand in front of his master. Resting both hands upon the desk, he
formed a grotesque monster with long, scrawny arms and head that seemed too large for the skinny
shoulders which supported it.
Wild eyes gleamed from Thurk's pasty face. Bloated lips moved while the hideous creature spoke in a
harsh, strange tongue:
"Kye kye rofe kye."
"Sovo," returned Rochelle, in a quiet tone. "Reen kye kye doke?"
"Sake alta alta. Seek alta eeta."
"Kye kye kode?"
"Fee."
"Dake."
With this syllabic utterance, Rochelle arose from his chair. He walked directly to the door where he had
seen Thurk's reflection. As the master limped in that direction, the dwarf followed with bounding steps.
BEYOND the door, Rochelle came to a spiral staircase. He descended, without the aid of his cane.
Thurk continued, creeping downward, until they reached a small room at the bottom of the steps. Here
Rochelle unbarred a steel door. He turned out the single light and opened the barrier amid darkness.
Rochelle limped out into the cool air of a walled courtyard. Directly ahead, showing dimly in the vague
light that came from above, was an iron fence with a little gate. It formed the rear of Rochelle's property.
Beyond it was the back of a dilapidated house, for Rochelle's mansion was on the fringe of a decadent
district.
Through the gate, Rochelle unlocked the back door of the house in the rear. He entered and groped his
way to a flight of stairs. At the bottom, Thurk, still following, could hear the click of his master's cane
against the stone of a cellar floor. Rochelle turned on a light.
Lying on the floor was the body of a young man. The blood-incrusted front of a tuxedo shirt showed
where a bullet had ended the victim's life. Rochelle sneered as he gripped a post beside him and used his
cane to poke at the body.
Thurk, approaching his master, produced a large envelope from a pocket. He handed it to Rochelle and
pointed significantly to the body on the floor.
"Rike zay folo folo," declared the dwarf.
"Sovo," returned Rochelle.
He took the envelope, thrust it in a pocket of his evening clothes and pointed to the body with his cane.
Thurk understood the gesture. He stooped; with a display of remarkable strength, he hoisted the corpse
to his shoulders and carried it through an archway in the cellar. Rochelle, still gripping the post, was
listening. He heard a splash as Thurk dropped the body into some hidden vat.
A soft, insidious snarl came from Rochelle's lips. Leaning upon his cane, the man with the limp clicked
back across the cellar. He retraced the course that he had taken; back into his own house; up the spiral
stairway to his finely furnished office.
There, he opened the envelope that Thurk had given him. Within it was another envelope which bore the
typewritten statement:
South American Correspondence.
Documents came out upon the desk. With eager eyes, Rochelle began to study them. His visage showed
an evil gleam, as he perused these papers which had been purloined from a murdered man.
Completing his inspection, Rochelle arose and moved to a safe in the wall. He turned the combination,
opened the safe, then placed the papers within. He closed the door and turned to find that Thurk had
come back. Rochelle dismissed the dwarf with a wave of his hand.
Alone again, Rochelle indulged in a fiendish smile that gradually faded from his lips to restore his benign
expression. Then, with the aid of his cane, he clumped through another door at the back of the office.
The hollow taps of the walking stick faded. Darvin Rochelle had retired for the night. Yet the echoes of
that clicking cane seemed to leave their mark.
Those clicks had told of the footsteps of Darvin Rochelle, a man whose life, presumably, had been
devoted to ways of peace and friendship. Such, however, was a pretense.
The footsteps of Darvin Rochelle had led to crime. The man with the limp was a monster whose ways
were those of murder!
CHAPTER II. WORD TO THE SHADOW
LATE the next afternoon, a man appeared upon the fifth floor of the old Wallingford Building. He strolled
through an empty corridor until he reached a door which bore this title:
NATIONAL CITY NEWS ASSOCIATION
CLYDE BURKE, MANAGER
The visitor opened the door. Inside he found a young man seated at a desk. This was Clyde Burke,
manager and entire staff of the National City News Association. The visitor grinned as Burke looked up.
"Hello, Burke," he said.
"Hello, Garvey," returned Burke. "What brings you here so late?"
"Nothing special. Just thought I'd drop in."
The visitor sat down. He watched Burke going over piles of clippings, while he puffed at a cigarette. The
visitor lighted one of his own. Like Burke, Garvey was a free-lance journalist who had chosen
Washington as a place to make a living through news correspondence.
Several minutes drifted by. Clyde Burke, stacking clippings in envelopes, paid no attention to his visitor.
That proved to be the best way to start Garvey talking. The visiting newspaperman gave up an attempt to
blow smoke rings and began to drawl in casual fashion.
"Heard another hot rumor today," he said.
"What's this one?" quizzed Burke, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Another attache gone haywire," remarked Garvey. "Here in Washington yesterday. Not here today.
That makes number five."
"And I suppose," declared Burke, "that he disappeared with important documents on his person."
"You guessed it," rejoined Garvey. "Same as the others, Burke. Laugh it off if you want to - but I'm
telling you this is no hokum. I know the guy's name - and I know what's missing."
"Yes? When did you begin to rate so high with the state department?"
"Never mind that. I've landed some good stories. But it's always my luck to pick up something that can't
be used. The fellow that's missing is named Glade Tromboll. The documents that he had were
correspondence with South American countries."
"Is that all you found out?"
"All?" Garvey snorted. "Say - that's too much. What can you do with it? Nothing. Like those other birds
that flew the coop, this one is being kept quiet. Boy! You can't touch a story like that without official
permission. You know what would happen if I tried to get it?"
"Sure," responded Burke. "You'd find out that there never was anybody by the name of Glade Tromboll
here in Washington."
"That's it." Garvey grinned sourly. "You're wise to the way things work in this town. Land something that
looks real - you can't touch it. It's lucky that newspapers like feature stories on the extermination of
Japanese beetles and construction of irrigation canals. If it wasn't for old stand-bys like that, I'd starve to
death."
Garvey flicked his cigarette through the open window and strolled to the door. He waved good-by to
Burke and left the office.
AS soon as the door had closed, Clyde Burke reached for pencil and paper. He wrote out the
information which the other newspaperman had just mentioned.
Unwittingly, Garvey had brought important news to Clyde Burke. Garvey was but one of many free
lances who dropped into the National City News Association. Ever since he had opened his office, a few
weeks previous, Clyde Burke had been buying news items from those who had them to offer.
Why a young man like Clyde Burke should have come to Washington to compete with other news
bureaus in the already overburdened capital, was a mystery that had bothered no one. Others before
Burke had fallen for that same lure. Journalism had the mythical tradition that one might gain fame and
fortune by opening a Washington news service.
Thus Clyde had been classed simply as another hopeful who was predestined to failure. Men like Garvey
had not even attempted to veil their opinions concerning his enterprise. They had seen others of Burke's
ilk come and go. They allowed the National City News Association a few months of existence - that was
all.
Little did they realize the true purpose of Clyde Burke's presence in Washington! The answer lay in the
quickness with which Clyde had seized upon the rumor which he had heard from Garvey. Facts like the
disappearance of Glade Tromboll were what Clyde Burke was seeking!
Less than a month ago, Clyde Burke had been working as a news reporter on the staff of the New York
Classic. While serving in that capacity, he had heard the rumor, whispered among newspapermen, that
four men had mysteriously disappeared from Washington.
No names had been given. Two men, it was said, were minor members of South American legations.
Two others had been government employees. Each disappearance had been a matter of serious
consequence.
Rumors that circulate through newspaper offices are usually well supplied with background. These stories
which Clyde Burke had heard while working for the Classic had not been printed. But to Clyde Burke,
they had proven more important than the greatest scoop he might possibly have made. Clyde had sent
them on to one who would find use for them.
That one was The Shadow.
A STRANGE being who dwelt in unknown surroundings, The Shadow spent his life fighting in behalf of
justice. A sinister figure whose ominous power had spelled doom to ways of evildoers, The Shadow had
gained an amazing reputation as a battler of crime.
Through agents - men who, though faithful, did not themselves know the identity of their mysterious chief
- The Shadow kept his finger upon the pulsebeats of crime. One of his active agents was none other than
Clyde Burke. Through Clyde, The Shadow had learned these rumors of mysterious disappearances in
the national capital.
Clyde Burke had come to Washington at The Shadow's bidding. This office, in which he acted as a news
correspondent, was a blind. It was Clyde's duty to learn more about the rumored disappearances. Until
today, however, Clyde had uncovered nothing.
Another rumor! A new disappearance! This was a double discovery. To a clear thinker like Clyde
Burke, it carried a special significance. Four men had previously vanished from view: two were
government employees; two were attaches of South American legations.
This fifth case - involving Glade Tromboll - was a link between the others. Tromboll, according to
Garvey, was a government employee; the documents which the missing man supposedly possessed were
South American correspondence!
Seated at the desk in his little office, Clyde Burke set his lips grimly. He realized that he had been
negligent. In two weeks at Washington, he should have gained some data prior to the disappearance of
Glade Tromboll. Instead, Clyde had learned nothing; now, while he was on the very ground, another man
had vanished.
In fact, Clyde had come to believe that the previous disappearance had been mere matters of
coincidence. He had said so in his past reports. This time he would be forced to retract his statements.
His own inability to get past the fringes of rumor meant that there could be but one way of getting further.
Clyde would have to pass his work on to The Shadow.
Taking a telephone book, Clyde Burke looked up the name of Glade Tromboll. He did not find it listed.
He consulted other reference books - those which contained the names of government employees - and
still found no mention of the man he wanted.
Clyde brought out a fountain pen. On white paper, he wrote a brief report in coded language. Oddly
ciphered words appeared in ink of vivid blue. As the writing dried, Clyde hastily folded the sheet and
thrust it in an envelope. Using another pen, he wrote this address:
Rutledge Mann,
Badger Building,
New York City.
RUTLEDGE MANN was contact agent for The Shadow. A message sent to him would be forwarded
to The Shadow himself. The ink in which Clyde Burke had written his message was a special type of fluid
provided by The Shadow. Its dried writing would vanish a few minutes after the letter was unfolded.
This meant that The Shadow alone would have opportunity to read the coded lines. Should it fall into
other hands, the message would prove useless; it would be gone before a person could begin to decipher
it.
Clyde placed a stamp upon the envelope. He left the office, dropped the letter in a mail chute and
returned. He closed the news bureau and strolled from the building. A short walk brought him to the hotel
where he was stopping.
Seated in a room high above the street, Clyde watched the glittering lights as they appeared below.
Washington, of all cities, seemed placid and law-abiding. Yet Clyde Burke felt convinced that
somewhere in the nation's capital lay a problem that would prove difficult even to The Shadow.
While he was staring from the window, a sudden thought struck Clyde Burke. The young man went to a
table and opened a drawer. He brought out a neatly printed card which bore the legend:
Club Rivoli
Across the Potomac
Open All Night
This was a spot that Clyde Burke had visited shortly after his arrival in Washington. He had learned that it
was frequented by attaches of various legations, together with persons connected with the government.
Clyde had seen nothing at the Club Rivoli to arouse his suspicions. He had made the acquaintance of the
proprietor - a genial fellow named "Whistler" Ingliss. Tonight, however, with thoughts of previous
negligence disturbing him, Clyde Burke decided that a new visit to the Club Rivoli would be wise. He
realized that he must pass up no opportunity while waiting for new orders from The Shadow.
Clyde Burke felt elated as he donned a tuxedo for his visit to the swanky bright spot across the Virginia
border. He had hopes that tonight he might uncover some bit of information that would furnish The
Shadow with a clew when he arrived.
Little did Clyde Burke realize that he was proving every bit as negligent as before. That was because he
could not foresee tonight's events. Had he been able to do so, Clyde would not have trusted to the
written report that he had sent the Shadow.
Instead, he would have put in an emergency call to The Shadow in New York. For Clyde Burke, without
knowing it, was starting for a spot where lurking crime awaited!
CHAPTER III. THE CLUB RIVOLI
IT was nine o'clock when Clyde Burke reached the Club Rivoli. Located several miles from Washington,
the bright spot appeared to be a large but obscure road house. The expensive cars parked at the side
showed, however, that the Club Rivoli must have some unusual attraction.
Clyde had come in one of the cheap taxis so prevalent in Washington. He paid the driver, then entered
the front door of the Club Rivoli. A modestly furnished lounge showed on one side; on the other a small,
deserted dining room.
Clyde kept on through the hall. He came to a door farther on and rang a bell. A little wicket opened.
Clyde held up his card for the man behind to see.
Bolts grated; the door opened. Clyde Burke passed through a small room. The chatter of people; the
clicking of chips - both greeted his ears as he entered a long and well-thronged room.
The place was a gambling hall. The patrons were dressed in evening clothes. Women as well as men
were gathered about two roulette tables where croupiers were spinning the wheels and raking in stacks
of chips.
The near end of the room was lined with slot machines which took coins of half-dollar size. Several
players were squandering their cash in these devices. Along the other walls were little curtained booths to
which busy waiters were carrying trays laden with food and drinks.
There was a single opening at the right. This, Clyde knew, led to rooms where poker players gambled for
high stakes. The office of Whistler Ingliss, the proprietor, was located in that direction. Clyde, however,
was chiefly interested in what was going on in the main gambling room.
The Shadow's agent was quick to note that most of the players were foreigners, with Spanish Americans
predominating. This was something that he had observed on previous visits.
Clyde knew that the Club Rivoli catered chiefly to legations and visitors from other lands. A
Pan-American convention was beginning in Washington; it was only natural that many of the visitors had
learned of the Club Rivoli.
Clyde made a particular study of the Americans who were present. Taking a vantage point between the
tables, he studied his fellow countrymen one by one while he made a pretense of watching the roulette
play.
WHILE Clyde was thus engaged, he became conscious of a soft, melodious whistling close beside him.
The sound took on a symphonic trill. Clyde turned quickly to see a man in evening clothes standing a few
feet away. He met the other's gaze and recognized the suave face of Whistler Ingliss, the proprietor of the
Club Rivoli.
The recognition proved mutual. Ingliss smiled as he ceased his light trilling. He advanced and extended a
hand which Clyde accepted. Ingliss, a tall, good-looking man in his middle forties, possessed a friendly
personality that had accounted much for the success of his gambling club.
"Burke," remarked Ingliss. "That's the name, isn't it? I gave you a card the last time you were here."
"Right," agreed Clyde. "Thought I'd drop in and watch the roulette roll. Like most newspapermen" - he
was smiling wistfully - "I don't have much to gamble."
"Quite all right," assured Ingliss. "My friends are welcome here to watch as well as to play. We want
everyone to feel completely at home at the Club Rivoli."
Conversation ended for the moment. Ingliss, watching with Clyde, began to trill a meditative tune. There
was a charm about the soft music that came from the gambler's lips. It was this habit of melody making
that had given him the sobriquet of "Whistler."
In fact, the tune was provocative of a soothing lull. Clyde Burke began to feel as he had felt on his other
visits to the Club Rivoli: that the place was a mere pleasure resort which had no connection with any
other enterprise. He turned to speak again to Whistler Ingliss. At that moment, there was an interruption.
An attendant approached the proprietor and handed him a small envelope.
"What's this?" inquired Whistler.
"Card inside, sir," explained the attendant. "A gentleman came to see you - by the side entrance. He sent
this in to you."
Clyde watched warily while Whistler opened the envelope. He saw a sudden frown upon the gambler's
brow as Whistler removed and read the card. Clyde glanced away as Whistler raised his head.
From the corner of his eye, The Shadow's agent caught Whistler's quick look. Ingliss, apparently, wanted
摘要：

THEEMBASSYMURDERSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.FOOTSTEPSTOCRIME?CHAPTERII.WORDTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERIII.THECLUBRIVOLI?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWHEARS?CHAPTERV.BIRDSOFAKIND?CHAPTERVI.AGENTSOFMURDER?CHAPTERVII.TRAILSDIVERGE?CHAPTERVIII.ONTHESPEEDWAY?CHAPTERI...

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