Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 063 - Murder Marsh

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MURDER MARSH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW'S CLUE
? CHAPTER III. HEIR TO THE MANOR
? CHAPTER IV. DEATH AT DUSK
? CHAPTER V. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VI. AT THE MANSION
? CHAPTER VII. FIGURES OF NIGHT
? CHAPTER VIII. NEW VISITORS
? CHAPTER IX. MIDNIGHT MURDER
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S SEARCH
? CHAPTER XI. SPYING EYES
? CHAPTER XII. ABOVE AND BELOW
? CHAPTER XIII. FROM HOUSE TO HILL
? CHAPTER XIV. IN THE CABIN
? CHAPTER XV. THE SQUATTER RETURNS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE MISSING MURDERER
? CHAPTER XVII. THE NEW ENTRANT
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE HEIR SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XX. THE END OF CRIME
CHAPTER I. FROM THE PAST
TRAFFIC was light on the East Side elevated. When the three-car local stopped at a dimly lighted
station, a lone passenger stepped to the warped boards of the platform. The train rumbled away while
the man was shuffling slowly toward the turnstile exit.
The night was warm, yet the passenger wore an overcoat, with collar turned up around his neck. He
peered suspiciously back and forth as he shambled toward the steps that led to the street. He pulled the
front of his grimy hat farther down upon his forehead.
Though the evening was young, this suspicious man encountered few passers as he reached the street.
The thoroughfare beneath the elevated was almost deserted. It gloom, its cracked, dirty paving, the
heavy pillars of the elevated structure—all had the effect of thinning traffic in the street.
As for pedestrians, they could find but little of interest in the dilapidated, poorly lighted stores that lined
the sides of this forgotten street. A good spot for a holdup, it lured only those who might have been in the
game themselves. Shambling figures, who paused to lurk by blackened building fronts, were the only
ones that the man from the elevated spied.
This was to his liking. Clutching the front of his coat, he scruffed along beside the curb. As he reached a
corner, he paused, looked about; then hastily crossed the side street and resumed his shuffling gait
beneath the fringe of the elevated structure.
AT the second corner, the suspicious man stopped in front of a dingy brick building. Several stories in
height, this edifice loomed above the smaller houses that surrounded it. Apparently, it had once been
well-kept; at present, it showed signs of disrepair. Despite the shading of night, its tall front revealed
cracks and patches of crumbling corner bricks.
The muffled man was not interested in a survey of the building. His suspicious eyes noted the sign that
hung above the entrance to the place:
HOTEL SPARTAN
Satisfied, the arrival edged close to the building and peered through a grimy plate-glass window. Inside,
he saw a dingy lobby, where half a dozen men were slouched about in battered chairs. He observed a
hard-faced clerk standing behind a cracked desk of imitation marble. The observer grunted.
This was the place that he sought. The way was clear. For his inspection had satisfied himself that none of
the slouchers in the lobby were stool pigeons or detectives. The Hotel Spartan was noted as a
rendezvous for mobsters who were in the money and who were not at odds with the law. Those whom
the muffled man had seen, appeared to be natural habitues of the place.
Dropping his slouch, the muffled man entered the hotel. He walked boldly across the lobby, staring
straight ahead as he approached the desk. His hand, however, still held his coat collar closed. Reaching
his objective, the newcomer growled a few words to the clerk, who nodded and pointed toward the
stairs.
"He's waiting for you," informed the clerk. "Go on up. Room 306."
The muffled man needed no further statement. He stalked quickly toward the stairs and tramped upward
on the frayed carpeting. A few of the loungers glanced curiously at his departing figure. Then his arrival
seemed to be forgotten.
Yet among the nondescript group assembled in the lobby of the Hotel Spartan, there was one who had
closely watched the muffled man. This fellow had a firm, square face that marked him as different from
the usual gangster type. His features lacked the coarseness so prevalent in the underworld.
It was his air of self-assurance that enabled this individual to frequent such places as the Hotel Spartan.
As he arose and strolled through the lobby, his eyes showed a steely glint as they turned toward staring
mobsmen. That firm gaze was sufficient. No one would have thought of challenging its steady-faced
owner.
Moreover, the loungers in the lobby recognized the man. He was Cliff Marsland, known in the
underworld as a mobster de luxe. He was no ordinary gorilla. He was capable enough to head a mob of
his own; but Cliff was noted because he preferred to work as lieutenant to big-shots. His presence in the
Hotel Spartan was not unusual. This was a natural place for a man of his ilk to form contact with those
who might need his valued services.
Cliff Marsland had another calling—one that he kept secret. Leaving the Hotel Spartan, he strolled a few
blocks and entered an old drug store. In a phone booth, he made a call. A quiet voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."
"Marsland," informed Cliff. "Report on Luke Zoman. Man answering his description came into the Hotel
Spartan. Clerk sent him up to 306. Room occupied by Squeezer Dyson."
"Report received," came Burbank's voice. "Follow plan as given."
"Instructions received."
When Cliff Marsland left the drug store, he took a side street. He was heading for an alleyway in back of
the Hotel Spartan. There he could be in readiness for what might follow. For Cliff had performed his
secret duty—one that was sure to produce results. Through Burbank, Cliff Marsland had reported to
The Shadow.
Unknown to associates in the underworld, Cliff Marsland was an agent of the mysterious master whose
power was feared by men of evil. Scourge of the badlands, The Shadow, strange being of the night, was
ever ready to battle against fiends of crime. His black-gloved finger seemed to feel the pulse-throbs of
trouble in the underworld. His secret records held the names of criminals whose affairs needed watching.
Cliff Marsland's report had proven that one of these was Luke Zoman.
CLIFF had made a good conjecture when he had picked the muffled man as Luke Zoman. Up in Room
306, the arrival had removed his coat and hat. In the light of a dingy room, his features showed a pug
nose and a scarred cheek. These and his bloated, puffy lips marked him as the man The Shadow
wanted.
Seated with Luke Zoman was a shrewd, rat-faced fellow: "Squeezer" Dyson. Crafty worker of crime,
Squeezer made his headquarters at the Hotel Spartan. He was a crook who had mobsters at his bidding.
He was also one whose cleverness in cooking up alibis had kept him square with the law.
"You look kind of scared, Squeezer," Luke Zoman was commenting. "Maybe you don't like it because I
dropped in here. You wasn't that way in the old days, Squeezer."
"Maybe not," agreed Squeezer, gruffly. "But I've learned plenty, Luke, since you went up to the big
house. It ain't a bad idea to stand in with the bulls. That's the way I play it nowadays."
"I get you. A guy like me—just out of stir—ain't a welcome visitor. Well, don't get cold feet, Squeezer. I
didn't come down here with no brass band. There wasn't nobody saw me except some of those mugs in
the lobby. I figured they was all right."
"They ought to be, Luke. Some of them belong to my mob. The rest of the boys are in rooms on this
floor. I don't take no chances, Luke. If any phony guys was down in that lobby, some of my mob would
have tipped me off."
"You got a mob, eh?" Luke chuckled. "Different from six years ago, when I took my trip up the river.
That's great, Squeezer. You're just the bird I want to see."
"Yeah?" Squeezer shifted uneasily. "Whatta you figuring on pulling, Luke?"
"You know." Luke rose to his feet and stalked across the room. "There's a bimbo I'm going to get—and
I need a pack of gorillas to do it."
"Judge Claris?"
"Yeah. Judge Claris." Luke snarled the name with venom. "He put me in stir and he's going to pay for it.
Him and anybody that happens to be around. I want a mob that's ready to back me up—gorillas who
can scram for cover. You and your outfit are the bunch I need."
"Forget it, Luke," argued Squeezer. "What's the good? You won't get nothin' out of it but trouble."
"I'll take the trouble."
"The bulls will be laying for you. Don't forget—you threatened Claris when he put you in stir. You said
you'd get him when you came out. Maybe -"
"That don't mean nothing, Squeezer. Every judge gets threats like that. I went on good behavior in the big
house. I'm supposed to be reformed. Claris ain't thinking about me. The bulls have forgotten the threats I
made. Six years is a long time, Squeezer."
"Maybe you're right about the bulls, Luke. But there's one guy ain't going to forget the threats you
made."
"Who's that?"
"The Shadow."
Luke Zoman stopped short. He stared coldly at Squeezer. He seemed to detect awe on his companion's
ratlike face. Then, with a disdainful leer, Luke delivered a harsh guffaw.
"The Shadow!" he snorted. "Say—it wasn't The Shadow who put me in stir. What does he know about
me?"
"He knows plenty about everybody," retorted Squeezer. "Say— there's been times when you guys in the
big house was safer than us birds that was out. The Shadow's been smearing some mighty sweet rackets
while you was in stir."
"So it's him you're scared of, eh? Going to let me down? An old pal of mine"—Luke's tone was
sarcastic—"but you ain't pal enough to help me get even with that mug Claris, that ought to have been
rubbed out six years ago."
"Listen, Luke." Squeezer's eyes flashed angrily as the rat-faced mobleader came to his feet. "I ain't lost
any of my nerve. I'm still a pal of yours. I'm willing to back you even if your ideas are goofy.
"But it ain't good sense for me to help you bump Claris. It means I've got to scram along with you. I got
enough dough to pay off my mob for helping me. I got enough to scram along with you. But where's the
gravy? I can grab off dough here in New York, but nowhere else.
"If there was cash in bumping Claris, I'd chance it. But he's got nothing in his house. It's just an idea of
getting even—and it leaves us flat at the finish. That's why I'm arguing with you."
"Talking like yourself now, Squeezer," declared Luke, with a grin. "That's what I wanted to hear. So if
there was dough at the end of the trail, you'd be with me?"
"Sure thing, Luke."
"Well, the dough will be there. Go through with this along with me. Scram when I scram. Stick close, like
a pal. There'll be plenty in it for you."
"How much is plenty?"
"One hundred grand!"
SQUEEZER DYSON stared. His face showed his incredulity. An offer of one hundred thousand dollars,
coming from a man just out of Sing Sing, was more than he could understand.
Luke Zoman grinned. "One hundred grand," he repeated. "That's what I'll pay you, Squeezer. That's how
much I'm willing to cough up to get even with Judge Claris. Are you on?"
"For a hundred grand?" Squeezer laughed hoarsely. "Say—I'd bump a whole jury along with a judge to
get hold of that dough. Sure—I'm with you—only -"
"Only what?"
"Where's the dough coming from?"
"Is that all you want to know?"
"That's all!"
"You're with me if I put you wise?"
"I'm with you—and the mob, too."
A leer showed on Luke Zoman's face as the ex-convict stalked to the window. Luke made sure the sash
was locked. He lowered the shade clear to the bottom. He beckoned Squeezer Dyson toward a little
table in the corner. From his pocket Luke pulled out an envelope.
A letter slid from the frayed end of the envelope. With it came three or four small newspaper clippings;
also an object that looked like a white card, about the size of a postal. This object was the first that Luke
picked up. He turned it over as he handed it to Squeezer. The rat-faced mobleader stared.
The picture was that of an oddly shaped mansion that stood upon a raised mound that looked like an
island in a blackened sea. Beyond the building was sloping land that raised to a ridge of wooded
mountains.
"That's where the dough is coming from," asserted Luke Zoman. "Half a million—all mine—waiting in that
house. What's more, I don't make a move to get it; yet it's in the bag, Squeezer—and a hundred grand is
yours, if you stick with me on this Claris deal."
Squeezer Dyson was staring at the picture. His face showed interest; also doubt. Luke Zoman leered. He
saw that his companion was ready to be convinced.
"You want the low-down, eh?" quizzed Luke. "Well listen, pal, and I'll hand it to you. Take a good look
at that picture, bo. It means a hundred grand to you."
While Squeezer, half nodding, sat staring at the picture, Luke picked up the clippings and the letter. He
threw a suspicious glance toward the door; satisfied that no one was listening, the ex-convict began the
explanation that was to convince his pal.
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW'S CLUE
"REMEMBER, Squeezer"—Luke Zoman's first words came in a warning tone— "I'm letting you in on
something just to prove it's real. We was pals before I went to the big house; but this was something I
didn't wise you to even then."
"Spill it, Luke," nodded Squeezer.
"What's more"—Luke's tone was savage—"it had a lot to do with why I went up the river. The bulls
would never have got me if they hadn't been tipped off. That picture in your mitt is the reason why I was
in stir."
"You mean the house?"
"I mean the guy that lives in it." Luke laughed. "I should say the guy that used to live in it. Thaddeus
Culeth. That was his moniker. The smoothest crook in the business—and the dirtiest. He's dead now" -
Luke tossed the clippings on the table—"and there'll be no more double-crossing from him. He kept his
mug shut while he lived; he died without squawking to nobody."
"What was his game?" queried Squeezer.
"His game?" snarled Luke. "Double-crossing. The real game was ours. Mine and—but never mind the
names of the other guys. I ain't telling them to nobody."
Luke paused to lick his dry, puffy lips. He fingered the clippings on the table. He laid them in a little
stack; then clutched the letter that he was holding.
"There was six of us," stated Luke, "and we pulled some big jobs. Cracking banks, pulling blackmail,
working other rackets that made dough. And old Thaddeus Culeth was the brains of the outfit. Living
there in his old house, like he wanted to be away from the world."
"In the middle of a lake, eh?" questioned Squeezer, tapping the blackened foreground of the photograph.
"That's no lake," corrected Luke. "It's a swamp. The only ways to get at it are from an old road that cuts
through from the right and another road that goes across the swamp. Hits the edge of the high ground,
that second road does.
"Well, we used to sneak in and out of Thaddeus Culeth's place. We brought in the swag. He held it. That
old geezer hatched up new jobs. Sent us out on them. And all the while, he was stowing away the gravy.
Wanted a million before he made the big cut.
"We was saps. We fell for the game. Then came the double cross. A job went wrong. One of our outfit
got bumped. We didn't figure nothing phony until a second job was queered. Another guy was rubbed
out. That left four of us."
"Was Culeth in back of it?"
"Sure. We figured that after the second job went blooey. So Jimmy" - Luke caught himself—"one of us
says he'd go and talk to Culeth. He did. We was to hear from him later. We didn't."
"You mean Culeth got him?"
"That's the way it looked. There was only three of us left. We began to do some tall figuring. It wasn't
safe to walk in and see the guy no longer. We couldn't squeal on him. It would have put us out of luck
and he was too well covered. He could have cleared himself."
"What did you do?"
"We stayed away. Separated. That's when I came to New York. We decided to meet later on and
spring a surprise on the old double-crosser."
"Why didn't you gang the place?"
"That joint?" Luke snorted as he pointed to the photograph. "Say— old Culeth was too smart for that.
He had three strong-arm boys in the house. A lot of dogs around the place. There was a secret tunnel we
used to use. We figured he'd plugged that after Jimmy—after the one guy went in to call for a
show-down.
"No. We decided to lay low for a while. We knew Culeth for what he was. A miser. We knew he'd be
hanging on to the dough. But he was foxier than we thought—Culeth was."
"How?"
"HE found out where two of us was. Tipped off the bulls to both of us. That's how they happened to
grab me here in New York. Judge Claris sent me to the big house. Ten years—it got cut to six."
"And the other guy?"
"He got a worse deal than I did. They nabbed him for murder. He's doing life out in Joliet."
"But you said there was three."
"Yeah" Luke Zoman leered. "Three of us left. Two of us went in stir. But the third guy didn't. He was
sitting pretty. Culeth couldn't get him."
"Why not?"
"Because Culeth didn't know him!" Luke's voice rang with triumph. "He belonged to the outfit, but he had
never been in to see Culeth. He was our ace in the hole."
"Did he go after the dough?"
"No. That was where he was foxy." Again Luke crinkled the letter. "Here's how he figured it, Squeezer.
There was two of us left to split. Me and this one guy Culeth didn't know. So this fellow—the
ace—decides to wait a while.
"He was counting on me coming out of the big house. But he was counting on something else. Thaddeus
Culeth was an old gazebo. He wasn't due to live many years more. So this boy waits. He doesn't show
his hand. That keeps Culeth worried. Then this comes along."
Luke picked up the first clipping. It was an item from a small-town paper stating that Thaddeus Culeth,
well-known citizen, had been stricken with paralysis. The next clipping spoke of Culeth's grave condition.
The third stated that Thaddeus Culeth had died.
Luke took the clippings and tore them to pieces. He dropped them in an ash tray and applied a match.
While the bits of newspaper were burning, the ex-convict opened the letter that he had been holding.
"This was waiting for me," he stated. "General delivery; I got it this afternoon. It had the picture and the
clippings along with it."
"From the ace?"
"Yeah. He's in the town of Rensdale, where the old house is located. They've been going over Thaddeus
Culeth's estate. Only the house and a few thousand bucks. That's all."
"Then the dough is still safe?"
"You bet it is. In the old house. Now you see why this old pal of mine— the ace—was smart. He's been
playing straight for the last six years. He's an educated guy—and he knows how to make the most of it.
All he's got to do is step in and pick up the gravy."
"Are you going to help him?"
"Me?" Luke laughed. "Say—I ain't showing my map nowhere near the town of Rensdale. Do you think I
want to queer the game? This fellow is a real ace—a square shooter—and when he grabs that million, I'll
get my half."
"I get you. Nobody knows the ace is a crook, eh?"
"And nobody suspects it. He could get away with anything—murder included. Maybe he'll have to; but
he'll get that dough."
"But if somebody wises up that there's dough in the old house -"
"He'll beat them to it. He'll be on the ground. Listen, Squeezer: Thaddeus Culeth never talked to
anybody—not even to his servants. There was a guy named Twindell worked for him; maybe Twindell
suspected that Culeth was pulling some funny business, but it's a sure bet that he didn't have the real
low-down.
"Twindell could be bought, maybe. Or maybe he's just as dumb as he looks. There won't be much
trouble from him. If he knows nothing, all right. If he knows something, he'll be scared to talk."
"What about relatives?"
"The only one was Culeth's son—young Austin. He and the old man had a fight, back before Thaddeus
Culeth double-crossed us. The kid cleared out. Went abroad. Died in Africa of the fever. The guy that's
coming in for the estate is a distant relative—young fellow named Hector Lundig—who never saw
Thaddeus Culeth."
"Where did you get this dope?"
"Here in the letter." With these words, Luke tore the message and dropped the pieces in the ash tray. He
set fire to them as he had the clippings. He watched the letter burn to ashes.
The conversation between the two crooks had been a brisk one. The pause that followed seemed long.
Luke Zoman crumpled the ashes that had represented clippings and letter. He shook them into a
wastebasket and wiped his hands with a grimy handkerchief.
LUKE ZOMAN had drawn the shade at the window. The act had seemed an unnecessary precaution at
the time. Yet events outside of the Hotel Spartan were proving that the deed was one of some
importance.
The window of Room 306 opened on the rear alleyway. From the darkness below, a strange, squidgy
sound was marking the ascent of a living form.
A blackened shape loomed beside the locked window. It clung batlike to the surface of the brick. A
hand freed itself from a rubber suction cup. Deft fingers pressed against the window sash—upward. The
sash did not move.
A blackened wedge of thin steel was thrust between the portions of the sash. The lock gave noiselessly.
The steel disappeared; the hand pressed the sash silently upward. No breeze was stirring; the strange
hand from the darkness raised the window to its full extent.
Fingers lifted the bottom of the shade the fraction of an inch. Burning eyes peered into the lighted room.
Keen ears listened. The Shadow had arrived; knowing the location of every room in this old hotel, he had
chosen the window of Room 306.
"One million dollars," Luke Zoman was saying. "Half of it mine. I can count on the guy that's getting it.
One hundred grand to you, Squeezer, if you help me rub out Judge Claris. Are you on?"
Squeezer was staring at the photograph on the desk. There was something about Thaddeus Culeth's old
house that impressed him. Luke Zoman's story sounded good.
"I'm on," spoke Squeezer. "Ready when you say the word."
"To-night, then," returned Luke. "Your mob is here. Pick the guys you want. Pay 'em off on the way."
Squeezer considered. He was standing near the table. Again, he glanced at the picture of the old house in
which Thaddeus Culeth had lived.
"One hundred grand," prompted Luke. "You've got the dough to pay your mob. I know you don't keep
no bank account. Those gorillas of yours don't know where Judge Claris lives. They'll think we're busting
into some millionaire's house."
"But the get-away -"
"Every body scrams. You and me together. We can get to Mexico before they trace us."
"You're sure about this pal of yours?"
"Say—I told you he was an ace. What do you think he sent me the letter for? He's been waiting for me
to get out of stir."
"All right." Squeezer's tone was firm. "Stick here, Luke. I'll call the mob. They're just down the hall."
Squeezer stepped toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob. Luke was watching him with eager,
gleaming eyes. Ten seconds more and this room would be thronged with mobsmen, ready for orders.
Then came a sound that made both Luke and Squeezer turn in alarm.
A HAND had plucked the bottom of the window shade. With a snap, the blind went springing upward.
At the same instant, blackness seemed to surge in from the night. As the two crooks wheeled, they saw
that blackness take the shape of a living form—a being cloaked in black. Burning eyes peered from
beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Looming automatics held the startled crooks at bay.
The Shadow had heard the plans to slay Judge Claris. He had learned that the plot lay only between
these two men. He had resolved to forestall crime at its beginning—before Squeezer could assemble his
band of mobsmen.
"The Shadow!"
The gasp came from Squeezer's pale lips. A whispered laugh was The Shadow's answer. Stark terror
seized Squeezer Dyson as he stared into the muzzles of the automatics. The rat-faced crook saw that
Luke Zoman was standing sullen; but he could not copy his companion's example. Luke—six years in stir
—had not learned of The Shadow's prowess as had Squeezer.
Death. Squeezer feared it. The Shadow was a relentless foe to crime. He gave no quarter to murderers.
Squeezer knew that The Shadow had heard mention of killing Judge Claris. To The Shadow, those who
planned murder were the same as murderers. At heart, Squeezer Dyson was yellow. Like a rat, he
thought that squealing could save his skin.
"Don't shoot!" pleaded Squeezer, as he faced the menace of those burning eyes. "I'll tell—I'll tell
everything. It—it means a million bucks if you don't kill me -"
A vicious snarl came from Luke Zoman. His secret on the point of betrayal, the man became a fiend.
Like a flash, he pulled the unexpected—the one course that could stop Squeezer Dyson's plea. With a
sudden leap, Luke hurled himself upon The Shadow.
The black-garbed master did not fire. He wanted to hear Squeezer talk. He knew that a shot would bring
the yellow mobleader's crew. Ready for Luke's attack, despite its unexpectedness, The Shadow
delivered a terrific swing with his left-hand automatic. The blow was aimed for Luke Zoman's skull.
Blind luck saved the ex-convict. Luke thrust a hand upward. Pure chance enabled him to grip The
Shadow's wrist. With amazing strength, Luke stopped the downward swing and shot his free hand
toward The Shadow's throat. His surge sent the cloaked fighter up against the window.
For an instant, it appeared as though Luke was going to precipitate his foeman through the opening. Only
by a quick twist did The Shadow avert that catastrophe. Dropping his left automatic, he wrenched free of
Luke's grasp and went sprawling into a corner of the room.
Luke pounced upon the gun. Quick as a cat, he gained the weapon and brought it up to aim. Seeing
Luke's action, Squeezer Dyson came to life and shot a hand to his pocket to pull a revolver. He thought
that he and Luke had The Shadow on the spot. But neither reckoned with The Shadow's skill at quick
recovery.
THE SHADOW had dropped one automatic that he might use his hand to stay his fall. With that free
hand, he caught the pipes of a radiator in the corner. With a powerful twist, he pulled his body up from
the floor; his right hand, swinging into view, brought the muzzle of its automatic squarely toward Luke
Zoman.
A burst of flame spat from The Shadow's gun before Luke could press the trigger of the weapon which
he had seized from the floor. With the roar from The Shadow's automatic, Luke crumpled. The Shadow
did not pause to fire a second shot. Still twisting, he swung his aim toward Squeezer Dyson.
The rat-faced mobleader had completed the draw. He fired a first quick shot. The bullet clanged against
the radiator, inches from The Shadow's shoulder. Then came a second burst from the automatic.
Squeezer, like Luke, slumped to the floor.
Again, The Shadow gave no heed to the man whom he had dropped. Rising, he sprang to the door of the
room. He yanked the barrier open. Automatic in hand, he was face to face with a mobsman who had
hastened to the hall at the sound of gunfire. The dim light of the dingy corridor showed revolvers flashing
as these gorillas recognized the arch-enemy of gangdom.
Searing bullets whistled from The Shadow's automatic. One gangster dropped. Another staggered.
Others dropped to cover, firing as they sought to avoid The Shadow's shots. Bullets chipped wood from
the doorway where The Shadow, framed in spectral outline, was standing his ground.
Footsteps on the stairs. New shots, fired from the gloom, were directed not at The Shadow but at the
snarling mobsmen. Another crook fell. Cliff Marsland had found opportunity to slide in through the back
passage of the old hotel. He had come to aid The Shadow.
摘要：

MURDERMARSHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.FROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERII.THESHADOW'SCLUE?CHAPTERIII.HEIRTOTHEMANOR?CHAPTERIV.DEATHATDUSK?CHAPTERV.WORDTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERVI.ATTHEMANSION?CHAPTERVII.FIGURESOFNIGHT?CHAPTERVIII.NEWVISITORS?CHAPTERIX.MIDNIGHTMUR...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：90 页 大小：219.18KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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