Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 060 - Gypsy Vengeance

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GYPSY VENGEANCE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. IN THE MORGUE
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW PREPARES
? CHAPTER III. THE BLACK SCOURGE
? CHAPTER IV. CROOK AND SHADOW
? CHAPTER V. THE GYPSY TRAIL
? CHAPTER VI. VALDO'S SCHEME
? CHAPTER VII. AT JERWYN'S
? CHAPTER VIII. THE COUNTER PLOT
? CHAPTER IX. ON LONG ISLAND
? CHAPTER X. JERWYN STALLS
? CHAPTER XI. THURSDAY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XII. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HIDEOUT
? CHAPTER XIV. SWIFT BATTLE
? CHAPTER XV. THE GUESTS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE GYPSY CAMP
? CHAPTER XVII. CASPER PREPARES
? CHAPTER XVIII. WITHOUT AND WITHIN
? CHAPTER XIX. CASPER TALKS TERMS
? CHAPTER XX. THE CROOK REVEALED
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S SEQUEL
? CHAPTER XXII. THE VERDICT
CHAPTER I. IN THE MORGUE
"A SPANIARD."
Detective Joe Cardona made the statement as he studied the body on the slab. Ace detective of the New
York headquarters, Cardona was an expert at classifying members of the various nationalities found in
cosmopolitan Manhattan.
The ace was standing in the city morgue. The body which he surveyed was not a pleasant sight. It was
the puffy, water-logged form of a dark-skinned man - a trophy which the police had that afternoon
reclaimed from the sullen waters of the Hudson River.
Cardona's statement of the drowned man's nationality was recorded by two persons standing by. These
were newspaper reporters: one was Clyde Burke, a frail but wiry fellow who worked on the New York
Classic. The other, a scrawny chap who blinked through tortoise shell spectacles, was Tommy Holson,
of the New York Sphere.
Along with these stood Detective Sergeant Markham. He was the headquarters man in charge of the
case. It was Markham who had sent for Joe Cardona.
"I knew you could spot what he was, Joe," declared the detective sergeant. "I thought maybe he was a
Spaniard, but I wasn't sure. I figured he might be a Portugee - or a Mex - or some kind of South
American -"
"You can tell a Jap from a Chink, can't you?" returned Cardona. "Or a Filipino from either of them? Well
- its the same story. Portuguese and Spanish are different. As for South Americans, or Mexicans - that's
a different form of reasoning.
"There's pure blooded Spaniards in Mexico and South America - and they look Spanish enough. But you
won't find many of them in New York - and if you do, they'll be living at the Ritz, not floating around in
the river. This fellow" - Cardona was stooping above the body - "is a Spaniard of a low class. His
clothes are proof of that."
So speaking, Cardona gripped the lapel of the dead man's water soaked coat and thumbed the material
more like a tailor than a detective.
"Maybe these clothes were put on him," volunteered Markham. "There's a big gash on the back of his
head - looks like he got it when they dumped him in the river -"
"If they'd dressed him up in a cheap suit," returned Cardona, "they'd probably have used American
clothes. This suit fits the fellow too well. It looks like it was bought at some cheap clothing store in a
Spanish city. As I figure it" - Cardona paused to stand up and look at the round, puffy face of the dead
man - "this fellow can't have been in New York more than a couple of months at most. He's a Spaniard
of middle or low class, probably from one of the larger cities in Spain. That's all I can give you,
Markham."
"What about these?" inquired the detective sergeant. He stepped past the slab and picked up two short
bars of rusted iron. Each was about fifteen inches in length, by an inch and a half in thickness. With them,
Markham exhibited several pieces of cut rope.
"Belaying pins," observed Cardona. "What were these doing - holding the body down?"
"Yes. He must have been dragging along the bottom of the river until he got tangled with a pier end up
near Ninetieth Street."
"These could have come off a ship," stated Cardona, as he took one of the iron rods and hefted it. "But
this rope" - the star detective shook his head - "doesn't look like ship's rope."
Before Markham could voice a comment, Cardona turned to see two swarthy men entering from the
stone stairs that came down to this room. They were obviously visitors who had arrived to view the
bodies.
"South Americans," muttered Joe, to the reporters. "Look like they were from the Argentine."
THE two men stopped beside the body.
They shook their heads and gestured expressively. Without a word, they turned and went back toward
the stairs.
"There's some more who don't know him," declared Markham. "The newspapers ran a story about the
body in the early afternoon editions. I said the man might be a South American. I guess there's been a
couple of dozen more look at the corpse."
"Make it Spanish from now on," suggested Cardona. "Well, Markham, this fellow may have been
chucked from some boat; but I wouldn't be too sure of it. Looks like he's been in the river three days at
least. Unless he tangled with that pier mighty soon after he went overboard, he should have drifted further
down stream."
"That's what I decided," answered Markham. "I think he must have been thrown off a pier. He couldn't
have been dropped in much further up the river, the way the piers thin out. An incoming tide could have
washed him up against the piles -"
Markham paused. He heard new footsteps. A man appeared from the stairway. The newcomer was clad
in a dark, baggy suit. His face was tawny; his white teeth glittered between opened lips; his dark eyes
seemed to reflect the dim light of this morbid room.
The man had long, black hair that nearly covered his ears, as it spread from the sides of a shabby felt hat.
From each ear-lobe dangled a small gold coin; these ear-rings glimmered in the light.
Clyde Burke and Tommy Holson stared at the arrival; the man's face seemed to be suspicious as his dark
eyes caught their observation.
"A Spaniard," whispered Holson to Burke, "and a sailor."
Cardona caught the remark. A wise smile flickered on the detective's lips. Cardona made no comment as
he watched the arrival study the body on the slab. It was not until the man with the ear-rings had
completed his inspection that Cardona spoke.
"Rom?" questioned the detective.
The man with the ear-rings swung suddenly toward the sleuth. Again, his eyes showed suspicion. Then he
slowly shook his head.
"I don't mean him," declared Cardona, pointing toward the corpse. "I mean you. Rom?"
The man's white teeth showed a sudden smile. His eyes lost their suspicious look.
"Me isiom yek Rom," he stated. Then, as his face lost a sudden gleam, he repeated in English: "Yes. I am
a gypsy. But this man" - he turned to point to the dead form on the slab - "he is not gypsy. He is not
Rom. He is gajo."
"Where are you from?" questioned Cardona.
"We are in New Jersey." The gypsy spoke with a peculiar accent. "We have been there many, many
month. Desh-u-shov" - he paused to count on his fingers - "Ava. Yes. Sixteen month -"
"What brought you here?" quizzed Cardona.
The gypsy grinned. He pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket. It was a copy of the early afternoon
edition of a New York journal. He pointed to the paragraph that told of the body found in the river.
"I go to Newark," explained the gypsy. "Our great leader - baro kralis amengoro - he send me to buy
from the gaje, because I can speak like they do. I read this. I come here.
"I think maybe some Rom has been killed. The Rom of this country go from one band to another.
Sometimes things happen to them."
"I understand," broke in Cardona "You thought maybe the dead man might be a gypsy. Well, he isn't.
Not Rom." Cardona shook his head. "Gajo."
The detective finished with a nod. The gypsy joined by bobbing his own head.
"Gajo," he repeated.
Cardona gave the man another quizzical look. The gypsy was staring at the body of the drowned
Spaniard; his eyes showed mere curiosity.
"Where did you come from in the first place?" asked the detective. "Somewhere in Europe? Are you
Zingaro?"
"No." The gypsy shook his head and the coins bobbed beneath his ears. "I am not of the Zingari. We
have Zingari with our band - from Italy they come. I am not of the Rom the gaje call Zingari. I am of the
Czigany - from Hungary."
"I see." Cardona turned to Markham. "Well, I'm leaving you now. Give it out that this dead man was a
Spaniard; maybe somebody will come in to identify him. I'm going down to headquarters. Have to see
Inspector Klein."
"On the society robberies?" questioned Clyde Burke.
"Yes," replied Cardona, gruffly. "We're going to block that smart bunch of crooks. They've gotten away
with too much already."
"You don't know where they get their information?"
"About the places to crack? No. But it's a sure bet somebody tips them off to the good lays. They found
the hidden wall safe in Dobson's house on Long Island so quickly that you might have thought they were
the people who put it in there for the old man."
The gypsy had loitered to look at the body. He seemed to have a morbid curiosity. He turned as
Cardona finished speaking. He started for the stairs.
CARDONA did not see the man's dark visage. The departing gypsy wore a knowing smile that the
detective would have challenged had he observed it. His lips, half scornful, seemed to denote a double
knowledge.
It was apparent that the gypsy had recognized the dead Spaniard. It was also evident that Cardona's
mention of the society robberies had excited the man's interest.
Had Cardona and Markham known it, both would have learned much concerning their respective cases,
had they held that gypsy for a quiz. But neither sleuth caught a last glimpse of the man's face.
Simultaneously, they allowed a valuable informant to depart while they looked on!
It was Holson, of the Sphere, who made reference to the dark-skinned man who wore the ear-rings. The
reporter's comment was one that had nothing to do with murder or robbery.
"Odd bird, that gypsy," remarked Holson, just as the man disappeared from view upon the stairs. "What
was all that chatter he handed out - Rom - gago - gaje -"
"The gypsies call themselves the Rom," explained Cardona. "It means gypsy man. A gajo is a gentile.
That's why he said he was Rom, but this stiff" - Cardona waved his hand toward the corpse - "was
gajo."
With that, the detective turned and strolled toward the stairway that the gypsy had taken. When Cardona
reached the upstairs corridor, he found it empty. He knew that the gypsy must have left the building.
THIS simple assumption was correct. The dark-skinned man was already pacing along the sidewalk,
away from the morgue. His face, showing by a lamp light, still wore its gleaming smile. It showed a
strange expression of satisfaction.
The gypsy glanced over his shoulder as he turned the corner. Joe Cardona had not yet appeared from
the doorway. The gypsy laughed as he continued his steady pace.
One block - two - each time that the gypsy passed a lighted spot, he glanced back over his shoulder. On
each occasion, he saw no sign of a follower. Yet each time that he stared ahead, an odd phenomenon
took place.
On these occasions, blackness moved into the spot of light which the dark- skinned man had passed.
Some flitting shade of night was on the trail of the man who had left the morgue!
The gypsy entered a subway station. Obscure in the crowded car of a local, he rode uptown. He left the
train and walked eastward along a secluded street. No longer did he glance behind him.
Yet the phantom shape still trailed. A passing silhouette that glided on the sidewalk, it kept on until the
gypsy entered a short alleyway that led to the side door of a darkened house.
A figure appeared in hazy outline after the gypsy's clicking footsteps had ended. A shape of blackness - a
cloaked form topped by a broad-brimmed slouch hat - this was the revelation of the being that had
trailed the gypsy to his home.
The figure faded into the darkness of the street. A soft laugh sounded near the silent house. A whispered
burst of suppressed mirth, its tone brooked keen and subtle understanding.
The weird shape; the eerie laugh - these were tokens of a sinister identity. They were signs before which
the bravest man of crime would quail. They were the symbols that signified the presence of The
Shadow!
Relentless enemy of crime, The Shadow was a being who had become the scourge of evil-doers. Though
he moved with ghostly tread, his physical manifestation was that of a superfighter whose automatics could
thunder doom to those who plotted crime.
Tonight, two detectives, each on a different case, had failed to pick a dark-skinned gypsy as the man
who held clues to crimes. But where the law had failed, The Shadow had been in readiness.
The master sleuth was at work. His actions showed that this was not the first step in his campaign. Crime
had struck; coming crime loomed. The Shadow was in readiness!
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW PREPARES
WHEN The Shadow, swift fighter of the darkness, moved against crime, he employed the services of
certain agents to aid him in his work. To maintain continued touch with his operatives, The Shadow had
chosen Burbank as a contact man.
Though lacking in action. Burbank possessed a remarkable power of endurance. He could remain at his
post for days when occasion demanded it. Here at the switchboard, he relayed instructions. All The
Shadow's agents could reach him by regular telephone. So could The Shadow; when the master sleuth
was in action. Burbank, however, also controlled a special wire that led to The Shadow's sanctum.
Hence, through Burbank, The Shadow could direct his agents from that hidden, unknown spot where he
planned his campaigns against crime.
"BURBANK speaking."
The announcement came from a man who was seated in front of a small switchboard. The sole occupant
of a single-lamped room, this individual was doing operator's duty. A pair of earphones was clamped to
his head.
Clicks came across the wire. Low monotoned replies from Burbank. The man changed plugs at the
switchboard. Again his voice sounded:
"Burbank speaking."
The earphones were clicking. Burbank was talking with The Shadow. The contact man repeated
messages that he had received.
"Report from Vincent," announced Burbank. "He is on his way to watch the gypsy house. Will keep
watch from the vacant house across the street, as ordered."
A pause. The Shadow was confirming Burbank's statement.
"Report from Burke," came Burbank's next announcement. "He watched the gypsy at the morgue. He
thinks the man recognized the dead Spaniard. No one else noticed that fact."
Another short pause; then Burbank spoke in conclusion:
"Report from Marsland. Still watching the home of Brandley Croman. No sign of marauders. Awaiting
further instructions."
A final wait; then after a prolonged clicking of the earphones, Burbank made the statement:
"Instructions received."
Methodically, the contact man switched plugs. Burbank had received The Shadow's orders. Back from
his trailing of the gypsy, with Harry Vincent, a trusted agent, watching the house where the man had gone,
The Shadow was ready to deal with another matter scheduled for this night.
A STALWART young man was standing near the telephone booths in a West Side drug store. Powerful
of physique, a steady expression upon his chiseled face, Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was
awaiting a reply from Burbank.
A telephone rang in one of the booths Cliff entered and picked up the receiver. He had called from this
pay telephone; he had given the number to Burbank. In a steady voice, Cliff gave affirmative replies to
the relayed orders. Hanging up the receiver, he left the booth, went from the store and strolled along a
quiet side street.
Cliff stopped as he came to an old house with brown stone steps. He glanced along the street, then
moved behind the steps and crouched in the gloom. Directly across the street, he watched a space
between two old buildings. The one on the left was the home of Brandley Croman.
Cliff Marsland knew the purpose of tonight's duty. If events followed expectations, it would mark the end
of a long campaign to end a series of crimes that still had the police completely baffled.
Houses of the wealthy had been robbed. The intervals between such burglaries had not been long. As
Joe Cardona had told the reporters at the morgue, the crooks had shown a surprisingly exact knowledge
of the houses which they had entered.
But despite the similarity of the crimes, the ace detective had not been able to put his finger on the
marauders. Servants had been quizzed; houses had been searched for clues. Results came up blank.
And Marsland, working for The Shadow, had been busy in the underworld. The bad lands of Manhattan
were Cliff's habitat. There he was regarded as a man of crime; he had the confidence of gangsters who
never dreamed that Cliff was an agent of The Shadow. Yet Cliff, although he could accomplish more for
The Shadow than a score of stool pigeons could for Joe Cardona, had been unable to trace the crooks.
The intervals between the robberies, though short, were evidently sufficient for the rogues to cover up
their tracks. Some mobleader was doing crime in a big way, but Cliff had been unable to spot the man.
Meanwhile, The Shadow had been working among the upper crust of society. A master of disguise, The
Shadow could adopt personalities that placed him among the elite. Since the wanted crooks were rifling
the homes of the wealthy, The Shadow had chosen his course of investigation among the Four Hundred.
The Shadow had struck a clue. Somehow - Cliff did not know the answer - the master sleuth had
learned the identity of the mobleader responsible for these crimes. "Marty" Lunk - a racketeer who
controlled a squad of capable gorillas - was the man whose name had been relayed to Cliff Marsland.
More than that: The Shadow had sent word where crime was due to strike. Through Burbank, Cliff had
been ordered to station himself outside of the home of Brandley Croman. The house, empty at present,
offered easy entry. Yet Cliff would not have picked it as a spot for gangs to burgle. The obscurity of the
house was its best protection.
Somehow, Lunk and his crew must have learned that valuables were stored at Croman's. How had they
gained such facts? Only The Shadow knew. At present, Cliff was acting under the final orders that had
come through Burbank.
Should Lunk's marauders appear, they could be easily observed from Cliff's watching post. Once Cliff
saw them, the rest of his task would be easy. Thus soliloquizing, The Shadow's agent waited in the
darkness.
MOTION in the space between the houses opposite. Cliff stared. He was sure that he had caught a
momentary glimpse of a figure by the building that he was watching. The dim light from the further street
had been momentarily increased by the swinging headlights of a turning taxicab a block away. The form
had faded.
As Cliff continued to watch, he decided that he had been mistaken. Lunk would not have sent a single
mobster on this task of entry. Nor could a man have faded so completely as had that phantom figure.
Nevertheless, Cliff had seen right. A living person was standing in the space beside the home of Brandley
Croman. The figure that Cliff had glimpsed was that of his own chief. The Shadow had arrived before the
expected crooks.
It was not surprising that Cliff had failed to view The Shadow after that momentary vision. The Shadow
had taken a course that carried him from view. His fadeaway had been straight upward.
Squidgy sounds - inaudible a dozen feet away - were marking The Shadow's ascent of the precipitous
wall. With rubber suction cups attached to hands and feet, The Shadow gained the window of a high built
second-story room.
Clinging to the ledge, The Shadow removed the appliances which had served him. A gloved hand
pressed a blackened tool of flat steel between the portions of the window sash. The lock clicked open.
The Shadow entered the darkened interior of Croman's home.
MINUTES passed. Cliff Marsland, watching, saw signs which were plain. Furtive, sneaking figures were
entering the space between the houses. While Cliff watched their approach from the farther street, a car
coasted silently to the curb of the thoroughfare where Cliff was located. New members of Marty Lunk's
squad alighted. They crept toward the entrance of the alley.
It was time for Cliff to leave. He knew what was coming. In copy of police tactics, the mobsters were
forming a cordon. Soon they would be on watch along this street; also along the street beyond.
With shifty stride, Cliff reached the nearest corner. He made for the drug store from which he had called
before. Smiling grimly as he dialed a number, Cliff waited until a growled response came across the wire.
"Say" - Cliff paused to feign the dialect of a small fry mobster - "is dis Joe Cardona, de dick?"
An affirmative response. Cliff lowered his voice to a confidential tone.
"Lissen, Cardona," he said. "I ain't no stool. See? You ain't goin' to find out who I am. I ain't no
double-crosser, neither, but I'm goin' to squeal on some guys dat tink dey can double-cross me. Savvy?"
"Go ahead," came Cardona's voice.
"Dese mugs you're goin' after," continued Cliff. "Dey're pullin' de old game tonight. Tink dey've got a
good crib - an' dey don't know I've got de lay. I'm tippin' you off - dey're on de job.
"De place dey've picked is empty. Dere's a guy lives dere named Croman. Dat's de name - Bradley
Croman. Dey've busted in de place an' -"
Cliff emitted a grunt. Shoving one hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, he followed with a series of
low, excited growls, which he voiced between his spread fingers. He followed by clicking the receiver on
its hook.
As he strolled from the store, Cliff smiled in picturing the effect that the finish of the call must have had
upon Joe Cardona. The detective would believe that his informant had passed the word from some
phone on the East Side; that the articulations at the finish had been due to the unexpected arrival of some
one who had come to stop the call.
Cliff had told enough. Joe Cardona, would never guess the source of the information. But within the next
few minutes, the police would be busy with their quick plans to trap the raiders reported at Croman's.
Cliffs work was not finished. Turning the nearest corner, the Shadow's agent stepped into a cigar store.
He found a telephone booth. He dialed a number. A voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."
"Marsland," reported Cliff. "Crew arrived. Information call made. Received at headquarters. Cardona
direct."
"Report received."
Cliff hung up the receiver. His work was done. He had notified the police; he had reported to Burbank.
Yet Cliff could not understand The Shadow's purpose. He had expected that The Shadow himself,
would enter into this affray with Marty Lunk's mob.
Even yet, Cliff Marsland did not suspect that The Shadow had entered Croman's home. Had he known
that fact, Cliff would have been more confident as he contemplated the possibilities. He would have
known that a band of crooks was due to meet its finish.
CHAPTER III. THE BLACK SCOURGE
A TINY flashlight was flickering in an upstairs hallway. Its rays formed a dollar-sized circle upon the bell
box of a telephone. The light clicked out. Hands in the dark worked at the bell box.
Then came silence. After that, a slight swish, as the black-garbed figure of The Shadow moved toward
the front stairs of Croman's home. Glimmers of light showed below. The Shadow watched as they
moved into a lower room.
From the darkness of the stairway, The Shadow could pick the exact spot where the crooks were going.
They had jimmied a side window near the ground-floor kitchen. They had entered through the lower
hallway and had picked a room near the front of the house.
The Shadow moved silently to the first floor. He paused as he neared the front vestibule. He waited. A
man was coming through the dark. A flashlight flickered. It did not show The Shadow pressed against the
wall.
The man made an inspection of the front door. He turned; no longer using his flashlight, he headed
toward the doorway of a room. A dim light came through the opening. Stealthily, The Shadow followed.
A floor lamp was gleaming in the corner of a room - Brandley Croman's library. The Shadow saw four
men in the corner. They had pried open a panel between two bookcases. One rough-faced individual -
The Shadow knew him for Marty Lunk - was growling to the fellow who had come from the front door.
"All right out there, Hokey?" questioned Lunk. "Front door closed up tight?"
"Sure thing."
"Get out there then. We won't need you here. Stick by the front door until we finish the job. We'll come
for you."
"Yeah? What good's the front? We ain't goin' out that way -"
"You heard me, Hokey." Lunk was on his feet, with a big fist clenched. "I left two men watching the back
- the way we're going out - but I want one at the front. Get going."
"All right, chief."
The Shadow shrank back in darkness as "Hokey" lumbered past. The appointed guard was a powerful
gorilla; one who possessed more strength than brains. His bulk, however, did not aid him in the
unexpected attack that came half a minute later.
As Hokey reached the front door, he stooped to make another inspection of the bolts that he had
examined before. His flashlight shone upon the woodwork. Then came oblivion.
With a swish, The Shadow pounced upon the mobster. A swift, black-gloved fist delivered a short jab to
the side of Hokey's neck. The big gorilla floundered without a grunt. His flashlight dropped on the carpet
by the doorway. The Shadow extinguished it.
SLIDING the crumpled mobster aside. The Shadow drew the bolts of the inner door. Stepping into the
vestibule, he used his own light as he undid the fastenings of the outer door.
Returning to the hallway, The Shadow flicked the light on Hokey's face. The mobster was out - to stay in
that condition for a while. Clicking off his light, The Shadow headed for the stairway.
A muffled buzz was coming from the bell box in the second-story hall. It was not audible until The
Shadow reached it. Picking up the telephone, The Shadow raised the receiver. His voice came in a
warning, hiss.
"Burbank speaking," came the modulated tone in the receiver.
"Report," whispered The Shadow.
"Report from Marsland," announced Burbank. "Informant call to Cardona at ten fifty one; report made at
ten fifty four and one half. Time now ten fifty six and three quarters."
"Report received."
A soft whisper sounded in the blackened hall as The Shadow hung up the telephone. The police were on
their way, as The Shadow had anticipated. They would be here in less than ten minutes. It would take
longer than that for Marty Lunk to crack the safe that he had uncovered. Hokey, The Shadow's first
victim, would not come to his senses after that scientific neck stroke. There was no need for another trip
to the front door.
The flashlight glimmered with short blinks as The Shadow found the spot he wanted; the head of the back
stairs. Descending with phantom-like tread, The Shadow reached a closed door. His steady hand turned
the knob. Inch by inch, The Shadow opened the barrier outward.
Whispered voices. Two men were talking. They were the watchers whom Marty Lunk had stationed
here. Dull light showed the opened window through which the crooks had come. The Shadow listened
while men spoke in the darkness.
"How long do you figure we'll be waitin', Jerry?" came a question.
"No more'n half an hour, Beef." was the reply. "Marty said somethin' about havin' a box to crack."
"Say - who gives him these steers?"
"Don't ask me. It's got me beat. If I was him - workin' with a set-up - I'd do the jobs alone."
"Yeah? How about that one two weeks ago, when Hokey had to crown the chauffeur? Where would
Marty have been, if he'd been workin' alone?"
"Maybe if he hadn't had a mob, the chauffeur wouldn't have got wise. Anyway, Beef, it makes it easy for
us, havin' the crew along. There's enough gats out in the street to make it hot for anybody that tries to
crimp us."
"Yeah - an' you'd better be takin' a squint out that window while we're waitin'. That's your job, Jerry.
See what Rusty's got to say."
Jerry slouched through the darkness; and leaned from the window to engage in conversation with an
摘要：

GYPSYVENGEANCEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.INTHEMORGUE?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWPREPARES?CHAPTERIII.THEBLACKSCOURGE?CHAPTERIV.CROOKANDSHADOW?CHAPTERV.THEGYPSYTRAIL?CHAPTERVI.VALDO'SSCHEME?CHAPTERVII.ATJERWYN'S?CHAPTERVIII.THECOUNTERPLOT?CHAPTERIX.ONLO...

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