Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 059 - The Crime Master

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THE CRIME MASTER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE LAW WAITS
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW ACTS
? CHAPTER III. TRIGGER TALKS
? CHAPTER IV. THE NEXT CLUE
? CHAPTER V. THE MASTER MOVES
? CHAPTER VI. THE ZERO HOUR
? CHAPTER VII. A FIEND DELIGHTS
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW'S CLUE
? CHAPTER IX. THE ULTIMATUM
? CHAPTER X. DEATH FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER XI. BLACK JOINS WHITE
? CHAPTER XII. TUESDAY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XIII. THE FLIGHT
? CHAPTER XIV. THE NEW CAMPAIGN
? CHAPTER XV. SHATTERED CRIME
? CHAPTER XVI. THE CAPTURE
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW TRAPPED
? CHAPTER XVIII. ANOTHER PRISONER
? CHAPTER XIX. FORCES PREPARE
? CHAPTER XX. MASTERS MEET
? CHAPTER XXI. BLACK STANDS ALONE
CHAPTER I. THE LAW WAITS
"ALL right, inspector. I'll be there in twenty minutes."
The stocky man hung up the receiver of the telephone. Dark eyes peered from his swarthy face as he
turned from the corner of the little East Side store. He stared at the proprietor, a dull-faced old fellow
who was standing, stooped, behind a decrepit counter.
The old man blinked back. He showed no signs of intelligence. The swarthy man grinned. With a shift of
his shoulders, he buttoned his light overcoat and stalked from the dilapidated shop, out into the night.
The old man watched, hands on the counter. He came cautiously forward. He reached the door and
peered out along the street. He could see the striding form of the man who had departed. He went back
to the corner of his shop, deposited a nickel in the coin box and dialed.
A voice clicked through the receiver. The old man spoke, in a crackly eager tone:
"He just left here... Yes... Joe Cardona, the dick... No, he ain't going back to headquarters... Going to
see the police commissioner, that's what..."
Clicking ceased. The old man hung up the receiver. He glanced furtively toward the door; then, with
straggly step, went back to his place behind the counter.
MEANWHILE, the swarthy man had covered a full block. The old proprietor of the store had not been
mistaken in his statement of identity. This stocky strider who was marching through the fringe of New
York's underworld was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force.
The fact that he had been deceived by the innocuous appearance of the old storekeeper did not prove
Joe Cardona to be unobservant. On the contrary, the star sleuth was remarkably alert as he paced his
way along the narrow street.
Though he apparently stared straight ahead, Cardona kept his eyes in constant motion. Peering from right
to left, those optics noted much that an ordinary observer would not have seen.
The open door of a tawdry barber shop; two Italians gesticulating while one clutched a newspaper -
Cardona caught words in a Neapolitan dialect. He nodded grimly as he recognized the topic of
conversation.
The detective passed a corner. He went by the door of a pawn shop. Again, he caught snatches of talk -
these words in English. Cardona kept onward; his face more grim than before.
The bulk of an elevated structure loomed at the next corner. The detective stopped and struck a match
against a pillar beside the station steps. A train was rumbling overhead as Cardona lighted a cigarette. A
pale-faced, sweatered fellow shambled from beside a fruit peddler's wagon. He stooped to pick a cigar
stump from the gutter.
"What's doing, Squawky?"
Cardona emitted the growled question without looking toward the stooping man. Rising, the sweatered
fellow looked at the cigar stump; then flung it back into the gutter. His lips moved as though muttering to
himself. But his mouth framed low words.
"Nothin' doin'," mumbled Squawky. "Just talk - but nobody knows nothin'. I'm goin' to the Pink Rat."
"Call me at headquarters."
Puffing at his cigarette, the detective turned and ascended the elevated steps. "Squawky" slouched back
toward the fruit peddler's wagon; he dug a few pennies from his pocket and handed them to the peddler
in exchange for an apple. Chewing at his purchase, the sweatered man shuffled along the grimy avenue.
JOE CARDONA had reached the elevated platform. A train was coming into the station. The detective
stepped aboard. Standing within the end door, he eyed two passengers who were seated a dozen feet
away.
One was tapping the columns of an evening newspaper. The other was nodding in response to a
statement which Cardona could not hear because of the train's rumble. But the detective saw the scoffing
smiles which the two exchanged. Turning, Cardona eyed the tops of old East Side buildings past which
the train was speeding.
"Luck," he growled, half aloud. "Luck - and everybody knows it. If I could guess what's coming -"
The train reached Cardona's station. The detective alighted. He was away from the underworld now; his
footsteps quickened as he reached the street.
"Poiper, mister?" The question came from a newsboy who pattered along beside Cardona. "Police stop
big holdup -"
Cardona waved the boy aside. The gamin persisted for a dozen steps; then gave up the idea of a sale as
the detective turned a corner and swung into the entrance of a building.
A few minutes later, Joe Cardona came into a quiet anteroom. A girl spied him from a desk in the corner;
she motioned for him to enter the inner door. Cardona followed through. He came into a large,
sumptuous office where a man was seated behind a glass-topped desk.
Cardona approached and stood waiting. The man looked up.
"Good evening, commissioner," said Cardona.
"Hello, Cardona," came the brisk response. "I want to talk to you. Pull up a chair."
The detective obeyed. A few seconds later, he was sitting face to face with Police Commissioner Ralph
Weston, chief official of the law in New York city.
Cardona and Weston were men of determination. In that one respect, they were alike. Otherwise, they
differed. In contrast to the stocky, taciturn detective, Commissioner Weston was tall and of heavy build.
His full face, with its pointed mustache, was keen and dynamic. Weston was a pusher who demanded
action.
Often, the commissioner had berated Cardona for lack of gusto. On other occasions, he had waxed
enthusiastic while the detective had remained critically silent. This latter mood was present to-night. After
a few moments of silence, Weston burst forth with commendation.
"You deserve credit, Cardona," he declared, "for your work this morning. I have read your report in
detail. The manner in which you and your squad beat off that raid upon the bank truck pleased me
immensely."
The commissioner arose from his chair. He paced heavily across the room; then returned and faced the
detective.
"Moreover," added Weston, "the way you used that single clue was excellent. Crime has been rampant
of late, Cardona. You have dealt a decisive blow; the first stroke, I hope, in our campaign against the
present epidemic."
The commissioner resumed his chair. He leaned with folded arms upon the desk. Cardona was about to
speak; he paused, while the commissioner made another utterance.
"That is why I called Inspector Klein," stated Weston. "I told him to send you here. I wanted to
commend you personally - and also hear your opinion on the situation as it now stands."
ORDINARILY, Joe Cardona felt ill-at-ease in the commissioner's presence. Weston's manner -
overbearing at times - was difficult for him to meet. But when Weston loosened and gave commendation,
Cardona's inferiority complex faded. Facing the firm-visaged commissioner, the detective suddenly
voiced a challenge.
"You want my opinion?" he inquired. "You want it straight? All right, I'll give it. First of all, you can wipe
out all the credit that you've just handed me. I don't want a boomerang that's going to come back and
sock me.
"You say I did a good job. I didn't. I got a lucky break and even at that I flivved. Listen, commissioner.
We're not the ones who are just beginning to get somewhere. It's the crooks who are making their start. I
mean it."
"But to-day," spluttered Weston, "you stopped the raiders -"
"Read my report again," suggested Cardona, abruptly. "You won't find any frills in it. Listen,
commissioner. There have been three good-sized robberies in quick order. Jobs that left us standing
goofy. Last night, I was expecting another. How - where - when - I couldn't have guessed.
"Then came this break. There was a gang fight about three o'clock this morning. A couple of bodies were
lugged to the morgue. I went down to look them over. Up comes a smart reporter - fellow named Burke,
with the Classic - and he suggests I search the bodies.
"Persistent bird, this Burke. I knew that everything should already have been taken out of the dead men's
pockets; but just to please Burke, I made another search. You know what I found - a folded piece of
paper that was missed before - on it the words: 'Manhattan Armored Truck - Eighth Avenue - ten
o'clock.' How it happened to be in that gorilla's pocket, I don't know."
"But you followed the armored car," inserted Weston, "and you and your squad drove off the raiders in a
running fight."
"Sure we did," admitted Cardona. "But we were lucky. The holdup gang had three cars, commissioner.
By rights they should have given us a lacing. We hadn't prepared for anything like what we got.
"If that armored car had been standing still, those crooks would have smashed it and taken the dough.
But when we busted in, the guy driving the armored car was smart enough to run for it. If it had been
nighttime, the holdup boys would have smeared us. But they couldn't chance a long fight in broad
daylight. That's why they beat it. We bagged a couple of small fry" - Cardona shrugged his shoulders -
"and I'll take credit for that. But outside of that, commissioner, we've got nothing. We're back where we
were."
"You mean that crime is still rampant? That this ineffectual raid will not deter the plans of other
malefactors?"
"I mean just that, commissioner. I figure more jobs are on the way - bigger jobs than the taking of an
armored car - and they're due to hit fast and heavy."
"You must find clues!" Weston pounded his fist on the desk. "We must anticipate crime before it
strikes!"
"I landed one clue," returned Cardona. "This morning - by luck - that paper in the gorilla's pocket. But
where's the next one coming from? Frankly, commissioner, I don't know."
CARDONA placed one elbow upon the desk. Leaning forward, he wagged his forearm in emphasis as
he spoke. Weston listened, his forehead furrowed in a frown.
"Gangland is organized," asserted Cardona. "That's all I've learned, commissioner. Things are tougher
there than ever before. It seems like nearly all the mobs are linked. I came through a tough district
to-night. I had a hunch that I was being watched all along.
"Peddlers, loafers, small-fry crooks like pickpockets - even storekeepers - I suspect them all. Everybody
is answering to some one else. Unless I'm mighty far wrong, it's all part of the same chain. Crooks are
lying low - like they're waiting for orders. On the surface, commissioner, the underworld looks tame.
Beneath - it's fierce."
Cardona paused. Weston sat silent. The commissioner was waiting for more. The detective gave it.
"The stool pigeons are scared," declared Cardona. "We've got thirty of them on the job and twenty-five
of the lot are afraid for their dirty hides. They think they're being watched. They won't go near the places
where they usually get information."
"And the other five?" interposed Weston, dryly.
"Drawing blanks," replied Cardona. "They hear whispers - buzzings - but no talk. The best of the lot is
Squawky Sugler. I talked to him when I was getting on the el, twenty minutes ago. He says there's
nothing stirring. On his way to a joint called the Pink Rat when I left him. Maybe he'll land something
there; but I doubt it."
"This is serious, Cardona," observed Weston. "Let me commend you again - this time for your frankness.
Then let me ask your opinion. What do you intend to do - what would you intend to do if left to your
own resources?"
"Wait," asserted Cardona, summing his chief plan in the single word. "That's the best I can do,
commissioner. I'm going from here to headquarters; then back into the district where I was before."
"To visit the dives?"
"No. But to be ready if anything stirs. Some of these stool pigeons may get knocked off. There may be
another mob scrap. There's no telling what may hit. But if you're leaving me to my own plans,
commissioner, I'll head back to the neighborhood of the Pink Rat."
"Very well." Weston arose. "Go your way, Cardona. I am relying on your judgment; and I hold the hope
that you may find new clues of coming crime."
"And meanwhile?" questioned Cardona, anxiously.
The commissioner was silent for the moment. When he replied, his tone was grim as he phrased his
answer:
"The law must wait!"
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW ACTS
WHILE Joe Cardona was in conference with the police commissioner, Squawky Sugler, the stool
pigeon, was slouching his way toward the Pink Rat. Shambling through the baser districts of Manhattan,
the sweatered stoolie was observing signs that Cardona had already noticed.
The Italians in the barber shop; the loungers by the pawn shop; the riders in the elevated car - they were
but typical. Members of society's upper crust might share the elation which Commissioner Weston had
felt over the episode of the armored truck; but those who dwelt close to the realm of crime could scent
the beginning of a wave of terror.
Squawky, scruffing along the sidewalk, was watchful. Like Cardona, he suspected spies everywhere.
The detective's movement had been reported from the little shop where he had stopped to phone.
Cardona could assume such a risk; but Squawky, the stool pigeon, could not.
Conditions were precarious so far as stoolies were concerned. Ordinarily, an informant might expect
trouble only from the crooks on whom he squealed. But Squawky, to-night, seemed to accept all passers
as his enemies. At times, he paused to raise a knuckle to his nostrils. A sniff - and again Squawky was on
his shambling way. Acting the part of a dope addict, Squawky felt more secure in his present venture.
Cokers were seldom banned from the Pink Rat.
With shifty strides, Squawky neared his destination. He followed a darkened alley; paused when he
reached a dilapidated doorway; then opened the barrier and took a poorly-lit passage that brought him
into the dive itself.
THERE was tension in the Pink Rat to-night. Squawky sensed it the moment that he entered the big
room that constituted the major portion of the joint. Men were seated in small groups at scattered tables.
Mumbled conversation buzzed through the smoke-filled room.
Squawky seated himself in a corner. He nodded as a sour-faced waiter approached with bottle and
glass. He pulled a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and gave it as payment. But Squawky was slow
about drinking. He spurned the bottle while he indulged in pretended sniffs.
Coke and hooch were not a usual combination. Squawky knew that fact; hence his reluctance with the
liquor. Satisfied that he was getting by, the stool pigeon began a series of furtive glances about the dive.
Hard-faced gangsters prevailed to-night. Among the thugs and rowdies whom he observed, Squawky
saw none who looked like police agents. Stools were keeping clear; Squawky felt sure that he was the
only one who still had the nerve to pry into gangdom's secrets.
Crime was the theme. Squawky knew it, although he could not catch words of conversation. Were
mobsters talking about the episode of the armored truck? Or were they discussing the probability of
coming crime?
Squawky did not know. He was sure of but one point: namely, that a shroud of peculiar mystery had
lowered over the affairs of the underworld.
Squawky spied a trio of men seated at a table twenty feet away. He knew their faces. One - the most
imposing of the three - was "Trigger" Maddock. Square-chinned, blunt-nosed, with beady eyes that
blinked with snakelike stare, Trigger was a character highly feared where gun fights were concerned.
The swiftest shooter in the underworld, a gunner who could drill a mark while on the draw, Trigger had
surrounded himself with a band of capable sharpshooters who were equipped for rapid duty. The two
men with him were evidently members of his select squad.
There were others of Trigger's ilk in the underworld - raiding mobleaders like Louie Harger, "Pigeon"
Melgin, or "Turk" Bodell. They either worked swift jobs of their own or sold their talents to big shots
who might need them. Meanwhile, they were clever enough to evade the law. So far, the police had
never been able to hang sure evidence upon Trigger Maddock.
Trigger's presence in the Pink Rat was not unusual. This place was one of his favored hangouts. Others
of his type had their own chosen spots. They, like Trigger, made it a practice to meet their henchmen at
appointed places in the badlands.
Squawky Sugler became watchful. His furtive glances returned at regular intervals toward Trigger
Maddock. Anxious to gain some information, the stool pigeon was looking for any sign that might
indicate coming action on the gangleader's part. Yet no such sign came.
HALF an hour passed. Squawky shifted in his chair. He began to feel uncomfortable - afraid that some
one might be noting the watch that he was keeping on Trigger. Squawky's eyes roved about the room.
They came to a sudden stop.
In watching Trigger, Squawky had been looking toward the left. For the first time, he observed a person
on the right. Seated at a table not more than a dozen feet away was a lone gangster whose eyes met
Squawky's as the stoolie stared in his direction.
Squawky did not recognize the mobster. But he crouched uneasily as he studied the stranger's visage.
Squawky saw an immobile face - a countenance as fixed as a statue's. A hawklike nose, from its sides a
pair of piercing eyes that held the compelling stare of a hypnotist.
The focused gaze seemed to burn through the startled stool pigeon. Squawky's clawing hands scratched
at the table beside the bottle. Squawky feared that this strange watcher had spotted him as a police
informant.
The stranger was wearing a turtle-neck sweater, black in color. Its heavy folds gave him an impressive
bulk; though seated, it was apparent that he must be at least six feet tall. Sinking in his chair, Squawky
managed to wrest his gaze from those weird, blazing eyes. Slowly, the stool pigeon looked toward the
floor beside the other table.
There he saw a streak of blackness. It might have been a continuation of the bulky sweater. It loomed
wide upon the floor; and Squawky, staring as he blinked, observed that it ended in a striking silhouette -
a profile of the hawklike visage that lay as motionless as though it were etched upon the floor.
Squawky shuddered. He reached for the bottle. His hand shook as he poured himself a drink. Drops
trickled from the lip of the glass; the liquid dabbed Squawky's hand. More spattered on the stool
pigeon's chin as Squawky raised the glass to his lips.
There was reason for Squawky's terror. That silhouette, as formidable as the form above it, brought
grotesque thoughts to the stool pigeon's fevered brain. It reminded Squawky of a dread being whose
name he had heard whispered through the underworld - The Shadow!
Big shots had quailed through fear of The Shadow. For The Shadow was known as a superfighter, a lone
wolf who roved the underworld, preying upon all who dealt in crime. A phantom of darkness, a living
being who could travel unseen, The Shadow was the mighty foe of crookdom.
Dying gangsters had gasped The Shadow's name. Others, who had gained respite through flight, had told
of seeing him. A figure clad entirely in black; his eyes like living coals beneath the brim of a slouch hat; his
form concealed by an inky, flowing cloak; his gloved hands gripping a pair of deadly automatics - such
was The Shadow.
The Shadow, it was rumored, was a master of disguise. The Shadow, it had been proven, knew much, if
not all, concerning activities in the underworld. He gave no quarter to those who dealt in crime. None
were immune once The Shadow had marked them for destruction.
THIS was why Squawky feared. The unknown gangster; the black sweater; the silhouette upon the floor
- these brought beads of perspiration to the stool pigeon's forehead.
The Shadow was independent of the police. Squawky, as a stool pigeon, could gain no immunity should
he incur The Shadow's wrath. The presence of this mysterious stranger kept Squawky in a tremble. Until
he found proof that The Shadow was watching some one other than himself, Squawky was afraid to
move.
Wresting his gaze from the floor, Squawky blinked at the bottle as he helped himself to another drink. He
did not dare to gaze to the right. His furtive, timorous glances were all brief ones, toward Trigger
Maddock, at the left. Even these were few. Squawky still feared that The Shadow's eyes were upon
him.
Two men entered the Pink Rat. They looked like small-fry mobsters. One came slouching over toward
Trigger's table. He clapped the gangleader on the back and mouthed a friendly greeting. Trigger,
apparently annoyed by the fellow's approach, snarled in reply. The newcomer grinned in apologetic
fashion. He began to sidle away. Trigger arose and followed him a few paces.
For a moment, the pair stood jaw to jaw. Trigger shoved the other man's shoulder. Still snarling, the
gangleader went back to his table. The small-fry crook rejoined his companion.
Squawky had seen the brief altercation. His eyes naturally followed the man whom Trigger had rebuked.
But there were eyes that followed Trigger instead. Those watching eyes were the optics of the sweatered
stranger whose gaze Squawky Sugler feared.
The sweatered watcher had seen a shift of hands. He saw Trigger, as he moved away, thrust his fist into
his inside pocket. The small-fry crook had delivered something to Trigger Maddock.
Neither of Trigger's gorillas had detected the move. Like Squawky, they had taken the affair only as an
unpleasant meeting that had not been to Trigger's liking. But the sweatered watcher was ready for the
aftermath which came.
Trigger Maddock swallowed a drink. He spoke to his companions. They nodded. Rising, the gangleader
strolled toward the door. Squawky, gripping his bottle, began to pour a third drink.
There was a motion at Squawky's right. The sweatered mobster arose. His trousers, like his sweater,
were black. He strolled toward another exit. No one was concerned with his departure.
When Squawky Sugler had gulped his drink, he gazed unthinkingly toward the floor beside the table on
the right. The silhouette was gone. Squawky looked up; he blinked when he saw that the table had been
vacated.
With a sigh of relief, the stool settled back in his chair. Concerned no more with Trigger Maddock,
relieved of the fear which he had felt toward the stranger whom he had suspected to be The Shadow, the
stool pigeon began to observe others in the Pink Rat.
MEANWHILE, Trigger Maddock was departing from the outside alley. The gangleader had reached the
street beyond. He paused to gaze over his shoulder; then resumed his course. He walked rapidly along
the street.
From the darkness of the alley, a pair of keen eyes had seen Trigger's move. A sweater moved upward;
from beneath its bulk came the girdling folds of another black garment. A cloak swished over shoulders.
A flattened hat took shape. It capped the head above the cloak. A form moved forward. Gaining the
sidewalk of the street, a fleeting figure merged with the gloom of a house wall. Burning eyes spied
Trigger, less than a block ahead.
Then began a weird pursuit. One block - two - three - the gliding phantom trailed Trigger. The space
was closing. Trigger did not suspect that he was being followed.
The gangleader reached a brick building which, though old, was more pretentious than others of the
neighborhood. He stopped just outside the door. The place was a cheap apartment.
A man stepped from beside the door. Trigger spoke to him in a low growl:
"Hello, Herb. Where's Greasy? Upstairs?"
"Yeah, Trigger, waitin' for you."
"All right."
Holding his hand in front of him, Trigger spread his fingers, then closed his fist. He repeated the action
twice. Herb nodded. Trigger entered the apartment. Herb slouched away from the door.
It was dark on the other side of the street. Herb did not see the figure that arrived there. He did not catch
a glimpse of the blackened form that moved along toward the corner of the apartment house; nor did he
see those burning eyes that stared upward toward the third floor of the building which Trigger had
entered.
A light had appeared in a room on that floor. A soft laugh came in eerie whispered tones. A phantom
shape glided across the street, unseen by Herb. It reached the side wall.
A squidgy sound occurred. It was made by concave rubber disks, attached to hands and feet. A batlike
figure began its ascent straight up the precipitous bricks. Its goal was that lighted room.
Squawky Sugler had been right in his fears. The mysterious watcher was The Shadow. Like Squawky,
the master of the night had chosen the Pink Rat as a post of observation. But where the stool pigeon had
failed to see evidence of coming crime, The Shadow had detected it.
That was why The Shadow had left the Pink Rat. His disguise covered by his cloaking garb of black, The
Shadow was planning a surprise visit. He was here to learn what Trigger Maddock had received from
the small-fry crook during that interlude in the Pink Rat!
____________________________
THE Pink Rat was a cross-roads of the underworld. Gangsters, con men, dope peddlers - the scum of
Manhattan made the place their rendezvous. Two rules governed the patrons of the joint. Men wanted by
the police were barred; gang fights or lesser altercations were taboo.
The enforcement of these two provisions kept the Pink Rat unmolested. Although gambling and dope
were ever present in the dive, the law violations were not on a large scale. Technically, the police should
have closed the Pink Rat. They left it open because it drew customers from secret and more dangerous
dives; also because it was a spot where stool pigeons had opportunities for picking up information.
___________________________
CHAPTER III. TRIGGER TALKS
TRIGGER MADDOCK had reached his apartment. The place was a tawdry, two-room affair. Both
rooms had windows on the side. It was the first room - the living room - that The Shadow had observed
from below.
Trigger had closed the door behind him. Standing just inside the room, he was tearing open an envelope
that he held in his hands. Trigger had lost no time. This was the object that he had received in the Pink
Rat.
Paper crinkled as Trigger opened a note. He scanned the lines hastily. A match crackled. The flame
caught the paper; Trigger tossed it, burning, into a wastebasket. Again reaching into the envelope, he
brought out an inner envelope. Stepping to the inner door of his apartment, Trigger rapped. A muffled
voice responded.
"Come on, Greasy." Trigger spoke in a growl. "Hurry up. I've got a job for you."
The door opened. A sleepy-looking mobster appeared. "Greasy" was the counterpart of the two
mobsters whom Trigger had left back at the Pink Rat.
"Wotcha want, Trigger?"
"Take this envelope." Trigger handed the man the inner packet. "You know what's to be done. Slip it
along. Like you've done before."
Greasy nodded. He held the envelope between his big paws. It was a plain, white envelope; it crinkled as
Greasy bent it.
"What're you waiting for?" snapped Trigger. "Get a move on, Greasy. Hop to it."
Trigger was scowling as he eyed his henchman. Greasy shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
"All right, Trigger," he responded. "I didn't know you was in a hurry. Leave it to me. I'll pass it along in a
hurry."
Greasy was looking toward Trigger as he spoke. Hence neither man was gazing toward the window.
Neither caught a glimpse of the burning eyes that had arrived above the sill.
The Shadow had reached the window. He had seen Trigger deliver the inner envelope to Greasy. More
than that; he observed the outer wrapper which Trigger still held.
Trigger nudged his thumb toward the door. Greasy nodded. Shoving his packet in his pocket, the
big-fisted gangster strode across the room, opened the door and made his departure.
IT was then that Trigger looked again toward the opened envelope which he held in his own hands. It
bore his name upon the face; that was all. Trigger tore the envelope into four pieces. He went to the
metal wastebasket. The flames had subsided. Trigger dropped the fragments of the envelope in with the
ashes of the message that he had destroyed.
Bringing a cigarette from his pocket, Trigger lighted it. He blew out the flame of the match and tossed the
burnt stick in the wastebasket. He laughed in growling fashion as he puffed the cigarette. He turned
toward the window.
A sudden, blurted oath came from the gangster's lips. His fingers dropped the lighted cigarette. His right
hand shot toward his pocket; then stopped midway. Thinking better, Trigger let both hands come up
toward his shoulders while a frozen scowl appeared upon his blunt-nosed face.
Trigger Maddock was staring squarely into the muzzle of an automatic. That was a factor in itself; but
Trigger had faced too many guns in his time to quail at the sight of a new one. What brought Trigger to
rigidity was the sight of the intruder who held the looming weapon.
The automatic was projecting from a black-gloved fist. Above the gun, peering from between the
upturned collar of a cloak and the brim of a slouch hat were a pair of fierce, relentless eyes.
"The Shadow!"
摘要：

THECRIMEMASTERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THELAWWAITS?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWACTS?CHAPTERIII.TRIGGERTALKS?CHAPTERIV.THENEXTCLUE?CHAPTERV.THEMASTERMOVES?CHAPTERVI.THEZEROHOUR?CHAPTERVII.AFIENDDELIGHTS?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOW'SCLUE?CHAPTERIX.THEULTIMAT...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：82 页 大小：205.07KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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