Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 054 - The Death Clew

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DEATH CLEW
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. UNDER COVER.
? CHAPTER II. AT THE MELBROOK ARMS.
? CHAPTER III. DEATH TO THE KILLER.
? CHAPTER IV. CARDONA'S CLEW.
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW FOLLOWS.
? CHAPTER VI. AT WIMBLEDON'S.
? CHAPTER VII. SEARCHES BEGIN.
? CHAPTER VIII. AGENTS AT WORK.
? CHAPTER IX. MURDER TO ORDER.
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S CLEW.
? CHAPTER XI. AGAIN THE KILLER.
? CHAPTER XII. MURDER AT NIGHT.
? CHAPTER XIII. THE COMMISSIONER SPEAKS.
? CHAPTER XIV. FIGURES IN THE NIGHT.
? CHAPTER XV. CARDONA TAKES A TIP.
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW'S LIST.
? CHAPTER XVII. MOVES IN THE GAME.
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE RETURN.
? CHAPTER XIX. INTO THE NIGHT.
? CHAPTER XX. THE FUGITIVE APPEARS.
? CHAPTER XXI. DRAYSON SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XXII. THE BREAK.
? CHAPTER XXIII. ABOVE LONG ISLAND.
CHAPTER I. UNDER COVER.
A GRAY-HAIRED man was seated at a desk in detective headquarters. His face, stern of expression,
showed the stolidity that the man had gained through years of service with the New York police.
This man was Inspector Timothy Klein. Grizzled veteran of many battles against crime, Klein, to-night,
displayed a determination that showed more than ordinary keenness.
Another man entered the inspector's office. The arrival was younger than Klein; his face, however,
carried the same firmness. Stocky of build, swarthy of expression, this newcomer looked like a man of
action. He was such. Detective Joe Cardona was recognized as the ace of the Manhattan force.
"Hello, Joe," greeted Klein, solemnly.
"Hello, inspector," returned the detective. "Been talking with the commissioner?"
"Yes," Klein leaned across the desk and plated his heavy fist upon the woodwork. "He wants us to get
Strangler Hunn to-night."
"A tough order," remarked Cardona, with a grim smile. "If we were using the dragnet--"
"The commissioner won't see it," interposed Klein. "He claims that it would tip off Hunn. He'd know we
were after him."
"Maybe," agreed Cardona. "Every crook that's wanted ducks for cover when the net begins to close.
Just the same, it's the only way we could bag Strangler Hunn in a hurry."
"Yes," granted Klein. "We'd also take a big chance on losing him. The commissioner is right, Joe, so far
as the best method of getting Strangler is concerned. If he stays in New York, we'll spot him sure. The
only trouble is how soon we can get him."
"And he's wanted to-night." Cardona laughed gruffly. "Well, inspector, I'm here to help you. But we're
playing a long, long shot."
KLEIN nodded as he leaned back in his chair. Reflectively, the inspector began to sum up the facts
concerning Strangler Hunn.
"He was a bad egg, Hunn was" remarked Klein. "He could have choked a bull with those big mitts of his.
When he lost his right arm in that dock fight, it crimped his style a bit."
"Yeah?" Again, Cardona laughed. "Well, inspector, if he can't strangle a bull any more, Strangler can still
knock one cold with that left fist of his. What's more, he can use a .45 with that one hand better than the
average gangster can handle a pair of .38s."
"A murderer," mused Klein. "One we've got to get. Easily recognized by that fake arm that always hangs
at his right side. The glove he wears on his phony hand is a good enough give-away.
"Spotted last night. We've been looking for him since. Twenty-five plainclothes men out on the street,
looking for Strangler Hunn. In this case, Joe, the undercover system is better than the dragnet."
"It will be," admitted Cardona, "if anybody is lucky enough to spot the guy. But the longer it takes, the
more chance there is for a leak. If the news hounds get wise--"
"No reporter knows about Strangler being in town?" Klein's question was a worried one. "If any of them
know, we'll have to act quick--"
"It's safe for the present," interrupted Cardona. "Only one reporter's wise. Burke of the Classic. He
knows enough, though, not to spoil a good story by blabbing in advance."
"Burke was in here just before I came back," remarked Klein. "He talked with Markham. Coming in
later. I guess you're right about him, Joe--he shoots straight. We can count on him keeping quiet."
"I'll talk to him when he shows up," rejoined the detective. "He's probably somewhere near here right
now."
IN this surmise, Joe Cardona was correct. Two blocks away from headquarters, a young man of wiry
build was entering a small corner store. Spying a telephone booth, he entered and put in a call.
"Burbank speaking," came a voice over the wire.
"Burke," rejoined the man in the booth. "On my way to headquarters."
"Remain there," came a quiet order. "Make immediate report on any new information."
"Instructions received."
Clyde Burke strolled from the store. He had the gait and manner of a newspaper reporter; the completed
telephone call, however, indicated that he served in some other capacity. Such was the case.
Clyde Burke was a secret agent of the mysterious being known as The Shadow. Through Burbank, a
contact man, Burke and other agents reported to their hidden chief.
The Shadow! Being of mystery, a weird personage shrouded in darkness. He, like the police of New
York City, waged ceaseless war against crime. When he appeared in the light, The Shadow invariably
used some perfected form of disguise--as Lamont Cranston, as Henry Arnaud, as Fritz the janitor, or as
any one he chose to be. A master of impersonation, he was a masquerader who might show any of a
hundred faces--but never his own.
When he appeared in his own chosen guise, The Shadow arrived in garb of black. With cloak of inky
hue, its collar upward toward the slouch hat above, The Shadow kept his own visage entirely from view.
When The Shadow swept from the cover of darkness, his blazing eyes were the only tokens of his
hidden countenance. Those were the eyes that guided the gloved hands of The Shadow--hands that
wielded massive automatics against men of crime.
Clyde Burke had reported to The Shadow. Clyde Burke was on his way to detective headquarters.
Clyde Burke knew of the undercover search that was being conducted for "Strangler" Hunn. These facts
were productive of a single answer. The Shadow, like the police, was anxious to encounter the
one-armed murderer who had returned to New York.
Inspector Timothy Klein had more than a score of detectives on the job. Directing from headquarters,
Klein held Cardona in readiness. Similarly, The Shadow, in his hidden sanctum, was directing a search
for Strangler Hunn. But The Shadow needed no man in readiness. He, The Shadow, was ready to fare
forth when action might be required.
TEN minutes after his report to The Shadow, Clyde Burke sauntered into detective headquarters. He
appeared in the doorway of Klein's office. The inspector recognized the reporter and nodded. Then
Klein made a sign to Cardona.
"Hello, Burke," said the detective. "You're keeping mum on this Strangler Hunn business, aren't you?"
"Sure thing," returned Clyde. "Not a line goes in the sheet until you give the word. Got anything new on
him, Joe?"
"Nothing yet," replied the detective. "He was spotted last night. There's twenty-five men on the street
looking for him."
"You'll give me a break as soon as some one locates him?"
"Positively. If I go out after him you can come along, Burke. You play the game and--"
Cardona stopped. The telephone bell was ringing. Inspector Klein picked up the instrument from the
desk. His face became tense.
"Just now?... Good." Klein was eager. "Sure he didn't see you?... Good... Yes... Stay where you are...
Outside the Melbrook Arms... Cardona will be there... Yes, a cordon..."
The telephone banged on the desk. Inspector Klein, forgetting his usual calmness, registered intense
excitement.
"Farlan has spotted Strangler Hunn," he exclaimed. "Saw him going into an apartment house--the
Melbrook Arms. Here's the address"--Klein paused to scribble on a sheet of paper--"and Hunn is still in
the place. Get Markham, Joe. Get started. I'll have the cordon form."
Cardona swung promptly and left the office. Clyde Burke followed on the detective's heels. Cardona
was heading down the corridor to find Markham.
"I'll hit the subway, Joe," called Clyde. "I'll be up there as soon as you are. O.K.?"
"O.K.," returned the detective.
Clyde Burke grinned as he hurried from headquarters. He might have worked a ride with Cardona and
Markham in the police car. Cardona, however, would think just as well of him for having passed up that
privilege. There was another reason, however, for Clyde's action. The reporter wanted to get back to
that same telephone that he had used before.
A BLUISH light was shining upon the surface of a polished table. Its rays, focused downward by a
heavy shade, showed only a pair of white hands on the table. One hand wore a sparkling gem of
ever-changing hue. It was a girasol, a priceless fire-opal.
That gem told the identity of the hands. These were the hands of The Shadow. The light from above was
the sole illumination in The Shadow's sanctum, the hidden, black-walled room located somewhere in
Manhattan.
A tiny bulb glimmered from the wall. The white hands stretched forward and produced a pair of
earphones. A strange, eerie voice whispered from the darkness. It was the voice of The Shadow.
"Burbank speaking," came a quiet tone over the wire.
"Report."
"Report from Marsland," announced Burbank. "Now at the Black Ship. No trace of Strangler Hunn in
underworld."
"Report received."
"Report from Vincent. Has finished rounds of listed hotels. No trace of Strangler Hunn."
"Report received."
A pause; then came another statement from Burbank. The quiet voice showed not the slightest tinge of
excitement.
"Stand by," declared the contact agent. "New call arriving. It may be Burke."
A longer pause while The Shadow waited. Burbank, in a hidden room of his own, had contact with the
outer world. Only he could reach The Shadow by the private line that ran from his station to the
sanctum.
The pause ended. The Shadow, shrouded in darkness, listened, while Burbank announced that the call
had come from Burke. Then came short, terse statements. After that The Shadow's whisper:
"Report received."
The earphones clattered. White hands slid into darkness. The light clicked out. A soft laugh sounded
amid the complete blackness of the sanctum. Weird tones of mirth rose to a shuddering crescendo. They
broke with a startling cry that ended with taunting echoes.
The walls hurled back The Shadow's mockery. Hidden tongues seemed to join in the fading gibes. The
last reverberation died. Silence joined with blackness. The sanctum was empty.
The Shadow, black-garbed battler who dealt doom to men of evil, had learned the fact he wanted.
Through Clyde Burke, The Shadow had gained the information which belonged to the police.
Strangler Hunn, somewhere in the uptown apartment house known as the Melbrook Arms, would have
more than detectives and a police cordon to deal with him to-night.
The Shadow, avenger whom all murderers feared, was on his way to strike!
CHAPTER II. AT THE MELBROOK ARMS.
THE Melbrook Arms was an old-fashioned apartment house in the upper eighties. Six stories in height, it
formed a square-shaped building that stood across the street from an empty lot.
Automobiles parked in the open space; high rows of signboards against a blank-walled garage
beyond--these formed the prospect as viewed from the front windows of the decadent apartment house.
Strangler Hunn had been seen entering the Melbrook Arms. The detective who had spied him was
waiting in the parking space across the street. Acting under instructions from Inspector Klein, Detective
Farlan was to be in readiness only in case of emergency.
The plain-clothes man had done nothing to excite Strangler Hunn's suspicion. Farlan knew that the
wanted man was in the apartment house. That was sufficient. Until the police cordon had formed; until
Joe Cardona was here to act, all must remain quiet.
While Farlan watched, a lean, stoop-shouldered man came briskly along the sidewalk. This arrival
entered the Melbrook Arms. Farlan decided that he must be a tenant of the apartment house. In this
surmise, the detective was correct.
Passing through the deserted lobby, the stoop-shouldered man entered the automatic elevator and rode
up to the third floor. There he unlocked the door of a front apartment and entered an unpretentious living
room. There was a desk in the corner away from the front window. The man seated himself there and
pulled the cord of a desk lamp.
The illumination showed the man to be about fifty years of age. His face, though colorless, was
sharp-featured; and the furrowed forehead was that of a keen thinker. Reaching into an inside pocket,
the man who had arrived in the apartment drew out a small stack of folded papers.
HE spread one of these upon the desk before him. He began to read it in careful fashion, starting his
forefinger along the top lines, which stated, in typewritten letters:
To Mr. Roscoe Wimbledon.
Confidential Report:
From MacAvoy Crane, Private Investigator.
The perusal of this document required only two minutes. Reaching to the side of the desk, the
stoop-shouldered man brought up an old-fashioned portable typewriter. He inserted the paper, clicked
off a short additional paragraph, formed a space and beneath it typed the line:
Special Investigator.
Removing the paper from the machine he produced a fountain pen and inscribed his own signature:
MacAvoy Crane.
Pushing the paper to one side, the man at the desk picked up a telephone. He dialed a number and sat
with ear glued to the receiver. He was paying no attention to the paper which he had just signed. It lay at
the left of the desk, upon the other documents. The unblotted ink was still damp.
"Hello..." MacAvoy Crane was speaking in a sharp tone. "Hello... Is Mr. Wimbledon there?... Yes, this
is Mr. Crane... What's that?... Yes, I can call him in half an hour. Where is he now?... At a conference in
the Hotel Goliath? I see... National Aviation Board... Yes... It's important.... If I can't get him there, I'll
call you again in half an hour..."
Pausing, MacAvoy Crane still held the telephone. Hanging up, he set the instrument down impatiently. He
reached for the paper which he had signed; pushed it aside and picked up the documents below it. He
sorted these; his forehead furrowed in deep perplexity.
Then, with decisive thought, Crane dropped the papers and picked up a telephone book from the floor.
He looked up the number of the Hotel Goliath. His finger ran down the page. There was impatience in his
action. Evidently he was anxious to get his call through to Roscoe Wimbledon.
The number found, Crane reached for the telephone. He paused. He seemed to be making up his mind
whether he should interrupt Wimbledon at the conference or wait until the man had returned home. Then,
with a sudden change of plan, MacAvoy Crane again picked up the telephone book. An odd smile
showed upon his lips as he began to turn the pages.
SOMETHING crinkled at the side of the desk. Crane swung in his swivel chair. His eyes, upon the desk
top, bulged as they saw a huge, hairy hand cover the papers that he had laid there. Looking upward, the
investigator found himself staring squarely into one of the ugliest faces that he had ever seen.
A vicious, thick-lipped countenance; glowering eyes beneath bristly brows-- these were the features that
Crane spied. Gripping the arms of his chair, the investigator began to rise. As he did so, he lowered his
gaze. He saw that the intruder was a man with one arm.
The single hand was rising from the sheet of paper on the table. Its clutching fingers were symbols of
prodigious strength. A sudden gasp came from Crane's lips. He knew the identity of this unwelcome
visitor.
"You--you are Strangler Hunn?" he blurted.
The leering face had thrust close to the investigator. The thick smile on the brutal lips was answer enough
to Crane's question. The hand from the table was creeping upward; its fingers seemed like preying
claws.
One hand alone! The mate to that fierce talon was missing. One-handed, Strangler Hunn was ready to
attempt murder. Crane knew it. With a quick jolt backward toward the wall, the special investigator
thrust his right hand to his pocket to snatch forth a revolver.
That was the instant which Strangler Hunn chose for his lunge. The murderer's left arm came up with a
vicious sweep. With wide spreading fingers, Hunn made a quick grip for Crane's throat. His hand
reached its mark.
Crane writhed as the talon clutched his neck. His left hand rose; he dug his fingernails into Strangler's
massive wrist. Out came Crane's right, with a stub-nose revolver. The action was too late.
Clutching the investigator's throat as one might snatch a helpless puppy, Strangler used his single arm to
yank the investigator toward him. Then, with a piston-like jerk, he slammed Crane back against the wall.
The powerful blow found full force against the back of the investigator's head. Crane's arms dropped as
Strangler yanked him forward and propelled him on a second journey.
This time, the investigator's head bashed the wall with even greater force. Stunned, Crane began to
slump. Strangler Hunn still held him upright. All the while, those vicious claws did not once relax their
pressure.
A long minute passed, while inarticulate gurgles came from the stunned man's throat. The noise ceased.
Only then did Strangler relax his grasp. Crane's body crumpled behind the desk. The light, showed livid
welts upon his throat.
Strangler Hunn, his face a study in ferocity, stood in admiration of his handiwork. MacAvoy Crane was
dead, another victim of the murderer's terrible strength.
With a snarling laugh, Strangler picked up the papers that Crane had brought to the apartment. The killer
looked at each one, then tossed the packet into a metal wastebasket that lay beside the desk. Only one
paper remained upon the desk; that was the one which Crane had signed--the report.
THE killer pulled a match from his pocket. He struck it on the mahogany desk top. He set fire to the
papers in the wastebasket.
Augmented by a crumpled newspaper that lay beneath, the flames rose rapidly. Strangler shoved the
basket away from the desk. He looked at the report sheet.
Running his forefinger along the typewritten lines, the killer stopped at a certain point. His bloated lips
formed a triumphant smile. Tearing a sheet of paper from a small pad on the desk, Strangler took Crane's
fountain pen and began to make an inscription.
It was evident that the killer could not write well with his left hand. Instead of script, he printed letters in
crude and clumsy fashion. The small sheet of paper slipped occasionally as he formed the words;
Strangler managed to hold it by pressure of his hand.
This job complete, Strangler dropped the fountain pen and uttered a contemptuous laugh. He tossed
Crane's report sheet into the wastebasket, where the paper was still burning briskly.
Then, with vicious action, Strangler kicked Crane's dead body to one side. The murderer began to yank
open desk drawers. In one he found a stack of papers that he tossed into the wastebasket without
examination. In another, he found several dollars in bills. Strangler pocketed the money.
The room formed a strange tableau. The flames from the wastebasket threw a lurid glow upon the huge,
ill-faced murderer who stood before the desk. Reflected light from the wall showed the pale face of
MacAvoy Crane, murdered investigator.
All the while, the piece of paper on which Strangler had penned his printed words lay in plain view near
the side of the desk. The murderer had not forgotten it. His evil eyes fell upon it; his big hand reached to
pluck it from the desk.
Word had reached headquarters too late to save the life of MacAvoy Crane. Strangler Hunn had
performed his deed of murder. But while the fiend still gloated, avengers were on their way to find him at
this spot.
Before he left this apartment where he had delivered death; before he could make use of the information
which he had copied upon a sheet of paper, Strangler Hunn would have other persons to encounter.
Joe Cardona--stalwart detectives--a cordon of police. These were the foemen who would arrive to trap
the slayer. But more formidable than all was the hidden warrior who had also set forth to deal with
Strangler Hunn.
The Shadow, he who feared no living man, would play his part in the strife that was to come!
CHAPTER III. DEATH TO THE KILLER.
"LOOK there, Joe!"
The speaker was Farlan, the detective who stood by the parking space across the street from the
Melbrook Arms. Farlan was pointing upward to the third floor of the apartment house.
Cardona nodded. The police car had driven into the parking space; Joe had alighted; he had found
Farlan promptly. Now he was staring at the window which Farlan had indicated. The flickering light of
flames was reflected from the inner wall.
"Maybe that's where he is--"
"You stay here." Cardona interrupted Farlan. "I'm going in with Markham. The cordon is forming; send in
a crew of men as soon as they close in. I'm going up to get Strangler."
With this, Cardona headed across the street, Markham at his heels. Farlan, stepping forward,
wigwagged to a pair of bluecoats at the corner. As the officers approached, a young man swung up and
headed toward the door of the Melbrook Arms.
"Hold it," growled Farlan. "Where are you going?"
"I'm Burke of the Classic," replied the arrival. "Cardona told me I could tag along. I'm going in."
"Stick here." Farlan drew Burke back toward the parking lot. "See that window? That's where
Cardona's gone. We think Strangler Hunn is in the apartment. You might get plugged if you went up
there."
Clyde Burke shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing to do but wait. Like Farlan, he stared up toward
the flickering light that showed in the third story window. The policemen were at the entrance to the
apartment house. Two detectives had arrived; Farlan now was pointing them into the building.
A trim coupe purred into the parking lot. Keen eyes spied Clyde Burke. They also noted the spot toward
which the reporter was gazing. A soft whisper--almost inaudible--sounded from within the car.
The Shadow had encountered a longer journey than had Joe Cardona. He had arrived in time to avoid
any trouble with the police cordon; but too late to precede Cardona into the apartment house. His quick
brain summed the whole situation in a moment.
Policemen were closing into the parking lot. They did not see the figure that was emerging from the
coupe. They did not glimpse the black-cloaked form that moved among the darkened cars toward the
wall at the inner side of the lot. Nor did they see The Shadow as he merged with the darkness behind the
tall tiers of signboards.
The Shadow was moving upward. He knew that police would be at the rear of the apartment house. He
knew that Cardona must now be at the third floor. His one opportunity to gain even a partial glimpse into
that spotted room lay in taking a vantage post from across the parking lot.
UP in the apartment, Strangler Hunn had completed his brief process of rifling MacAvoy Crane's desk.
The killer paid no attention to the burning papers in the wastebasket. He thought that the flame was too
far away from the window to be visible from outside. This assumption was partially correct. Farlan would
not have noticed the reflection of the flames had he not been watching the apartment house.
Strangler, himself, was in the alcove where Crane's desk was located. The killer was completely out of
range of the window. He was picking up the paper that he had worded. He was folding it clumsily with
his single hand; making ready to thrust it in his pocket, when a thump at the door brought him to a
standstill.
"Open the door!" came a growled voice. "Open the door!"
Strangler made no move.
"Open in the name of the law!"
Strangler knew the voice. He recognized it as the tone of Joe Cardona. His face took on a ferocious
glare. Then came a terrific smash. The door seemed to bulge inward. Another crash; a panel began to
splinter.
Raising his hand toward his face, Strangler Hunn gripped one end of his paper between his teeth; he held
the other end with his fingers. Clumsiness gone, he tore the paper in half; He placed the pieces together.
Another tear. Once more; as Strangler stared at the ripped fragments, the upper hinge of the door broke
loose and the barrier swung inward a full foot.
Springing forward, Strangler emitted a vicious laugh as he let the torn pieces of paper drop from his hand.
Downward they fluttered. Strangler saw them waver into the upward licking flames. That was sufficient.
The message gone, Strangler yanked a big .45 from his left hip.
The fluttering papers seemed to dance into the licking flames. Strangler had taken it for granted that they
would be destroyed. He was heeding them no longer. The flames seemed to catch the pieces individually.
Two ragged slips bobbed upward from the rising heat; the flames sucked in one as it wavered on the
edge of the basket.
But the last piece, a single portion of the torn sheet, fluttered free. Striking the edge of the metal basket it
toppled outward and drifted, unburned, to the floor. Strangler Hunn never noticed it. His eyes were busy
elsewhere.
Crash!
THE lower portion of the door shot free. As the barrier caved, the body of Detective Sergeant Markham
came sprawling into the room. Had Strangler taken a shot at that door-breaking form, it would have been
his last.
For there was another man behind Markham--a swarthy-faced fellow whose revolver muzzle came into
view with promptness. Joe Cardona was covering his pal. This was what Strangler Hunn had expected.
The killer's arm came upward.
A bark from the big revolver. A bullet flattened itself in the doorway, an inch from Cardona's ear. The
detective fired in return. His hasty shot was wide.
New shots sounded in this duel. Cardona, half protected by the door, was safe. Yet his own shot again
was wide.
More shots. The fight was an odd one. Both Strangler and Cardona were shooting left handed. The
murderer had no right hand; Cardona could not use his because that side of the door was the only one
which gave him cover.
Strangler was a dangerous shooter. It was the protection in the doorway that gave Cardona a break. On
the other hand, Cardona's handicapped shots were delivered with a prayer and Strangler knew it.
It was Markham who had caused the prompt duel. Cardona was engaging Strangler chiefly to save
Markham. The detective sergeant had the opportunity to change the balance. He sought to use it.
Rising suddenly from the floor, Markham yanked his revolver and blazed at Strangler. Had the shot been
well aimed, the battle would have been ended. But Markham was too hasty. His bullet zimmed the tip of
Strangler's left ear. The killer, swinging suddenly, delivered his reply. Markham fell groaning, a bullet in
his shoulder.
Strangler aimed a quick shot at the door to ward off Cardona. Then he swung his gun toward Markham's
prostrate body. This time the hammer clicked. Strangler's last shot had been used. Luck had saved
Detective Sergeant Markham.
Springing forward, Joe Cardona fired his last bullet to stop Strangler Hunn. Just as Joe pressed the
trigger, Strangler leaped forward. The bullet missed by inches. Cardona dived to the floor to beat
Strangler's leap. He and the killer were after the same object--Markham's gun. The detective sergeant
had let the weapon clatter on the floor.
Cardona dropped his own revolver as he clutched for Markham's. But Strangler retained his own big
gun; and it served him handily. As Cardona grabbed Markham's weapon, Strangler delivered a sidewipe.
Having no right arm to stay him, the killer lost his balance, but he gained his purpose. His swinging
revolver dealt a glancing blow to Joe Cardona's head. The detective sprawled upon the floor.
CROUCHING on his knees, Strangler seized Markham's gun. He aimed it promptly toward the door,
where a new detective had appeared. Two shots resounded simultaneously. The detective dropped,
wounded; a second man yanked him to the cover of the hallway.
Strangler, edging toward the wall beside the window, gained his feet. The stump of his right arm was
against the wall. His left hand was close against his body, holding the precious gun that it had gained.
A hoarse laugh came from Strangler Hunn. The killer saw the way to freedom. Detective Sergeant
Markham was wounded and helpless; so was a detective in the hall. One man outside was still in action;
Strangler was ready to mow down any ordinary dick.
But for the moment he had a score to settle. Joe Cardona, unarmed, was rising to his feet. The ace
detective who had opened the battle was a helpless victim for Strangler's wrath.
With an evil smile upon his twisted lips, Strangler Hunn thrust his huge fist slowly forward. The revolver
and the hand that held it moved just past the edge of the window. The hand steadied as the finger rested
摘要：

DEATHCLEWMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.UNDERCOVER.?CHAPTERII.ATTHEMELBROOKARMS.?CHAPTERIII.DEATHTOTHEKILLER.?CHAPTERIV.CARDONA'SCLEW.?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWFOLLOWS.?CHAPTERVI.ATWIMBLEDON'S.?CHAPTERVII.SEARCHESBEGIN.?CHAPTERVIII.AGENTSATWORK.?CHAPTERI...

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