Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 053 - Tower of Death

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TOWER OF DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A TRAITOR'S PRICE
? CHAPTER II. FROM THE UNDERWORLD
? CHAPTER III. LUSKIN SPEAKS
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER V. THE LEGACY
? CHAPTER VI. THE NEW GUEST
? CHAPTER VII. SHADOWS AT NIGHT
? CHAPTER VIII. IN MONTGARD
? CHAPTER IX. ONE MAN MISSING
? CHAPTER X. JARVIS RALEIGH SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XI. THE FIRST VISITOR
? CHAPTER XII. NEW MYSTERY
? CHAPTER XIII. DEMANDS ARE MET
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW SEEKS
? CHAPTER XV. CROOKS STRIKE
? CHAPTER XVI. THE AFTERMATH
? CHAPTER XVII. THE INTERLUDE
? CHAPTER XVIII. WORD FROM WITHOUT
? CHAPTER XIX. ONE MORE GONE
? CHAPTER XX. THE SHOWDOWN
? CHAPTER XXI. THE FINAL FIGHT
? CHAPTER XXII. SOLVED SECRETS
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW WRITES
CHAPTER I. A TRAITOR'S PRICE
TWO men were seated in a garishly furnished apartment. Beyond the open window came the muffled
roar from the street far below. Changing lights of Manhattan formed a flickering glow from the clouded
sky.
The appearance of these men was in keeping with the gaudiness of the place. One, attired in a flashy,
braided tuxedo, possessed a hard, thick-lipped countenance. The other, though less uncouth, had beady,
ratlike eyes that stared from a crafty, evil visage.
Racketeers deluxe, these men were known to the police. The one in the tuxedo was Mallet Haverly,
ex-gangster, who had taken up more lucrative pursuits than ordinary thuggery. The other, dressed in
loud, checkered attire, was his lieutenant, “Speedy” Tyron.
The two were in conference. Despite the security which they seemed to enjoy in this apartment, it was
obvious that both were glum. The reason became apparent when Mallet Haverly broke loose with a
deep-throated growl.
“It's a good bet, Speedy,” declared Mallet, “if this guy Luskin has really got the dope. But the layout
sounds kind of goofy.”
“That's why it looks real,” returned Speedy. “Say—if that dough's where he says it is—”
“He's not sure. That's the only trouble. Just the same, we're going to chance it. Things are getting too hot
here. A little vacation with some heavy work for a wind-up sounds like a good idea.”
Speedy Tyron nodded knowingly.
“Tim Lucas went away for a stretch,” mused Mallet. “So did Terry Yarkis. Those birds were kind of
close to us, Speedy. Now the bulls are looking for Rags Wilkey. New York's no place for him. When
they get on the trail of Rags Wilkey—”
“It means we're next,” completed Speedy.
“Right” agreed Mallet. “Rags is smart enough to fox the bulls. The only dick who could spot him is Joe
Cardona. But it's not healthy for Rags—and that means it's not going to be healthy for us.”
Speedy nodded gloomily. He struck a match to light a cigarette while Mallet arose and paced across the
room. The chief racketeer was scowling as he walked.
“The bulls aren't all,” he admitted. “They didn't knock off Conklin's crew the time he went after the Club
Calcutta. You know who it was that gummed the works that time.”
“The Shadow,” declared Speedy, soberly.
“Right,” decided Mallet. “he's got the rackets like that”—Mallet extended a brawny hand and slowly
closed his outspread fingers—“and he's closing tight—closing tighter—”
SPEEDY TYRON'S face was troubled as Mallet Haverly paused. The mere mention of The Shadow
was a deterring influence to men of crime. Throughout Manhattan, The Shadow was known as the
master fighter who dealt with crime. His hand was everywhere; and minions of these racketeers had felt
its power of late.
Speedy Tyron started nervously as the telephone bell rang. Mallet Haverly picked up the receiver. His
tones were low; his words were brief. He finished the call, with this admonition:
“Yeah... We're washing up... Leaving tonight... Right... Take care of yourself...”
“Rags?” questioned Speedy, as Mallet turned from the telephone.
Mallet nodded.
“Rags Wilkey is getting out of town,” he informed, “and so are we. What's more, Speedy, we're
dropping the crew that's in New York. I'm using them tonight, for the last time. After we're clear, we'll
get hold of some of the old gorillas from the sticks. This new job of ours is going to be a new deal.”
Seating himself, Mallet Haverly drew a post card from his pocket. He stared at it for a few moments;
then passed it over to Speedy Tyron. The lieutenant gazed with interest at the colored picture on the
back of the card.
The scene showed an old house of fantastic structure. The building centered from a tall tower that was
topped by a cone-shaped roof. Odd balconies appeared in front of wide, small-paned windows. Smaller
turrets topped the wings.
“That's the place,” informed Mallet.
“Looks like a spook joint,” commented Speedy.
“Maybe it is,” affirmed Mallet. “According to Luskin, there were guys who never came out of the place
after they went in.”
“And he knows why—”
“So he says. But that's only part of it. The dough is what we're after. Luskin says we can get it—and
we're going to try if we have to shoot the works.”
Mallet took back the card from Speedy. He stared at the picture, then read two lettered words in the
lower corner—the name of the old mansion and its location.
“Montgard—Glenwood—”
Mallet tore the card to fragments. He lighted the pieces with a match, held them as they burned and
finally dropped them in a large ash tray.
“An old bloke named Windrop Raleigh built the place,” mused Mallet. “he made it like a fort, so Luskin
says—and Luskin was a servant there for years. Luskin knew more than the old man thought—but he
kept mum and hung on hoping he'd get rewarded when the old geezer crooked.”
“Faithful servant stuff.”
“That was it. But Luskin had a wrong steer. He got the grand bounce along with a couple of other
servants when Windrop Raleigh went the voyage. Jarvis Raleigh, the old man's son, took over the old
house.”
“That was a few months ago?”
“Yeah. Luskin watched the place like a hawk. He wanted to get at the dough. He lived in an old house in
the woods, half a mile from Montgard. But he couldn't figure a way to get in.”
“Plenty of windows in the house.”
“Yeah? Did you see those little panes? I'll tell you what Luskin said about them. Those aren't window
slats between the little panes. They're steel rods—like bars.
“The only way to get in is through the front door—in the big tower. They keep it bolted—and there's a
second door within. Luskin knew all that; he knew he didn't have a chance to crack the place. That's why
he gave up the idea of working it alone. He came to New York, looking for a bimbo with a rep. He
found me.”
“Say,” laughed Speedy, “Luskin has spilled the whole story, hasn't he? How come he doesn't figure that
you might try the game alone?”
“He probably figured it,” returned Mallet, with an odd laugh. “But he knows he has me. Suppose I did let
him down. You know what he'd do, don't you?”
“Squeal to the bulls.”
“Sure. That's why he's not worrying. He wants me to take you and a gang out there and use the cottage
as a hide-out. When the time's right, we raid the old mansion. That's Luskin's idea.”
MALLET HAVERLY pronounced the last sentence with a harsh chuckle that made Speedy Tyron stare.
The lieutenant popped a quick question.
“Luskin's idea, eh?” he asked, “I take it that you're not going to work it the way Luskin has suggested.”
“You've guessed it, Speedy. I'm using a system of my own—working on what Luskin has told me. He's
given me the whole story as he knows it —the names of the people in the old house—the terms of the
will and all that. So when Luskin shows up tonight, I'm going to make him a proposition. I'm going to get
him to step out.”
“You mean—”
“That I'll offer him cash for what he's told me; that I'll promise him plenty if he'll scram.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand dollars—maybe fifty or—”
“Fifty grand! Have you gone cuckoo, Mallet? That dough for a chance to grab a lot of swag that may not
be where you expect it?”
“Wait a minute, Speedy. Think over what I've said—”
The telephone interrupted. Mallet answered it. He leered as he listened at the receiver. He growled
orders and hung up.
“Luskin,” said Mallet to Speedy. “I told them to send him up. Just sit still—and listen.”
A few minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. Mallet Haverly opened the barrier to admit a sly,
furtive fellow, who glanced suspiciously about the garish room. The visitor stared steadily toward Speedy
Tyron.
“Sit down, Luskin,” invited Mallet, in a smooth tone. “Help yourself to one of those cigars. I want to talk
to you—a proposition you'll like.”
Luskin nodded as he took a chair. The man's hand was nervous as it struck a match. Mallet approached
and chuckled, as he clapped the former servant on the shoulder.
“You've got the jitters. Luskin,” said the racketeer. “I don't blame you. This kind of stuff is new to you.
That's why I've been thinking things over.”
“You don't mean,” queried Luskin anxiously. “that you're going to let me down? I'll tell you—it's a sure
thing if you'll help. You ought to know I'm on the level, from all I told you a few days ago.”
“You're a square shooter, Luskin,” purred Mallet. “That's why I'm giving you a break. This has got to be
a waiting game, played by a cagey crew. It wouldn't be good policy, Luskin, for you to be seen around
the town of Glenwood.”
LUSKIN's fingers clawed at the arm chair. The man showed a furious anxiety. He moved his lips to
begin a protest, when Mallet intervened.
“Don't get me wrong,” smiled the racketeer. “You'll be in on the money—in advance. Suppose, Luskin,
that I offered you solid cash. Real dough—tonight—for the information that you've given me.
“That will let you keep away from Glenwood. You can beat it from New York. When the raid comes,
nobody will know where you are—”
Mallet paused. Luskin's eyes were gleaming. The traitor to his former master was drinking in the scheme
with eagerness. Mallet waited for the reply. It came.
“How much?” questioned Luskin, hoarsely.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” replied Mallet, quietly.
Luskin sat back in his chair. His hands relaxed. His eyes half closed at this vision of wealth without crime.
His head nodded as a smile showed upon his lips.
“A deal then,” agreed Mallet. “The cash is yours, Luskin. You're getting plenty and I'm taking all the
chances. You've told me everything you know?”
“Everything,” nodded Luskin, opening his eyes to stare squarely at the questioner. “Everything I know.
All you'll need to know. There's a million—maybe more—and it's worth what you're paying. But you're
right about my being nervous. I want to get out of it. Give me the fifty thousand dollars—”
“Positively,” assured Mallet. He picked up the telephone and continued as he dialed a number. “I don't
keep big sums here in my apartment, Luskin. I'm calling up the man who has it—”
Mallet broke short as a voice came over the wire. Luskin and Speedy watched the racketeer as he
spoke greetings to the man at the other end.
“Bring it,” ordered Mallet, tersely. “Half an hour.”
A smile flickered on Speedy Tyron's lips as the lieutenant watched the steady face of Mallet Haverly.
Luskin did not observe Speedy's smile. Hence he gained no suspicion of what was in the lieutenant's
mind.
Speedy Tyron had heard Mallet Haverly make such calls in the past. He realized now that his chief had
not gone loco. Speedy Tyron knew that Luskin would never see the money offered him as the price of
treachery!
CHAPTER II. FROM THE UNDERWORLD
WHILE Mallet Haverly was making terms in his garish uptown apartment, lesser men of crime were
holding confab in a less pretentious establishment. Gangsters of ill repute were gathered in an underworld
dive known as the Black Ship.
This was a hangout for gorillas. Here one could find the toughest thugs in all Manhattan. Desperadoes
who would kill for paltry prices convened at the Black Ship to while away the intervals between the
murders which they perpetrated.
The Black Ship was a bad place for stool pigeons. Squealers who worked for the police avoided the
dive. The regular customers were a keen lot, always on the lookout for spies of the law. Only mobsters
of recognized repute were admitted to the place.
Moreover, those gangsters who were wanted by the law made it a practice to keep away from this
hangout. The Black Ship was patronized only by those who enjoyed a clean bill of health.
Toughened gorillas wandered in and out of the dive. Apparently, the Black Ship was their resort. Yet
often, those who strolled forth were bound on crime. Whispered orders from messengers sent here by
gang leaders were frequently the cause for prompt departures.
Though the police suspected this condition, they were practically helpless. If detectives or stool pigeons
loitered in the Black Ship or its vicinity, they would be promptly spotted. The tip would pass about.
Gorillas would be wary. They would choose some other rendezvous.
Tonight, the Black Ship was buzzing with muffled conversation. Mobsters, gathered in small groups, were
talking affairs among themselves. Sometimes raucous laughter broke the mumbles. All was well at the
Black Ship.
AMONG the habitues of the dive was a firm-faced young man who sat at a table near one side of the
room. He was talking with an unshaven individual who sat opposite. Both of these men were well-known
at the Black Ship.
The one with the chiseled face was Cliff Marsland, recognized as a freelance mobster with an enviable
reputation. The unshaven fellow was “Lugger” Gates, a dock-walloper who sometimes acted as
recruiting agent when new gorillas were needed for the crew that he represented.
Of all the patrons of the Black Ship, this pair stood highest by reputation. No one would have suspected
either one of being here under false colors.
So far as Lugger Gates was concerned, the man was exactly what he appeared to be—a dock-walloper.
But Cliff Marshland was one who relied upon pretense.
Cliff had served time in Sing Sing. He had bargained with big shots; he had handled crews of gangsters.
Yet he was not a man of crime. Actually, his reputation was the cover for his real activities.
Cliff Marsland was the underworld aid of The Shadow. Stationed in the badlands, welcomed in every
dive, this firm-faced young man served the mysterious fighter whom all gangdom feared.
Time and again, Cliff Marsland had notified The Shadow of impending crime. Always, Cliff had managed
to preserve his false reputation among crooks. The Shadow, when he matched his giant mind with
schemers of the underworld, moved Cliff like a knight upon the squares of a chessboard.
Of late, The Shadow had been smashing the plans of crooks and racketeers. Mallet Haverly had
admitted that fact to Speedy Tyron. Marauding bands, bound on errands of crime, had encountered The
Shadow instead of the helpless quarry whom they sought. The underworld was throbbing with nervous
awe.
The Shadow's campaign had not ended. That was why Cliff Marshland was in the Black Ship tonight.
Stationed in the heart of the enemy's terrain, unsuspected by the craftiest of skulking crooks, Cliff was
watching for new indications. He was picking potential foemen against whom The Shadow could pit his
might.
CLIFF was using Lugger as a blind. While he chatted with the dock-walloper, The Shadow's agent was
keenly alert upon events about him. Lugger, imbibing freely from a bottle, was guffawing at his own
uncouth jests. Cliff, taking advantage of his companion's unobservance, kept tabs upon conversation that
was going on close by.
A trio of mobsters was at the nearest table. These men were talking in low tones. Snatches of their
statements were audible to Cliff. Gorillas who had served with different gangs, these were the type of
mobsmen whom Cliff had been set to watch.
“Looks like there'll be nothin' doin' tonight—”
“How do you know? Remember that night we stuck around until two o'clock?”
“Wait'll Burnetti blows in. Maybe he'll have somethin' to tell us—”
These were the words that Cliff Marsland caught. The Shadow's agent knew their meaning. These
mobsters were working with a roving gang leader named Burnetti, whose allegiance belonged to big
shots who were willing to pay for his services.
Burnetti had been conspicuously absent from the Black Ship of late. Cliff sensed that his appearance here
would mean the assembling of his crew for murderous work. Tonight, perhaps might be a blank. That
would mean a new vigil for tomorrow night, provided this same trio of thugs should be at the Black Ship.
While Cliff was musing thus, the street door opened and a squatty, evil-faced ruffian slouched into the
Black Ship. Cliff's momentary gaze was keen. The newcomer was Burnetti. Cliff noticed a tenseness
among the trio of gorillas.
Lugger Gates was talking. His bleary eyes were looking toward Cliff. The Shadow's agent grinned and
nodded in reply to the dock-walloper's incoherent statements. All the while, Cliff watched Burnetti as the
newcomer strolled among the tables, grunting greetings to friends.
As if by chance, Burnetti arrived at the spot where his three gorillas were parked. He dropped into a
vacant chair, signaled to a waiter for a bottle, and poured himself a drink. His voice came in a cautious
growl.
“Forty-sixth... Opposite the Majestic... You'll see the cab pull up... Watch for Dirk... Two cars... Yeah...
He'll be gettin' out...”
An utterance from Lugger drowned further words. The dock walloper was gripping Cliff's arm. Cliff
nodded as he centered upon Lugger. He had heard enough; the game now was to avoid suspicion.
Burnetti had finished a second drink. He had strolled over to another table. The three gorillas were rising.
Cliff saw them slouch from the Black Ship. He caught a glimpse of Burnetti, finishing another drink and
rising to follow, alone.
“Where are you going, Lugger?” questioned Cliff.
“Dunno,” gulped the dock walloper. “Uptown, maybe. Got a car outside. Wanna come along?”
“Sure thing.”
CLIFF arose. Lugger tried to follow suit. He staggered. Cliff caught him. Bracing the dock walloper's
shoulders, he piloted the big fellow toward the street door while watching mobsters grinned.
Lugger Gates was on another bender and Cliff Marsland was giving him a lift. That was all.
Lugger staggered sidewise as they reached the street. Cliff guided him toward an alley which the dock
walloper indicated. A coupe was parked beside the curb. Cliff yanked open the door on the driver's side
and shoved Lugger in beside the wheel. Lugger's big paw went to his forehead.
“Wait a while, Cliff,” suggested Lugger. “I ain't drivin' yet. Shay —that booze was lousy—”
“Take it easy, Lugger.” Cliff shoved the dock walloper sidewise across the seat. “Take it easy. We're in
no hurry.”
“Uh-huh.”
Lugger closed his eyes. He sprawled comfortably across the seat. Cliff watched for a moment, then
closed the door quietly and strolled away. Reaching the corner, The Shadows agent quickened his pace.
He reached a small cigar store. He entered and found an obscure telephone. He dialed a number.
“Burbank speaking.”
Cliff responded as he heard the quiet tones across the wire. Burbank was The Shadow's contact man.
He relayed messages to the hidden chief.
“Burnetti and a mob", informed Cliff. “Two cars by the Majestic Theater, on Forty-sixth Street.
Watching for Dirk Halgan to bring a victim into a taxicab. On their way now.”
“Report received,” returned Burbank. “Await instructions.”
Cliff hung up. Minutes ticked by while The Shadow's agent strolled over and purchased some cigarettes
from a mild, wizened old storekeeper. As Cliff was lighting a cigarette, the telephone rang. Cliff stepped
over to answer it, apparently assuming that the call was for him.
“Corner west of the Majestic,” came Burbank's statement. “Join Vincent in his coupe. Follow the two
cars.”
“Instructions received.”
Cliff Marsland sauntered from the store. He walked along a side street, quickened his pace as he passed
beneath an elevated structure and reached an avenue that fringed the badlands. He hailed a passing cab
and ordered the driver to take him to an address on Forty-sixth Street.
Cliff Marsland was on his way. With Harry Vincent, another agent of The Shadow, Cliff was to follow
the gorillas who plotted crime tonight. Two men set to counter crime. The task would have seemed
formidable to any but Cliff Marsland.
There was something, however, in Burbank's order that gave Cliff Marsland confidence. He knew that he
and Harry Vincent would not be alone tonight. They would serve as aids, not as principals, in the
counter-stroke.
Cliff knew that The Shadow, himself, would be on hand. Using the information which he had gained
through his agent, the master fighter would bear his share in the work that lay ahead. Cliff Marsland
congratulated himself upon the completeness of the data that he had obtained for The Shadow.
There was one point, however, that had escaped Cliff Marsland. It was a fact that Burnetti had not
mentioned to his gorillas—the reason why the Majestic Theater had been chosen as the place where men
of crime should watch. The old theater, a darkened spot on the uptown side street, was directly opposite
the apartment house where Mallet Haverly and Speedy Tyron were still engaged with Luskin!
CHAPTER III. LUSKIN SPEAKS
“HELLO.”
Mallet Haverly's thick lips were expressionless as the racketeer growled in response to a telephone ring.
A few short words followed. Mallet hung up.
“Your man's downstairs,” Mallet informed Luskin. “Waiting outside the apartment house.”
“With the money?” questioned Luskin, eagerly.
Mallet's lips formed a grin.
“Of course not,” stated the racketeer. “Do you think I'd have him bring it around here? He'll meet you
outside the door. Go with him. He'll give you the cash in a suitcase.”
“And after that?” Luskin's tone was nervous.
“You'll have a chance to count the dough,” explained Mallet. “My man will take you wherever you want
to go—and you can check up on the cash while you're in the cab with him.”
Luskin gulped his agreement, he walked to the door with Mallet beside him.
“You'll know the fellow right away,” added Mallet. “He always wears a big stick-pin in his necktie—with
a sparkler in it—a diamond.”
Luskin nodded as he left. Mallet thrust out his hand and the dupe shook it in parting.
As Mallet Haverly turned back after closing the door, his pudgy lips framed an evil smile. Speedy Tyron
indulged in a similar expression.
“Come along,” ordered Mallet. “My bags are packed. We're hopping out of town—to stay out.”
“Leaving the job to Dirk Halgan and Burnetti,” added Speedy. “Two guys who know their stuff.”
“And the last job they'll be doing for me,” declared Mallet. “If this job pans out, we're through with New
York.”
DOWN on the street, Luskin was looking about nervously. He spied a man standing near the curb; as
the fellow turned, Luskin spied the glimmer of a diamond stick-pin. He approached the man.
“Hello,” greeted the stranger. “Are you from Haverly?”
Luskin nodded.
“O.K.” The man—“Dirk” Halgan—turned briskly and waved to a cab that was standing across the
street. The vehicle approached. Dirk motioned to Luskin to enter. Dirk followed.
Luskin showed no signs of trepidation. His nervousness was allayed as soon as he had entered the cab.
Dirk—Luskin did not know the fellow's name—appeared to be the very type of henchman that Mallet
Haverly would assign to the duty of delivering funds. Dirk had spoken cautiously; he gave a direction to
the cab driver in a low tone that Luskin did not overhear.
Luskin's eyes were approving as they studied Dirk. Engaged in studying his companion, Luskin did not
glance behind as the cab pulled from the curb. Hence he did not note the activity which occurred further
down the block.
An old sedan pulled away from darkness by the old Majestic Theater. A few seconds later, a rakish
touring car started from another spot. These two automobiles took up the trail of the cab which carried
Luskin and Dirk Halgan.
Back near the corner, a young man was seated behind the wheel of a coupe. His hand was on the gear
shift lever; his eyes were watching toward the curb. This was Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow,
delegated to this duty. He was awaiting the arrival of Cliff Marsland. Harry had received a call from
Burbank. Already uptown, Harry had gained this spot ahead of Cliff.
Harry shoved the car in gear, realizing that he could wait no longer. A man, swinging from the passers on
the sidewalk, caught the handle of the door. It was Cliff Marsland. The underworld agent had arrived just
in time to join Harry. He boarded the coupe and Harry started after the cars ahead.
The coupe reached the avenue ahead. It shot across just as the light was turning. A larger coupe, coming
up the avenue, made a sudden swerve and followed Harry's car. A strange, whispered laugh sounded in
the dark interior.
The driver who had uttered that short burst of mirth was hidden in the gloom. His eerie tones, however,
were sufficient pronouncement of his identity. The driver was The Shadow.
SWIFT master of action, The Shadow had dispatched his agents to the scene immediately upon receiving
word from Burbank. His own location must have been more distant. Instead of coming up the avenue
near where the pursuit had begun, he had taken the one ahead, knowing that he might intercept the chase
should it have already begun.
Harry Vincent's coupe had passed the next avenue. It was half a block behind the cars which it was
trailing; The Shadow was a similar interval behind Harry. Watching from the wheel of his coupe, Harry
saw the taxi making a turn to the right. Reaching to the dashboard, Harry clicked the light switch twice.
Cliff Marsland made no comment. He assumed that this was a signal ordered through Burbank; that
Harry had been instructed to mark the turns which the cars ahead might make. Cliff's assumption was
correct.
The Shadow, almost at the avenue behind, saw the double flicker of the tail light on Harry's coupe. With
a quick swerve, he swung his heavy car to the right, going down the nearer avenue just as the traffic lights
were changing.
The motor roared as The Shadow's coupe took the straightaway. The heavy car showed a remarkable
burst of speed. Green ahead—as he passed the first cross street, The Shadow laughed. Glancing to the
left, he had seen the cab passing the same street on the further avenue, a block away.
The pointer on the speedometer shot up to sixty. Across two streets; then, as a traffic opening showed
on the left, The Shadow applied the brakes. The big coupe half-skidded and sped across the path of an
oncoming truck; a hidden foot pressed the accelerator and the sturdy car roared down the side street.
A red light showed ahead. The Shadow took a right turn. His eyes gleamed as they peered toward the
mirror. The soft laugh again sounded from his lips. By rapid maneuver and swift pace, The Shadow had
passed all the cars that formed the caravan. He was ahead of the taxicab which mobsters had chosen for
their quarry.
With slackened speed, The Shadow kept ahead. His eyes were on the mirror. They were watching the
cab, now nearly a block to the rear. The avenue lights changed from green to red. The taxi took a left
turn. The Shadow glimpsed the sedan that swung behind it. He, too, turned left, one street ahead. His
was a two-way thoroughfare.
AGAIN, the coupe showed its speed. The Shadow knew that the one-way street which the taxi had
taken might mark the end of the quest. He picked an avenue which ran beneath the superstructure of the
elevated. A red light gleamed; The Shadow swung left at high speed.
Brakes screamed as cars swerved to avoid the coupe which shot across their path. The Shadow's firm
hand whisked the coupe past an elevated pillar and swung it clear of a parked car.
The Shadow reached the next street ahead of oncoming traffic. Another breakneck turn to the left. The
coupe made a complete U turn and came to a stop facing down the avenue.
摘要：

TOWEROFDEATHbyMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ATRAITOR'SPRICE?CHAPTERII.FROMTHEUNDERWORLD?CHAPTERIII.LUSKINSPEAKS?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOW'STRAIL?CHAPTERV.THELEGACY?CHAPTERVI.THENEWGUEST?CHAPTERVII.SHADOWSATNIGHT?CHAPTERVIII.INMONTGARD?CHAPTERIX.ONEMANM...

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