Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 047 - The Black Falcon

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THE BLACK FALCON
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE BIG SHOT.
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW SPEAKS.
? CHAPTER III. CRIME FOREWARNED.
? CHAPTER IV. THE COMMISSIONER'S PLAN.
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW'S MOVE.
? CHAPTER VI. THE BLACK FALCON.
? CHAPTER VII. THE ABDUCTION.
? CHAPTER VIII. THE PROVING CLEW.
? CHAPTER IX. FROM THE UNDERWORLD.
? CHAPTER X. WESTON STRIKES LUCK.
? CHAPTER XI. AT THE APARTMENT.
? CHAPTER XII. MILLIONAIRES CONFER.
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW'S AGENT.
? CHAPTER XV. THE FALCON SWOOPS.
? CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST REPORT.
? CHAPTER XVII. THE FINAL SCHEME.
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE FALCON'S THREAT.
? CHAPTER XIX. THE SIGNAL OF DEATH.
? CHAPTER XX. THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.
? CHAPTER XXI. WINGS OF THE NIGHT.
? CHAPTER XXII. THE REVELATION.
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE HOODED FALCON.
CHAPTER I. THE BIG SHOT.
A MAMMOTH limousine was parked in front of the Club Madrid. Curious bystanders, thronged
beneath the lighted marquee of the glittering Manhattan night club, were buzzing among themselves. The
chauffeur of the limousine, a grin on his tough face, was listening to the murmured comments of the
handful who watched the car.
"That's Rowdy Kirshing's boat-"
"Say-it's a big bus-and you can bet those windows are bullet-proof."
"Take it from me, that chauffeur's got a gun packed on his hip. Look at the face on him-"
"Here comes Rowdy Kirshing now!"
The final statement of a bystander caused all eyes to turn toward the entrance of the night club. A big
man, his rough, scarred face looming uglily above a stiff tuxedo collar, was approaching from the door of
the Club Madrid.
"The biggest of the big shots-"
The comment came from an onlooker as "Rowdy" Kirshing passed. It was whispered; and it brought a
low answer from another bystander:
"Yeah-and that fellow with him is no softy. That's Pinkey Sardon, his bodyguard."
The man to whom attention had been directed was following close at Rowdy Kirshing's heels. Like his
master, "Pinkey" was attired in a tuxedo. He, too, was the possessor of an evil face. A squat,
broad-shouldered ruffian, Pinkey Sardon had risen from the ranks of ordinary gorillas to serve as
bodyguard to the most notorious racketeer in New York.
Rowdy Kirshing paid no attention to the throng of persons who observed his exit from the Club Madrid.
He left that to his trusted follower, Pinkey Sardon. The bodyguard, glaring from left to right, kept one
hand menacingly in his side pocket, while his chief entered the limousine. With Rowdy Kirshing safely in
the car, Pinkey sprang in behind him. The chauffeur slammed the door and clambered to the driver's seat.
The wheeled leviathan pulled away from the curb, leaving the gaping spectators on the sidewalk.
"Plenty of gawks in New York," observed Pinkey, with a gruff laugh. "They stand around like a bunch of
hicks. Everywhere you go there's a pile of mugs looking on."
"Lucky for you there is," growled Rowdy. "If those mugs weren't around, I wouldn't carry a bodyguard.
It's just the chance that there might be some sharpshooter pretending that he was one of the goofs. That's
why you've got your job, Pinkey."
"Don't I know it?" The bodyguard laughed. "Say, Rowdy, there's no guy tough enough to take a plug at
you in the open. I know why I'm working for you. I keep my eye out for snipers. They know it wouldn't
do them no good to take a pot-shot at you."
Rowdy Kirshing nodded in reply. He was reaching for the speaking phone that communicated with the
front seat. He uttered words to the chauffeur:
"Tenth Avenue, Danny."
PINKEY SARDON grinned as he heard his chief's order. He knew the spot on Tenth Avenue where
Rowdy Kirshing was going. The king of racketeers was headed for one of gangdom's strongholds-a
place where bodyguards were not needed. This would mean a night off for Pinkey Sardon.
Rowdy Kirshing was evidently holding the same thought. From a side pocket the big shot brought out a
massive roll of bills. He peeled off ten, each note of a hundred-dollar denomination. "One grand, Pinkey,"
stated Rowdy, as be thrust the money into his bodyguard's hand. "That's for the week. And here"-the big
shot was counting off five more bills as he spoke-"is some extra change for a present."
"Half a grand!" Pinkey whistled. "Thanks, Rowdy! Say-it's knocked me goofy, the way you've been
slinging the dough the past week. You gave each of those chorines a century at the Club Madrid
to-night-"
"There's plenty more where this came from," growled Rowdy, in a tone that stopped Pinkey short. "I
don't have to look for the mazuma. It comes to me."
"I know that," agreed Pinkey. "But with the way some of the rackets have been taking it on the chin-"
"I've got others up my sleeve."
Pinkey nodded. As Rowdy Kirshing's bodyguard, the ex-gorilla had a general idea of his employer's
sources of revenue. He was frequently present when Rowdy received collections from small-fry
racketeers. Yet Pinkey realized that his knowledge was only partial. Racketeers had been low on
contributions of late. Expenses of maintaining gang leaders and their mobs had been as large as ever.
Despite these facts, Rowdy Kirshing had flashed and spent money with keen abandon.
The limousine swerved around the corner of a side street. It rolled along Tenth Avenue, slowed its pace
and turned into the open doorway of an old garage. Danny guided the car across vacant floor space until
he neared another door that opened on a side street.
The interior of the garage was dimly lighted. Peering from the window of the limousine, Pinkey Sardon
saw that no one was in sight except a lounging attendant back at the door which the car had entered.
Pinkey growled that the way was clear.
Rowdy Kirshing alighted. Pinkey watched him approach an obscure door at the back of the garage. He
saw the big shot press a button. He could hear the click of a latch.
As Rowdy Kirshing entered the door, Pinkey spoke to Danny through the tube. The chauffeur nodded
and started the limousine out through the door to the side street.
BEYOND the small door through which he had passed, Rowdy Kirshing had arrived at the foot of a
stairway. The door closed behind him, the racketeer marched upward. Dim light showed a barrier ahead;
as Rowdy reached the top of the stairs, this proved to be a door of heavy steel.
A tiny peephole clicked open. An observing eye surveyed Rowdy's roughened countenance. The
peephole closed. The door slid to the right. Rowdy Kirshing entered a small anteroom where a brawny,
red-faced fellow was waiting.
"Howdy, Steve," growled Rowdy.
"Hello, Rowdy," returned the guard, as he pressed a switch to close the outer door.
No further words were given. Steve gave a signaling rap against the inner door. It slid to the right. Rowdy
walked through and Steve followed. Rowdy uttered a brief greeting to a beefy inner guard:
"Howdy, Mac."
The big shot was in the lounging room of a palatial club. In amazing contrast to the dingy garage beneath,
this apartment was furnished, on an extravagant scale. The chairs and tables were of heavy mahogany.
The ornate, tufted carpeting seemed inches thick. The paneled walls were decorated with gold-leaf
ornamentation.
At the left were barred and shuttered windows, almost completely hidden by heavy velvet curtains. To
the right was an open doorway, beyond it the cross-section of mahogany bar with polished brass rail
beneath.
The sight of a white-liveried bartender handling a shaker, the click of glasses and the tones of laughing
conversation, were evidence where most of the patrons of this club were lurking.
Rowdy Kirshing, however, did not turn in the direction of the barroom. He went straight ahead, crossing
the deserted lounge room until he reached one of three doors that were set in a row. He opened the
barrier and grinned as he poked his head into the room.
Four men, seated at a heavy card table, looked up as Rowdy arrived. With one accord, they beckoned
to the big shot. Rowdy entered and closed the door behind him. One of the players, rising, invited the
racketeer to join the game. Rowdy accepted.
These men were spenders. Hardened figures of the underworld, who gained their revenue through
racketeering, they used this unnamed club as their meeting place. The size of their poker game was
apparent when Rowdy Kirshing counted off five thousand dollars from the roll in his pocket and received
fifty chips in return.
THE deal began. The game proceeded. Amid clouding cigar smoke, the five players kept up terse
snatches of conversation as hundred-dollar chips changed hands as lightly as if they had been worthless
disks of cardboard.
"Seen Velvet Laffrey lately?"
Rowdy Kirshing, squeezing five cards in his left hand, peered from the corner of his eye as he heard one
player address the question to another.
"No," came the reply. "Maybe he's scrammed from town."
"They say the bulls are looking for him." The speaker paused; when no return comment came, he added:
"Maybe they think he was the guy who hooked Hubert Apprison."
Silence followed, broken only by the clicking of chips. The speaker's reference had been to the
disappearance of a prominent banker. Newspaper reports were to the effect that Hubert Apprison had
been kidnapped.
The man who had brought up the subject said no more. Direct references to individual crime activities
were taboo at this protected club. Rowdy Kirshing, his poker face inflexible, dropped four chips on the
center of the table to raise a bet.
The game continued. Rowdy's stack of chips was dwindling. Some one commented on the fact. The big
shot laughed. "Guess I'll be buying some more," he asserted. "It always takes a few grand to get started."
"What's a few grand to you, Rowdy?" laughed one of the players. "Not much," decided Rowdy. "I go in
for big dough. And it's as big as ever."
With this retort, the big shot arose from the table. He reached in his right coat pocket and counted off the
remainder of his roll, a matter of four thousand dollars. He pulled a revolver from his pocket and planked
it carelessly upon the table, while he fished in his pocket for loose bills.
Grinning as he found none, Rowdy reached into his left pocket. He drew out a fat bundle of crisp notes.
The stack was encircled with a broad strip of paper. The eyes of the players bulged as they saw the high
denominations on the bills when Rowdy Kirshing riffled the ends.
Holding the stack in his left hand, the big shot tried to pull a group of bills free from the others. He
wanted to do this without breaking the encircling paper band. The speculative players wondered why,
but gave the matter little thought. Had they been able to view the side of the packet that was toward
Rowdy's eyes, their passing curiosity would have become keen interest.
THE near side of the band was marked, not with a printed or written statement of amount, but with a
most unusual emblem. Thrust through the band itself was a feather of jet-black hue.
It was this object that Rowdy Kirshing did not want the other men to see. That was why he did not tear
the band. He glowered, as the tightly-packed bills failed to come free. The players leaned back in their
chairs and waited.
Thus came momentary silence, that lacked even the slight clicking of poker chips. It was the sudden lull
that caused Rowdy Kirshing to look up quickly as his ears detected an unexpected sound from across
the room.
Rowdy was facing the door; the other men stared as they caught the expression that appeared upon the
big shot's face. Rowdy's hands stopped their motion. Gripping the ends of the packet of bills, the
racketeer gazed in petrified horror.
The others turned their heads in alarm. Like Rowdy, they became as statues. Unseen, unheard, some
stranger had entered the secluded gaming room. Like a specter from the night, a figure had appeared
before these men of crime.
Looming just within the door was a tall form clad in black. A cloak of sable hue hid the arrival's body.
The upturned collar concealed his features. The turned-down brim of a black slouch hat obscured the
visitor's forehead. All that showed from that darkened visage was a pair of burning eyes that focused
themselves upon the crisp bills gripped in Rowdy Kirshing's hands.
From a black-gloved fist extended a huge automatic, its mighty muzzle looming with a threat of instant
death. It was the sight of that weapon that caused five watching men to quail.
Then, as no one moved, there came a token more terrifying than either the being himself or the mammoth
gun which he displayed. A whisper crept from unseen lips. It rose to a quivering, shuddering laugh that
echoed sibilantly through the room.
That was the laugh feared throughout the underworld. It was the cry that men of crime knew for a knell
of doom.
The laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW SPEAKS.
THE SHADOW!
Every one of the five racketeers trembled at the sound of the visitant's laugh. Though four knew that the
sinister sound was directed toward one-Rowdy Kirshing-there was no comfort for them.
These men were crooks. To them, crime had become a science. Payers for protection, they had found
ways to offset the efforts of the police. But, like all denizens of gang land, they held a common fear.
They knew that all participants in crime were threatened by a common menace. They knew that a
mysterious fighter was ever ready to battle with those who fought the law. They had heard tales of a
being clad in black, a lone wolf whom none could balk; and they knew that he was called The Shadow.
Swift death came to those who sought to thwart The Shadow. Often had this phantom being arrived in
spots where gangsters lurked, to deal vengeance upon fiends who plotted crime. But of all spots in
Manhattan where security from The Shadow could have been expected, this guarded gaming room within
the steel-domed club had promised greatest security.
The Shadow's presence was incredible. The trapped men stared as though viewing a ghost. There was
an unreality about the black-clad shape; but it was brought to grim actuality by the tokens of The
Shadow's power.
The blazing eyes; the looming automatic; the weirdly whispered laugh-these were signs of The Shadow's
wrath. The men who saw and heard were quivering. Not a hand stirred as horrified minds hoped only
that The Shadow would concentrate upon the man who first had seen him-Rowdy Kirshing.
A moment of chilling silence. Then came The Shadow's voice. A sneering whisper formed words that
hissed with terrible threat.
"Rowdy Kirshing!" The Shadow's tones seemed to mock the name that they uttered. "I have found you
with ill-gotten spoils. Before I depart, you will tell me of their source. You will betray the part that you
have played in evil crime!" The tall form was moving inward from the door. There was weirdness in The
Shadow's approach. As his dreaded figure neared the table, the seated men crouched away; but all held
their hands above their heads as token of surrender.
ROWDY KIRSHING'S face still wore its sullen fear. His hands, however, were trembling. The crisp
bills crinkled between them. The big shot was cowed. "Speak!" The Shadow's voice was commanding.
"Tell me the name of the underling who has served you!"
Rowdy's lips were rigid. Then, like the big shot's hands, they began to tremble. The menace of The
Shadow's automatic seemed imminent.
"Speak!" came The Shadow's harrowing tone.
"Terry," gasped Rowdy Kirshing. "Terry-Terry Rukes. He's the fellow-who's working for me. But I'm
not in it-"
The Shadow's laugh came as a chilling interruption. Rowdy Kirshing's scarred face showed pallor. "You
are the go-between," sneered The Shadow. "The money in your hands is payment for your services. You
have purchased men for crime."
Rowdy Kirshing's protest ended. There was accusation in The Shadow's sinister utterance. The big shot
could not meet it.
"Name the man," came The Shadow's order, "who has provided the funds for crime."
It was a moment before Rowdy Kirshing gained his voice. His words, when uttered, were hoarse, with a
plaintive quaver that seemed incongruous from his roughened lips.
"I-I don't know"-Rowdy was gasping-"don't know-don't know who-"
The Shadow's blazing eyes were fierce. A soft, menacing taunt came from the lips that Rowdy could not
see. A black finger pressed slowly against the trigger of the automatic.
"I'll tell -blurted were Rowdy's words-"tell all I know! All I know! It was Velvet Laffrey! He-he started
the game!"
A pause; Rowdy's voice became a pleading moan.
"I-I haven't seen Velvet." The big shot was insistent. "He-he told me I wouldn't see him. The dough
comes in-I get it to pay Terry Rukes. I keep my cut-"
The racketeer was trembling from head to foot. He knew the menace of The Shadow; knew that in
betraying others, he was confessing his own guilt. That was the explanation of his terror.
Rowdy Kirshing, here in gang land's most formidable stronghold, was a big shot no longer. He had
become a pitiful crook, squealing on others and blabbing his own story while cowering racketeers
crouched as listeners.
"I keep my cut!" Rowdy's voice rose to a tremolo. "It isn't my game, though. Honest-it was Velvet. It
wasn't my game to start-"
The racketeer's eyes were bulging; his hands were faltering as they clutched the bills. His lips, however,
had momentarily lost their quivering. The odd beginning of a smile had come instinctively upon Rowdy's
face.
The big shot could keep an unflinching face in a poker game. In this situation, however, he was unable to
keep from betraying the fact that luck had come his way. Rowdy's rising voice had been well timed. His
eyes had sighted a motion of the door beyond The Shadow's form.
But the lips, with their unwarranted smile, explained the reason for Rowdy's louder words. The Shadow,
although he could not hear the slight sound behind him, knew that danger lay in the direction toward
which Rowdy stared.
THE black cloak swished. Its whirling folds revealed a crimson lining as The Shadow pirouetted toward
the door. The barrier had opened. A hard-faced man, gun in hand, was peering into the room. There
were others behind him. They had heard the sound of Rowdy Kirshing's voice.
The man with the gun caught his first view of the room just as The Shadow whirled. Responding quickly,
the hard-faced fellow thrust his hand forward, with his finger against the revolver trigger.
Had The Shadow paused a split second, the rescuer would have gained the drop. But The Shadow, in
his swift about-face, had taken it for granted that an enemy was at the door. The big automatic roared as
The Shadow's rigid fist stayed with his line of vision.
The bullet found its mark. The man at the door sank back. His companions flung themselves away from
the doorway.
The Shadow could have beaded one or more of them, but The Shadow had more important game. His
swift whirl did not stop. It continued with a definite design; back to the spot which The Shadow had left.
The Shadow had foreseen Rowdy Kirshing's action. The instant that The Shadow had begun his whirl,
Rowdy had shot his right hand to the table. There he had grabbed the gleaming revolver which he had
taken from his pocket.
Rowdy was quick with the weapon. His finger found the trigger as his hand gained the gun. While The
Shadow's automatic sounded its terrific roar, Rowdy, his eyes gleaming, came up to fire.
The big shot's eyes bulged as his finger drew against the trigger. A second roar came from the automatic.
With listless finger quivering weakly, Rowdy slumped to the table. His dying gaze caught the glare of The
Shadow's eyes.
The big shot had sealed his own doom. Acting rapidly, he had expected to shoot The Shadow in the
back. Instead, the completion of The Shadow's whirl had ended in the second burst of flame from the
deadly automatic.
Rowdy's hands, sprawling straight across the table, dropped two objects. One, the revolver, fell with a
clatter. The other, the stack of bills, plopped softly. The side that the racketeer had sought to hide was
downward. The Black feather did not show.
With one outward sweep of his free left hand, The Shadow sent the revolver flying from the table. It
clanked against the wall beyond Rowdy Kirshing s crumpled body.
With the return sweep, The Shadow grasped the pile of bound bills. The packet went beneath the folds
of the black cloak. With a quick, sidewise whirl, The Shadow glanced toward the door; then ended back
against the wall, his automatic covering the four men who still cowered in their chairs.
A laugh resounded through the room. With the taunt, The Shadow pressed the light switch. His automatic
barked two warning shots. In the gloom, the four racketeers dived for the shelter beneath the table.
The same swift shots stopped the men outside the gaming room. They dropped to the walls of the outer
room. Drawing guns, they were preparing for an attack. Before they could acquire leadership, their
opportunity was ended.
OUT from the gaming room swept The Shadow. His arrival was both swift and unexpected. With a long,
springing leap, he shot from the blackness of the little room, and in three swift strides gained a spot well
clear from the doorway.
The patrons of the club had chosen the corners near the gaming room. The Shadow, whirling as he came
from cover, was beyond them.
Each gloved fist now held an automatic. Both weapons thundered as The Shadow, with the door to the
gaming room as a center, began to spread his arms.
Screaming men flung themselves prone upon the floor to escape the spraying fire. The Shadow, as he
increased the angle, was taking in every spot along the end walls; as his form moved swiftly backward
toward the outer door, he covered the entire room.
Peering men ducked back into the barroom. At the steel door, The Shadow flung one hand against a
switch. With this action, he extinguished the side lights about the lounging room. Only the slight glow from
the barroom remained; the shape of The Shadow dimmed against the steel barrier.
In his spraying fire, The Shadow had used remarkable strategy. Of a dozen men, three had tried to shoot
in response. The Shadow's bullets, aimed a few feet above the wall, had clipped these ruffians while they
aimed and had dropped them wounded.
The others had flung themselves upon the floor. They were unscathed; but they had lost the opportunity
to deliver a quick response. After the lights went out, they rose to fire at the steel door.
Bullets zimmed against the barrier. The four racketeers in the cardroom joined in the shooting. Men
surged forward through the gloom. A cry came to end the fire. A man pressed the switch by the steel
door.
Where every eye expected to see the crumpled form of a black-cloaked figure, there was no one in
view! The Shadow had pressed the switch that opened the steel door. He had left as the volley of shots
had begun. All had been foiled, for there had been no light from the anteroom to show that the door had
opened.
The answer was discovered when some one slid away the barrier. The lights in the anteroom were out.
Steve and Mac, the guards, were lying gagged upon the floor. They were released; Steve pointed to the
outer door of steel.
"I heard the ring," he explained. "I looked through the peephole. There wasn't no one there. I opened the
sliding door; then he got me."
"Same here," grunted Mac. "I heard a rap. I thought it was Steve. Then I was yanked out as soon as I
opened the door. The lights were out."
"It was The Shadow," gasped Steve, in an awed tone. "I seen him, but Mac didn't. He grabbed both of
us. But he put the lights out here before he knocked for Mac."
Foiled crooks stood disgruntled. Pursuit was too late. To seek The Shadow was the last deed that any
one intended. None cared to risk a new encounter with that fierce fighter of the night who had invaded
this stronghold alone to deliver deserved death to Rowdy Kirshing.
WHILE the baffled men of crime lingered in their stronghold, a trim coupe rolled to a stop on a side
street near Times Square. Black-gloved hands came from darkness. They showed in the dim glow from
the sidewalk.
Keen eyes surveyed a packet that rested between those hands. It was the stack of crinkly bills that The
Shadow had taken from Rowdy Kirshing. The eyes now saw the strange marking that adorned the paper
strip about the packet.
A black feather! This was the only symbol of the person who had paid Rowdy Kirshing, big shot
racketeer, a price for service. That marking, as yet, was the single clew to the man behind some insidious
game of crime.
A soft, echoing laugh came from hidden lips as the eyes of The Shadow identified the species of the
plume. That bit of evidence denoted a bird of prey.
It was the feather of a falcon-dyed black!
CHAPTER III. CRIME FOREWARNED.
A BLACK feather!
Such was the trophy that The Shadow had brought from the secret stronghold on Tenth Avenue.
Unaided, the master fighter had raided the palatial club where big shots met. Departing unscathed, he had
left death lying in his wake.
Rowdy Kirshing had died in an attempt to slay The Shadow. Before his death, the big shot had blurted
his connection with "Velvet" Laffrey. There lay another link. The police-so rumor had it-were looking for
Laffrey in connection with the disappearance of Hubert Apprison, prominent New York banker.
Gangland rumors are usually backed by truth. Such was the case with this one. Less than half an hour
after the echoes of The Shadow's shots had ended within the confines of the Tenth Avenue club, a
swarthy, stocky man stepped from a subway entrance near the corner of Thirty-third Street.
This individual walked along at a steady pace until he arrived at the entrance of an apartment house. He
rode upstairs in an automatic elevator and knocked at the door of an apartment. The door opened to
show a small anteroom. A short man, of military bearing, stepped back to admit the arrival.
"Good evening, Detective Cardona," he said, "The commissioner is waiting to see you. Step in."
The servant conducted the detective into a living room. He led him through to a hallway beyond and
paused to knock on a closed door. A brusque voice responded from the other side of the barrier.
"What is it, Kempton?"
"Detective Cardona is here, sir," replied the servant.
"All right," came the voice. "Have him enter."
The servant opened the door and ushered the detective into a small, lighted office. A desk occupied the
middle of the room; beyond it was seated a firm-faced man who was going over a stack of papers.
Cardona seated himself in a chair on the nearer side of the desk. He waited for several minutes until the
police commissioner laid the papers aside, rested back in the chair and eyed his visitor.
There was a marked contrast between these two men who represented the law. Police Commissioner
Ralph Weston was of a powerful, executive type. His strong face, his steady lips with pointed mustache
above them, showed him to be a man who believed in action and demanded it.
Detective Joe Cardona, with keen, dark eyes and solemn visage, was one who could follow instructions
that were given. His impassiveness was the sign of his ability to observe. Long experience in hunting
down perpetrators of crime had gained him recognition as an ace among sleuths.
IT was Cardona's practice, when he visited Weston, to let the commissioner begin the conversation.
Cardona had learned that his superior was both impulsive and impatient. When Weston had questions, he
asked them. Cardona had become wise enough to govern his replies along lines that were close to the
commissioner's train of thought.
Thus Cardona waited for a full minute while Weston stared in his direction. The detective knew that a
question was coming. He wanted to hear it. At length the commissioner snapped his inquiry.
"Anything new on Apprison?"
"Nothing since my last report," replied Cardona.
Weston fingered a sheaf of papers on his desk. He nodded slowly as he considered Cardona's
noncommittal answer. Then, with his characteristic brusqueness, he gave an order.
"Let me have the details to date." he said..
Joe Cardona repressed a smile. This was an old trick of the commissioner's. Weston had a habit of
digesting every detail of a written report; then demanding a verbal resume. He was quick to catch any
variance that might occur. Cardona's way of meeting this was to make verbal reports concise.
"At eight o'clock last Wednesday night," declared the detective, "Hubert Apprison was in the study of his
home on Seventy-fifth Street. With him was his secretary, Jonathan Blossom. Mrs. Apprison was
entertaining guests downstairs.
"Shots were heard. The guests hurried upstairs. They found Jonathan Blossom lying dead, on the floor of
the study. In his grasp was the top portion of a letter addressed to Hubert Apprison. It bore a
date-Tuesday-and Apprison's name and address with the words 'Dear Sir.'
"Hubert Apprison was gone. Evidently intruders had entered by the back stairs, had seized Apprison and
carried him away. The letter which Apprison had received was probably important, for most of it had
been torn from Blossom's grasp.
"The important evidence was the presence of thumb and finger prints upon the portion of the letter that
Blossom held. These have been examined"-Cardona paused to bring photostatic copies from his
pocket-"and have proved to be the impressions of a former confidence man named Peter Laffrey-known
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THEBLACKFALCONMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEBIGSHOT.?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWSPEAKS.?CHAPTERIII.CRIMEFOREWARNED.?CHAPTERIV.THECOMMISSIONER'SPLAN.?CHAPTERV.THESHADOW'SMOVE.?CHAPTERVI.THEBLACKFALCON.?CHAPTERVII.THEABDUCTION.?CHAPTERVIII.THEPROVINGCLE...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：83 页 大小：205.35KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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