Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 038 - Master of Death

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MASTER OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO SMILED
? CHAPTER II. A TRAVELER RETURNS
? CHAPTER III. DEATH UNOBSERVED
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW SEES
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW'S DISCOVERY
? CHAPTER VI. VELDON SMILES AGAIN
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW LEARNS
? CHAPTER VIII. DEATH WINS AGAIN
? CHAPTER IX. CLEWS ARE LINKED
? CHAPTER X. THE FIRST REPORT
? CHAPTER XI. A STRANGE VISIT
? CHAPTER XII. A TRAP CLOSES
? CHAPTER XIII. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIV. MILLIONAIRES MEET
? CHAPTER XV. MINIONS OF THE FIEND
? CHAPTER XVI. MOBSTERS FIGHT
? CHAPTER XVII. THE LIVING SKELETON
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE COUNTERPLOT
? CHAPTER XIX. THE TRAIL BEGINS
? CHAPTER XX. CRANSTON EXPLAINS
? CHAPTER XXI. CARDONA'S TURN
? CHAPTER XXII. WITHIN THE WALLS
? CHAPTER XXIII. FIEND VERSUS SHADOW
CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO SMILED
"STOP beyond the corner, driver."
The taximan swerved toward the curb as he crossed Sixty-sixth Street and stopped free of the
Broadway traffic. The passenger, leaning forward with his face beside the window, smiled as the cab
halted at the designated spot beyond the corner.
Opening the door, the man alighted and paid the driver. He was still wearing his smile. The taxi driver
noted it in the dim light, and gazed askance at the sallow face. There was something about the
passenger's smile which the driver did not like.
As the man pocketed his change, the driver pulled the cab from the curb and glanced back. His
ex-passenger was still standing by the corner, waiting for the flow of traffic to cease.
Even from the distance, the taximan fancied that he could see the ugly leer upon the fellow's face. The
driver shrugged his shoulders, and let the cab roll on. After all, the man had been just another passenger;
yet even this hard-boiled jehu felt a sense of relief to know that he was rid of this fare.
BACK on the corner of Sixty-sixth Street, the smiling man stepped from the curb. A red light had
stopped traffic. The man strolled across the wide thoroughfare, turned toward the nearby avenue, and
walked along until he reached the portals of an unpretentious hotel.
An illuminated sign proclaimed the identity of the establishment: Hotel Garonne. The strolling man entered
the lobby and followed an inconspicuous course to an obscure grill room.
There, he approached a secluded booth, and sat down at the table. An owlish-faced man, seated
opposite, looked up from a menu, then nodded nervously as he recognized the arrival.
The sallow-faced man no longer wore his leering smile. Without it, his visage showed no evil trace. There
was a certain briskness in the arrival's manner, and he addressed the waiting man with a quick, low-toned
greeting.
"Hello, Clussig," he said. "I'm glad to see that you arrived on time."
"I try to keep my appointments, Veldon," returned the owlish individual, as he peered seriously through
large-glassed spectacles. "You said that it was urgent - that I must be here promptly at seven thirty. So I
came a bit ahead of time."
Veldon nodded. A waiter was approaching, so the sallow-faced man picked up a menu and gave his
order. The waiter nodded to Clussig, and the bespectacled man pointed out items on the bill of fare.
As soon as the waiter had departed, Veldon again turned his attention to his companion. He drew a
folded newspaper from his pocket, and slapped it on the table.
"What's the idea of this?" he demanded sharply. "I told you to keep out of print, yet you go ahead and
give this interview."
Clussig grinned sheepishly as he looked at the headline. The heavy-typed words were terse and
commanding of interest. Veldon snorted as he read them aloud:
Research Expert Predicts Era of Electrical Wizardry
"If that's a wise thing to put in print, I can't see it."
"There's nothing harmful in the article," protested Clussig. "I merely told the reporter that many of the
long-predicted electrical developments were already perfected, and would soon be introduced to the
public. I said nothing of my own improvements; in fact, I did not even mention the matter of rays -"
"Not in this interview," interposed Veldon. "But what about the next one? Don't you realize what you've
done? You've put the name of Merle Clussig into the news. Some smart reporter will start to pump you,
and you'll give away the fact that you are associated with Eric Veldon."
"No! No!" returned Clussig. "I'll never do that, Veldon. I understand the need for secrecy."
"Yes?" Veldon eyed his companion coldly. "Well, Clussig, I can read between the lines of this newspaper
story, and I don't like it. I know your purpose. Why try to deceive me?"
CLUSSIG became nervous. His whole manner showed that Veldon had made a pointed remark. Clussig
gazed away while the waiter stepped up with the first course. Then he caught Veldon's steady stare, and
became ill at ease.
"Let's be frank about this," suggested Veldon. "I know your trouble, Clussig. You're becoming impatient.
You want results. Am I right?"
"Yes," admitted Clussig. "Veldon, I've placed a lot of confidence in you. I gave you all my uncompleted
electrical inventions - any improvements on X-ray apparatus - my development of the heat-ray tube - the
screens which I devised to prevent the injurious effects of such rays -"
"And I attended to the proper mechanical construction," interposed Veldon calmly. "Not only have I kept
your devices secret; I have arranged for their promotion. You were broke; I have given you sufficient
money to live comfortably. What more do you ask?"
"I want results!" blurted Clussig. "My devices are worth a large amount of money. Why should their
promotion be delayed longer? You promised results."
"So," said Eric Veldon, in a sarcastic tone, "you decided to force the issue. You deliberately thrust
yourself into print, knowing that a campaign of that sort would gradually bring you into the limelight."
"Why not?" questioned Merle Clussig nervously. "You have kept me buried too long, Veldon. You have
my inventions; you are negotiating with some wealthy person who is willing to back them. Why should I
be kept in the background? Why?"
Eric Veldon waited patiently while the waiter changed the dishes. The sallow man was gazing sternly at
Clussig; and the bespectacled inventor saw the faint traces of a saturnine smile that appeared upon
Veldon's lips.
Clussig sensed that he had invoked the promoter's complete displeasure. He was apprehensive, for he
feared an outburst. Veldon, however, showed no further trace of anger; on the contrary, his manner
became disarming.
"You must not be anxious," purred Veldon. "Remember, Clussig, that the mere perfection of an invention
or mechanical device does not assure the reaping of a monetary harvest. Effective promotion is
accomplished only by waiting for the psychological time.
"I have been paying you what constitutes a retainer's fee. I have been exercising an option on your
inventions. I have not told you the identity of the man with whom I am dealing, nor have I named you to
him.
"I have promoted other inventions in the past. I intend to handle new ones in the future. I am the
important link between the inventor - who thinks oddly in ideas - and the financier - whose trend is
commercial. Direct contact between you and the man of wealth would be disastrous, at present."
VELDON paused emphatically when he had completed his statement. Clussig found himself nodding
unconsciously. The inventor was forced to agree with Veldon's persuasive words. Nevertheless, he put
forth one last feeble protest.
"I understand," he said, "but I cannot forget that you have been telling me this same story for many, many
weeks. I have been constantly looking forward to a satisfactory completion of negotiations, yet the final
result still seems to be distant. Inactivity and obscurity have long been troubling me. That is why I took
advantage of an opportunity to assert myself."
"Very fortunately," returned Veldon smoothly, "you have kept the cat in the bag. You have talked only of
your past experience with no mention of your present activities. That is why I called you and arranged
this important appointment. I see how your little newspaper story can be turned to great advantage."
"How?" Clussig was agog.
"By suiting it to circumstances," replied Veldon. "By a real coincidence, I have arrived at a point in my
negotiations which will enable me to introduce you to the man who intends to finance your improved rays
and screens."
"When?"
"Tomorrow night."
"Who is he?"
"I shall tell you then. There is, however, one proviso. You must work with me to create the impression
that I wish to give the financier with whom we shall deal. There must be no false step between now and
tomorrow night."
"I understand."
"You must understand in full," asserted Veldon. "You must follow my instructions to the letter. First, I
want you to prepare a complete outline of your past activities."
"I can do that tonight."
"Exactly. At the same time, I want you to avoid all communication with newspaper reporters."
"That will be easy."
"I can count upon you for such actions?" questioned Veldon, in a serious tone.
"Absolutely," Clussig assured. "I shall go directly to my apartment when I leave here. There, in my little
study, I shall prepare a complete and accurate account of all my previous experience."
"And if reporters call?"
"I shall be out. I promise you that, Veldon. It is easily arranged at my apartment house. I shall leave word
downstairs that I am out."
"Very good," approved Veldon. "I am relying upon you, Clussig, for everything is now at stake. I intend
to visit our financier this evening, and to arrange tomorrow night's interview. But I warn you, he is a keen
man; if he should gain any notion that you were talkative, he would shy away from the investment.
Secrecy, Clussig! It is essential!"
Clussig nodded wisely as he peered through his thick lenses. He was finishing his meal, and he arose to
leave, apparently impressed by Veldon's plea for careful action and restraint. Veldon stopped Clussig's
departure with a wave of his hand.
Glancing idly at his watch, the promoter began to speak in an easy, genial tone. He talked with the air of
a suave salesman. His purring words brought a glimmer of enthusiasm to Clussig's dull eyes.
VELDON was painting a picture of wealth and fame - a brilliant rainbow which lay just beyond the
horizon. To Clussig, the portrayal was fascinating. During his months of dealing with Veldon, Clussig had
constantly been swayed by promises, backed with small advances of cash. Never before, however, had
Veldon been so convincing.
Once again, the promoter glanced at his watch. The timepiece registered a few minutes before nine.
Pocketing the watch, Veldon arose and extended his hand to Clussig.
"Tomorrow night," he remarked, "I shall meet you here at seven o'clock. You will have the complete
outline of your past creations ready for me?"
"Certainly," returned the inventor. "I shall go directly to my apartment and work upon it there."
"As for money," purred Veldon, "if you need some now" - the inventor paused as he drew forth a roll of
bills, then replaced the cash in his pocket - "ah, well, why should we worry about that until tomorrow?
The deal will be settled then. Wealth will be yours - with whatever advance you may require. Let us
postpone negotiations until that time."
"Gladly," exclaimed Clussig.
The two men walked from the grill room. Clussig, shoulders stooped, but head erect, displayed an
eagerness which was uncurbed. Veldon, speaking softly, still talked suavely of the immediate future.
At the portals of the hotel Garonne, the two men parted. Clussig, after another handshake, scuffled along
the avenue, his footsteps turned toward the side street, which led to his apartment house, nearly a mile
away. Veldon, alone, watched the departing inventor.
It was then that the evil smile again displayed itself upon the promoter's lips. A sneering chuckle came
from Eric Veldon's lips. Turning, the sallow-faced man went back into the hotel, and entered an obscure
telephone booth.
Veldon's watch was dangling from his fingers. The hands upon the dial now denoted the hour of nine. A
low chuckle ended as Veldon raised the telephone receiver; but the promoter's smile still remained.
Despite the expressions of friendliness which he had given, Eric Veldon, now unobserved, showed plainly
that enmity was the dominating factor in his mind. The malice which was evident in his expression
foreboded no good for Merle Clussig.
Indeed, Eric Veldon had all the semblance of an evil plotter, who possessed complete confidence in his
ability to complete the vile scheme which dominated his brain.
CHAPTER II. A TRAVELER RETURNS
NINE o'clock - the same evening, but the scene was a mansion in New Jersey.
The chimes of an antique clock were ringing forth the hour from the mantelpiece above the fireplace, in a
sumptuous living room. As the clear tones ceased, the doorbell rang. A uniformed servant leaped to his
feet and hurried to answer it.
Opening the front door, the servant stepped back to admit an expected visitor. Into the light stepped a
tall man, whose face was momentarily obscured until he had removed his hat and handed it to the waiting
servant.
"Good evening, Mr. Cranston," said the uniformed man, making a bow.
"Good evening, Richards," replied the arrival. "Has everything gone well during my absence?"
"Yes, sir," said the servant. "It will be much better, though, now that you have returned, sir."
"I am glad to hear you express that thought, Richards. Here is Stanley. Help him with the luggage."
The servant stepped forward to assist a uniformed chauffeur who was entering with a pair of heavy bags.
As each man started upstairs, Cranston strolled across the hallway, entered the living room, and seated
himself in a comfortable chair. He smiled as he heard the distant tones that were passing between
Richards and Stanley. He knew that they were talking about this homecoming.
Whenever Lamont Cranston returned to his New Jersey mansion, his arrival constituted an important
event in the affairs of the large household. Lamont Cranston, multi-millionaire and globetrotter, always
maintained his pretentious establishment even during his absence.
His departures and returns were invariably unexpected. Tonight had been no exception. A telegram
received by Richards, the valet, had caused Stanley, the chauffeur, to set out for the Newark airport with
just time enough to meet the millionaire traveler with the limousine.
LAMONT CRANSTON, in appearance, was quite as remarkable a character as his habits would
indicate. He was tall and well proportioned. His hands, though slender and supple, possessed a latent
strength in their long, well-formed fingers.
The most remarkable phase of the millionaire's appearance, however, was the distinctive countenance
which Lamont Cranston possessed. His face was immobile; its features, as though molded by a sculptor's
skill, held a firm, unchanging expression that rendered them almost masklike.
The dominating characteristic was an aquiline nose below a strong, high forehead. From the sides of this
hawklike beak peered eyes that were stern and unflinching. Lamont Cranston's countenance was more
than impassive; it was inflexible.
While Cranston sat motionless, enjoying the environment of his luxurious living room, Richards appeared
from upstairs, bringing a large envelope. The valet approached the millionaire and placed the letter in
Cranston's waiting hand. The valet bowed and retired.
While the clock on the mantel ticked away its minutes, Lamont Cranston opened the envelope. From it,
he drew forth folded sheets of paper. These bore blue-inked notes in what appeared to be a code.
Cranston read them rapidly; when he had finished each note, the writing disappeared from the paper
word by word.
With the notes was a newspaper clipping. This was the same item that Eric Veldon had discussed with
Merle Clussig in the Hotel Garonne. It referred to the inventor's interview concerning the dawning era of
electrical wizardry.
A soft, whispered laugh came from Lamont Cranston's chiseled lips. Like Eric Veldon, the millionaire
was able to read between the lines. He could tell that Clussig's interview had been given with the definite
purpose of creating interest; yet with the definite intention of concealing something more important and
specific than the generalities which were mentioned.
The laugh which had been uttered; the keenness which had been displayed - these were indications of a
personality which differed from that of the idle, blase millionaire. These were the revelations of a
well-concealed identity. This personage who called himself Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow!
The sighing laugh died. Only the ticking of the clock could be heard. The long hand marked the exact
time as seven minutes after nine.
Lamont Cranston arose from his chair. His tall figure threw a long, grotesque silhouette across the thickly
carpeted floor. Swiftly, this transformed being passed through a door, and entered a small darkened
room. He picked up a telephone.
The quiet, almost lazy tones of Lamont Cranston gave the number. Brief silence followed. Then came a
moderated voice from the other end of the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
No longer did the voice of Lamont Cranston occur. It was the whisper of The Shadow which responded
to Burbank's immediate announcement of identity:
"Instructions to Burke." The Shadow's tones were weird, delivered in a peculiar tone, which no one
could have counterfeited. "Go immediately to the home of Merle Clussig, inventor. Request an interview
concerning electrical inventions. Burke to represent himself as Classic reporter."
"Instructions received," was Burbank's reply.
The receiver clicked. The Shadow laid the telephone aside. He stood in total darkness, as though his
present identity craved such somber surroundings.
Quick, deductive thoughts were passing through that acute brain. The Shadow, master of mystery, had
returned from one of his strange journeys. During his absence, his agents in New York had been on
watch for the unusual. That was their duty, whenever The Shadow was away.
RUTLEDGE MANN, a man who posed as an investment broker, but who served as agent for The
Shadow, had spied the unusual clipping which pertained to Merle Clussig. He had forwarded it - with
reports from other agents of The Shadow - to Lamont Cranston's home.
The fact that The Shadow had displayed a prompt interest in the clipping was proof of Mann's capable
service. Divining that Merle Clussig's interview might be a sincere effort to attract public notice, The
Shadow had lost no time in action. He had called Burbank, his hidden contact man.
Burbank, in turn, would notify Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic, to form immediate touch
with Merle Clussig. Clyde Burke, in his capacity as news gatherer, was an active and useful agent of The
Shadow.
A soft laugh sounded in the darkness. That laugh was expressive of The Shadow's thoughts. A master of
darkness who fought constantly with crime, The Shadow possessed the uncanny capability of sensing
when matters were amiss.
Rutledge Mann had probably clipped that news paragraph because he knew The Shadow wanted all
facts concerning new scientific developments. But The Shadow had seen more in the clipping than Mann
could possibly have supposed.
The guarded mirth ended. The Shadow stepped from darkness. He entered the living room. He was no
longer The Shadow. He was Lamont Cranston, multi-millionaire, who found life a bore save when he
was traveling abroad.
Richards was at the door of the drawing room, near the hallway. The valet saw his master approaching.
He stared in surprise as Cranston spoke to him.
"I am going out, Richards," declared the millionaire. "Tell Stanley to bring the limousine to the door. I
intend to run into New York."
"Yes, sir," gasped Richards. "But you have just arrived home, sir" - the valet was staring at the clock -
"just ten minutes ago, sir -"
"I know," interposed Cranston calmly. "But I have some matters to which I must attend. I am going to
New York."
While Richards hurried away to give the order to Stanley, Lamont Cranston entered a closet in the hall.
He drew a small key from his pocket. He unlocked a panel that was practically invisible at the end of the
closet. From this hiding place he drew out a brief case.
Just after Cranston emerged from the closet, Richards returned through the front door to announce that
Stanley was ready with the limousine. Cranston walked from the house, entered the car, and was driven
away. Richards went back into the house, shaking his head.
THE valet could not understand the master. He could appreciate Lamont Cranston's love for travel; but
this habit of coming home unexpectedly, and leaving with such swiftness, was something which Richards
had never been able to fathom.
There was another fact which perplexed the valet. He sometimes felt that Lamont Cranston must be two
beings. There was a quiet, lazy Lamont Cranston, who kept his affairs to himself, but who never
displayed rapidity of action. There was a thoughtful, taciturn Lamont Cranston - as impassive as the first -
who seemed to respond to sudden inclinations.
In his term of service, Richards had noted that the old Mr. Cranston - whom he remembered from long
ago - was invariably the same. The new Mr. Cranston, however, had a way of gazing at people with eyes
that sparkled as though imbued with sudden light. This was the Cranston who had returned tonight, and
who had so characteristically decided to make a quick trip to Manhattan.
Two men - yet both one. That was the decision which held Richards.
The valet had gained only an inkling of the truth. Actually, there were two masters whom he served. One
was really Lamont Cranston. The other - a personage who calmly took his place when the real Lamont
Cranston was absent on a world tour - was The Shadow.
At present, the real Lamont Cranston was in Abyssinia. The pretender was in his place, living in his
home, posing as the millionaire. He it was who had gone away for a short trip by plane, to return tonight.
He it was who had just departed in the limousine with Stanley. The false Lamont Cranston - an
impersonator so capable that his assumed identity had never been suspected - was The Shadow.
The clock on Lamont Cranston's mantel was chiming the quarter hour. In the brief space of fifteen
minutes, The Shadow had entered the mansion, and had again departed. He had answered the call of the
mysterious. His keen intuition had gained an inkling of some hidden motive which savored of impending
crime.
The limousine in which the false Lamont Cranston had set forth was rolling along a side road that led to a
New Jersey highway. Immersed in the darkness of the rear seat, The Shadow was contemplating what
lay ahead.
Clyde Burke would soon be at Merle Clussig's. There the reporter would talk long with the inventor.
Before the interview was ended, The Shadow would be there to view the situation.
Perhaps this night's episode would be productive; possibly it would offer nothing. Yet The Shadow had
an uncanny ability to scent the unusual. He had spotted it tonight, through the newspaper clipping
received from Rutledge Mann.
Long white hands opened the brief case which lay by The Shadow's side. Deft fingers drew forth the
folds of a black garment. The spreading edges of a black cloak moved through the darkness. The
flattened shape of a slouch hat was fitted to a head. Hands gripped the cold steel of two automatics, and
slid the weapons beneath the surface of the cloak.
The features of Lamont Cranston were obscured. The millionaire had vanished. In his place was an
invisible being who could move with the silence of falling night. When the limousine reached Manhattan,
that amazing form would glide forth into darkness.
The Shadow was playing the part that had become himself. Cloaked in blackness, shrouded in mystery,
he was ready for the adventure which lay ahead. He had assumed his own identity.
He was The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. DEATH UNOBSERVED
IT was seventeen minutes past nine when Merle Clussig entered the lobby of his apartment building. The
inventor had walked swiftly for a while after leaving Eric Veldon, then the pace had tired him, and he had
continued at a slower gait.
This apartment house - the Starleigh - was an antiquated place, which had fallen into second-class ways.
The lobby was fitted with chairs which were cheap and uncomfortable; only one of the two elevators was
in operation. All the guests who resided beneath the fourth floor preferred the stairway to the elevator.
There was a little booth in the corner, where an operator took incoming calls. The service was none too
good, for the girl at the switchboard also performed secretarial duties in the apartment office, which
adjoined the lobby. However, when Clussig entered, the young lady was at the switchboard.
The girl observed Clussig's approach. Before the inventor had a chance to speak, she referred to a
scrawled list of pencil marks, and offered information.
"There was a call for you, Mr. Clussig," she said. "I rang your apartment, but there was no answer."
"How long ago was the call?" inquired Clussig anxiously.
"It came in at seven o'clock," replied the girl.
"Who was it?" asked the inventor.
"It was a man calling," returned the operator, "but he left no name or message. He asked me to ring your
apartment, which I did. He said he might call later."
"Was it a newspaper reporter?" Clussig's tone was apprehensive.
"I don't think so," said the girl, with a smile. "Were you expecting one?"
"One!" exclaimed Clussig. "More than one. Several, perhaps. It is very important that no reporters should
see me tonight. Do you understand? None at all."
"I'm sure that this man could not have been a newspaper reporter. Suppose he calls again. Will you be in
your apartment?"
"I shall be there. But tell all reporters that I am out. If that man calls, find out who he is, and notify me. I
can tell you whether or not I want to see him."
"Mr. Clussig is out," said the operator emphatically, as she marked the words on a slip of paper.
"So far as newspaper reporters are concerned," added Clussig.
The inventor started up the stairs. The girl watched him. A perplexed look appeared upon her face.
In all his term of residence at the Starleigh, Merle Clussig had scarcely spoken more than a dozen words
to the operator. The girl had not read the newspaper interview which Clussig had given. Hence she was
at a loss to know why the man had suddenly turned to statements regarding newspaper reporters.
MERLE CLUSSIG, as he climbed the stairs, was apprehensive. The inventor had gained a peculiar state
of mind. Eric Veldon's insistence upon the maintenance of silence seemed well advised, yet there had
been something in the promoter's manner that now caused Clussig worriment.
In reviewing his engagement with Veldon, Clussig saw where he had committed certain errors. First, he
should have insisted upon learning the identity of the financier with whom Veldon had opened
negotiations. Second, he should have insisted upon money from Veldon when the promoter had been on
the point of offering it.
Suppose something should go amiss tomorrow night! Veldon might then declare all negotiations ended.
That would mean no more money, and Clussig was dependent upon the funds which he had been
receiving from Veldon.
This thought was alarming. Clussig was grumbling to himself as he reached the third floor, and paused to
puff after the steep and tiring climb. Clussig turned toward the short corridor at the left. It terminated in a
turn; at right angles was the long passage which led to the inventor's apartment.
Merle Clussig gaped. He stared perplexedly through his thick-glassed spectacles.
Coming directly toward him was one of the oddest men whom he had ever seen. This individual was
short and stocky; his clothes were plain, He had the heavy hands of a brute; his face was coarse, and the
most conspicuous feature was a heavy, protruding jaw that bore pocklike scars.
Yet the man's expression was more startling than his physiognomy. His eyes were dull; they were staring
straight ahead. The color of his face was an unnatural white. The waxen countenance gave the man the
appearance of a living corpse.
Moreover, this stranger's stride was mechanical. His body, though erect, was leaning forward. To
Clussig, the man seemed a human gorilla, with powerful hands ready to grip the throat of any who might
block his path.
For a moment, the inventor was paralyzed; then, responding to an instinctive desire for flight, he turned
and sidled along the corridor at the right. Glancing over his shoulder as he neared the angle in the
passage, Clussig saw the apelike man enter the doorway that led to the staircase. He waited until he was
sure that the intruder had descended. Then, with furtive footsteps, Clussig hurried to his own apartment.
Once he had reached his little living room, Clussig shuddered. He felt safe behind the locked door;
nevertheless, the recollection of that corpselike fellow in the hall was something that troubled him.
Clussig was positive that he had never seen the man previously. Perhaps he was a new tenant who had
only recently taken an apartment on this floor. The thought brought a new shudder. Clussig did not relish
this proximity to such a murderous-looking brute.
摘要：

MASTEROFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEMANWHOSMILED?CHAPTERII.ATRAVELERRETURNS?CHAPTERIII.DEATHUNOBSERVED?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWSEES?CHAPTERV.THESHADOW'SDISCOVERY?CHAPTERVI.VELDONSMILESAGAIN?CHAPTERVII.THESHADOWLEARNS?CHAPTERVIII.DEATHWINSAGA...

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