Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 042 - Mox

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MOX
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE DEAD LINE
? CHAPTER II. MURDER DISCOVERED
? CHAPTER III. THE INVESTIGATION
? CHAPTER IV. THE BROKEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER V. THE STROKE OF TWELVE
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW MOVES
? CHAPTER VII. TRAILS CONVERGE
? CHAPTER VIII. IN THE HOUSE
? CHAPTER IX. CARDONA TAKES A TRIP
? CHAPTER X. THE SECRET ROOMS
? CHAPTER XI. WEIRD VISITORS
? CHAPTER XII. CARDONA DRAWS A TRUMP
? CHAPTER XIII. THARBEL COUNTERS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW ENTERS
? CHAPTER XV. THE TEST
? CHAPTER XVI. CARDONA'S TEST
? CHAPTER XVII. DEATH INTERRUPTS
? CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH RETURNED
? CHAPTER XIX. CARDONA'S PLAN
? CHAPTER XX. BEFORE MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XXI. THE FATAL HOUR
? CHAPTER XXII. DOOM DEFERRED
? CHAPTER XXIII. CARDONA LEARNS
CHAPTER I. THE DEAD LINE
THE green glass shade of the desk lamp threw a greenish, ghoulish glare upon the man who was seated
at the desk. A twitching face betrayed the nervous thoughts of the man, a trembling hand that clutched a
pen showed the fear that dominated his actions.
With shaky, fitful effort, the man placed the point of the pen upon a long sheet of lined yellow paper. As
he leaned toward the desk, his face showed more plainly in the light.
It was a pointed face—a peaked countenance that betokened a glib, persuasive talker. Under the
present circumstances, however, terror alone was registered upon that pale-hued visage.
A clock was ticking on the desk. Set on a swivel, it was turned slightly upward, so the man could watch
it as he wrote. The clock marked the time as ten minutes before midnight. Glancing from paper to clock
and back again, the man inscribed these words:
Statement of Schuyler Harlew.
A pause. Schuyler Harlew leaned back in his chair, aghast. His expression was that of a man who had
taken an irretrievable step. A short, fearful gasp came from Harlew's lips, as though he expected the very
walls of the room to collapse about him. He threw a worried glance in every direction.
The room was small and plainly furnished. The door was locked. The solid transom was closed above it.
A high window, one of a pair which swung inward on hinges, was partly opened, so a slight draft came
upon Harlew's right shoulder.
As he turned about in his chair, Harlew leaned toward the window. He rose slightly to reach the level of
the sill. He listened intently, then peered out into the night.
Blackness dominated the vicinity. The room, three stories up, was above the level of the low houses on
the other side of the street. In the distance, beyond the area of taller houses several blocks away, hung
the dull glow of a great metropolis.
To any one familiar with New York City, that illumination and the direction from which it appeared,
would have been sufficient to locate the spot where Schuyler Harlew was now situated. The house which
contained this little room was located somewhere in the upper section of New York City—the Bronx.
Satisfied that no strange sound from outside might be a warning, Schuyler Harlew turned back to his
desk. He held the pen more firmly. Beneath the line which revealed his name he wrote these startling
words:
To be delivered to The Shadow.
As before, Harlew rested back in his chair. On this occasion, his lips ceased twitching. Their restlessness
was replaced with a smile of satisfaction. The writing of that name, The Shadow, brought confidence to
the nervous man.
THE SHADOW!
Known everywhere as a superbeing who battled against fiends of crime, he was one to whom those who
knew of evil deeds could turn. A grim avenger, who stalked forth upon his missions enshrouded by night
itself, The Shadow was always prepared to throw his might in favor of those whom danger threatened.
No one knew The Shadow's real identity. No one knew where The Shadow could be reached. But
Schuyler Harlew seemed satisfied that The Shadow, with all the power at his command, would certainly
learn of this message, should it fall into the hands of any other than enemies.
Why not? Everything seemed possible to The Shadow. Millions knew his voice, for it had been
broadcast. His exploits were legend. His raconteur had told the world of amazing episodes in the career
of this master battler against crime.
Criminologists had stated that The Shadow, marvel of darkness, was, in himself, the great controlling
agent who entered the endless war between crime and justice. When the depredations of evildoers
seemed to outweigh the strength of the police, The Shadow was invariably thrust into the balance, upon
the side of the law.
The Shadow might be anywhere; at times, he seemed to be everywhere. He scented crime of insidious
purpose with the instinct of a bloodhound. He arrived at scenes where crime threatened with the speed of
a hurricane. He struck with the power of a giant. A lone wolf who battled crime, his hand never failed.
Schuyler Harlew had considered these facts. To him, as he began to write, it seemed positive that the
message would reach The Shadow. Imbued with confidence, Harlew began a rapid scrawl underneath
the heading of his statement.
Death threatens me. I know that death has been the lot of others. I know that death will continue. I have
been a fool. I have aided a monster in his schemes of death.
Harlew paused. His lips began to twitch. His eyes, steadying upon the words that his hand had written,
saw the name of The Shadow emblazoned on the paper. Harlew's hand steadied.
Midnight is the hour that the monster chooses. At midnight, he has talked with me. He has given me
instructions and the time that I must return. I obeyed him in the past. I always returned to his hidden
abode until one day ago; then I gained courage. I did not keep my appointment with my fiendish master.
The little clock on the desk showed five minutes before twelve. Harlew's teeth grated with determination.
Feverishly, he resumed his writing.
To fail in my appointment with this evil master held one penalty— doom. Sure doom, within twenty-four
hours after such failure. I have risked my life. I have hidden. Less than five minutes remain before
midnight. Once that dead line is passed, I shall be safe—for I shall know that the fiend has not found my
hiding place.
I have been afraid to write my statement. I have begun now that I may be finished, when midnight comes.
I dare not betray him until I am sure of safety. As soon as my little clock tells me that midnight has
passed, I shall write the monster's name.
Then I shall post this letter—or leave it here—which, I cannot decide. I can think more sanely, once I
know that I am free. This letter must reach the one to whom I have addressed it. He, alone, can meet and
defeat the monster. Once I am safe, I shall flee.
The clock showed one minute before twelve. Its measurement of time was precise; for it had a little
second hand which was just starting on the final minute. Watching the clock, Harlew wrote
mechanically— he inscribed an involuntary thought upon the paper:
One minute: then the name:
Pen poised in hand, Harlew watched the second hand mark off its tiny portions of time. Each second
seemed endless to this man who had forgotten all else in his anxiety to make sure that he would escape
the doom he feared.
Fifteen seconds; twenty. Harlew was a living statute. His eyes were bulging as they stared at the clock.
His breath came in long, inaudible puffs.
Thirty seconds. Harlew remained rigid. He was fascinated by the slow upward journey of the tiny pointer
that seemed to hold its course while life lay in the balance.
At fifteen seconds before twelve, an involuntary trembling caught Harlew's frame. At ten seconds before
the hour, the shaking had increased to a palsy.
Five seconds to go. Harlew's face was twitching in fierce contortions. Four seconds; three; two;
one—the pointer of the second hand reached the high spot, just as the minute and hour hands together
formed an upright bar directly to the number twelve.
Midnight! The dead line!
To Schuyler Harlew, all hope clung to that single, lingering moment. Every hand of the clock seemed
immobile; even the pointer that showed the seconds seemed reluctant to budge a hair's breadth from its
position.
Then Harlew's eyes saw space. The second hand had moved. As a gasp came from the maddened man's
lips, the pointer seemed to swing downward in a merry, care-free journey, like a motor car that had
labored over the crest of a terrific hill.
The dead line had been passed! The clock showed it!
Shrieks of laughter came from Harlew's lips. He was gleeful as he watched the friendly second hand,
clicking off bits of time which now seemed released. Five seconds; ten seconds, fifteen—
Hunching upward in his chair, Harlew arose with the air of a man about to sign a momentous document.
He was holding the pen firmly; although his wrist seemed weak, it was through joy, not fear. Placing his
left hand on the sheet of yellow paper, Harlew jabbed the pen point downward.
A dab of ink upon the paper. That was all. A wild gasp came from Harlew's lips; the sound of sudden
anguish. The man's stooped body straightened upward. The pen dropped from Harlew's helpless hand. It
clicked against the face of the clock, which now marked twenty seconds past midnight.
Harlew threw his hands toward his back. His fingers clawed helplessly. The stricken man circled as he
staggered toward the door. Desperately, he clutched at the key; it came loose from the lock and fell.
Harlew swayed. His legs collapsed. He sprawled headlong upon the floor, arms in front of him.
His hands reached weakly as though they sought the pen which lay upon the desk. Harlew tried to gasp a
name.
With a final effort, he brought his left hand flat to the floor, one finger—the little one—doubling
underneath the palm. His right hand thudded as it formed a loose fist. With an effort, Harlew brought it up
and down; this time, across his left wrist.
From that instant, Schuyler Harlew did not move again. Protruding from the center of his back was the
instrument that had caused his death—a long, thin-bladed knife, pointed like an ice pick, with a
cylindrical handle no thicker than a spool of cotton thread.
As the last gasp came from Harlew's bloated lips, the little clock upon the desk told the time that death
had taken. The long hand had reached one minute after midnight. The tiny indicator had clicked off ten
seconds more, on another downward run.
Like a knell for the man who had met his doom came a distant, booming chime. Its dongs resounded in
slow, funereal tone, as though they, not the knife blade, had been responsible for the end of Schuyler
Harlew.
One—two—three—the strokes continued. The final toll ended the count of twelve. That distant clock,
accurately set, had marked the midnight hour. It also, on this night, signaled the dead line which Schuyler
Harlew had feared. It told the limit of the time which the threatening fiend had given to the man who had
planned to betray him.
Schuyler Harlew was dead, his body contorted, his hands and arms in a peculiar twist. The yellow paper,
Harlew's message to The Shadow, still rested on the desk. Beyond it was the little clock which had
played so great a part in Harlew's hopes and fears.
The little timepiece ticked on and on, the only object that seemed alive within this room of death.
Schuyler Harlew had set it only a few days before. He had supposed then that its time was accurate.
In that supposition he had been wrong. Thus had his actions been guided by a false belief. The booming
tones of the distant chime had tolled the solemn truth.
The little clock on Schuyler Harlew's desk was seventy seconds fast!
CHAPTER II. MURDER DISCOVERED
IT was early the next evening. At headquarters, Detective Joe Cardona was seated alone at a desk.
Cardona, known as an ace detective, was at present in a special capacity. He was Acting Inspector
Cardona, serving in place of Inspector Timothy Klein, who was confined to his home by illness.
There was one thing which both rankled and pleased Cardona. Since Inspector Klein had gained a state
of convalescence, it was Joe's duty to report constantly to his superior. The acting inspector had no
reason to resent this condition that had been imposed upon him; indeed, Cardona would have willingly
kept Klein informed of the details which took place at police headquarters.
But Cardona had a hunch that Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, through visits to Inspector Klein,
was keeping tabs on what Cardona was doing. This was why Cardona felt uneasy. He knew that he
rated high with Weston; at the same time, he felt an inferiority complex so far as the commissioner was
concerned.
Weston—to use Cardona's own mental phraseology—had the "Indian sign" on the star detective. A
keen, dynamic sort of man, the police commissioner had more than once expressed the opinion that
Cardona relied too much on hunches. So far as Weston was concerned, Cardona preferred to let him
judge by results rather than by actual observation of Cardona's working methods.
The tingle of the telephone bell presaged something important. Cardona lifted the receiver, grunted a
hello, and began to make notations on a slip of paper as he listened. His hieroglyphics recorded,
Cardona hung up the receiver. He waited a few minutes, then, with a grim look, went back to the
telephone and called Inspector Klein.
"Just got a call from Mowry's precinct," informed Cardona. "Murder up there. Man dead in a rooming
house in the Bronx. Told them to hold everything until I got up there."
"Unusual circumstances?" queried Klein's voice.
"Yeah," returned Cardona. "Guy stabbed in the back; third-floor front room. No way anybody could
have got into the place, and out again. Besides that -"
Cardona paused thoughtfully. Klein's voice came promptly over the wire.
"Well," added Acting Inspector Cardona, "the guy left a note. I want to see it. May be something
important. It's addressed to The Shadow -"
"To The Shadow?" Klein's question was a surprised echo.
"Yeah," admitted Cardona, "to The Shadow. So they told me from the precinct. I'll call you after I get up
there, inspector."
Cardona hung up the receiver with a bang. He was angry; and with reason. He could see trouble when
this news reached Commissioner Weston.
JOE CARDONA, during his career as detective, had seen positive proof of The Shadow's prowess. In
fact, Joe owed his life—not once, but several times —to The Shadow's intervention.
Yet always, Joe had seen The Shadow only as a mysterious being, garbed in black, or in a disguise that
veiled his true features.
The mention of such a personage in Cardona's reports had aroused the ire of Commissioner Weston.
According to the commissioner, The Shadow—until he could be given a more tangible identity—must be
regarded as nothing more than a myth.
A letter to The Shadow!
If such a note were important, it would be best to let it reach The Shadow somehow. But to give it to
reporters would be a great mistake. Commissioner Weston's antagonism would be aroused. Reporters,
to Cardona, were both bane and blessing. He hated their interference; he liked their commendation,
when it appeared in print.
Looking toward the door, Cardona found an answer to his very thoughts. Smiling from the frame of the
doorway was a young man about thirty years of age, light in weight, and almost frail in build, but whose
face showed both experience and determination. Cardona recognized Clyde Burke, reporter of the New
York Classic.
"Hello, inspector," greeted Burke, with a friendly wave of his arm.
"Lay off that inspector stuff," growled Cardona. "I'm Detective Cardona— Joe to you."
Rising as he spoke, the detective faced the reporter. There was a contrast between the two. Burke's face
was tapering; his blue eyes and frank smile were disarming. Cardona, with square jaw, swarthy
countenance, and glowering eyes of deep brown, was harsh and outspoken. Forty pounds heavier than
Burke, though the two were of a height, Cardona showed a challenge as he stepped toward the reporter.
"Did you hear me talking on the telephone?" he demanded.
"Couldn't help it, Joe," returned Burke.
"What did you hear me say?"
"Something about a murder up in the Bronx. A letter in his room. Addressed to The Shadow -"
"Yeah?" Cardona's fists clenched, then opened. "Well, Burke, you're a good egg. I asked you what you
heard, and you told me. You couldn't have heard anything else, because that's all I said."
"What of it, Joe?" queried Burke. "I'm a friend of yours. All I want is the story—if it's a good one—the
way you give it to me."
"O.K., Burke," growled Cardona. "You're one news chaser that I can count on. Listen. I don't want this
to go out until I've been there. I'm going up to the Bronx, but I'm not taking you with me. If you blow in
of your own accord, all right. Here's the address; you could probably get it up at Mowry's precinct
anyway.
"But this Shadow business is out. Understand? They're holding everything until I show up. When I give
out a statement, The Shadow may be out of it. I don't want anything getting in the Classic that I haven't
handed to you. The commissioner has been calling Inspector Klein; maybe he'll be calling him to-night.
There are some things I've got to be cagey about. This is one of them."
"I understand, Joe," nodded Burke. "Leave it to me. I won't give the office anything until after you've
looked over the lay. I'll just call them and tell them I'm going to the Bronx. Count on me, Joe."
The reporter sauntered from the office as Cardona prepared for his trip to the northern section of the
city. Outside of headquarters, Burke entered a cigar store, and went into a telephone booth. He called a
number.
A QUIET voice answered him. It was not the voice of the man at the city desk in the Classic office. It
was a voice, however, that Burke expected to hear. Over the wire came this statement:
"Burbank speaking."
"Burke reporting," returned Clyde in a cautious tone. "Murder in the Bronx. Dead man left a message to
The Shadow."
"Continue with details."
Clyde tersely told all that he had gleaned from Joe Cardona. His report finished, the young man hung up
and walked from the cigar store. He headed for the nearest subway station to begin his ride to the
address where murder had fallen. He intended to be there—as reporter for the Classic—when Joe
Cardona arrived.
Yet Burke had another purpose. He was anxious to see that letter, even though he would not print it in
the Classic. For Clyde Burke's call to the quiet-voiced man named Burbank was of more importance
than any news which might be gained for the columns of a newspaper. Clyde realized that as he walked
along the street.
Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. Veiling his operations by his connection with the Classic,
Clyde was always on the lookout for situations such as the one which had just arisen. Burbank, the man
whom Clyde had just called, was The Shadow's contact agent.
Through Burbank, The Shadow could be quickly reached. The mysterious master who battled crime was
always in communication with Burbank. Thus Clyde Burke's statement regarding a dead man's message
to The Shadow was already on its way to the one person who would find it most important: The
Shadow, himself!
The quickness of The Shadow's system was evidenced by activities which Clyde Burke could not
witness. In a small, secluded room, a man was seated at a lighted table. He was wearing ear phones; a
lighted switchboard was set before him. The man's back was toward the darkened room. This was
Burbank, contact agent for The Shadow.
Burbank pressed a switch. A light glowed. There was no response. Burbank pulled out the plug. He had
just made a connection over a private wire to The Shadow's sanctum, the mysterious abode where The
Shadow spent many secret hours. The lack of response showed that The Shadow had left the sanctum.
Methodically, Burbank made a regular telephone connection and dialed a number. There was a reply. A
speaker announced that this was the Cobalt Club. Burbank inquired for Mr. Lamont Cranston. Shortly
afterward, an even voice came over the wire:
"Hello. This is Mr. Cranston."
"Burbank speaking," declared The Shadow's agent.
"Report," came Cranston's voice. Burbank relayed Clyde Burke's message. Quietly and methodically, he
conveyed its entire substance. The reply was a final tone:
"Report received."
AT the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston stepped from a telephone booth and appeared in the lobby. He
was a tall man, with firm, well-chiseled features. There was something about his face—its inflexibility,
perhaps—that made it appear like a mask superimposed upon the countenance beneath.
Known at the Cobalt Club as a multimillionaire globe-trotter, Lamont Cranston was a notable member.
The Cobalt was one of the most exclusive clubs in New York; to hold prestige there was a sign of real
social importance.
Attired in immaculate evening clothes, Lamont Cranston formed an imposing figure as he stood in silent
meditation. A thin smile had appeared upon his carved lips, his eyes seemed to burn as they stared
toward the outer doorway. The most remarkable feature of this distinctive person was—strangely—his
shadow.
Where Cranston's form eclipsed the light from the floor, a long shade appeared. Jet black in hue, it lay in
clear-cut outline; a grotesque shape that terminated in a perfect silhouette!
That splotch of blackness was a symbol. It marked the true identity of this tall personage.
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow! Within a dozen minutes after Clyde Burke had gleaned important
information for his chief, almost before Joe Cardona, in his role of acting inspector, had started for the
Bronx, The Shadow was acquainted with the fact that an unknown dead man had left a message for his
perusal.
In the part that he was playing—that of Lamont Cranston, gentleman of leisure—The Shadow showed
none of the swiftness which so characterized his usual actions when crime was in the wind. Club
members, passing through the hotel lobby, nodded in greeting to Lamont Cranston, as the tall millionaire
stood puffing a cigarette in apparent unconcern. It seemed that Cranston had an appointment with some
one, and intended to keep it.
A MAN of pompous bearing strode into the lobby of the Cobalt Club. His shoulders were erect, his
arms were swinging in a somewhat military manner. The doorman spoke and bowed. The newcomer
glanced about the lobby in a rather brusque fashion. He noted Lamont Cranston. His face lighted and a
smile appeared upon his dominating face.
"Ah!" exclaimed the arrival. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cranston! I was detained at my office; in
fact, I found it necessary to leave word that I could be reached here while dining with you."
"So I supposed," returned Cranston, with a quiet smile.
"How so?" inquired the arrival, in a tone of surprise.
"Because," said Cranston, "there was a call for you. I answered it. I managed to get the gist of it,
commissioner."
The last word revealed the identity of the newcomer. This man, who had arrived to dine with Lamont
Cranston, was none other than Police Commissioner Ralph Weston!
"A call!" interjected the commissioner. "In reference to -"
"To a murder," interposed Cranston, in his easy manner. "It appeared to be from a police
inspector—from his home—the name slips me -"
"Klein?"
"Ah, yes. Inspector Klein. He has received a report from an acting inspector—I believe the name is
Cardona -"
"Yes. Cardona." Weston was impatient.
"Cardona has started to a house in the Bronx." Cranston drew a slip of paper from his pocket. "This
address, commissioner. A man was murdered there, it appears. Cardona is going to investigate.
Inspector Klein seemed anxious that you should be there also."
Weston snatched the paper and studied it. A doubtful expression appeared upon his face. With a
penchant for crime solution, he was anxious to find a way of postponing this dinner engagement with
Lamont Cranston. The multimillionaire supplied the answer.
"So I arranged," remarked Cranston, "to have my limousine available. It is outside. I should be glad to
ride with you to the Bronx if you feel that our dinner might best be postponed."
"Excellent," declared Weston warmly. "I shall accept your invitation. Let us go at once."
Lamont Cranston called for hat and coat. With Commissioner Weston, the millionaire strode from the
Cobalt Club. A limousine drew up to the curb. They stepped in.
Commissioner Weston was elated at this turn of events. A showman by nature, a man who regarded his
office as a unique position, Weston was pleased at the opportunity to take along so unusual a companion
as Lamont Cranston.
The millionaire, in turn, wore a placid smile that Weston did not detect. The police commissioner had no
inkling whatever to Lamont Cranston's real purpose in extending this invitation. He did not know that the
supposed telephone message from Inspector Klein was a mere pretext.
Weston thought that Lamont Cranston was serving him. The contrary was the case. Weston was serving
Lamont Cranston. In his guise of an influential millionaire, The Shadow was traveling to find the message
which Schuyler Harlew had left for him.
The Shadow's passport on this unusual mission was the police commissioner of New York City!
CHAPTER III. THE INVESTIGATION
"HERE'S the body, inspector."
Joe Cardona grunted his response to the policeman who spoke the words. The officer had just swung
open the door of the third-floor room. Cardona was staring at the form of Schuyler Harlew, spread upon
the floor.
"We haven't touched anything," declared the policeman. "There's the letter on the table."
"All right," growled Cardona. "Captain Mowry told me all about it. He'll be up here in a minute."
A heavy man in the uniform of a police captain came up the stairs a few moments after Cardona had
spoken. He stopped at the door beside the detective, and stood silently while Cardona studied the body.
This was Captain Mowry, in charge of the precinct where the murder had taken place.
Cardona entered the room. He noted the light still burning in the green-shaded lamp. He saw the little
desk clock. He observed the note that lay on the desk. He began to read it.
He was reaching forward to pick up the paper when he heard the sound of new footsteps on the stairs.
He swung inquiringly toward the captain.
"I left word no one was to come up," announced the police officer. "Go ahead; I'll see who it is."
As the captain looked down the hall, Cardona stepped to the door. He saw the captain salute and step
back a pace.
Peering from the room, Cardona saw the reason. The star detective repressed a scowl as he recognized
Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
"Hello, Cardona," was the commissioner's greeting. "Just heard from Inspector Klein that you were up
here. You have met Mr. Cranston?"
Cardona nodded. He had met the prominent millionaire, and knew Cranston as a friend of Weston's.
Cardona submitted to the commissioner's intervention with good grace. It paid to be friendly with
Weston, as Cardona had learned, and now that the commissioner was here, there was nothing to do but
accept the fact.
"Go right ahead, Cardona," ordered Weston. "Don't let us disturb you. Mr. Cranston and I are here
purely as interested spectators."
CARDONA resumed his study of the body. He received a sheet of notes from the captain. He referred
to them as he crossed the room, and peered through the narrow space of the window. Carefully noting
the exact position of the hinged sash, he opened it farther and thrust his head through. He peered down a
sheer wall three stories to the street. Withdrawing his head, he closed the sash part way to its original
position.
He went to the desk, read the page of notes that he held, then picked up the yellow sheet upon which
Schuyler Harlew had written. Turning to Commissioner Weston, Cardona made his statement.
"This man was living here under an assumed name," he said. "He called himself David Gurgler. His real
name, according to this statement that he left, is Schuyler Harlew."
"When was he murdered?" inquired Weston.
"He had been staying here for three days," announced Cardona. "He was paid up for a week in advance.
He called down the stairs for his meals; they were brought up to him. To-day, the landlady supposed that
he had gone out for lunch. When dinner time arrived, she knocked at the door. It was locked. Harlew
did not answer.
"The landlady—Mrs. Parsons—called for the police. The door was opened with a pass-key. Harlew
was presumably slain last night. If this note is reliable, we can set the time at midnight."
Cardona handed the note to Weston. The commissioner, holding the paper so that Cranston could see it,
began to read. He stopped upon the second line. As Cardona had expected, an angry look appeared
upon Weston's face.
"Is this a hoax?" demanded the commissioner.
"I don't know, sir," responded Cardona. "I was informed at headquarters that the note was here on the
desk. I was just reading it when you arrived."
"Hm-m-m," commented Weston. "The Shadow. Any document that refers to an imaginary being is
摘要：

MOXbyMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEDEADLINE?CHAPTERII.MURDERDISCOVERED?CHAPTERIII.THEINVESTIGATION?CHAPTERIV.THEBROKENTRAIL?CHAPTERV.THESTROKEOFTWELVE?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOWMOVES?CHAPTERVII.TRAILSCONVERGE?CHAPTERVIII.INTHEHOUSE?CHAPTERIX.CARDONAT...

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