Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 041 - The Killer

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THE KILLER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. AT THE PIER
? CHAPTER II. THE MINES OF DURANGO
? CHAPTER III. THE SECRET LIST
? CHAPTER IV. THE MEXICAN SAILS
? CHAPTER V. MEN SPEAK OF DEATH
? CHAPTER VI. MULLRICK MOVES
? CHAPTER VII. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER VIII. FROM THE MARQUEE
? CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND LETTER
? CHAPTER X. ONE THREE SEVEN EIGHT
? CHAPTER XI. THE POISONED PIN
? CHAPTER XII. THE THIRD LETTER
? CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN ON LONG ISLAND
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SPOKEN CLEW
? CHAPTER XV. UNDER COVER
? CHAPTER XVI. THE FINAL CLEW
? CHAPTER XVII. IN THE TOWER
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE CAPTURE
? CHAPTER XIX. THE ACCUSATION
? CHAPTER XX. THE GRAY FEDORA
? CHAPTER XXI. ONE AGAINST SIX
CHAPTER I. AT THE PIER
BILLOWS of heavy fog were swirling from the North River. The low-hanging clouds that had swept
Manhattan with an early evening drizzle were dipping to meet the waters of the harbor.
Trapped smoke which could not rise amid the moisture-charged atmosphere, added a smudgy tone to
the thick mist. The fog seemed a living monster. From its depths came the hoarse, raucous blasts of
steamship whistles, accompanied by the high-pitched, staccato blares of tugboats. These penetrating
sounds, their sources invisible, gave the fog a weird existence that might well have been its own.
Moreover, the fog possessed a motion. The piers along the Manhattan river front broke its creeping
mass; from the rifts thus caused came little swirls of dense mist that resembled the clutching tentacles of a
mammoth octopus.
This illusion was most apparent upon the lighted stretch of the Central American Shipping Pier. Powerful
incandescents, set at regular intervals, seemed feeble as they battled against the blotting inroads of the
fog. One gust of thick cloudiness stretched its enveloping folds completely along the pier; it cleared
reluctantly, and left spots of misty blackness that dispelled themselves like vanishing ghosts.
A dock worker, pushing a trunk truck along the pier, stopped suddenly to stare at an obscure corner
where a patch of fog was melting like black smoke. The truck pusher's jaw dropped. His hands became
momentarily inert.
In the center of that dissipating mass the man had seen a pair of burning eyes, fixed upon him in a steady
gaze!
As the dock worker managed to grip the handles of the trucks the weird hallucination ended. Only
shadowy blackness remained where fog had been. There was no further sign of the brilliant orbs. They
had vanished with the haze, as if some phantom creature had returned to the spaces from which it had
materialized.
The dock worker moved along. He shuddered as he threw a quick glance back over his shoulder. His
footsteps dwindled with the squeaking roll of his truck. Then, from that obscure corner came a sighing
sound, a soft, throbbing laugh that was audible only in the proximity of the spot where it was uttered.
OUT of the blackness stepped a figure. A phantom shape of blackness, it moved along the pier with
silent stride. Its form became evident as it stopped between two piles of boxes. Revealing light betrayed
its characteristics, but none of the men upon the dock could see it because of the stacked boxes.
Even under flickering glare, the creature which had come from the blotted corner seemed more spectral
than human. Tall, motionless, this being was a statuesque form clad entirely in black.
A long cloak of sable hue hung from hidden shoulders. Hands were garbed in thin black gloves. The
upturned collar of the cloak hid the face of the personage who wore it. The broad brim of a black slouch
hat completely obscured the upper portion of the apparition's features.
Strange though this shape appeared, there were men in New York who would have known its identity
had they been present at this spot. Evil men would have recognized the masterful personage, but they
would not long have lingered had they been here to view the spectral being.
The figure clad in solid black was The Shadow. Mysterious master of darkness, he was one who warred
with crime. Where evil brewed, The Shadow appeared. Silent, invisible in motion, The Shadow was the
most dreaded force that battled with the hordes of New York's underworld.
Many had heard of The Shadow; few had seen him. Minions of crime who had met him eye to eye had
never lived to tell the details of such meetings. The Shadow, when he watched, was a fleeting shape of
blackness. The Shadow, when he struck, was a being of wrath who came from darkness and returned to
it when his work of justice was accomplished.
What was The Shadow's purpose on this North River pier? Only The Shadow knew, and the soft tones
of whispered mirth that came from his hidden lips were the token of The Shadow's readiness. Those
throbbing touches of mockery were the echo of shrill blasts which came from the whistles of panting
tugboats, just beyond the pier.
Pale lights revealed a massive bulk that came swishing slowly inward. Spattering wavelets licked greedily
against walls of steel. A large steamship, its twenty thousand tons exaggerated by the effect of the fog,
was being warped beside the pier.
Cleaved fog billowed. The ship seemed to cut the atmosphere as it did the water.
As mist swirled everywhere, The Shadow stepped from behind the boxes. His tall form glided toward the
edge of the pier, swerving with the eddies of blackened mist, unnoticed by any human eye. The Shadow
reached a large post near a light. There his form merged with the darkness. Stationed invisible, The
Shadow could see all that happened within the sphere of flickering illumination.
Cries along the dock. Men were mooring the liner. A gangplank clattered from the side. Sailors
appeared. Their hats bore the wording that named their boat - the steamship Yucatan.
Luggage was coming from the ship. Suitcases and trunks, lettered with identifying labels, were stacked
upon the pier. Customs officials were ready. Passengers appeared upon the gangplank.
THE SHADOW'S piercing eyes were steadily turned toward one stack of luggage that lay beneath a
placard which bore the letter "M." The pile of baggage was no more than a dozen feet from the post
where The Shadow stood. The invisible watcher had chosen this vantage point with definite purpose.
Two men walked into the light. One, his overcoat buttoned tight against the chilling mist, was tall and
stoop-shouldered. His face set beneath the brim of a gray fedora hat, showed him to be an individual of
determination. At the same time, his quick, shrewd glances marked him as one who had the ability to
keep his own plans to himself. Even in the dim light, the man's visage showed a tan that could only have
been gained by long sojourn in southern climes.
The other man who approached the pile of baggage was obviously a Mexican - the servant of the first.
He was short, squat, and placid of manner, but his face showed the crafty steadfastness that betokened
Indian ancestry. The man was a mestizo - one of the inter-racial group that make up the bulk of Mexican
population.
A customs officer approached the pair; simultaneously a ship's officer hurried from the gangplank and
approached the customs man. He offered words of explanation to the government agent.
"This is Mr. Mullrick," said the ship's officer, pointing to the tall man with the buttoned overcoat. "Harland
Mullrick. The Mexican is his servant man, Pascual. All the luggage is together."
The customs officer returned a mumbled reply. He conversed with the ship's officer, then nodded and
began an examination of the baggage. Evidently all had been arranged for Pascual's entry into the United
States.
The examination completed, the customs officer applied the necessary labels. Mullrick's luggage was
loaded on a truck. With Pascual at his heels, the tall man walked along the pier.
The Shadow followed. His fleeting form became a thing invisible as it swerved to the very edge of the
pier and glided along beside the black hulk of the Yucatan.
There were hundreds of eyes upon the ship and the pier, yet not one pair viewed the phantom that
traveled almost through their midst. When The Shadow had reached the bow of the ship, he was ahead
of Mullrick and Pascual. There, against the blackened wall of the passenger room, he swung inward
toward the gate, where Mullrick's baggage was being checked for its customs labels.
The small truck that carried trunks and bags was between The Shadow and the customs checker. As
Mullrick, Pascual, and the official watched a dock worker push the truck through from the pier, The
Shadow, with a stooping glide, swept forward and passed the watchers under cover of the luggage.
Beyond the gate, The Shadow reached an obscure spot among a row of motor trucks.
Peering from darkness, The Shadow surveyed a man who had alighted from a taxicab. This individual
was a hard-faced fellow of medium height, who wore a heavy overcoat and leather gloves. He was
looking for someone coming from the gate.
The Shadow's piercing gaze, turned toward Mullrick and Pascual, found the same objective which the
waiting man had chosen. As Mullrick advanced, the man from the taxi grinned and peeled off his right
glove. He sprang forward to shake hands with the passenger from Mexico.
"Hello, Jerry," was Mullrick's greeting. "Thought you'd be here. I see you have a cab."
"Sure thing," returned Jerry. "I didn't want to chance you missing me by calling my hotel."
MULLRICK turned to Pascual. He spoke to the servant in a mixture of Spanish and English, finishing his
remarks by indicating the man who had come to meet them.
"Senor Herston," explained Mullrick. "They say 'Mr. Herston' here in New York. Savvy, Pascual?"
"Si, senor," responded the impassive servant. "Senor Herston. He ees Meestaire Herston. He ees the
man you have call Jerry."
"Right," commended Mullrick. "What about the luggage, Jerry?"
"I'll give them the address," responded Herston. He walked to the dock man who stood beside the truck,
and wrote an address on a large sheet of paper. "You can arrange for the delivery?" he questioned.
The attendant nodded. Herston handed him a tip.
The man laid the sheet of paper on a trunk and fumbled in his pocket for tags to attach to the various
pieces of baggage. Mullrick and Pascual were on their way to the cab. Herston turned to follow them.
A gloved hand came from darkness. Creeping forward, it plucked the sheet of paper from atop the
trunk. The eyes of The Shadow read the address which Jerry Herston had written. "Apartment 4H,
Belisarius Arms," a street address in the Nineties; this was the information which The Shadow gained.
The shipping man had found his tags. He looked for the sheet of paper. Not seeing it on the trunk, he
looked toward the flooring. As his glance went downward, the sheet of paper suddenly crept upward,
projected by an invisible hand. It again lay upon the trunk. Standing up, the dock man noticed it. He
scratched his head as he laid the tags beside it.
How that paper had gone and returned was a mystery to him. He wondered if his eyes had deceived him.
His eyes, again, were missing something. They did not see the obscure form that dwindled off toward the
street beyond the pier. The Shadow was making his departure.
The taxicab had gone. The Shadow had seen it turn up the broad avenue which follows the North River.
Again, The Shadow's form was momentarily in view as it passed beneath a light, then it faded.
A MINUTE afterward, a trim coupe pulled away from a parking space, and took the direction in which
the cab had gone.
Guided by a driver whose form was lost in its interior, the coupe whirled northward, picking spots
through the occasional traffic, gaining swift headway as it neared the incline leading to the elevated
express highway along the river front.
Its motor humming, the coupe shot by a taxi that was on the upper highway. The Shadow's sparkling
eyes glimpsed the occupants of the cab. Harland Mullrick, Jerry Herston, Pascual - the trio formed a
silent group. The Shadow's laugh came softly as his coupe sped ahead.
A meeting at the dock; three men riding to an apartment; The Shadow already cognizant of their
destination. There could be but one answer to the situation. The Shadow had an interest in the affairs of
these three.
When The Shadow sought the answer to a problem, it was because he scented impending crime.
Stealthy and invisible, he had a way of discovering secrets which would enable him to work in the cause
of justice. A lone wolf who battled crime, inspired by reasons of his own, The Shadow used methods
that baffled all who encountered him.
There was a reason for the meeting between Harland Mullrick and Jerry Herston. When they reached
their destination, these two men would discuss affairs. That conference would be illuminating. Therein lay
the cause for The Shadow's speed.
When Harland Mullrick and Jerry Herston talked together, they would be in the presence of an unseen
listener. Whatever passed between the two would be known to The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE MINES OF DURANGO
THE Belisarius Arms was an old, but well-kept, apartment house that represented a former era in
Manhattan building construction. Access to the upper stories was gained by means of an automatic
elevator, which opened in the center of a corridor on every floor.
Apartment 4H was at one end of the dimly lighted fourth-floor corridor. Its identifying figure and letter
gleamed from a dark panel in shining brass that was visible from twenty feet away. This door, the
entrance to 4H, awaited the arrival of Harland Mullrick and Jerry Herston.
A slight swish sounded in the corridor, yet no figure was visible along the dark walls. The first
manifestation of a living form was when the mark 4H on the door was suddenly blotted from view.
Only at close range could anyone have distinguished the outline at the door. The Shadow had reached his
destination in advance of those who were coming by cab.
Something clicked in the lock. Its sound was muffled. Under the probing of a steel pick, the lock turned.
The door opened. The Shadow entered the apartment.
A tiny flashlight began its inspection. A ray that sometimes dwindled to the size of a gold piece, then
widened to a moonlike circle, guided The Shadow in his search of the premises.
Nothing escaped The Shadow's keen eye. The furnished living room, the bedrooms adjoining, the
kitchenette and its compact closet: all these came under observation. The arrangement of the doors and
windows was something which The Shadow studied. Every means of outlet from the apartment was
discovered by the investigator, every passage from one room to another was studied by hidden eyes.
The Shadow's light fell upon a telephone table in the corner of the living room. An instant later, the ray
disappeared. The Shadow's keen ear had detected the arrival of the man from the taxicab.
With a soft swish denoting his quick turn in darkness, The Shadow headed directly toward the door of
the apartment, into a little entry that connected the door with the living room.
Seemingly, The Shadow had gone to the one spot where discovery would be certain when the others
entered. Such, however, was not the case. As the door of the apartment opened inward, The Shadow's
tall form slipped behind the moving barrier.
JERRY HERSTON entered. He turned on a light in the entry. A single ceiling lamp showed the faces of
Herston and his companions. Harland Mullrick and Pascual joined the man who had entered.
"Shut the door, Pascual," ordered Mullrick, speaking in Spanish to his servant.
As the menial reached forward to obey, Jerry Herston opened a door at the side of the entry. The edge
of this barrier overlapped the large door which gave entrance to the apartment. Hence when Pascual
closed the door through which the arrivals had come, the figure of The Shadow still remained unseen.
The silent investigator was behind the door which Herston had opened.
"Here's the clothes closet," remarked Herston. "We can hang our hats and coats in here. Get the things
out of the way."
The Shadow had anticipated this action. Boldly, he had chosen the entry as his hiding place. As Mullrick
and Pascual hung up their hats and coats, Herston waited. He heard Mullrick speak to the Mexican.
Pascual responded and entered the living room. He found the light and switched on the illumination.
"Just an old Mexican custom," remarked Mullrick, with a laugh. "It will do well in New York, too. I
always send Pascual in ahead of me to make sure that the place is empty."
Herston grunted understanding as he hung up his coat and hat. It was plain that Herston recognized some
reason for caution in Mullrick's actions.
As Mullrick entered the living room, Herston turned to follow him, and with the same motion swung the
closet door shut. As Herston reached the living room, The Shadow's tall form moved after him; then
stopped as it reached the archway between the entry and room. Here, from a new vantage point, The
Shadow could remain unseen.
IN the light of the living room, Harland Mullrick and Jerry Herston seated themselves and lighted
cigarettes. Neither man observed the long streak of blackness that extended from the entry across the
carpet of the living room. That patch of ominous darkness was the only visible token of The Shadow's
presence.
The opening statement of the conversation came from Jerry Herston. It was something in the nature of a
query, although Herston took the answer for granted.
"Everything went well, I suppose," said Herston. "When you wrote me that you were coming back from
Mexico City, and wanted an apartment here, I figured you had made out as you expected."
"Yes," returned Mullrick suavely. "I am more interested, for the moment, to learn what you have been
doing in New York."
"The same old game," returned Herston. "Picking up jobs here and there -"
"With any complications?" interjected Mullrick.
"None," assured Herston.
Mullrick's gaze was steady. He was watching Herston's face to make sure that his companion was not
bluffing. Satisfied, Mullrick leaned back in his chair.
"Jerry," he said, "I have work for you. I can't run risks, however, by employing a man who may be in
wrong with the police. So far as your connections with the underworld are concerned, I can see definite
advantages. But if you have been implicated in any trouble during my absence -"
"Not a bit of it!" broke in Herston emphatically. "Listen, Mullrick, I can get anything I want from the big
shots. Anything. That's because I keep away from crime. You know what I do for them. When they want
a little private detective work done, they don't pop in on an agency. They come to me. They know I can
keep mum."
"Exactly," responded Mullrick. "I know it, too. That's why I have used you for previous investigations. I
just wanted to be sure that you hadn't stepped over the boundary line during my absence. I may need
you for various purposes, and when the pinch comes"
"I'll be Jerry on the spot. I can give you anything, including alibis. I know the ways of these New York
dicks. I only ask you one thing, Mullrick. Give me the whole lay right at the start. If I know what's been
doing in Mexico, I can work better when you need me."
"I'm coming to that," declared Mullrick, with a slow smile. "I'm satisfied now that I can count on your aid
from the start. So here's where we begin."
Mullrick arose abruptly and went to the telephone. He called a number, and Jerry Herston heard his end
of the conversation.
"Hello," said Mullrick. "Tribune Hotel?... Room 918. Hello... Hello... Ah, is that you, Santo?... Mullrick
speaking... Yes, here in New York... I have an apartment, listed in my name... In the lobby, yes...
Belisarius Arms. That's it. Right away. I'll expect you..."
Mullrick hung up the receiver. He turned to face Jerry Herston. He noted the quizzical look upon the
ex-detective's face.
Mullrick smiled as he sat down. He produced a large sheet of paper from his pocket, and unfolded it
upon a small table. Jerry Herston found himself staring at a map of Mexico.
"We have a few minutes," explained Mullrick. "In that time, I shall give you the inside information. Look
at this map, Jerry. Here is the state of Durango."
"You were there?" questioned Herston in surprise. "That's a long way from Mexico City -"
"I was in Mexico City," interposed Mullrick quietly. "My business, however, had to do with affairs in
Durango. That, Jerry, is one of the richest portions of all Mexico. The mineral content of its mines is
fabulous."
Herston's eyes gleamed as they stared at the map. The man listened intently as Mullrick continued.
"THIRTY years ago," said the man who had come from Mexico, "the Mexican government located the
famous lost mines of Durango, which had been covered up by Indians during the Spanish conquest. The
mines were regained during the period in which Porfirio Diaz ruled Mexico as virtual dictator. Diaz wisely
decided to keep their discovery unknown until the time should come for their development.
"The mines were watched by secret agents. When the Diaz regime was overthrown in 1911, the agents
remained loyal, and retained their posts, confident that Diaz would be restored to the presidency. Mexico
was in chaos. No one sought to ferret out this little group of men.
"In 1915, however, Pancho Villa gained partial control of three Mexican states: Sonora, Chihuahua, and
Sinaloa. One of Villa's lieutenants penetrated from Sinaloa into the neighboring state of Durango. There,
by pure accident, the roving bandits found and massacred the small Diaz garrison which still protected the
lost mines of Durango."
Mullrick's finger was upon the map. It indicated the shield-shaped state of Durango, and ran along the
border between Durango and the Pacific state of Sinaloa.
"At that time," resumed Mullrick, "General Obregon was battling Pancho Villa. The bandits who had
located the lost mines cut back toward Sinaloa, were engaged by Obregon's forces, and were wiped out.
The few who were not killed in skirmish were executed by firing squads. However, certain of Obregon's
soldiers learned that they had found the fabled mines.
"A few months ago, the Mexican government began to investigate this old story of the lost mines. The
present government is opposed to granting concessions to foreigners. Hence, when I arrived in Mexico
City and offered to exploit the lost mines, my proposal was rejected until I played my trump card."
Mullrick paused and looked at Herston. The ex-detective stared in a puzzled manner.
"Your trump card?" he questioned.
"Yes," announced Mullrick. "In return for the concession I promised to tell them the exact location of the
lost mines of Durango!"
"You did!" exclaimed Herston. "But how - where did you learn -"
"The location of the mines?" questioned Mullrick, with a smile. "That, Jerry, is a matter of speculation. I
do not know exactly where those mines are located, although I have information which might aid me in
finding them. I gained a six months' option from the Mexican government. If, within that time, I can place
my finger on that map and touch the exact spot, I shall be worth millions of dollars as my share of the
concession!"
"Why are you here, then?" asked Herston "It seems to me you should be in Mexico - in Durango -"
"Looking for the mines?" interrupted Mullrick. "Not a bit of it! That would merely be an exposure of my
doubts. No, Jerry, the clew to those mines lies here in New York!"
"In New York? How?"
"OLD Porfirio Diaz," explained Mullrick, "placed a great deal of confidence in Americans. He never
feared that they would sell him out to other Mexicans, because he was all-powerful. He knew they could
never cut in on his possessions, because they were foreigners. Hence any men who might have known
the secret of those mines would probably be Americans. That was my assumption."
"But why," demanded Herston, "wouldn't such Americans go to Mexico and treat with the new regime?"
"Because," returned Mullrick, with a knowing smile, "Mexico was extremely unhealthy for those who had
once been friends of Diaz. Until the present government took hold, there was no opportunity; and when
the opportunity came, the present government announced that it would not deal with foreigners in the
granting of concessions. Hence those who knew have lain low. It remained for me to show the necessary
enterprise. I gained the option while others slept."
"But you must depend upon them to -"
"If I can find one man who will tell me what I want to know, I shall offer him inducements in return for
information. One is all I ask."
"How will you find him?"
"That has already been done."
"Through whom?"
"Through the man with whom I just conversed by telephone. Luis Santo is his name. He is an investigator
whom I sent from Mexico City. He has learned the identities of certain individuals who can give me
information. Santo is going back to Mexico. The rest remains for me to accomplish."
"With my aid?"
"With your aid - when needed."
There was a pause. Harland Mullrick folded his map of Mexico. He lighted a cigarette, and his lips
formed a hard, stern smile. Jerry Herston showed a knowing grin. The ex-detective believed he knew
how he could be of aid to Mullrick.
"Come!" Mullrick arose suddenly and led Herston to a doorway at the side of the living room. "Here is
where you are to stay. I want you to listen to my interview with Santo. Give me your opinion later on."
The living room was momentarily empty. It was then that the figure of The Shadow appeared. Swiftly, the
black-clad listener came in from the entry. He glided to a spot beyond the telephone table. His figure
dwindled until it melted with the wall.
Hardly had The Shadow stationed himself at his new post before Harland Mullrick came back into the
living room. He had placed Jerry Herston in a vantage point; now he was accompanied by Pascual.
"When Senor Santo arrives," said Mullrick, speaking in Spanish, "bring him in here. You understand,
Pascual?"
"Si, senor," replied the servant.
"You may come in and out," continued Mullrick. "Santo will expect that. He knows that you are my
servant -"
Mullrick's sentence ended. Someone was rapping at the door. With a gesture to Pascual, Mullrick
dropped into a chair and lighted a cigarette. Pascual started toward the door as the knocking was
repeated.
Harland Mullrick smiled. He would converse with Luis Santo. The Mexican investigator would not know
that someone was listening in to the talk. Mullrick was thinking of Jerry Herston's presence.
Not for an instant did it occur to him that another unseen listener might be here! Whatever Jerry Herston
might overhear at this important interview would be known to The Shadow also!
CHAPTER III. THE SECRET LIST
WHEN Pascual opened the door, a slender, dapper man entered. He was swarthy in complexion; his
pointed mustache, black as his hair, gave him a foreign look. This was Luis Santo, the Mexican
investigator.
Santo bowed and extended his hand as he approached Harland Mullrick. The American returned the
clasp and motioned Santo to a chair. Seating himself, Mullrick uttered a single word:
"Begin."
Santo threw a nervous glance toward Pascual. He looked at Mullrick inquiringly, doubting the advisability
of talking over important matters before the servant.
"Speak English," suggested Mullrick. "Pascual does not understand the language sufficiently to follow it."
"Very good," purred Santo, in perfect English. "Your language will serve our purpose, Senor Mullrick. I
have been using it exclusively since my arrival in New York."
Mullrick remained passive. It was obvious that Santo did not suspect the real reason why Mullrick had
decided that English should be used. Jerry Herston, listening from the other room, would not have
understood Spanish, had he heard it.
"I have made good my promise, senor," announced Santo proudly, his face gleaming with a smile. "In
Mexico City I told you that I, with my knowledge of government affairs, could locate those who were in
Durango during the regime of Porfirio Diaz. I have found them, senor. They are four."
"Ah!" exclaimed Mullrick.
"Their names," continued Santo, "are here. This list tells all of them. Each you will see, senor, is from a
different walk in life. For instance -"
Mullrick held up his hand. He took the sheet of paper and studied the names, which bore notations under
them. He nodded as he read.
"I have given you the names," remarked Santo. "I have given you the addresses where they can be
reached. More than that, senor, I have told you how each came to be in Mexico."
"I am reading it, Santo," reminded Mullrick. The Mexican remained silent, watching Mullrick's rigid face.
As he looked at the list, Mullrick held it close in front of him and studied it word by word. The list read:
ROY SELBRIG, Commander Apartments, New York City.
Former soldier of fortune. Served as officer with troops
commanded by General Alvaro Obregon during suppression of Villa
insurrection of 1915. Later deserted to revolutionary group. Fled from
Mexico in 1916. Living on small income left him by legacy.
BURTON BLISSIP, 960 Calaban Avenue, Buffalo, New York.
Retired mining engineer. Located in Mexico until 1911. Went to
South America after overthrow of Diaz government. Returned to United
States two years ago. Limited income.
SIDNEY COOPERDALE, Kewson, Long Island.
Archeologist. Spent several years in Mexico prior to fall of Diaz
regime. Later joined expedition in the East. Eccentric person.
DONALD GERSHAWL, New York City.
摘要：

THEKILLERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ATTHEPIER?CHAPTERII.THEMINESOFDURANGO?CHAPTERIII.THESECRETLIST?CHAPTERIV.THEMEXICANSAILS?CHAPTERV.MENSPEAKOFDEATH?CHAPTERVI.MULLRICKMOVES?CHAPTERVII.THEMEETING?CHAPTERVIII.FROMTHEMARQUEE?CHAPTERIX.THESECONDL...

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