Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 034 - The Silver Scourge

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THE SILVER SCOURGE
Maxwell Grant
? Maxwell Grant
? CHAPTER I. CRIME BREWS
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER III. THE SILK-HAT CROOK
? CHAPTER IV. CROOK MEETS CROOK
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW STRIKES
? CHAPTER VI. THE DOUBLE CROSS
? CHAPTER VII. MARQUETTE STRIKES A TRAIL
? CHAPTER VIII. A RARE BIRD FLIES
? CHAPTER IX. AT NEW AVALON
? CHAPTER X. HARRY FINDS HIS MAN
? CHAPTER XI. KENDALL GIVES ORDERS
? CHAPTER XII. CROOKS CONFER
? CHAPTER XIII. MARQUETTE SEEKS AID
? CHAPTER XIV. THE GIVE-AWAY
? CHAPTER XV. THE HAND OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SECOND STROKE
? CHAPTER XVII. THE PENALTY OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE GOVERNOR'S PARDON
? CHAPTER XIX. AT THE DEATH HOUSE
? CHAPTER XX. AFTER DEATH
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER XXII. FIENDS AT BAY
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAW OF THE SHADOW
CHAPTER I. CRIME BREWS
THE lobby of the old Hotel Spartan had more than its usual quota of loungers to-night. Cliff Marsland
noted that fact as he sat in one of the broken-down easy-chairs, and carelessly studied the faces of the
others who were present.
To Cliff Marsland, it was evident that crime was brewing. A man of keen intuition, Cliff could scent such
indications. His business here was to watch for them. A week's residence in this dilapidated hotel had
finally brought results.
The loungers in the lobby could see Cliff Marsland as well as he could see them, but his presence excited
no comment on their part. They took Cliff for what he pretended to be - a mobster de luxe, one who was
in the money.
Cliff Marsland's face was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. He possessed firm and
well-molded features. His light hair and flashing blue eyes gave him the look of an athlete rather than a
gangster.
It was Cliff's square jaw and his poker-face expression which earned him the respect of the hoodlums
who frequented this place. Cliff Marsland looked dangerous, and he minded his own business. Those
two qualities placed him among gangdom's elite.
Cliff Marsland was the type of man whom one would expect to find living at the Hotel Spartan. This
decrepit lobby, where the dull rumble of the elevated constantly penetrated from the front street, was a
regular meeting place for tough customers, who had cash, and who possessed a clean bill of health with
the New York police.
Small-fry hoodlums and toughened gorillas shied away from the Hotel Spartan. Smooth racketeers
preferred uptown night clubs and more pretentious lobbies than the one which this old East Side hotel
afforded. The lesser chieftains of the underworld, the strong-fisted lieutenants who served the big shots,
such men chose the Spartan because its location enabled them to keep in close contact with their
underlings.
Gangsters who received real money for their work - the kind who could afford to lie idle until big jobs
came along - found the Hotel Spartan a profitable place to be.
When a guest of the establishment quietly checked out, it was accepted as a sign that he had received a
bid from some big shot who wanted expert service. When that same guest returned, it was assumed that
he had performed his required duties with sufficient precision to avoid suspicion on the part of the police.
CLIFF MARSLAND had, for a long time, appeared as an occasional resident of the Hotel Spartan. He
was known here, and he possessed a reputation as a man of crime.
The suggestion that he might be a detective or a stool pigeon would have brought a laugh. Nevertheless,
Cliff Marsland was actually engaged in a service which was opposed to crime.
He was a secret agent of The Shadow!
Maintaining his calm composure as he eyed another man who was entering the dingy lobby, Cliff
Marsland found his thoughts reverting to the first time that he had met his mysterious chief. The strange
event had taken place in this very hotel.
Out of Sing Sing, where he had served time for a crime committed by another man, Cliff had been made
the goat for the murder of a racketeer. In that emergency, when Cliff had faced death at the hands of the
dead man's henchmen, The Shadow had appeared.
A being garbed in black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat, a mysterious personage who spoke in a
weird and sinister whisper, The Shadow had offered Cliff Marsland safety. In return, Cliff had promised
to serve The Shadow.
Guided by The Shadow, Cliff had fought his way free, while an invisible hand from darkness had shot
down each gangster who aimed to take Cliff's life.
That episode had given Cliff Marsland a reputation as a fighter. With his enemies gone, he roamed the
underworld. Recognized by mobsters, he constantly gained information of coming crimes. Such word
went from Cliff Marsland to The Shadow.
Who was The Shadow?
Cliff Marsland did not know. There were other agents besides Cliff - but all served The Shadow in a
capacity that was purely subordinate. A lone wolf, one who kept his secrets hidden even from his chosen
aids, The Shadow remained a phantom of the night who ceaselessly warred against crime.
Cliff Marsland possessed the happy faculty of engaging in reminiscent thoughts without losing his ability to
observe present happenings. He noticed that there were half a dozen strangers in the lobby, and that all
of them appeared to be gunmen of a subordinate type.
Two of them were standing close together; Cliff was positive that all were associates. They had probably
been hand-picked as men on whom the police had nothing, and were here because some gang leader
planned to use them in crime to-night.
The situation presented Cliff Marsland with a problem. There were several persons living in the Hotel
Spartan who might have use for such a band as this. Soon, the leader would join his henchmen; crime
would then be under way. Before that time, it was Cliff Marsland's job to notify The Shadow, and when
he sent his message, Cliff would be doing best if he could name the man in back of this activity.
The pair of mobsters in the corner of the lobby! They were the ones upon whom Cliff planned to
concentrate. They were talking together now. Cliff arose from his chair, stalked over to the cracked
marble desk, and purchased a package of cigarettes.
Cliff's next actions were deliberate. The Shadow's agent opened the pack, crumpled away the cellophane
wrapping, and flipped it toward an ash stand. He strolled toward the spot where the two gangsters
stood. There, he paused to extract a cigarette. He lighted a match and applied it.
The action was well-timed. Cliff had moved just far enough past the two gangsters to escape their notice.
He was still close enough to catch any words that might be uttered. A low growl came to his ears.
"Think this is all the outfit?" spoke one mobster to the other.
"Maybe a couple more," was the reply.
"Just as good. There ain't nothin' to gain by too many."
"Leave it to Duffy. He's wise. He knows what he's doin' -"
"You bet he does. He ain't tipped nobody to his lay -"
Cliff Marsland kept on. He strolled from the lobby, smoking his cigarette. He reached the street and
turned left, passing by the gloomy, grimy front of the Hotel Spartan. He crossed the street beneath the
rumble of an elevated train, and headed for a cheap restaurant, half a block away.
WHEN he left the Hotel Spartan, Cliff usually went to that eating house. Hence, there was nothing
suspicious in his present action. Behind his steady face, Cliff curbed the elation that he felt. In those
snatches of conversation, The Shadow's agent had learned all that he needed to know.
During his present stay at the Hotel Spartan, Cliff had learned the names of the small establishment's
principal guests. He had located their rooms. He knew whom the mobsters had meant by Duffy. Among
those in the Spartan was a hard-boiled gang leader who kept very much to himself. The man's name was
"Duffy" Bagland.
Reaching the restaurant, Cliff Marsland entered. He went past a long lunch counter and arrived in a back
room. There were tables here, but few occupants. A clock showed that the hour was eight, and the time
for the cheap dinner special was past.
Cliff Marsland sat at a table and gave an order to the sad-faced waiter. The man plopped a glass of
water on the table, and wiped his hands upon a greasy apron.
When the waiter had gone, Cliff arose and strolled to a doorway at the back. Here he stopped in an
improvised telephone booth, where a pay box jutted from the cracked stone wall.
Methodically, Cliff dropped a nickel and dialed a number. The response came in a quiet voice which Cliff
immediately recognized.
"Burbank speaking."
The name as well as the voice was a token of identity. Burbank was The Shadow's hidden contact man -
one with whom The Shadow's agents could communicate at any time.
In brief terms, Cliff Marsland reported what he had learned at the Hotel Spartan. He did not mention the
name of Duffy Bagland. He simply referred to the gang leader as 308. That was Bagland's room at the
hotel.
"Report received," came Burbank's quiet tone. "Await instructions. Call in ten minutes."
Cliff Marsland hung up the receiver. He went back into the rear room of the restaurant. When the waiter
reappeared, Cliff was seated at the table, still smoking a cigarette while he waited for his order.
Minutes drifted by; Cliff, while he ate his meal, was on the alert. The door to the telephone room was
only a few feet away. Within ten minutes, Cliff intended to make another call to Burbank.
Then he would receive the instructions for to-night - the word that would tell him how to cooperate with
The Shadow in forestalling the crime which brewed at Duffy Bagland's bidding.
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW HEARS
STRANGE blue rays were focused upon the polished surface of a table top. Within that circle of light
rested two white hands - long-fingered shapes that seemed to project from nowhere, like living, creeping
things.
Upon a finger of the left hand rested a sparkling gem. A stone of many hues, its deep-tinted colors
changing from deep crimson to sparkling azure, this jewel betokened mystery. Connoisseurs who had
seen that gem had pronounced it as an unmatched girasol, the finest fire opal in all the world.
The hands - the deep-colored girasol which emitted sparks of light - these were tokens of The Shadow.
They gave sign of his presence. The bluish gleam from the lamp told that The Shadow was in his
sanctum.
Only in that one abode did such strange light exist - shafts of gleaming blue that were confined to the
corner of a black-walled room. No eyes other than those of The Shadow were accustomed to that eerie
light, for the location of the sanctum was known to the master alone.
Somewhere in Manhattan - a spot easily accessible, yet impossible to find - there lay The Shadow's
sanctum. This was the weird apartment which The Shadow chose to escape the city's roar and strife, a
secret sanctuary wherein he could plan his mighty campaigns against the hordes of evil.
Envelopes lay upon The Shadow's table. The long white fingers opened them. Sheets of paper were
unfolded - reports from The Shadow's agent. All were written in vivid blue ink; all were inscribed in a
code which the hidden eyes of The Shadow rapidly perused.
After the reading, the written words began to disappear. One by one, in uncanny order, they obliterated
themselves as effectively as if some unseen hand had wiped them out.
Such was the way with the communications which The Shadow used. The disappearing ink took effect
when contact came with air. Any letters that might fall into unfriendly hands would thus prove useless.
Before the simple code could be deciphered, the writing would be gone!
A peculiar instrument rested upon the table, just at the fringe of light. Its ticking was drowned by the
rustling of the papers. A large dial with three circles of numbers, this device served as The Shadow's
clock. It told off seconds as a speedometer marks the tenths of miles.
Each second, by that clock, seemed to be a lingering space of time. Although the hands of The Shadow
moved with ease, their actions, when gauged by the odd timepiece, seemed incredibly swift.
Such was the secret of The Shadow's prowess. He had the ability to pack decisive actions into fleeting
moments, to attempt feats which others would not dare - all because of deft and unfailing precision.
THE inner circles of the clock indicated that the time was shortly after eight. While The Shadow worked,
a speck of light appeared upon the black wall directly opposite the white hands. Fingers crept swiftly
across the table, and returned with a set of earphones. These were carried into the darkness. The
Shadow spoke into the invisible mouthpiece.
The call was from Burbank. The contact man, connected with The Shadow's sanctum, was relaying Cliff
Marsland's emergency report. A whispered laugh chilled the gloomy atmosphere of the sanctum. Then
The Shadow gave brief instructions for Cliff to return to the lobby of the old Hotel Spartan, there to await
direct orders from The Shadow.
The tiny signal bulb faded. The earphones slid across the table. The hands of The Shadow quickly swept
aside the blank papers and their envelopes. A click sounded shortly afterward; the scene was plunged in
darkness.
A slight swish could be heard in the darkness of the sanctum. It was the rustling of The Shadow's cloak -
the sound that betokened his departure.
A soft, creepy laugh came from invisible lips; it rose to a strident burst of mirth that ended in a host of
echoes that shouted merrily from the walls. The weird reverberations dwindled to ghostly sobs that
persisted as though uttered by a host of ghoulish throats.
When the last faint echo had died, the sanctum was empty. The Shadow had departed.
Swiftly and silently did The Shadow move on his strange excursions through crowded Manhattan. His
course was untraceable after he left the black-walled room that served as his sanctum. Only at intervals,
at widely separated spots, did manifestations occur to give an inkling of The Shadow's passage.
A blot that grew black upon the sidewalk at the lighted corner of an avenue and a side street - a splotch
which faded as quickly as it came - that sign meant that The Shadow had gone by.
A taxi driver, believing his cab to be empty, was startled by the sound of a passenger's calm voice, giving
him a destination.
A bill that fluttered through the window in payment; that was the mark of The Shadow's departure when
the driver reached the appointed spot. The cab itself was empty when the taximan looked within.
A LONG, silhouetted streak of blackness wavered beneath the structure of an elevated station; a
moving, elusive shape passed the front window of the Hotel Spartan. A mass of blackness merged
mysteriously with the darkness of an alleyway behind the hotel.
Unseen fingers dug into the crevices between the bricks of the dingy-walled building. A hand found the
projecting ledge of a window. Slowly, steadily, a shrouded form moved up the side of the wall. The
Shadow was creeping vertically to his chosen destination.
Upon this roughened surface, The Shadow required no special appliances such as the rubber suction
cups with which he could scale the polished wall of a cliff. His ability as a human fly enabled him to rise
steadily until he reached the third floor. There, his black form blotted out the light that filtered through a
yellowish window shade.
Secure upon the ledge, The Shadow worked smoothly and silently. His black-gloved hands wedged a
flat piece of metal between the sections of the sash. The lock turned neatly, and the lower part of the sash
rose under the impulse of a firm hand.
The shade itself trembled so slightly that its motion could scarcely be noticed. A tiny space opened at the
bottom; through it peered two burning eyes.
A man was seated in a corner of the room, his back away from the window. The Shadow knew the
identity of that individual. It was Duffy Bagland, the gang leader whom Cliff Marsland had indicated with
the number 308. The entire plan of this hotel was known to The Shadow. The master of mystery had
been expecting crime to issue from this place.
Duffy Bagland had no inkling that eyes were watching him. Even had he turned toward the window, he
would have noticed nothing but blackness beneath that partly lifted shade. Night was The Shadow's
mask - a shroud that completely enveloped his elusive shape.
Why was Bagland lingering here? His squad of mobsters was in readiness - The Shadow had spotted the
ruffians while passing the lobby of the Spartan. There was one logical assumption; that Duffy Bagland
expected some message.
Minutes drifted by. The Shadow, clinging like a mammoth bat outside the window, shifted his position so
that his tall form no longer blotted out the block of light that indicated the window shade. Eyes from
below would be unable to perceive a figure upon that wall.
A telephone bell rang. Duffy Bagland arose from his chair and stepped across the room. A pudgy, ugly
profile was visible from the window as the gang leader picked up the telephone and growled a greeting.
An evil gin appeared upon the man's rough lips.
"That you, Tim?" Bagland's voice was low, but its harsh tones carried to The Shadow's ears. "Sure. I'm
ready... Yeah... He's got it fixed, eh? Well, it's time he did have... I got you... Up through the steps of the
ballroom - across to the third door on the left... Then through the big room..."
Duffy Bagland paused, and his grin continued as he heard the instructions which came from the other end
of the wire.
"I got you now, Tim... Sure, I'll send the gang ahead... Twenty-one sixteen... The guy has gone out...
Well, if he comes back, it won't be good for him. He'd better stay out... Yeah, we'll post on the fire
tower, too... Diagram waiting in the room, and when we get the ring, we'll know it's all set. Call you to
make sure? O.K. I will..."
The gang leader hung up the receiver. There was no haste in his ensuing actions. He drew open a closet
door, brought out a hat and overcoat, and donned the garments. He opened a table drawer and brought
out a glittering revolver. Still wearing his grin, Bagland packed the gat deep in his overcoat pocket. He
strolled toward the doorway with the air of a man starting out for an evening walk.
ALL the way, the gang leader offered a perfect target for The Shadow, had the waiting watcher chosen
to take action at that moment. The Shadow, however, had no such intention. He had gained only an
inkling of Duffy Bagland's intended crime. He knew that the mob leader must be heading for some hotel
of prominence, there to engage in special crime. To molest him now would be unwise.
The window sash locked softly, and The Shadow's tall form began its precipitous descent.
Down in the lobby, Bagland's cohorts were awaiting the arrival of the chief. Every man in that aggregation
was a murderous gangster, yet all of them were safe from the law at present. The Shadow, when he
warred against crime, preferred to get the criminals red-handed. That would be his procedure to-night.
The Shadow's descent was rapid. His tall form reached the alleyway and entered a rear passage that led
to the lobby. There was a door at the end. The barrier wavered as The Shadow pressed it.
Out in the lobby, Cliff Marsland, reading a newspaper, was secretly noting the arrival of Duffy Bagland,
who had just come down the stairs. But Cliff's alertness also took in the motion of the door beside the
steps.
The Shadow's signal!
Cliff Marsland understood. His head delivered a slight nod, which was the reply. Duffy Bagland strode
across the lobby, and chatted with the clerk; then, with a swagger, he went to the street door, giving no
sign whatever to the congregated mobsters.
Bagland's departure, however, had an immediate effect. One by one, the waiting men strolled from the
hotel. Cliff Marsland, eying them cautiously, could see that they were heading toward the side of the
building. In all probability, they were following Duffy Bagland around the alleyway behind the hotel.
There was no need for Cliff to move. Suspicious eyes might have seen him, had he departed from the
lobby. Well did Cliff know that his aid was not needed at the present. The Shadow had gone from that
passageway. He, the master of darkness, could easily have doubled to the front of the hotel, there to
make sure of the direction which Duffy Bagland had taken.
In this surmise, Cliff Marsland was correct. In fact, The Shadow's agent gained a very good mental
picture of the situation as it now existed.
When Duffy Bagland had left the Hotel Spartan, he had turned the corner, and gone directly toward the
alleyway. He had passed within three feet of a blackened niche in the side wall of the building. Eyes from
that crevice had watched his progress. Those were the eyes of The Shadow!
At the entrance of the alleyway, Duffy Bagland had awaited the arrival of his henchmen. They had come
unobtrusively; they formed a small, well-hidden cluster as they gathered about their chief. Every man in
that crew caught the words which Duffy Bagland growled.
With the last of the mobsters had stalked a strange, fantastic figure - a black form which seemed like a
portion of the night's darkness. That shape was hovering beside the corner of the building when Duffy
Bagland spoke.
Again, to-night, The Shadow overheard the words that the gang leader uttered.
The crowd dispersed. Gangsters slunk away in pairs. Some went through the alleyway; others went along
the street. Duffy Bagland strolled along with the two men whom Cliff Marsland had heard talking in the
hotel lobby.
When the evil outfit was gone, a low, whispered laugh made an uncanny sound at the entrance of the
alleyway. The Shadow, knowing the lay for tonight's crime, needed no more information.
On the telephone, Duffy Bagland had discussed the plans for action at an unknown destination. To his
henchmen, he had said nothing of those final plans; but he had named the hotel in which Room 2116 was
located!
AGAIN The Shadow's form moved silently through the passage to the lobby. Once more, the door
trembled; this time, it moved thrice.
The signal was sufficient. Cliff Marsland arose from his chair, and went up the stairs to the third floor. He
opened the door of his room, which had a window on the alleyway. Cliff turned on a corner light. He
raised the sash of the window, took a few breaths of fresh air and strolled over to a bureau.
Something whistled past Cliff Marsland's ear. It struck the wall with a sharp click, and fluttered to the
floor.
Cliff picked it up - a black envelope of stiff paper. This missile had been projected with the speed of an
arrow from the alleyway beneath, shot by an accurate, unseen hand.
Tucking the envelope in his pocket, Cliff walked back and lowered the sash, then the window shade. By
the light of the corner lamp, he opened the envelope and extracted a folded sheet of white paper.
Coded lines in blue ink greeted his eyes. Cliff read the brief message from The Shadow.
The writing faded. Cliff crumpled the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket. He kept the envelope,
however, because of its unusual color.
Opening the bureau drawer, The Shadow's agent extracted a pair of heavy service automatics and
pocketed them.
Leaving the room, Cliff descended to the lobby and strolled out to the street. It was fully ten minutes
since Duffy Bagland and his men had gone. The action could excite no suspicion at this time.
Cliff went to the nearest elevated station, boarded a train, and rode uptown. He alighted on a
traffic-thronged street, and hailed a passing cab.
"Gargantuan Hotel," was Cliff's order to the driver.
As the cab rolled toward its destination, Cliff Marsland methodically extracted the black envelope from
his pocket, tore the object to pieces, and let the fragments flutter from the window. The young man
smiled grimly to himself.
There would be adventure to-night - adventure in the service of The Shadow. Cliff's brief instructions had
given him a definite duty. He would be ready to aid The Shadow in frustrating a daring but well-planned
crime.
Duffy Bagland, with his mobsmen planted, would soon await the signal for a foray to a goal which he had
not revealed. The Shadow, with one man at his disposal, would be there to meet him.
The odds?
Cliff Marsland again smiled grimly as he contemplated that phase of the situation. With The Shadow's
strategy as the guiding force, numerical odds meant nothing. Cliff was eager for the action which lay
ahead to-night.
CHAPTER III. THE SILK-HAT CROOK
MANHATTAN'S lights made a glorious vista from the eighteenth floor of the Gargantuan Hotel.
Through the open window of a lighted room in the middle of a luxurious suite, two men had an excellent
opportunity to view the glittering sights. They, however, were concerned with other matters.
One man, tall and of medium weight, was standing before a full-length mirror. Immaculately garbed in a
full-dress suit, he was surveying the set of his attire. Finally, he glanced at his own face, and gave himself
a pleasing smile.
His countenance was a handsome one, well formed and featured. Dark-brown eyes peered from beneath
thin black eyelashes. A trim, neatly pointed black mustache added to the man's dapper look.
The other occupant of the room was a stocky, hard-faced fellow who was plainly dressed in street
clothes. A depreciating grin showed upon this man's lips as he watched the mustached man finish his
fastidious preparations.
"Always playing the dude," commented the watcher. "Well, it's your business, Silky. Stick to it."
The handsome man turned from the mirror, and spoke sarcastically as he viewed his heavy-set
companion.
"It's my business," he declared, "and it shows a profit. Maybe you could get into better money, Tim, if
you tried to play a part. But that mug of yours - say, I wouldn't keep you as a valet two minutes if I didn't
need to have you around on this job. You're a giveaway. Come over here!"
"Silk" grabbed the stocky man by the shoulder, and drew him to the mirror. Both were standing so that
they could survey their own faces. The contrast was evident
"A fine pair," jeered the man who wore the dress suit. "Silk Elverton and Tim Mecke. One a gentleman;
the other a roughneck - if you go by appearances."
"But both of us crooks," growled the rough-faced man.
"Certainly," retorted Silk. "You've hit it exactly, Tim. Appearances count, particularly when they are
meant to deceive. Look at the situation we are in right now. I'm going where the swag lays - like a
gentleman. I couldn't take you along with me on a bet, even as a servant."
"I got by as your valet when we came in here."
"You did that. By keeping your mouth shut and managing not to laugh when I referred to you as my man.
Well, I had to bring you along, and we're checking out to-night."
Silk Elverton slipped a cigarette in a holder. He applied a match; then picked up a light coat and a silk
hat, which lay upon a chair. Dropping the coat over his left arm, Silk donned the hat and pointed toward
the corner.
"Come, Timothy!" he said, in an affected tone. "You must be more prompt, my man. Bring me my
walking stick! Be quick!"
TIM MECKE laughed as he picked up a gold-headed cane and handed it to Silk Elverton. The
rough-faced fellow who posed as valet pro tem stared at the high hat which rested neatly upon Silk's
head.
"No wonder they call you Silk," he commented. "That shiny topper - say, it's nifty, all right. You've got
the real idea, this smooth-crook business. You don't have to convince me."
"All right," returned Silk, in a brusque tone. "Let's get this straight, now, Tim. You opened up 2116 with
that phony key. Duffy and his mob will get in there all right. The diagram I made is waiting for them, eh?"
"Right."
"You stick here. I'll fix everything. I'll buzz you when it's set. Then I'll ring the room where they are. If
there's any hitch up at the convention, I'll tip you off. Then you can slide up to 2116 and put Duffy wise."
"You don't think there'll be any trouble?"
"Probably not. I looked over the lay last night. But I'm not taking any chances. Have everything packed
so we can leave after I come back. Taking the steamship back to jolly old England, you know."
"A good stall."
Silk Elverton smiled at Tim Mecke's last words. Putting his cane in his left hand, Silk tapped his right hip
pocket, to make sure that he had a small revolver.
"Say," he remarked, "I wish I could tell those goofs I was a duke or a baron or what not. But it would be
too risky. I'm just Ronald Elverton to them, but that's big enough. They're all tickled to have a swanky
Britisher at this convention. You ought to see the saps when I start to drawl about dear old London."
"You look like an Englishman, Silk."
"Why not? I wouldn't pretend to be one if I couldn't play the part. Listen, now when I come back, we
move out with dignity. After that, you can scram and join up with Duffy Bagland. You're the go-between,
and I'll lay low until I hear from you - with my cut out of the haul."
"You'll get it, Silk."
Silk's eyes flashed as he stared at Tim Mecke.
"You're right I'll get it," he said coldly. "There's nobody ever stopped me from getting what I worked for.
Well" - Silk's lips formed a smile, and his voice altered its tone - "I'm waggling along. Cheerio!"
Jauntily, Silk Elverton strolled from the suite. He adjusted a monocle to his right eye, and carefully
arranged the ribbon which led from the glass to his pocket. He stopped at the elevators, and boarded an
upward-bound car that stopped for him.
Nods of greeting came from several men who were in the elevator. These were staid businessmen of
middle age, who, like Silk, wore evening clothes. The difference lay in the fact that Silk's attire seemed
natural to him, while the others gave the impression of being ill at ease in their regalia.
"Ballroom floor," announced the operator.
The occupants of the car stepped out. Silk Elverton went to a checkroom and left his coat, hat, and cane.
Still wearing his monocle, he placed a fresh cigarette in the holder, and strolled toward a room at the end
of the corridor.
THE ballroom occupied the center third of this floor; to-night, it was closed. The corridor which Silk
摘要：

THESILVERSCOURGEMaxwellGrant?MaxwellGrant?CHAPTERI.CRIMEBREWS?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWHEARS?CHAPTERIII.THESILK-HATCROOK?CHAPTERIV.CROOKMEETSCROOK?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWSTRIKES?CHAPTERVI.THEDOUBLECROSS?CHAPTERVII.MARQUETTESTRIKESATRAIL?CHAPTERVIII.ARAREBIRDFLIES?CHAPTERIX.ATNEWAVALON?CHAPTERX.HARRYFINDSHISMAN...

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