Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 017 - The Five Chameleons

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THE FIVE CHAMELEONS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A SQUEALER DIES
? CHAPTER II. MAN WITH A MISSION
? CHAPTER III. FERRET TALKS BUSINESS
? CHAPTER IV. THE MAN OF THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER V. FERRET IS PLEASED
? CHAPTER VI. THE WORK BEGINS
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW PONDERS
? CHAPTER VIII. JUDGE DECIDES
? CHAPTER IX. MAD MURDER
? CHAPTER X. FERRET DISPLAYS CRAFT
? CHAPTER XI. THE BANK CRASH
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW LEARNS
? CHAPTER XV. JUDGE GIVES ORDERS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE FOUR PREPARE
? CHAPTER XVII. JUDGE KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT
? CHAPTER XVIII. EXIT THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIX. BUTCHER ENTERS
? CHAPTER XX. DEACON GETS AN ORDER
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SYMBOL OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XXII. SUNDAY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE VIGILANTE SQUAD
? CHAPTER XXIV. THWARTED CRIME
? CHAPTER XXV. JUSTICE WINS
CHAPTER I. A SQUEALER DIES
"THE SHADOW!"
The hoarse, frightened cry came from a man who cowered beside the wall of the little room. His beady,
blinking eyes were staring wildly at a tall form clad in black.
"Yes, I am The Shadow!"
The reply came in a mocking whisper, from unseen lips. A cold pause followed; then the sinister voice
repeated its taunting statement.
"I am The Shadow. I bring you doom, Hawk Forster!"
The cornered crook could only stare in terror. "Hawk" was facing The Shadow, dread avenger, whose
name brought fear to the hordes of the underworld - even to the overlords of crime.
To such rats as Hawk Forster, a meeting with The Shadow occurred only once in a lifetime. The cringing
gangster knew the verdict that now awaited him.
Death!
The Shadow, tall and mysterious, garbed in black cloak and slouch hat, was a stern, inexorable figure.
His countenance was obscured by the upturned collar of his cloak and the tilting slope of his dark hat.
Hawk Forster, blinking nervously, could see only the glow of two penetrating eyes that shone from
unfathomable depths. Those eyes were the sign of doom!
A single arm extended from the folds of the black cloak. The gloved hand held an automatic. The muzzle
of the gun was trained upon the huddled gangster.
THE setting of this strange scene was the squalid room of an old hotel. An open bag upon the floor
showed that the gangster had been about to leave. A doorlike window, with the dim rail of a small
balcony beyond, showed the path by which The Shadow had entered to surprise the fleeing man.
"You fear death." The Shadow's voice was ironic. "You killed two men in cold blood, but you fear death,
yourself. So I shall let you live" - the sudden hope that came in Forster's eyes ended with the next words
- "for a little while!"
The crook chewed his puffy lips. His face had turned white. His eyes were pleading.
The Shadow laughed again - the same sardonic laugh that had announced his presence here.
"Murderer though you are," he declared, "you have a coward's heart. Three nights ago you killed two
men and fled. You were recognized. The police have been searching for you. They could not find you."
"But I, The Shadow, learned where you were hiding. Now, the police have learned of this place. They
are on their way here. Soon, they will arrive."
Hawk threw a frightened glance toward the heavy door. It was his only way of escape. Yet he dared not
move.
The Shadow laughed. The plight of this trapped killer pleased him.
"But unfortunately," resumed The Shadow, "the police do not move as swiftly as The Shadow. Knowing
that you might be planning an escape, I came here to hold you for them. Cowards such as you do not
belong to The Shadow. So you may live - with one goal: the electric chair at Sing Sing."
"No! No!" gasped Hawk. "No! Let me go! I'll -"
His words were interrupted by sounds from the hallway outside the room. A heavy fist pounded on the
strong door. Hawk Forster knelt in quaking silence.
"Open in the name of the law!" came through the door.
The muffled command went unheeded. Hawk Forster shuddered as he crouched against the wall, afraid
to move. The Shadow, silent as a statue, made no attempt to force him.
Sharp blows resounded. Hawk Forster turned his face toward the door. He could see the stout wood
quiver from each blow. Again he faced The Shadow, in the center of the room.
Hawk's pasty face was pitiful. He knew that he could expect no mercy from The Shadow; yet he held
one furtive hope.
"Let me go!" he pleaded. "If you do, I'll tell! Yes, I'll tell what even you don't know! I'll give you the lay
on the biggest game -"
He stopped as The Shadow laughed. The menacing automatic seemed endowed with life as it moved
slowly forward. The glowing eyes were livid. Hawk Forster was learning the menace of The Shadow to
the full.
To The Shadow, Hawk Forster was just another rat of the underworld. Time and again, The Shadow
had trapped creatures of his ilk. They always pleaded for mercy - offered to squeal; to barter with The
Shadow to save their own worthless skins. The Shadow had a way of dealing with them.
"You will squeal?" His voice was a harsh, weird whisper. "Squeal, then! Tell me what you know that I do
not know. Speak!"
The words were a command. They offered no conditions. The Shadow's voice meant doom, with no
escape.
Hawk Forster knew it; but his fear of The Shadow made him speak. Against his will, he squealed, while
the battering at the door continued its mighty tattoo.
"It's a big game!" gasped Hawk. "They've been layin' low until it was ripe. Now it's all set. But before
they start, there's one guy that's due to get his!"
"Be quick!"
The Shadow's command was terse and low as Hawk paused to lick his thick lips and stare in terror
toward the slowly yielding door.
"Dan Antrim" - Forster was gasping what he knew - "Dan Antrim, the lawyer. He's crooked. Mixed up
with the racket. He's a double-crosser! That's why he's goin' to get his. It's comin' from a guy that he
thinks is -"
The words became a terrified squeal as the cowardly gangster saw the door bulge inward under the
impact of a mighty smash. Hawk threw his arms before his face. The Shadow's left hand struck them
down. His burning eyes were close to Hawk's hideous, distorted countenance.
"Who is after Antrim?"
"I'll tell you!" cried Hawk. "A guy I used to know - long ago. He's given me the lay. He's comin' here - to
New York - to get -"
Before the miserable man could continue, the door was lifted bodily from its hinges, and hurled into the
room. It had yielded unexpectedly. As it fell, two men sprawled headlong upon it.
THE SHADOW, never forgetting his purpose here, moved swiftly and silently. In three long, rapid
strides, he was by the window. There, he turned for one quick, parting glance.
Hawk Forster was pouncing forward. The Shadow saw the reason. In front of one of the men who was
clambering from the flattened door lay a gleaming revolver.
The rising man was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force. His gun had shot from his grasp
when he plunged in with the door.
That revolver meant salvation for Hawk Forster. The inrush of the police had ended The Shadow's
opportunity to hear what Hawk knew. Now the menacing figure had departed, and Hawk saw his
chance to thwart the men who sought to capture him.
Hawk's clawing fingers closed upon the revolver. Up came the weapon, before Cardona could reach it
with a futile clutch. The second detective was raising his gun, too late. Hawk's finger was on the trigger of
the revolver. The gangster's puffy lips were snarling their triumph.
As Hawk's finger moved, a shot resounded. It did not come from the gun that the murderer had grabbed.
Instead, the report issued from the balcony outside the window.
The Shadow's automatic had spoken! Hawk's last chance was gone! The revolver dropped from his
hand as The Shadow's bullet shattered his wrist. For a split second, the men on the floor formed an
unmoving tableau.
Hawk Forster was staring at his useless hand. Joe Cardona was sprawled forward, at the end of a
hopeless effort to seize the gangster's arm. The second detective was stupefied as he rested on one knee.
None noticed the curl of smoke that weaved inward from the opened window.
Hawk was the first to act, despite his bewilderment. He shot out his left hand to seize the gun. Cardona
was wriggling sidewise to gain the weapon. The other detective had his opportunity, and used it. He fired
twice over Cardona's back.
Hawk's mad spring ended in a twisting slump. The rat-faced gangster fell sidelong, and rolled upon his
back. His bulging eyes must have fancied that they again saw the black clad figure of The Shadow, for
terror came over Hawk's face as he coughed out inarticulate words.
Cardona heard the utterances, but could not understand them. He did not know that the dying man was
trying to complete an interrupted statement; that Hawk Forster, on the rim of the beyond, was squealing.
Then the eyes closed. The rat-faced gunman was dead.
Joe Cardona, his revolver regained, scrambled to his feet and looked about the room. His companion
sprang forward to look at the dead man.
"Where did that shot come from?" growled Cardona. "Somebody clipped him right when we needed it
most. Wasn't any of us -"
He paused as his gaze took in the opened window. Cardona motioned his companion back toward the
doorway, while he himself slipped along the wall and approached the blackened casement.
True, the single shot had saved Cardona's life; but had the man who fired it intended to aid the detective
or hinder him? Cardona had seen shots like that go astray through strange twists of luck.
While his brother officer, now wary, covered the window, Cardona stepped boldly to the balcony. All
appeared dark outside. Deep fog blanketed the street.
Peering down into the gloom, Cardona made out a balcony on the floor below. Then there was a drop to
the street. A swift, agile man could have escaped that way.
Through the fog, a street lamp showed the sidewalk below the balcony. A uniformed policeman dashed
into the lamplight, staring upward. Evidently he had been attracted by the sound of the gunfire.
Cardona shouted down to him. The patrolman recognized the brusque voice of the detective, the most
widely known of all headquarters men.
"Any one down there?" demanded Cardona.
"No," came the officer's reply.
"Look under the balcony."
"No one there."
"Send for the wagon, then. We've got a dead one up here."
The policeman hurried away toward the patrol box, at the corner. Cardona peered downward; then
shrugged his shoulders and went back to look at the body of Hawk Forster.
IN the patch of light upon the sidewalk, a splotch of blackness appeared. It wavered there while a man
emerged from a spot beside the dark wall of the old hotel.
The darkness disappeared as a tall form flitted across the street and merged with the misty light. Through
the thickness of the fog resounded the tones of a weird, chilling laugh.
Joe Cardona, viewing the body from the window, heard that laugh. It awakened a responsive chord in
the detective's mind. His forehead furrowed as he caught the hint echoes of sinister mirth.
The laugh of The Shadow!
Cardona knew that laugh. It had come to his ears at other times, when he had been miraculously saved
from death at the hands of evildoers. To Cardona, the weird merriment brought enlightenment.
He knew now that he had been brought here by The Shadow. He knew the source of the telephone call
that had told him where Hawk Forster, wanted murderer, could be found.
A quiet voice had spoken to Cardona over the phone - not the voice of The Shadow. But Cardona had
cause to believe that the avenger of crime employed trusted subordinates.
The Shadow! He had spotted, captured and thwarted Hawk Forster, the killer. It was one more token of
The Shadow's relentless war against crime; another blow struck in the cause of justice. Joe Cardona
understood and thought that he knew all.
Cardona was wrong. He did not know that Hawk Forster was a rat who had tried to squeal; that the
murderer had known the schemes of more potent crooks, and had been about to blab them to The
Shadow when the detectives made their premature entrance.
Cardona suspected nothing. Only The Shadow knew that some great crime was brewing. Yet he had
gained only an inkling from Hawk Forster before circumstances had forced him to make a rapid exit.
Danger threatened Daniel Antrim, a lawyer who dealt with criminals. When that danger struck, it would
mark the beginning of rampant crime.
Vile plans were under way! With Hawk Forster dead, none but the schemers themselves knew what the
details were.
Only The Shadow could meet these enemies of the law. To do so, he must learn both source and nature
of the contemplated crime which Hawk Forster's sealed lips could never tell!
Could The Shadow uncover the plot, wherever it might be brewing?
CHAPTER II. MAN WITH A MISSION
THE trim yacht Vesta was plowing smoothly through the mild blue waters of the Gulf Stream. Upon the
rear deck, beneath a widespread canopy, sat four men, dressed in suits of cool pongee.
Glasses clinked in their hands. Often their conversation was broken with ribald laughter. The four
appeared a typical group of pleasure-seekers, with nothing more to do than enjoy to the fullest the
luxurious life of tropical seas.
There was a definite ease of equality about these men; each seemed to possess poise and leadership. In
action, manner, and deportment, they were much alike. Yet in facial appearance and physical
proportions, there were noticeable differences.
The difference became particularly evident during a peculiar ceremony which the men performed. They
were drinking to the health of each in turn - apparently a regular procedure. One man would keep to his
seat as the other three stood and lifted their glasses.
"To George Ellsworth," those drinking the toast first recited in unison, "the best of luck and health!"
They drank and sat down, plopping their empty glasses before the man whom they had toasted.
"Fill them up, Butcher. Fill them up!"
The one called George Ellsworth complied. His manner was characteristic of his nickname, "Butcher." He
was a big, bluff fellow, some forty odd years of age. His face was full, his lips jocular. His fat, beefy hand
gripped the bottle and filled the glasses.
Then Ellsworth rose, and two others got to their feet with him. The fourth of the group remained seated.
"To Howard Best," came the chant, "the best of luck and health!"
Down went the drinks; down plopped the glasses.
"Your turn to fill them, Deacon," said Butcher.
Solemn-faced and taciturn, Howard Best silently filled the glasses, his white, scrawny hands tense. He
was the sober-minded member of the group. The sobriquet of "Deacon" fitted him like a slipper. He
appeared years older than Butcher. Standing next to the huge man, Deacon looked very lean and
withered.
"To Maurice Exton, the best of luck and health!"
Thus chimed the third toast; and after it the jocular order:
"Pour it out, Major! Don't be stingy with the bottle!"
Maurice Exton - the one called "Major" - was a medium-sized man in his late thirties. His hair was black,
his features sallow. A neat mustache that matched his hair adorned his upper lip. A Van Dyke tipped his
chin. His shoulders were erect, and had a military bearing. He filled the glasses with steady hands.
Then came the toast to the fourth of the group:
"To Joel Hawkins, the best of luck and health!"
After the passing of this last toast, there was momentary silence.
Then Deacon turned to Joel Hawkins and said:
"Don't forget the glasses, Ferret. There's another one coming up."
"That's right," replied "Ferret," with a wry grin. "Did you think I forgot?"
Joel Hawkins leaned forward with a shrewd, gleaming grin. Short, stoop-shouldered, so as to almost
appear deformed, the name of Ferret was apt. The man's eyes peered sharply through partly closed lids.
Handling the bottle with his face on a level with the glasses, he seemed to be measuring each drink so that
all would be exactly the same.
Major picked up his glass and stood, while the other three followed him to their feet.
"To David Traver!" he said, in an even voice.
"To David Traver," came the chorus, "the best of luck and health!"
The men drank this final toast more slowly. Their glasses swung down one by one.
As they resumed their seats, they looked about with satisfaction.
"Well, we've remembered Judge," declared Butcher.
"Judge has remembered us," said Deacon quietly.
THE conversation took a new turn now that the strange formality had reached its end.
"New York in the morning. The end of the trail," announced Butcher, with a broad smile. "All on deck at
seven. We want to take a look at the Statue of Liberty!"
"Let the old gal take a look at us!" cackled Ferret.
"It's all the same to me," said Major. "What I'm thinking about is the few bottles that we might carry in.
Judge would appreciate hearing our toast, when we see him."
"Deacon's the boy to lug in the grog," said Ferret cunningly. "He could pack it under his coat. There's
plenty of room around that spindle shape of his. Lend him one of your coats, Butcher."
"Why worry about it?" questioned Butcher. "Like enough Judge will have a house-load of booze in over
the Canadian border. No use monkeying with the custom men, if we can help it."
"There's sense in that," declared Major. "You know I don't like to take foolish chances. There are
enough big ones. It was a great load off my mind when we spotted that plane off the Florida coast. The
crew figured we sent in our full liquor supply then."
"They've been educated to it," observed Deacon.
"The important thing now," resumed Major, "is to split up after we land. Handshakes at the dock. The
best of luck - for the future!"
"And no tears from you, Deacon," said Butcher. "I thought you were going to bust out crying when we
made that overboard heave down in the Caribbean -"
"Forget it, Butcher," growled Major; "forget it! Deacon has forgotten it. That reminds me, Ferret - you're
the one that has some forgetting to do."
"Major is right, Ferret," seconded Deacon.
"That letter writing" - Major shook his head in disapproval - "it wasn't right, Ferret!"
"But Hawk was a pal of mine," protested Ferret, looking around the group. "He wouldn't squawk.
Anyway, I only told him -"
"We talked that over before," said Major. "We'll drop it now. I'm thinking of tomorrow. I'll get you a
time-table, Ferret, as soon as we reach New York. The first train out of the big town will be the best.
We want you to drop in on Judge ahead of the rest of us."
"All right," returned Ferret, in an annoyed tone. "Leave it to me, Major."
"I'll leave it to you!" Major spoke emphatically. "But remember, you're one in five. The interests of the
gang come first. You may have some idea of your own. Get it out of your head - until afterward. There'll
be plenty of time, later on. We're all going to be independent, after a while."
"Remember it," echoed Deacon, staring solemnly at Ferret.
Butcher chimed in with a warning growl.
That ended the discussion. Butcher, chewing the end of a Havana cigar, called for the steward, and
another bottle was brought to the table. Afterward came dinner; then an ocean evening that ended with
the men tottering singly to their cabins.
FACES were weary and solemn when the men gathered in the morning, as the Vesta nosed her way
through the outer harbor. Standing by the rail, the four watched the outgoing liners, and stared toward the
Staten Island shore.
Butcher seemed half groggy and less jocular than usual. Deacon was quiet and silent; but that was not
unusual. Major said very little, but bore himself with the poise of a veteran. Ferret was the quietest of all.
Yet his glance was furtive, and his manner restless.
With various delays in order, it was late in the afternoon when the Vesta had finally docked, and the four
men had passed the customs officials. Ashore, the departing passengers shook hands with the
stern-faced captain of the yacht. The Vesta was due to clear for another port within a few days.
Deacon entered a taxicab alone. Butcher drove off in another. Major and Ferret remained, the latter
grinning as he looked along the avenue that bordered the water front. Major left him for a moment, to
return with a time-table.
"Your train leaves Grand Central at midnight," he said. "I've marked it here. Telephoned a reservation for
you. Go get some dinner, take in a show, but be sure you pull out on the Whirlwind Limited. Get me?"
"I get you," answered Ferret with a grin. "So long, Major. I'll be seeing you later."
Ferret stepped into a cab and rolled away. He went directly to the Grand Central Station. There he
picked up his railroad and sleeper tickets. He followed Major's advice about obtaining dinner. But
afterward, Ferret went to a telephone booth and consulted the Manhattan directory.
His first finger ran along one of the front pages of the book. It stopped at the name of Antrim. Ferret
noted the address. He closed the book, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. He had found his entertainment
for that night!
Major was right. There were five of them. The predominant interest of the five was a common interest.
But Ferret - more than any of the others - had an interest of his own. He did not intend to let it pass. The
others would never know!
There was plenty of time remaining before midnight. A stroll on Broadway first; then he could take the
path he wanted. Leave it to luck. If luck came his way, he would meet it.
Thus it was that shortly after ten o'clock, Ferret, hands in pocket, appeared on a street some blocks
north of Forty-second Street, sauntering toward the apartment where Daniel Antrim made his home.
CHAPTER III. FERRET TALKS BUSINESS
BENEATH the light of a street lamp, Ferret stopped and reached into his inside pocket. He drew forth a
crumpled envelope. From this he extracted a much-creased letter.
The note, as Ferret opened it, revealed a crude scrawl, with a roughly traced diagram in the center of the
page. Ferret's avid eyes swept through the writing as though they were merely refreshing themselves with
knowledge that was already deeply embedded in the man's memory.
The letter was the work of a man who could spell but crudely. Ferret, a quick, keen reader, touched
important statements with his finger tip, and smiled cruelly as he read them.
I have bin watching A sins you wised me up about him... I got into
his plac whil he was out one nite... This drawing showes the lay... In
the desk he kips the dop on the gys he is dubbel-crosing... Solly
Bricker... Centter 1592... Keeping mum becuz of what you rote... Phony
key behynd haul raddiater...
HAWK.
The final word formed the signature. Ferret digested every statement in the letter. He paid particular
attention to the diagram, which bore such marks as "big room," "back door," "raddiater," and "desk."
Then Ferret tore the letter into tiny fragments. He strolled on through the dark, and tossed the pieces to
the breeze. They fluttered away in all directions.
Sneaking craftily, Ferret reached the front door of an old apartment building. The inner lobby was dimly
lighted. He entered and turned toward a flight of stairs at the left, ascending to the third floor.
At the end of the hall were two doors - one at the corner on the left; the other on the right, but a dozen
feet from the corner.
There was a light beaming through the glass transom of the doorway on the left. Ferret grinned.
He stared suspiciously at the door on the right. The transom above it was black. That was sufficient.
Ferret looked back along the gloomy hall. Seeing no one, he advanced to a radiator at the extreme end
of the hall. He stooped and fished beneath the radiator. A key glimmered in his hand.
Ferret was looking intently at the key. He did not observe the white face pressed against the transom at
the right. Some one was watching him, but Ferret did not know it. Silently, the stoop-shouldered man
unlocked the door at the left and entered.
He was very cautious now - more stealthy than he had been in the hall, where his footfalls left a slight
sound. He was peering into a lighted room, from a small entry. In the far corner he observed a stout,
bald-headed man seated at a desk.
Ferret's lips curled in hatred as he noiselessly closed the door behind him. From his hip pocket he drew a
short, stub-nosed revolver.
He crept forward like a preying cat until he was no more than six feet away from the bald-headed man.
Then a sneering chuckle came from Ferret.
The stout man whirled quickly in his swivel chair. His red, bloated face became a livid purple. His body
trembled. His bulging, startled eyes caught the upward nudge of Ferret's revolver. Instinctively, he raised
his arms.
FERRET, cold-eyed, harsh-faced, and unmasked, stared directly at his quarry. The venomous hate in his
eyes did not seem to impress Daniel Antrim.
The lawyer stared back at Ferret, wonderingly. Evidently he did not recognize the man who was
threatening him.
"What do you want?" he demanded suddenly.
"I want to talk to you," growled Ferret, with a leer.
"Who are you?" questioned Antrim.
The reply was an outburst of cackling laughter.
"Who am I?" quizzed Ferret. "Did you ever hear of a man named Joel Hawkins?"
Antrim shook his head slowly.
"Well, that's who I am. Joel Hawkins!" Ferret's laugh was frigid. "And you're Dan Antrim, the lawyer.
The double-crosser!"
A startled look came over Antrim. For a moment he trembled. Then he became steadier, and assumed
the air of a man who is ready to play out a desperate bluff.
"You're wrong," he said, "all wrong. You're mixed up. Let's take this easy now. Put down that gun -"
"And let you pull another double cross? Nix!"
"I never double-crossed anybody in -"
"You never did different!" growled Ferret.
He gave a forward thrust with his arm, and shoved the gun almost against Antrim's ribs.
"Slide back that chair!" Ferret ordered. "I'll show you the goods. That's what I'll do!"
Covering Antrim, who was pushing himself away from the desk with his feet, Ferret yanked at the bottom
摘要：

THEFIVECHAMELEONSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ASQUEALERDIES?CHAPTERII.MANWITHAMISSION?CHAPTERIII.FERRETTALKSBUSINESS?CHAPTERIV.THEMANOFTHENIGHT?CHAPTERV.FERRETISPLEASED?CHAPTERVI.THEWORKBEGINS?CHAPTERVII.THESHADOWPONDERS?CHAPTERVIII.JUDGEDECIDES...

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