Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 013 - The Blackmail Ring

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THE BLACKMAIL RING
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE SHADOW ACTS
? CHAPTER II. THE STORM OF DEATH
? CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE ON THE ISLAND
? CHAPTER IV. AT THE BURNHAM HOUSE
? CHAPTER V. A GUEST CHECKS OUT
? CHAPTER VI. A FIENDISH CRIME
? CHAPTER VII. DEATH AFTER DARK
? CHAPTER VIII. THE DEATH UNSOLVED
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW AT WORK
? CHAPTER X. STUART GOES ON DUTY
? CHAPTER XI. DELMUTH PAYS A VISIT
? CHAPTER XII. STUART ENCOUNTERS TROUBLE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE MIDNIGHT MEETING
? CHAPTER XIV. DELMUTH SEES A SHADOW
? CHAPTER XV. THE DROP OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XVI. PLOTTERS UNHEARD
? CHAPTER XVII. WORD BY RADIO
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE STAGE IS SET
? CHAPTER XIX. WHAT THE SHADOW KNEW
? CHAPTER XX. AT MAYO'S LODGE
? CHAPTER XXI. FOUR MEN OF MURDER
? CHAPTER XXII. THE LAST FLIGHT
CHAPTER I. THE SHADOW ACTS
THE glittering lights of Paris were a glorious sight from the window of Suite 15 in the Hotel Barzonne.
But the man who sat beside the window had no interest in the spectacle. He was an American of
dignified appearance - a man perhaps forty years of age.
Resting on the table at which the man sat were small piles of newspaper clippings, and neatly tabulated
typewritten sheets. The man assembled them deftly.
As he worked, a strange, mysterious gem gleamed upon the third finger of the left hand, its light
producing weird, changing colors.
The gem was a girasol - a fire opal of rare value. There was no other like it in the world. The stone was a
clew to the identity of the man who owned it; but no one had ever learned that clew.
The gleaming girasol was the property of the mysterious man called "The Shadow!"
Comparing one stack of clippings with a corresponding sheaf of typed papers, the man at the table
laughed softly.
The clippings and the data referred to an amazing murder case in Germany. They told of an unsolved
mystery. With them was a small item that mentioned the finding of a body in the Seine. It had not been
identified.
Neither newspapers nor police had connected that body with the murder in Germany. They did not know
that the drowned man and the German murderer were one and the same. Nor did they know that the
drowning had not been accidental; that a fiend of crime had encountered just retribution.
These were facts that only The Shadow knew!
The man at the table tore the sheets and the clippings. That case was ended. He referred to another. This
was the account of a bank robbery in London - a mystery that had baffled the best sleuths in Scotland
Yard.
The stolen money - sixty thousand pounds - had been recovered following a tip from an unknown
source. The same night, two men had been discovered dead in a London rooming house; the victims of a
gun fray.
There was no apparent connection between these persons - reputed to be criminals - and the restored
bank funds. How they had met their end was a mystery.
The Shadow tore these clippings, and with them the typed sheets. That case was closed. Those dead
men were the robbers.
How they had stolen and lost the bank notes - how they had died, and why - these, again, were facts that
only The Shadow knew!
There was a third pile of clippings. These related to a Parisian affair, the death of Herbert Brockley; the
subsequent killing of Parisian criminals who had been responsible for it; and the flight and disappearance
of one of the gang.
The American referred closely to this subject. He folded up the papers and inserted them in a secret
drawer of a small steamer trunk that was standing in the corner. From another compartment of the trunk,
the man produced a package.
TUCKING the bundle under his arm, he left the suite, and descended to the lobby of the hotel. He
walked along the street for several blocks; then stopped a taxicab, and spoke to the driver in perfect
French. He ordered the man to take him to a certain cafe - the Poisson d'Or.
The driver looked astonished. He could not believe the instructions. The Poisson d'Or was one of the
worst dives in all Paris. It was patronized only by criminals of the most notorious type. Unwelcome
strangers usually met death there.
He doubted the sanity of this well-dressed American.
The instructions were repeated. They came in a firm, determined voice. The taxi driver shrugged his
shoulders
He would take this fellow to the Poisson d'Or, since he was determined to go; but he resolved that he
would notify the nearest gendarme as soon as he had left his passenger.
The taxi reached a squalid, unlighted street. One could not have picked out a more undesirable district
than this. No tourists came here. It was the most dangerous portion of the underworld of Paris.
The passenger had alighted from the cab. He was standing close by, and the driver could see only his
hand as it extended the fare. The taximan noted that the hand wore a black glove.
He looked around the moment that he had received the money. No one was in sight! Had the American
become faint-hearted? Had he stepped back into the cab?
The driver looked into the back seat. All that he saw was the wrapping of a package - a crumpled sheet
of heavy paper that his fare had left.
The man had undoubtedly gone into the Poisson d'Or. The driver drove away to find a gendarme.
The interior of the Poisson d'Or contained a series of small rooms, separated by rough partitions. In one
of these, two roughly clad men were conversing in the dialect of Parisian ruffians. Their uncouth words,
intermingled with oaths, related to the payment of blood money, which one of the men had received.
"Hubert is dead," said one. "I have his share. They will never find me. Bah! I would kill a dozen
Americans for ten thousand francs. Now I have twenty thousand for killing one!"
He drew a wad of bills from his pocket and divided the money into two portions.
"Here is half for you, Andre," he said. "I am going where these cursed police can never find me. I cannot
understand how they caught Hubert. There is someone who knows more than the police."
Andre grinned as he took the ten thousand francs. It was a payment in advance, for work that he was to
perform while his crony was absent.
"Bah!" he exclaimed. "You can count on me, Louis. You stay away until this affair of the dead American
has blown over. Then -"
He raised a glass of cognac, and his companion did the same. They were drinking to their future exploits,
these Apache killers. But the glasses stopped before they had reached the lips for which they were
intended.
The door of the small room had opened. There, framed in the narrow doorway, stood a man clad in
black. His appearance was amazing - even to these men of crime.
A black cloak hung from his shoulders, and his hands were hidden in its folds. A large slouch hat was
turned down to cover his features. All that was visible were two glowing eyes!
Those eyes were focused upon the money on the table. That represented a payment for the killing of
Herbert Brockley, the American. Andre saw the direction in which the eyes were staring. He reached to
grasp the money.
Quick as a flash, the man in black stepped forward. His left hand extended and fell upon the twenty
thousand francs. An oath came from Louis, who sat at the left. Rising, he whisked a revolver from his
pocket.
The weapon was never used. As Louis sought to level it and press the trigger, a shot came from the folds
of the black cloak. The hidden hand had been covering the Apache. Louis toppled from his chair.
Andre leaped forward to seize that hidden hand. He grappled with the stranger, and pressed him back
against the wall. There was another muffled shot, and the second Apache fell to the floor.
A soft, weird laugh came from the man in black, as he gathered up the twenty thousand francs and swept
through the door, with the money beneath his cloak.
The Shadow - terror to the denizens of New York's underworld - had conquered two of the most
murderous men in Paris. In the midst of their strong-hold, he had deprived them of the blood money that
had been paid for the death of Herbert Brockley!
Those two were not the only Apaches in the Poisson d'Or. Gunshots were a signal to the bloodthirsty
crew that frequented the Parisian dive.
As The Shadow stepped into the corridor outside the partition room, half a dozen men appeared from
the other end of the passage.
There were two entrances to the corridor - one from the front room, whence these murderers were
coming; the other toward an obscure door of the Poisson d'Or - the way by which The Shadow had
entered, unseen.
The Apaches were flinging themselves into the attack in an effort to capture the intruder before he could
flee to safety. There had been shootings in this dive before; and always the participants had tried to
escape by the obscure door.
Two husky cutthroats were leaping forward with flashing knives; behind them were others armed with
revolvers. Against such odds, only flight seemed feasible; but had The Shadow turned his back to flee, he
would have become a target for six deadly weapons.
Instead, he did the unexpected. Barely a dozen feet lay between him and the surging crew. Two
automatics were in The Shadow's hands. The pistols roared into the teeth of the attackers!
A KNIFE slashed the side of the black cloak; the man who held the blade pitched headlong. A revolver
shot clipped the slouch hat; the man who fired fell before he could deliver another shot.
The Shadow was among the Apaches now. All but one were sprawled along the corridor. The one
fellow had flattened himself against the wall. He had escaped the raking fire, and now his hand swung
upward with its automatic.
The Shadow's aim was quicker. His final bullet struck the Apache's wrist.
As the arm fell, The Shadow, with a burst of derisive mirth, reached out and plucked the gun away from
its owner. The Shadow's empty automatic dropped at the man's feet.
Sweeping along the corridor, The Shadow reached the front room of the Poisson d'Or. There, a crowd
of grinning Apaches were awaiting the return of the killing squad. They were used to these affairs.
Always, a gang of cut-throats would rush away and come back with a victim's bullet-riddled body as
their trophy.
Into this scene came The Shadow! Before the Apaches realized that the impossible had happened, the
cloaked man's automatic was again at work.
As one rising Apache fell wounded, the other mobsters dived for cover. With sweeping strides, The
Shadow gained the door, and his sardonic laugh was loud with mockery and menace.
As The Shadow's hand pressed the knob, the door crashed inward, and a squad of gendarmes burst into
the place. Coming to rescue a helpless American, they had heard the gunfire.
The Shadow stepped back as the door burst. The gendarmes were hurtling upon him. His right arm
swung with terrific force as The Shadow leaped among the officers.
Two gendarmes staggered. Their hands slipped from the black cloak. Diving forward, The Shadow
broke loose and sprang to the street.
The Apaches had been quick to meet the double emergency. Their guns were barking as The Shadow
swung his way through the gendarmes. They sought to slay the man in black, and to withstand the attack
of the law.
Their first purpose failed. The hail of bullets was too late to thwart The Shadow's escape. Gendarmes
were falling; but others, dropping to the floor, blazed away at the mobsters. The Apaches were
outnumbered. Those who were able, scurried to the corridor and fled.
With the mob subdued, gendarmes rushed to the street and scattered everywhere in search of the man
who had baffled them. But in the darkness that reigned over that quarter of Paris, a man in black could
make himself invisible.
Darkness shrouded the form of The Shadow. He was nowhere to be found.
WHILE the gendarmes still persisted in their search, the dignified American reappeared in Suite 15 of the
Hotel Barzonne.
His face retained its calmness; there was no hurry in his action as he opened the drawer of the steamer
trunk and removed the clippings and the typed sheets that referred to Herbert Brockley. In a blank
space, the quiet man wrote the name of Louis Bargelle. The last of Brockley's slayers was gone.
Methodically, the American tore the sheets and clippings. He laughed - and his laugh was an echo of
those taunting jibes that had sounded within the walls of the Poisson d'Or.
The next morning, two Parisian detectives were going over a report of the battle at the Apache dive.
They were discussing the deaths of certain criminals - among them Louis Bargelle - when an attendant
entered. He was carrying a tightly wrapped paper.
A detective opened it and gasped in surprise as he saw the contents - a mass of paper money. He
counted it. Twenty thousand francs!
The only clew to the sender was an oddly shaped card among the bills; but the card was blank. The
detective held the card to the light. It showed no markings whatever.
But upon the wall - unnoticed by the detective - the card cast a strange shadow that bore a grotesque
resemblance to the profile of a human being!
CHAPTER II. THE STORM OF DEATH
STUART BRUXTON brought his automobile to a sudden stop in front of a dilapidated building beside
the road. The place had been a filling station once - the rusted gasoline standard told that. Now, the
house was nothing but a deserted shack - yet it was the only human habitation that Stuart had seen for
the past few miles.
Peering through the gloom of the gathering dusk, Stuart Bruxton tried to distinguish objects on the small
porch of the battered building. He fancied that he had seen the figure of a man standing beneath that small
and rickety roof.
It was impossible to observe anything now; but as Stuart stared toward the house, the whole building
was suddenly revealed, in the temporary glare of a distant lightning flash.
During that short, photographic scene, Stuart's first impression was justified. There actually was a man on
the porch. He seemed to be hiding behind a battered pillar.
Stuart lowered the window of the coupe. He called out, but his voice was drowned by the long rumble of
the thunder. When silence came, he called again; then waited while big drops of rain spattered through
the window.
Stuart watched to see if the man would respond, waiting patiently for another flash of lightning. Before it
came, someone spoke in reply.
The man had come from the porch through the darkness. He was standing beside the car. Stuart could
distinguish his face through the gloom.
"I'm heading for a town called Herkimer," explained Stuart. "How do I get there?"
"I'm going that way," came the reply. "Want to give me a lift? Guess I can show you the road."
"Sure thing," responded Stuart.
THE man clambered into the car. Now, at close range, Stuart saw that he was evidently a man from the
city. He was well dressed, even though his overcoat bore signs of long wear. He was about thirty-five
years of age, and his face, while pale and drooping, indicated intelligence.
"Herkimer's straight ahead - for a while," the man remarked. "Glad you came along. I was kinda stranded
there, on that porch. Waiting for the storm to pass over."
They were entering the storm zone as the man spoke. Stuart could feel the effects of the driving wind as
he managed the powerful coupe. Rain was battering against the windshield, and the glare of the bright
lights shone into an oncoming torrent.
Stuart pictured the porch where the man had been. It was hardly an enviable spot during a deluge, but it
was better than the open.
"Hiking my way," explained the man. "Cut across this road because it was shorter, and figured I could
pick up a hitch. But the people seem to be kinda leery of hikers. That's why I was watching, when you
came along."
"You know this road?" questioned Stuart.
"Yeah," the man answered. "It's a good road, but it isn't on the map. Lot of them like that, down here in
Maryland. They told me all about it, back in the last town. When we get a few miles farther on, I'll show
you a short cut."
They drove along in silence for a few minutes; then the man at Stuart's side began a brief and disjointed
explanation of his circumstances.
His name, it appeared, was Jefferson - he did not mention his surname. He had gone broke in a town
outside of Baltimore and had decided to foot it for New York.
The man said nothing of his business; merely mentioned that he had friends in Manhattan, and was
anxious to get there. Stuart asked no questions, so the man's talk ended.
The fury of the storm had increased. The road, although narrow, was well paved, and Stuart handled the
car in expert fashion. They were traveling nearly forty miles an hour - a high speed under the conditions.
Stuart's eyes were glued to the road. He wanted to make Herkimer, where he could cut over to a main
road, and reach Philadelphia within a few hours. The companionship of the hitch-hiker was not
disagreeable, so he intended to take the man all the way.
"Must be pretty near there, now," the stranger remarked. "The road splits, and you can save five miles if
you stick to the right. We'll see a detour sign, but it won't mean anything."
"How's that?" questioned Stuart.
"They're starting some repair work," explained Jefferson, "so they've closed the road. Going to take
down two bridges and put up new ones. But they aren't beginning until next Monday - even though
they've had the signs up for a couple of days."
"You're positive about that?" Stuart parried.
"Sure thing," Jefferson continued. "Some of the road gang were talking about it, back in a lunch wagon
where I stopped. Stick to the right fork, and you'll cut off five miles to Herkimer. That's the way I was
going to hoof it. Figured it would be a shorter walk, even though there wouldn't be a chance for a lift."
"All right," said Stuart.
THE road was winding now, and Stuart reduced speed slightly. The lightning flashes were blinding; the
roar of the thunder was continuous. They were in the thick of the storm. A dazzling glare revealed the
road ahead, and Stuart saw the spreading of the fork. Jefferson observed it, too.
"The right," he said.
Both roads looked good. Stuart swerved the big car to the right. Whirling through the storm, they began
to descend a constant decline.
"Getting down to a river," observed Jefferson. "That's where the bridges are. Two of them. One on each
side of an island. I heard the gang telling about them.
"They haven't even been down there, yet. Just stuck up barriers at each end. Waiting to get the order to
go. That's the way they work. Better watch out, because we may hit a block across the road."
The man's suggestion was a timely one. They were passing a dirt road that led off to the right. The
headlights shone upon something white. A flash of lightning came, an instant later, and Stuart applied the
brakes to keep from running into a broad, whitewashed board that blocked his path.
The car began to skid, but responded to the driver's touch, and came to a jolting, sidewise stop, only a
few feet from the barricade.
"No light," muttered Stuart.
"Wouldn't do much good," said Jefferson. "That white board shows about as well as a red light. Wait. I'll
lift it so you can go through."
The man clambered from the car and walked in front of the headlights. He swung the board to one side,
and Stuart guided the car through. A few moments later, his companion rejoined him. The man's coat and
hat were dripping.
"What a storm!" he exclaimed. "Wouldn't like to be out in it long."
THE road lay straight ahead, past the barrier. Stuart speeded up. He remembered what Jefferson had
said about the two bridges. There would be no other obstacle until they passed the second bridge.
Stuart was in a hurry, not only because he wanted to reach his destination, but also because he wanted to
be off this road, and clear of the storm.
There was a twist; then came a straight downward hill, and at the end of it, the first bridge. Jefferson saw
it as soon as the driver, and added another bit of information.
"The bridges are O.K.," he said. "They're taking them down because they're only wide enough for one
car."
The headlights were revealing the fact that the bridge was narrow. A flash of lightning showed the
complete structure, and the straight road on the island beyond.
Thus assured, Stuart pressed the accelerator, and the roar of the motor vied with the surging sound of the
swollen stream that swept beneath the bridge.
The big car reached the bridge, traveling forty miles an hour. Hardly had the crossing begun before a
strange vibration seemed to seize the bridge. The firm, level roadway was swaying!
For a brief second, Stuart felt that he was at the helm of a ship at sea. The automobile was in the midst of
a skidding course. The bridge was giving way beneath its weight!
Instinctively, Stuart pressed the accelerator to the floor, knowing that his only salvation was to get clear
of the collapsing bridge. The response of the car was instantaneous. It shot forward as Stuart passed the
center of the bridge. The front wheels struck some obstacle, but kept on. As the rear wheels hit the same
spot, there was a terrific crash.
The front of the car was almost to the end of the bridge, as a mighty sound - louder than a thunder roll -
told that the bridge had gone down beneath the rear of the car!
Only the momentum of the automobile prevented the car from falling into the engulfing stream. The
bridge, collapsing at an angle, threw the rear of the coupe to one side.
The hurtling machine shot on to the solid ground ahead. No longer under control, it swerved to the left of
the road. The right side of the car rose like a mountain as Stuart applied the brakes. They were headed
for a clump of saplings, and they crashed through the obstacle like an avenging Juggernaut.
All was wild confusion before Stuart's eyes as he felt the car lunge forward and downward. It seemed to
spin spirally to the left; then came a crash as the car smashed into a tree. The motion ceased.
STUART recovered from a momentary daze to realize that the car was lying at a precipitous angle to the
left. The whole front of the car was a mass of wreckage.
Something weighed heavily upon Stuart's body. He discovered that it was the form of Jefferson. His
companion was lying almost over the steering wheel.
"Are you all right?" questioned Stuart.
A groan was the response, but it was satisfying. The man was hurt, but still alive. A flash of lightning
showed his face, the right side gashed and bruised.
Amidst the rumble of thunder and the roaring of the stream beside the car, Stuart realized that he must
extricate himself; then look to the other's welfare. Cautiously, he opened the door of the car and started
to slide free.
There was a depression in the ground below; but the car could not topple farther, for it was wedged
against a good-sized tree.
As Stuart slipped downward, he realized that Jefferson's inert form was following him. He managed to
stop the helpless man's progress by pushing him forward so that he rested against the steering wheel.
Once out and looking up into the car above, Stuart saw that Jefferson's body was slowly gliding
downward. The car would be a better place than the ground, Stuart decided, pushing the door shut.
Jefferson's sagging form stopped as it settled into the driver's seat.
Stuart had lost all sense of direction. The winding course of the stream confused him. He stumbled
through dampened underbrush and drew himself upward out of boggy ground. Then, as his senses
straightened, he began to take his bearings.
The very elements which had contrived against him now worked in his behalf. The chilling rain aroused
his benumbed faculties. The roaring stream told him that the road must be in the opposite direction. The
lightning glare revealed the scene and showed the edge of the road, upward and ahead.
Climbing an embankment, Stuart clung to a tree and rested, conscious of a sudden weakness in his left
leg.
Before he went farther, it would be wise to note the situation about him. He looked back toward the car.
It was invisible. Stuart had turned off the lights after the smash.
Then came a lightning flash - distant, now, for the center of the storm had passed. In the midst of that
prolonged glare, Stuart saw a sight that froze his heart with terror.
THE car was some sixty feet away, its right side looming upward. The door was opened, and Stuart saw
why.
Poised over the opening was the stocky form of a man clad in cap and sweater. The face of this man was
turned upward, and it wore an expression of evil exultation. In a huge, thick fist, this creature of the storm
held a thick rod.
One sight of the poised figure told Stuart that whatever the man's errand might be, it would not be one of
mercy. Who was this ghoulish being who had so quickly arrived at the scene of the disaster?
Stuart's startled cry was unheard in the roar of the thunder that followed the revealing flash. Helpless,
Stuart stood there and waited; then another flash came, and he saw that the door of the car was closed.
The evil-visaged man was gone!
Forgetting his injured leg, Stuart fought his way to the car, pushing through underbrush and saplings. He
clambered upon the running board and opened the door.
He waited there, tense, his eyes staring downward, unable to view the form of the injured man whom he
had left there.
Then came a broad sheet of lightning. Instantly Stuart saw the face of Jefferson, no longer turned
downward, as it had been when Stuart left, but staring straight upward with ghastly, unseeing eyes.
The gashes and bruises suffered in the crash still adorned the side of the man's face. But above them was
a horrible wound. Jefferson's head had been crushed by a blow from some heavy object!
Helpless and alone, there in the car, Stuart's companion had been slain by the hideous man who had
come from the storm!
CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE ON THE ISLAND
A SENSE of overpowering danger gripped Stuart Bruxton as he rested on the running board of the
tipped coupe. He had closed the door upon the hideous sight within.
He was groping for an explanation. A helpless man had been done to death while he looked on. What
was the meaning of the crime?
It was fear for his own safety that made Stuart act. The monster, lurking in the abating fury of the storm,
might return at any moment. The storm itself would be a safer place than this.
Responding to the mental suggestion, Stuart arose and moved wearily toward the road.
He kept to the side of the thoroughfare and began a plodding course across the island. Beyond was
another bridge. He could cross it and get away from this locality. Then he might find help - somewhere -
and come back to investigate.
What puzzled Stuart was the motive that might lay behind the appearance of the murderer. Perhaps the
man was a maniac. No other explanation seemed likely.
Stuart's leg was troubling him again. He stumbled against a stone, and nearly fell; so he stopped and sat
upon the stone.
It was then that he remembered something. When he had slid from the car, Jefferson's body had slipped
into the driver's seat. His own escape could not have been witnessed, Stuart reasoned.
The murderer, arriving after the accident, had mistaken Jefferson for the driver of the wrecked car.
Unless the murderer had stayed in the immediate vicinity, he could not possibly know of Stuart's
presence here.
Stuart realized that if he had been alone in that car, he, instead of the hitchhiker, would have been the
victim. The thought was amazing!
Half an hour ago, Stuart had been driving for Massachusetts, intending to stop in Philadelphia for the
night. He had no enemies; he anticipated no danger.
Now, his car wrecked beyond repair, he was wandering, alone and unarmed, upon a lonely island in a
Maryland river, alive only because a chance stranger whom he had picked up had been mistaken for
himself!
IN the midst of vague theorizing, Stuart remembered what Jefferson had said about the bridges - that
they were not unsafe. The peculiar circumstances of the accident impressed him.
Had that bridge been deliberately weakened? It seemed likely. Ordinarily, a car would have crossed it
slowly. Only the speed of the coupe had saved it.
A definite thought now ruled Stuart's mind. The murderer had simply completed work which had been
intended, but which had failed.
摘要：

THEBLACKMAILRINGMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THESHADOWACTS?CHAPTERII.THESTORMOFDEATH?CHAPTERIII.THEHOUSEONTHEISLAND?CHAPTERIV.ATTHEBURNHAMHOUSE?CHAPTERV.AGUESTCHECKSOUT?CHAPTERVI.AFIENDISHCRIME?CHAPTERVII.DEATHAFTERDARK?CHAPTERVIII.THEDEATHUNSOL...

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