Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 001 - The Living Shadow

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THE LIVING SHADOW
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. OUT OF THE MIST
? CHAPTER II. THE FIRST MESSAGE
? CHAPTER III. THE MAN IN THE NEXT ROOM
? CHAPTER IV. A BOLD MURDER
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW ON THE WALL
? CHAPTER VI. THE SECOND MESSAGE
? CHAPTER VII. THE INSURANCE BROKER
? CHAPTER VIII. THE TEA SHOP OF WANG TOO
? CHAPTER IX. THE ROOM OF DOOM
? CHAPTER X. THE FIGHT IN THE GLOOM
? CHAPTER XI. A BAFFLING MYSTERY
? CHAPTER XII. TWO DETECTIVES TALK
? CHAPTER XIII. LOO CHOY'S COUSIN
? CHAPTER XIV. AT HOLMWOOD ARMS
? CHAPTER XV. TWO MEN MEET
? CHAPTER XVI. WHAT VINCENT HEARD
? CHAPTER XVII. BINGHAM SEES A SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVIII. FELLOWS ASSEMBLES FACTS
? CHAPTER XIX. WOVEN FACTS
? CHAPTER XX. A LETTER FOR HARRY
? CHAPTER XXI. WANG FOO RECEIVES A VISITOR
? CHAPTER XXII. FRESH TROUBLE
? CHAPTER XXIII. ENGLISH JOHNNY'S GAME
? CHAPTER XXIV. A VISIT TO BINGHAM'S
? CHAPTER XXV. A FRIEND IN NEED
? CHAPTER XXVI. A RACE FOR LIFE
? CHAPTER XXVII. THE CODE IS SOLVED
? CHAPTER XXVIII. VINCENT SEARCHES
? CHAPTER XXIX. ENGLISH JOHNNY'S TRICK
? CHAPTER XXX. TRAIL'S END
? CHAPTER XXXI. HARRY'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER XXXII. ENGLISH JOHNNY ARRIVES
? CHAPTER XXXIII. ENGLISH JOHNNY EXPLAINS
? CHAPTER XXXIV. ENGLISH JOHNNY DEPARTS
? CHAPTER XXXV. AT HEADQUARTERS
? CHAPTER XXXVI. THE GEMS' DELIVERY
? CHAPTER XXXVII. WHAT THE PAPERS SAID
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April/June 1931.
Out of the darkness came a being of the night to give Harry Vincent
another chance; a chance to live his life with enjoyment, danger and
excitement; a chance to risk it for an honorable cause in the service of the
mysterious character known only as The Shadow!
CHAPTER I. OUT OF THE MIST
THE fog was thick at the center of the bridge where the man stood leaning against the rail. Although the
streets of New York were scarcely a hundred yards away, he might have been in a little world of his
own. For the only light in the midst of that cloud of black night fog came from an arc light on the bridge.
A taxicab, carrying a late passenger home, shot through the mist.
The man stepped away from the rail and crouched beside a post. He saw a flash of the red tail light on
the cab; a moment later it was lost in the fog.
As the noise of the motor died away, the man stood up again and placed his hands upon the rail.
He listened, afraid that another cab might be coming across the bridge; then, reassured, he leaned over
the rail and stared downward.
Mist; thick, black mist - nothing but mist. It seemed to invite his plunge. Yet he hesitated - as many wait
when they are upon the brink of death - until, with a mad impulse, he swung his body across the rail and
loosened his hands.
Something clamped upon his shoulder. An iron grip held him - balanced between life and death. Then, as
though his body possessed no weight whatever, the man felt himself pulled around in a sweeping circle.
He staggered as his feet struck the sidewalk of the bridge.
He turned to confront the person who had interfered. He swung his fist angrily, but a hand caught his
wrist and twisted it behind his back with irresistible power.
It was as though the man's strength had been wrested from him when he faced a tall, black-cloaked
figure that might have represented death itself. For he could not have sworn that he was looking at a
human being.
The stranger's face was entirely obscured by a broad-brimmed felt hat bent downward over his features;
and the long, black cloak looked like part of the thickening fog.
The man who had attempted suicide was too startled to speak. Fear had come upon him, and his only
desire was to shrink from this grim and eerie master of the night. But he felt himself pulled across the
sidewalk, and at the curb he stumbled through the open door of a large limousine, which he had not seen
until that moment. His arm was freed, and he shrank into the far corner of the car.
The door closed and the car moved onward. Fear still clutched the man whose life had been saved
against his will. Rescued, he sensed that the grim stranger was in the seat beside him. He expected new
evidence of that weird personage's presence. The evidence came.
A voice spoke through the darkness. It was a weird, chilling voice - scarcely more than a whisper, yet
clear and penetrating.
"What is your name?"
It was not a question. Rather, it was a command to speak.
"Harry Vincent," replied the man who had been deterred from self-destruction. The words had come to
his lips automatically.
"Why did you try suicide?"
It was another command.
"Melancholy," said Vincent. He was speaking of his own accord now; somehow he wanted to talk.
"Go on," came the voice.
"It's not much of a story," replied Vincent. "Perhaps I was a fool. I'm all alone here in New York. No
job, no friends, nothing to live for. My folks are all out in the Middle West, and I haven't seen them for
years. I don't want to see them. I guess they think I'm a success here, but I'm not."
"You are well dressed," the stranger's voice remarked.
Vincent laughed nervously. "Yes," he said, "I'm wearing a light overcoat, and the weather hasn't scarcely
begun to be chilly. But that's only appearance. Everything else is in hock. I have one dollar and thirteen
cents in actual cash."
The mysterious stranger did not reply. The car was rolling along a side street; the bridge was now far
behind. Vincent, his nerves somewhat settled, stared into the opposite corner of the limousine, vainly
seeking to observe his companion's face. But the shade was drawn and he could not even detect a blotch
amid the darkness.
"What about the girl?" came the voice.
The penetrating whisper startled Vincent. The single, and most important, item that he had omitted from
his brief story had been fathomed by this stranger whose cunning was the equal of his strength.
"The girl?" questioned Vincent. "The girl? My - my girl out home?"
"Yes."
"She married another man," said Vincent. "That was the reason I was on the bridge to-night. I might have
struggled on for a while if I hadn't been so hard up. But when the letter came that told me she was
married - Well, that ended it."
He paused, and hearing no reply, added to his confession:
"The letter came two days ago," he said. "I haven't slept since. I was on the bridge all last night, but I
didn't have nerve to jump - then. I guess it was the fog that helped me this time."
"Your life," said the stranger's voice slowly, "is no longer your own. It belongs to me now. But you are
still free to destroy it. Shall we return to the bridge?"
"I don't know," blurted Vincent. "This is all like a dream; I don't understand it. Perhaps I did fall from the
bridge, and this is death that I am now experiencing. Yet it seems real, after all. What good is my life to
any one? What will you do with it?"
"I shall improve it," replied the voice from the darkness. "I shall make it useful. But I shall risk it, too.
Perhaps I shall lose it, for I have lost lives, just as I have saved them. This is my promise: life, with
enjoyment, with danger, with excitement, and - with money. Life, above all, with honor. If I give it, I
demand obedience. Absolute obedience. You may accept my terms, or you may refuse. I shall wait for
you to choose."
The car rolled on comfortably through the side streets of upper New York. The motor seemed noiseless;
Harry Vincent began to understand how it had approached him unheard upon the bridge.
He was wondering about his strange companion; this being who had whirled him away from his fatal
plunge as though his hundred and seventy pounds had been nothing; this personage who could read his
thoughts and whose questions were commands.
Harry turned again toward the darkened corner, and hope returned to him. After all, he wanted life. He
had come to New York because he had desired to live and to succeed. This was his opportunity. He
pictured his lifeless body, beneath the bridge, and he realized that he could make but one choice.
"I accept," he said.
"Remember then, obedience," said the voice. "That must come always. I do not ask for cleverness, for
strength or skill, although I want them, and will expect them to the best of your ability."
There was a pause. The whispered voice seemed to echo in Vincent's ears. He realized that there was
neither approval nor surprise in the stranger's words. Simply calmness.
"You will be taken immediately to a hotel," resumed the voice. "You will find a room reserved in your
name. There will be money there. Your requirements will be filled. You will obtain everything you want.
Your bills will be paid."
The point of a cane swung from the rear seat and tapped twice against the windowpane behind the
chauffeur. It seemed to be a signal, for the speed of the car increased as it sharply swung a corner.
"But, remember, Harry Vincent," said the voice from the corner, "I must have your promise. Shut your
eyes for one full minute while you think on it. Then promise, if you wish. Promise your obedience."
Vincent closed his eyes and thought. His mind cleared and life seemed to brighten. There was but one
course; that was acceptance of the stranger's terms.
He opened his eyes and again gazed at that blackened corner.
"I promise," he said. "I promise full obedience."
"Very well," came the stranger's whisper. "Go to your hotel. To-morrow you will receive a message. It
will come from me; and my messages are meaningless to those who should not understand them. Listen
well when you receive it. Remember only the words which are emphasized in pronouncing like this."
There was a stressing of the last word. It seemed almost a sentence in itself and the hiss of the stranger's
whisper carried a weird, unearthly sound.
The car swerved suddenly and stopped with a jolt against the curb on the left. An open car had forced it
to the sidewalk; and the headlights of the other automobile were glaring through the window. A figure
opened the door on the right and Vincent saw a man's head and shoulders jutting up.
"Stick 'em up!" came a rough voice. Vincent raised his hands as he saw the glint of a revolver barrel. It
was a holdup - a daring crime on this side street of Manhattan!
Then something emerged from the darkened corner of the limousine. It spread like a huge monster of the
night, a black shape that swept forward and enveloped the gangster in its folds. There was a muffled cry,
then a pistol shot, and the car suddenly darted forward.
The door closed with a crash. Through the rear window of the limousine, Vincent saw a man sprawled in
the street. Evidently it was the fellow who had attempted the holdup.
Then the car burst into the glare of the lights on Fifth Avenue. Vincent turned quickly to the corner where
his strange companion sat. Now he would see his mysterious companion face to face!
But, except for himself, the car was empty. He was alone in the limousine. A dark splotch showed on the
inside of the door; he touched it and found blood on his hand.
Who had been wounded - the shadowy stranger or the assailant who had tried to enter the limousine?
Vincent could not guess; he only knew that in the brief struggle the man who had found him on the bridge
had left the automobile - unseen and unheard - and the door had closed behind him.
The mysterious stranger had vanished - like a shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE FIRST MESSAGE
HARRY VINCENT was annoyed as the big limousine sped along Fifth Avenue. The promise he had
made to the stranger was still uppermost in his mind, and he intended fully to keep his word. But his mind
was busy ferreting out the strange things that had happened since the episode on the bridge.
Alone, now, with thoughts of suicide gone, he began to wonder what coincidence had brought the
stranger out of the night, and by what strange trick he had managed to disappear so completely.
He found the light switch in the automobile and turned it on to examine the rich upholstery, which bore
the stain of blood. The car was an imported Supra; that, at least, was tangible evidence. It would not be
difficult to learn the name of the man who owned it.
The car turned from Fifth Avenue and pulled up in front of the Metrolite, one of New York's newest
hotels. The attendant opened the door and Vincent stepped to the sidewalk. Then he opened the front
door of the limousine and accosted the Negro chauffeur.
"Was this where you were told to bring me?" he asked.
"Yes, suh," replied the chauffeur. "Whah's de uddah man?"
"He left the car when the taxi nearly bumped us."
The chauffeur's eyes opened widely.
"Lawdy, sah, Ah didn't even stop at dat time."
Vincent looked at the man intently. He could see that the chauffeur was actually astonished. He put
another question.
"Whose car is this?"
"Don't say nuthin', boss," pleaded the chauffeur. "Dis am Mr. van Dyke's cah, an' Ah hadn't no right to
take you men along."
"What do you mean?"
"It was dis way, boss. Ah was keepin' the cah in town to-night an' de man in de black hat come up to me
when Ah was startin' for de g'rage. He come up jus' like a ghost. Yas, he did, sah.
"He says to me: 'Boy, Ah wants a ride. It's all right; Ah know who you is, an' Ah knows Mr. van Dyke,
an' heah's one hundred dollahs. Ah must find a friend o' mine.
"So Ah drives him all ovah, an' as we crosses the bridge, he says, 'Stop,' an' the nex' Ah knows he has
you-all in de cah with him. An' he had said befo' dat when he gets his friend, Ah was to drive aroun' little
streets until he taps the window - den Ah was to come heah. Dat's all Ah knows, boss, 'deed it is."
Vincent could see the truth in the man's worried story, so he dismissed the car and watched the huge
Supra as it moved down the foggy street. Even the license number would be no clew. He entered the
hotel and strolled to the desk. Then he began to worry about identifying himself.
"Room reserved for Harry Vincent?" he asked.
He was in suspense as the clerk turned away for a moment; then came the reassuring reply:
"Fourteen-nineteen, Mr. Vincent," said the clerk. "That was the room you wanted? Funny, we didn't
catch your name when you called up from Philadelphia this morning, but when you called again, ten
minutes ago, we put everything right. Will you register, please?"
Vincent signed his name and supplied Philadelphia as his place of residence. The stranger must have
called the hotel after leaving the car, he imagined.
Vincent wondered about that as he rode up in the elevator with the bell boy. The stranger must have
imitated his voice; he certainly would not have talked in that weird whisper.
The room was a large one, equipped with the most modern hotel furnishings. The bell boy pointed to a
valise, resting on a stand.
"That's your bag, isn't it, sir? It was marked for this room when it came in this evening."
Vincent acknowledged the bag. He was curious to know what it contained. He fumbled in his pocket.
His total wealth consisted of two half dollars, a nickel, and eight pennies, so he gave the bell boy one of
the larger coins and waited until the door closed behind the attendant.
Then he opened the suitcase. It held a pair of pajamas, comb, and brushes, neckties, and a few other
articles. Also there was a black leather wallet. Vincent removed this and opened it, to find two hundred
dollars in bills of various denominations.
He studied himself in the mirror. Here, in a comfortable hotel, with good surroundings and money, and
with promise of future supplies, life seemed strangely new. He studied his reflection in the mirror: tall, and
well featured. Here he was, a man under thirty, who had acknowledged himself beaten and who had tried
suicide. Well, things were different now.
He took a drink of ice water, and decided to retire for the night. Despite the many things that puzzled
him, he was sleepy. He needed rest. He draped his clothes over the chair, donned the pajamas, and got
into bed. In ten minutes he was sound asleep.
A knock at the door awakened him. It was morning. A bell boy awaited him with a large package.
"Want your breakfast sent up, sir?" asked the boy. "It's after ten o'clock."
Vincent followed the boy's suggestion and phoned for the morning meal to be sent up. Then he opened
the package.
It contained shirts, socks, and other apparel, with a new suit of clothes. He examined these articles and
was amazed to find that all were his exact size. The stranger must have made a perfect estimate of
Vincent's proportions in the dark of the automobile!
Breakfast arrived after Vincent had dressed and shaved, using a safety razor he had found in the valise.
Then he sat by the window and stared speculatively at the sky line of Manhattan. What next? Well, he
would wait and learn.
A half hour passed. Then the phone bell rang. He answered it eagerly; but was disappointed when he did
not recognize the voice of the stranger of the preceding night's adventure. It was a man's voice speaking,
however, calling him by name, and talking in an easy tone.
"Mr. Vincent?" the person said. "This is the jeweler. I have a message for you."
The word "message" made Vincent become suddenly alert. The voice was talking slowly now, and
certain words came in a slight emphatic drawl.
"Your watch was sent to another man by mistake. We expect to have another in very soon; perhaps by
next Tuesday. It will be delivered to your room."
The message was forming in Vincent's mind. He did not reply.
"Was my message clear?" came the question.
"Yes," Vincent replied.
He hung up the receiver and repeated the stressed words slowly and softly to himself:
"Watch - man - in - next - room."
Vincent chuckled. It was an order, and it was up to him to obey.
He had grandly ordered cigars with his breakfast, so he lighted a perfecto and smoked for a while.
Then he began to wonder about the next room, the occupant of which he was to watch.
There should be two rooms next to his - one on each side. Vincent went into the hallway. No, the
message left no doubt. His own room was a corner one; the only door near his - in fact, it was right
alongside - was numbered 1417.
There was no one in the hallway. Vincent listened at the door of the next room, but heard no sound. That
did not change the instructions, however.
It was up to him to locate the man who had Room 1417, and to watch that person's activities. The best
thing to do was wait and listen.
He went back in his own room and left the door ajar; then stretched out on the bed and began to read
the morning paper, listening for any sound that might come from the hall outside.
CHAPTER III. THE MAN IN THE NEXT ROOM
TIME was becoming rather boring to Harry Vincent. It was three o'clock in the afternoon; he knew this,
because at noon a bell boy had arrived with a package from a famous jeweler that contained a fine gold
watch and chain.
Vincent had smiled when he had opened the package, because the gift from his strange benefactor was,
in a way, a confirmation and reminder of the message that had come over the telephone.
But now, when the minutes had begun to lag, he wondered if his plan of waiting was all that was
expected of him. He had eaten a hearty breakfast but was beginning to think about having lunch sent up
to the room.
Then he heard the footsteps.
The door to the hall was still ajar, and he had heard several persons go along the corridor. But there was
something different in the walk of whoever was now approaching, for these footsteps seemed quick and
nervous - and once they hesitated.
Vincent stepped to the door of his room. The door opened inward, and the end of it was away from the
next room. By putting his eyes close to the opening, Vincent could see a short distance down the hall.
As he took this position he heard the footsteps hesitate again; a moment later he saw the form of a man
of medium height, who stopped directly in front of Room 1417. The man was looking over his shoulder
down the hallway, and in his hand he held a key. Apparently satisfied that no one was in sight, he quickly
thrust the key into the door and fumbled with the lock.
Vincent was able to study his profile in the few seconds the man required to unlock the door. The face
was rather paunchy and featureless, and Vincent figured the age of the man as close to fifty years.
When the door of the next room had closed, Vincent began to speculate. There was nothing about the
man's appearance that could be classed as unusual. He seemed to be of the veteran salesman type, one
who might have been on the road for many years.
But unquestionably the fellow was anxious not to be seen. He might be an intruder, entering the room
while the occupant was away; but it was more probable that he was the man whom Vincent had been set
to watch.
Another hour went by; then the door of the next room was opened, and what seemed to be the same
footsteps went down the hall. Vincent slipped into his hat and coat, and giving the man time to reach the
turn that led to the elevator, he followed, rapidly and quietly. He was just quick enough to catch the
elevator, and he found himself right beside his quarry.
The man walked hurriedly through the lobby, Vincent sauntering after him. But outside, the middle-aged
chap showed surprising activity and dashed for the only cab that was in front of the hotel.
Vincent caught the instructions to the driver; the man called "Pennsylvania Station"; but it was two
minutes before Vincent could hail a second cab with instructions to drive to the same destination. Urging
his driver to hurry, he reached the terminal in such good time that he was positive he could not be far
behind the man he was trailing.
Vincent had seen nothing of the other cab on the way; and now he spent a good half hour watching the
various train gates, in futile hope of seeing his man. Finally he returned to the hotel and had the
unexpected sensation of observing the missing man comfortably seated in an armchair reading an evening
paper, as though he had been planted there all the time. Disgusted, Vincent very humanly gave up his
fruitless watching, and went in the hotel restaurant to order dinner.
The meal was a good one - the best Vincent had eaten in months - but he did not enjoy it. He realized
that he had been hoaxed; that the man he followed had either changed his destination or had slipped by in
the crowded station. Worst of all, the fellow might have spotted him while he was watching the train
gates.
Vincent was sure now that there must be some good reason for watching the man, but he argued that it
would be foolish to follow him immediately after his hopeless failure. In fact, he began to forget his duty
as his mind dwelt upon the stranger of the night before.
"Funny how that fellow disappeared," he mused. "He went like a shadow; just like a shadow. That's a
good name for him - The Shadow! I'll remember that."
Vincent finished his dessert, still speculating on the strange personality who was now fixed in his mind.
When he reentered the lobby, he realized that he had spent too much time in the dining room. The
middle-aged man was no longer present.
Vincent mentally chided himself. Evidently it was his duty to be something of a detective. So far he had
proven himself totally lacking in that ability. Then it occurred to him that he could at least discover the
identity of the man he was supposed to watch. So he strolled to the desk, intending to open conversation
with the clerk.
He began with a natural question, the while scanning the mail boxes attentively.
"Anything in 1419?" Vincent asked.
In reply, the clerk drew a letter from a pigeonhole and handed it to him.
This was a surprise. He had not expected mail. But the envelope explained away Vincent's surprise. It
was addressed to R. J. Scanlon, and bore a return address and postmark which showed that the missive
had come from San Francisco. Vincent motioned to the clerk.
"Not my letter," he said.
The clerk looked at the address, then turned and shoved the envelope into another pigeonhole.
"My mistake," he said. "I gave you the mail for 1417. There's nothing in your box."
Vincent walked away with a smile. The clerk's error had given him the information he needed. On second
thought, Vincent was glad he had not quizzed the clerk about the man in 1417, and thereby made himself
unduly conspicuous.
He bought a few magazines and rode up on the elevator. There was no light showing through the partly
opened transom of Room 1417.
"All right, Mr. Scanlon," Vincent mused, as he sat in his room and began to read. "I'll be up and waiting
when you come in to-night. Have a good time while you're out."
The man in the next room came in before midnight. Vincent heard the transom slam shut after the door of
Scanlon's room had been closed.
"I'll remember that," he thought. "This chap worries about his transom being open."
The next morning began another vigil. There was no communicating door between the two rooms, so
Vincent was forced to reconnoiter in the hallway to make sure that the man had not gone out. He heard a
few slight sounds, and, satisfied that Scanlon was still on hand, he waited patiently, leaving his own door
slightly ajar.
Scanlon went out at half past ten. Vincent did not follow him immediately this time. He waited long
enough to take another elevator downstairs. In the lobby, he went through the motions of busying himself
at the magazine rack, while he kept on the lookout for his man. Vincent finally spotted him going through
the revolving door, and followed a short distance behind.
Scanlon entered a building on Broadway. Vincent, noting that there was only one entrance, waited
patiently on the street.
It was nearly noon when the middle-aged man reappeared. He went into a restaurant, and Vincent
followed, seating himself at a distant table.
He trailed Scanlon through an uneventful afternoon - always at a distance. Vincent began to be surprised
at the way he could identify the man. He could give Scanlon a full block lead, and spot him crossing a
street.
It was not difficult to do this because of the peculiar characteristics the man displayed. His quick, nervous
steps would stop at intervals, while he cast a furtive glance backward.
"This fellow is surely worried," thought Vincent. "My mysterious benefactor is not the only one who's in
this game. Somebody else is after him, I'll bet a derby."
Late in the afternoon, Scanlon slipped into a motion-picture theater. Vincent, tired with the aimless chase,
was tempted to do likewise; but he decided that the man might be playing some ruse. In this he was
evidently wrong, for he waited more than two hours before Scanlon again appeared.
"No percentage in this," mumbled Vincent as his quarry turned up Broadway. "He's wandered
everywhere with no purpose, and now we're back near the hotel. But I'll stick with him. He couldn't be
so aimless without having some pur - Ah! That looks suspicious."
A hard-faced man with a black mustache had popped suddenly from the obscurity of an orangeade
stand. It was at the corner upon which the Metrolite Hotel was located, and Vincent realized that the
fellow had held a commanding view of the entrance to the hotel.
The newcomer was short and stocky, and wore a mixed brown overcoat. Vincent's first suspicion was
hardly more than a hunch, but after he watched the actions of the man for a few minutes, he was solidly
convinced that he, too, was watching Scanlon.
To put his theory to the test, Vincent neglected Scanlon for the moment, and centered all his attention
upon the man in the brown overcoat, who dodged artfully in and out of the crowd and was a difficult
quarry, indeed.
After fifteen minutes of further wandering, Vincent became exultant when he again saw Scanlon, turning
into a restaurant, half a block ahead. By following the man in the overcoat, he had kept Scanlon in range,
also!
The stocky, mustached individual entered the restaurant. Vincent followed and found a table in the
corner. He was within twenty feet of Scanlon, but was almost obscured from view by a rack which held
overcoats.
He ordered dinner and waited. For a while he saw nothing of the man with the brown overcoat; then
Vincent spotted him, walking across the floor. He had taken off his coat and now appeared in a
摘要：

THELIVINGSHADOWMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.OUTOFTHEMIST?CHAPTERII.THEFIRSTMESSAGE?CHAPTERIII.THEMANINTHENEXTROOM?CHAPTERIV.ABOLDMURDER?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWONTHEWALL?CHAPTERVI.THESECONDMESSAGE?CHAPTERVII.THEINSURANCEBROKER?CHAPTERVIII.THETEASHOPOF...

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