Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 311 - Death Stalks the U.N.

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DEATH STALKS THE U.N.
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I
? CHAPTER II
? CHAPTER III
? CHAPTER IV
? CHAPTER V
? CHAPTER VI
? CHAPTER VII
? CHAPTER VIII
? CHAPTER IX
? CHAPTER X
? CHAPTER XI
? CHAPTER XII
? CHAPTER XIII
? CHAPTER XIV
? CHAPTER XV
? CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER I
"THE PURPOSE for which this august body was originally formed is being flouted by a handful of willful
men. It is time, and past time, that my country, Ruravia, which has been used as a sort of football in
international affairs, be granted some kind of surcease!"
Dom Brassle, representative from Ruravia, paused and drank some water. His throat was dry. He
looked around the room. It was a familiar sight. Movies, papers, magazines, all had presented every
corner of the meeting place to the world. The United Nations, the only hope for peace that seemed to
have the slightest chance of surviving postwar squabbles, was in session.
"I had hoped that what I am to say would not have been necessary. But events have forced me to..."
The sound when it came, was about like that of two polite palms meeting in a gesture of applause. A
spat. No one even noticed it or would ever have commented on it, but for the fact that just before the
slight sound, Dom Brassle stiffened.
His knuckles tightened their hold on the desk in front of him. He said and his voice was low, "I will
speak, my voice will be heard, for it must!"
He swallowed and it was painful to watch the process. He forced the saliva down his dry throat. Once
again he opened his mouth to speak. But it was futile. Not even his magnificent will could hold his body
and mind together.
He fell to the floor. His fine straight back, the shock of white hair, so easy to caricature that it had made
his features familiar to every newspaper reader, all, back, head, broad shoulders, shook. He tried to
force himself up on all fours.
It was only then that his assistant, body guard and best friend Yerkes Sarri, ran to his side. He bent over
his fallen superior. Dom Brassle, fighting as he had fought every other battle of his life, with an almost
superhuman resistance, moved his lips.
It was too shocking. It just could not be happening. It was as though a gang war had broken out in the
Senate of the United States. The men gathered in the room could not believe their eyes. A sort of
paralysis gripped them. They watched as the dying man, holding onto a tiny thread of life spoke a few
words to his assistant.
The representatives of every nation in the world desiring peace watched as a brave and great man died.
By some freak of chance the microphone on Dom Brassle's desk picked up his last word. It was 'Cap'...
A man seated at a desk to the left of the dead man leaped to his feet and walked rapidly towards the
door behind him. Yerkes Sarri, finally convinced against his will that his idol was dead, looked up and
saw the retreating back. He didn't speak aloud but his lips formed the words, Captain Derry.
Somehow, the movement of one man, the action of Captain Derry, representative of Molvannia, in
quitting the room brought the rest of the occupants of the room to life.
There was a bustle, that indescribable sound of many people moving at once that is a compound of the
rustle of clothes, the creaks of chairs, the inspiration of breath: the sound that is a crowd.
Before they began to speak, a curious object rolled across the floor. There was a slight slant to the floor
down towards where the body of Brassle lay. This incline had helped the strange brown thing to roll into
sight.
Drawn like a piece of metal to a magnet, a potato came to rest next to the fallen man. Sarri forced his
eyes away from the doorway through which Captain Derry had just exited and looked down at the
potato. His thin, almost fanatical face tightened. His narrow shoulders hunched. The pursuit of his job had
led him into many strange situations. He recognized the potato for what it was. Near him, a woman drew
a shocked breath as she finally forced her mind to accept the fact that the bizarre object was a potato
and not... She racked her mind; what had she thought it was? A grenade. So shocking had been the
death of Brassle, she thought wryly, that she was all mentally prepared for an accoutrement of war!
Her training came to her aid. She was making mental notes about the scene almost before she had
regained the color in her face. Famous correspondent she might now be; but her first training had been
that of a reporter, alert for spot news.
She scribbled in shorthand till Yerkes, pulling himself together, spoke. He said, "Miss Barret, would you
step over here?"
She nodded and stepped to the side of the corpse, completely at ease, for after all, the war had shown
her every one of the varying faces of death. Her syndicated column had absorbed her emotion till there
was very little left in her.
"Will you stand here till I go out for a moment?" Yerkes Sarri asked and it was a command.
She nodded her magnificent head. Almost masculine in its strength of character, there was enough of the
woman in it to make her striking if not beautiful.
He said, and his voice was low, "If I should not return, I think Dom said, just as he died, 'The world is
fair...'" His face was so tightly drawn with emotion that she thought his bones were likely to come through
the skin. He said, "Somehow, that is typical of the man... knowing he was dying, to say..."
She waited quietly till he got a grip on himself. "Then he said, and I can't be too sure of this for his throat
was full of blood, 'Time...' Perhaps he just meant that time was short, for after that he had to gulp his life
blood down before he could say... 'Cap'... and that was all."
"Very well." Her voice was calm. She watched as he turned and went out the door, the same door that
Captain Derry had used. She thought, I wouldn't like to be in Derry's shoes. Yerkes loved Dom like a
father, and I'm sure Yerkes thinks the captain killed his friend.
Another man followed the thin form of Sarri from the door. There was some semblance of order coming
over the room now. The gavel was pounding a tattoo and the men in that room were conditioned to
responding to the sound of a gavel.
A question formed in Irene's mind. What was going on? Why had S. T. Tarr followed Sarri? She had
never quite made up her mind about Tarr's role. He was always around. He was invariably at the biggest
and most important cocktail parties. He looked naked without a woman on each arm, so used was she to
seeing him that way. Tall, good looking, he had something of the quality of Cary Grant, she thought.
Her thoughts spiraled back in time. Her lips had a wry twist as she remembered the past... It had been in
Europe and she had been young, so young. She had been politically undeveloped, she thought, as well as
immature in other ways... Tarr had been her youthful beau ideal... She sighed remembering the way she
had carried the torch for him... It had been really pathetic... he had treated her quite badly. She thought
of those months they had spent in the Tyrol... the world had been young and so had she. Then they had
left the mountains and gone to Biarritz... They did all the things that young lovers are supposed to... She
couldn't know, didn't know at the time, that to Tarr it was all a monotonous repetition, a thrice told tale.
It was only gradually that Tarr allowed her to see more and more of what went on in his mind. It was
only when she began to add up tiny clues as to his behavior, his political activities, that the bloom fell off
the rose.
She had felt at the time—and still did—a sensation of being cheated, of having lost at some kind of
thimble-rigged con game.
It had come to an end when she began to grow up a bit. As her love for him waned, as she began to see
through him and the shabby politics which he espoused, as she had escaped from the toils of love,
somehow their position had become reversed.
The more cold she had become to him, the more ardently he pursued her. Now things had come to
where she ducked him at every opportunity, while he went out of his way to be near her.
She wrenched her mind back to the present and thought, watching the men leave the room, that it was
like a child's game of follow the leader, first Captain Derry, Molvannian representative, then Yerkes Sarri
who had devoted his life to the problems of his country along with the Ruravian national hero, Dom
Brassle. And then, finally, S. T. Tarr who, for all Irene knew, was a man without a country.
She allowed herself a glance down at Brassle. Why did the good ones, the inspired ones, always die too
soon? Another week and he might well have finally welded his country into a whole that would be able to
stand up under the stresses and strains of Middle Europe's problems. It was as though she were in some
isolated cone of silence. She was so involved in her own thoughts that she wasn't even aware of the fact
that the security council of the United Nations had finally brought itself together. The armed guards who
had stood at the door to no useful purpose were now drawn around her in a human wall. The police,
called instantly, were coming down the aisle towards the body.
Still she stood there as though alone and looked down at the potato next to Brassle's body. She thought
that somehow, the potato was a correct symbol. For all of Brassle's fights had been for food for his
underprivileged little country. But the hole that had been cut through the potato... that was the symbol of
the fury and destruction that had always been waiting for Brassle. The symbol of violent death. For the
elements that Brassle had battled had never hesitated to use force.
While that august assemblage was adjusting to the murder that had occurred in front of their startled eyes,
in another room not far away in the same building, another man was dying...
CHAPTER II
IT WAS a small room. Generally, it was the site of closed room committee meetings. The door was
closed now. But the committee had not been called to order. On the floor lay two men.
Tangled in curly hair, a bloody gavel lay next to S. T. Tarr's prostrate form. His breathing was shallow.
Near him, dying, Yerkes Sarri, a Don Quixote figure of fun to most people, for his fanaticism had
repelled, not attracted people, stretched his thin lips in an agonized shape. His claw-like hand moved,
slowly, like a nightmare towards the bare floor that was at the edge of the carpet. His fingers were red.
Red from when, a few moments ago he had placed his hand to his chest.
The red came off his fingers on the bare wooden floor. It made a pattern. His teeth almost met through
his thin bottom lip as he forced his hand to his will.
He never finished the design. His head fell forward as he tried to make a triangle on the floor... Don
Quixote had tilted at his last windmill.
At the side of the desk that was near the dead man's feet a revolver glinted in the fading sun. The shallow
quick breathing of the living man was the only sound in the room of death.
At the door that led to the street, a cop stood. His face was tight with determination. A man faced him, a
man whose face was white and haggard. He said, "How much?"
"You ask that once more, and I don't care who you are or what tin-pot country you represent, I'm going
to mark my initials on your head with my billy. Now get back inside where you belong!"
Captain Derry replaced his fat wallet in his pocket. Occasionally these American barbarians baffled him.
Everyone in Europe knew that all any American cared for was money. It was a well known fact that
they'd sell their mothers if the price was right.
They had no culture, all they were interested in was money grubbing. He sighed. Perhaps his approach
hadn't been the correct one. He turned to go back into the building. Of all times for a bribe to fail!
The radio screamed the news. This was spot news with a vengeance. They had their broadcasting
apparatus always on tap at the conference room. Never, when the installation was made, did anyone
guess that one day an excited announcer would say, in a voice that shook with emotion, "Dom Brassle,
Ruravian representative to the United Nations, has just been shot! Murder most foul! As yet there is no
clue as to where the bullet could have come from! Adding a touch of the bizarre to the circumstances is
the fact that a potato rolled across the floor towards the fallen body of Dom Brassle! Stay tuned to this
station for more developments!"
It was only minutes later that Lamont Cranston, apprised of the news by his aide, Burbank, took a plane
from Skillton. He was flying to New York, scene of the crime.
He had no facts as he sat in his seat high above the clouds. His brief case was on his lap. His hawklike
profile was stern as he sat in the hired plane looking down at the fleecy soft whiteness below him.
All he knew was that there had been murder committed. Where there was crime there was The Shadow.
In his brief case, safely hidden under a zipper, was the cape, that protecting, concealing cape that was
blacker than black, and his hat, the black slouch hat that cut off any light from his face, which had so
often covered his features from the eyes of men who would have given their last breath to fathom his
identity. Many and many had given their last breath... but without penetrating the stygian darkness that
masked The Shadow from any gaze.
Even The Shadow could not at this moment have more than a vague idea of the vast evil forces that were
at work in this latest case to occupy the attention of the master man hunter of all time.
There would be time and enough for The Shadow to make his appearance. Now it was more practical
for Lamont Cranston to do the primary investigating. For the United Nations meets in New York and in
New York, police commissioner Weston has more than one reason to be grateful to Lamont Cranston.
Cranston knew that Weston would be more than glad to give him every aid.
The steep slant of the plane was the only warning that Cranston had reached La Guardia field. The
wheels had barely stopped turning when Cranston dropped from the plane. He walked at a pace so fast
that most men would have had to run to keep up with him.
He hurried past the busses that wait to carry air passengers from the field in to the center of New York.
There were some cabs up ahead. His eyes flickered over them. There...
He was in the cab and sitting down. From the driver there came, "Blast it! Can'ch'a ever be surprised?
Not ever?"
He grinned at the reflection of Shrevvie's angry face in the rearview mirror. "Come now, Shrevvie, did
you really think I wouldn't expect you to be waiting for me?"
"Ah..." Shrevvie's voice faded off into mumbles for really, he was glad to see Cranston back. It had been
a while since Cranston had been there. Shrevvie thought, "Chee... it ain't been since 'Chi' that me and him
was on a case. I missed out on N'Orleans and Skillton."
He drove on.
"Shrevvie, have you any idea where you're driving?"
"Now that wounds me. To the quick it wounds me, see?"
Cranston glanced out the window. Shrevvie had known. Up ahead was the temporary headquarters of
the U.N.
"Didja think I'd drive yah anywhere but dere? Dat's the only t'ing anybody's squawkin' about! It's bigger
dan..." Shrevvie paused, his mind was unable to find any comparable phenomenon.
"It's the biggest story ever, dat's all," he said, finally.
Ahead was the building where some of the most baffling events of the master manhunter's career, waited
for explication. Only he could see through the tangled morass; the web of incongruity and mystery, the
bizarre motivations, the mystery that surrounded the death of two men and the assault on still a third!
The cab shrieked to a halt. Shrevvie had leaned on the hand brake, for ahead a policeman, white gloved
hand aloft, had flagged them down.
"And where do ye think yer goin'?"
"What's it to you, bub?"
The policeman stomped forward, red face angry. "Sure, and if you can't understand the language, I'll be
after helpin' ye with the butt o' me night stick!"
"You and how many other cops?" Shrevvie reached down on the floor where, like most New York
cabbies, he left a tire iron in wait.
Cranston reached forward and tapped him on the shoulder. "Take it easy, Shrevvie."
The irate cop was close now. The door opened and Lamont Cranston, brief case under arm, hopped
out. "Officer, is the commissioner here yet?"
This took the wind out of the cop's sails for a moment, but he recovered fast. "Oh, another one of the
commissioner's friends, huh? Why do you guys all pull that line? Didn't you see the cops at the corner
keeping cars away from this street?"
"Sure, I seen it, but what's that to me? This is Lamont Cranston and if you don't think the commissioner
knows him you're nuttier than a fruit cake."
The cop was taken aback at this direct assault. Cranston's quick eyes had seen a car driving into the
street that faced the temporary U.N. headquarters. He said, "Just a second, officer, does that license
number mean anything to you?" His long finger pointed to the car.
"Uh... ulp... yeah... it's himself... the commissioner!" Weston came out of his car, his face alight in a grin
of welcome. "Lamont. What luck. It's been so long since I've seen you. Come..."
Cranston joined his friend. Behind him, the smile on Shrevvie's face was diabolical. He said, "What now,
smart guy? Still wanta talk with the end of yer night stick?"
The cop turned on his heel and walked off with Shrevvie's laugh echoing vindictively in his ears. "Cops...
bah!"
Up long stairs that led to the main conference room walked the man who was responsible for the police
force of the world's largest city and his friend—a man who was interested in criminology—for all Weston
knew was that Cranston was a wealthy man who dabbled in crime and its prevention as other rich men
collect stamps... or blondes...
Through the big open door Cranston could see down to the spot where Dom Brassle lay in his own
blood. They were about to step into the room when a man, dressed in blue denims, a cleaning man of
some kind, spoke. "You better come along with me..."
Both Weston and Cranston turned in confusion. This was unexpected. "What's that, my man?" Weston's
tone was a trifle pompous.
"I said, if you guys want the whole score you better follow old Wallaby Willy!"
"This is absurd." Weston looked around for one of his men. "Let's see what this is all about!" Cranston
turned and followed Wallaby Willy. His bent form and greying hair made him look older than his years.
The way led down a hall and to a door. Across from the door two bored-looking guards lounged,
looking as if they'd appreciate a smoke.
Wallaby Willy pushed the small door open. He said, "Take a gander."
Cranston looked in.
"I do the cleaning around here. I cleaned up this morning. Just before, I remembered that I hadn't done
the windows, so I came back. I found that."
In the center of the room near two bodies, some window cleaning equipment lent veracity to the man's
story.
They walked closer. It was obvious at first glance that nothing could be done for the man with the bullet
in him. The other man, Tarr, moved. His eyelids flickered. An involuntary grin of pain distorted his lips.
The gavel moved away from his head where it had been lying.
"Don't... please don't..." The grimace came again. "Why are you doing this? Don't... oh... my God!"
CHAPTER III
THE skin on his face drawn tight by the intensity of his concentration, Cranston bent over so as to hear
better the scene which the man was evidently re-living.
But his eyes opened and closed quickly. He was coming to, more now. He stopped his mumbling.
Cranston wasted no time. "Who did it? Who were you telling not to do what?"
Tarr put his hands to his aching head and shuddered involuntarily as he felt the lump the gavel had left.
"I don't quite know who it was... he had a handkerchief drawn across his face... He had his hand in his
pocket... when it came out, he had a gun in it. He shot Yerkes down... then he threw the gun at him. I
couldn't stand it any longer, I leaped for him... but he picked up something and hit me on the head with
it... Oh... my head! It feels like the great grandfather of all hangovers..."
"I wouldn't move too fast, chum," Wallaby Willy said, and it sounded as if he spoke from long
experience.
"I won't. I don't think I can." After a moment's re-consideration, Commissioner Weston had changed his
mind. He came into the room at this point. "What in the world... Why... that's Yerkes... and he's dead...
Dom Brassle killed and then his assistant; what's going on here? What kind of madness is stalking the
U.N.?"
"That's your job, bub." Saying this, Wallaby Willy picked up his pail and his squeegee and stepped to the
window.
"What are you doing, my good man?" Weston asked.
"Doin' what I came in here for... washing the windows."
"Get away from that window. There may be fingerprints on it!"
"Yes," Cranston agreed, "I wouldn't touch anything in here." An idea seemed to occur to him. He walked
to the door and opening it, spoke to the two guards across the way. "Who came out of here in the last
ten or fifteen minutes?" His practiced eye had told him that Yerkes hadn't been dead much longer than
that.
"Two guys went in, but nobody came... wait—three guys..."
"Who was the third?"
"The guy that's in there now. The cleaning guy. He went in about five minutes ago and came right back
out, hell bent for election."
"You didn't see anyone else go in here then?"
"Not a soul and we would have if anyone had."
"I see. Thank you." Cranston went back into the death room. "Commissioner, get some fingerprint men
up here in a hurry." He explained what he had just learned.
Weston thought a moment and went over to the window. He looked at it in silence. Cranston joined him.
There was undisturbed dust on the windowsill.
The two men who devoted their lives to law enforcement looked up and their glances locked. Then with
the same motion they looked down at the prostrate S. T. Tarr. The same thought was in both their minds.
But it was Wallaby Willy standing nearby who had seen and interpreted their thoughts, who spoke.
"Nobody's went in or out the door... and nobody coulda gone in or out of the window without mussing
up that there dust, huh?"
Then he too looked down at Tarr, who looked up at them with pain in his eyes. "What is it? Why are you
all looking at me that way? What is it?"
"It's pretty simple, bub. You just fitted yerself for a quickie in the hot squat, as sure as my name's
Wallaby Willy."
At that, Weston went to the door and called across to the guard to send the scientific men up with their
paraphernalia as soon as they came. That done, he went back into the room and looked down at Yerkes'
dead body with pity in his eyes.
"Shot down without a chance... and then... this rat wipes the gun off, heaves it there, and then hits himself
on the head. This is one case where if there are no prints on the gavel, I'll accept it as proof that he wiped
it off before we came in!"
Cranston leaned over and looked at the handle of the gavel. Clearly as an etching, a bloody print stood
out.
"Don't worry about that, there's a print here." Cranston turned on his heel and looked out the dusty
window. Down below, a bored cop was doing calisthenics with his night stick. Lamont Cranston without
a word of explanation left the room as the fingerprint men came in with their outfit.
Walking through the halls, making his way past reporters and men and women who stood still with
stunned expressions on their faces, Cranston walked thoughtfully.
This building, these people, dedicated to the task of saving the world from ever again being faced with
the terror and madness of war, must be protected, saved from the consequences of the killer who had
struck so ruthlessly. How terrible those consequences could be, Cranston knew only too well.
He passed endless doors. Each of them at one time or another had been closed on a committee.
Committees which had been and were doing their best to help in trying to consolidate the gains of peace.
He sighed as he walked down the long staircase that led from the building that housed the hope of the
world down to the street proper. He paused there to adjust his bearings. It was a trifle difficult.
He wanted to find the window that looked from the murder room down onto the street. There, ahead,
and around the corner of the building. He walked slowly while he pondered. He was sure of what he was
going to find out when he interrogated the policeman who had been on guard.
But sure or not, it was up to him to be ever on guard against error. Better take the little time necessary to
get verification than to make a mistake.
The policeman was bored and was still making his night stick do tricks. He didn't even look up as
Cranston approached. Lamont paused just a second and looked up at the window. Yes, it was the
correct one. He was a mere five feet from the policeman before the cop deigned to look at him.
Right below the window, Cranston said, "Hello, how long have you been here?"
"Not that it's any of your business," the cop squinted his eyes, "but I been here for four hours, ever since I
came on duty."
"Good, then you would have seen anyone who came out of that window?" Cranston pointed to it.
"Anybody comin' out of there? What's with you? You got rocks in your head? Nobody came outa there.
This is the U.N., buddy, nobody plays cat burglar around here."
"Thanks." Cranston went back upstairs.
In the room, the men were finishing. They had blown aluminum powder on the handle of the gavel. The
print was clear. It was big. One of them said, "Even without comparing it, I'll take a Brody that it's a
thumb print."
Weston grunted agreement. He was waiting. Tarr was on his feet. He swayed groggily. One of the
fingerprint men grasped his wrist and rolled his hand over the ink pad.
"Still sticking to the ink pad, eh?" asked Cranston.
"Just till we finish this batch up. Then I'm going to get some of that inkless stuff that Dondero worked up.
That's a beautiful system. You have a white paper, somebody puts their finger print on it and you can
develop it without ink. Very suave indeed."
While he was talking about the advances in his profession he was rolling each finger of Tarr's hand on the
paper. He was particularly careful with the thumb print.
Tarr's face was white with pain and strain. He was eyeing the other men in the room. While the
fingerprinting was going on, the other technicians had set up the flash camera equipment. The cameras
were focused down on the dead body of Yerkes.
They shot from high overhead, from the side, from every angle that any lawyer might demand as evidence
in court. While they worked, the medical examiner wandered in. He was bored. He seemed to have been
born bored. He cocked a lackadaisical eye at the corpse. He leaned over the body, looked at the bullet
hole in the dead man and then looked up at the still groggy S. T. Tarr. He jerked his hand at Tarr. "He
the one that did it?"
Weston nodded. "As far as we can tell, yes." He waited for the M.E. to go on. It was quite a wait.
Finally Weston asked, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Have you any report to make? How long ago was he shot?"
The M.E. sighed. "What do you expect me to do? Look in a crystal ball? Sure, at a guess it wasn't over
a half hour ago. But I'd never swear to it. Too many factors enter into these things. The weather can
control the speed with which rigor mortis sets in."
"I know all that," Weston spoke a little stuffily. "But do you have anything to add to the obvious fact that
he was shot?"
"Yeah. He's dead. That's all. Wait till after I post mortem the corpse, then I'll be able to talk intelligently."
The medical examiner smiled. Evidently he had only been concerned with annoying Weston. That
accomplished, he fussily got his bag together and stood up. "Send it down when you can."
He left on that.
"I don't quite understand what's going on here." Tarr was recovering a bit from the blow on his head. "I
don't like the assumption you all seem to be making that I am the person who shot Yerkes! Why should I
have? What would be my motivation? After all, Captain Derry didn't particularly like either Dom Brassle
or Yerkes. Why take it for granted that I did this?"
Weston with a pained air pointed out the impossible circumstances that surrounded the murder. In the
circumstances, he asked Tarr, how else could Yerkes have been killed?
While Weston was speaking, Cranston was standing looking down at the poor crumpled body of the thin
man. He had been looking at the thin red line that Yerkes had tried to scribble with his blood. His life had
been ebbing. All he had managed to do was make a scrawl that was difficult of interpretation.
Weston noticed Cranston's preoccupation. He came next to his friend and looked at the scribbling.
"Curious, isn't it?"
"Umm."
"Say! Lamont... look... isn't that the form of a triangle and of a square?"
"It's so indecipherable that it may as well be a circle as a square. The triangle is plain enough..."
Cranston's forehead was creased in thought as he looked at the puzzling diagram the dying man had
made.
"You," Weston's voice was sharp as he spoke to one of the policemen at the door, "go get me something
with the Molvannian insignia on it!"
He looked proud of himself. A moment later, he looked even prouder, for the cop came back with a
letterhead of the Molvannian embassy. Weston grabbed it from the policeman and waved it under his
friend's nose. "Lamont! Look!"
Cranston looked at the letterhead. Across the top of it was the Molvannian symbol. It was a triangle in a
square. "Yes, I realized that."
"But don't you see? Yerkes wouldn't have tried to draw it with his last breath of life if it wasn't
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：68 页 大小：413.99KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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