Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 126 - Treasure Trail

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TREASURE TRAIL
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH DEFERRED
? CHAPTER II. CRIME'S VICTIM
? CHAPTER III. PAST LINKS
? CHAPTER IV. THE MAN IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER V. TASPER TALKS
? CHAPTER VI. WESTON'S BLUNDER
? CHAPTER VII. REVEALED BY THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VIII. ABOARD THE BARGE
? CHAPTER IX. GHOSTS FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER X. THE LAW INTERVENES
? CHAPTER XI. THRUSTS AT DUSK
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW DICTATES
? CHAPTER XIII. FROM THE DEPTHS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE LIVE GHOST
? CHAPTER XV. DEATH'S SILENCE
? CHAPTER XVI. TRAIL OF GOLD
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW'S PROOF
? CHAPTER XVIII. TRAILS TWIST
? CHAPTER XIX. THE GOLDEN LURE
CHAPTER I. DEATH DEFERRED
THE man who stopped inside the doorway of the Cobalt Club was stubby in build, shabby of attire. His
plain face looked weather-beaten beneath his grizzled hair. He had taken off his hat - awed, perhaps, by
luxurious surroundings of New York's most exclusive club.
Strong, squatty fingers clutched the hat against the buttons of a threadbare overcoat. Colorless eyes
peered from the man's flattish face, scanning everywhere, for someone the man expected to see.
The desk attendant questioned sharply:
"Is someone expecting you here, sir?"
That query was the usual opening to get rid of undesired visitors. The grizzled man did not catch its irony.
Bluntly, he replied:
"I must see Mr. Cranston. Mr. Lamont Cranston."
The statement brought a gape from the attendant. Few members of the Cobalt Club would ever expect
so shabby a visitor as this one, and Lamont Cranston least likely of all. Cranston was a reputed
millionaire, who favored only the most select circles.
Recovered from his surprise, the attendant decided that the shabby man was either a crank or a
masquerader. He was ready to dismiss him curtly, when he remembered standing instructions concerning
Mr. Cranston.
All visitors who inquired for the millionaire were to be treated cordially. If Mr. Cranston happened to be
absent, they were to be encouraged to remain until he arrived, or could be reached by telephone. The
personnel of the club thought the order to be a whim on Cranston's part. They had never guessed the true
reason.
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. Master-fighter who battled crime, he frequently covered his true
identity under the guise of Cranston. There was always chance of emergency wherein The Shadow might
require a meeting with some unexpected person. Therefore, he had issued the standing order.
"Sorry, sir." The attendant used his most genial tone. "Mr. Cranston has not arrived this evening. You are
welcome to wait here, in the lounge or library."
The weather-beaten stranger looked in the directions indicated. He glanced back at the outside door. He
balked at the idea of remaining in the club.
"Tell Mr. Cranston I'll be back later."
"He would like you to remain -"
"I have a cab outside. I'd rather ride around a while. I'll be back. I wouldn't disappoint him."
"Your name, sir?"
"Captain Daniel Cray."
The attendant blinked as he heard the title. He wondered just what kind of a captain Cray could be. Cray
saw the attendant's expression; fidgeting with his hat, he explained:
"Better make it Skipper Cray. Old Skipper Dan, master of the schooner Hatteras. Mr. Cranston will
remember me, when you mention the name of the old five-master."
With a last look around the club lobby, as though doubting the attendant's statement of Cranston's
absence, "Skipper" Cray planked his battered hat on his grizzled brow. Turning, he shuffled toward the
outer door.
THERE was one man who had noticed the conversation at the desk. He was a club member of brusque
manner and military appearance, whose short-clipped mustache went well with his broad features. Every
one knew that club member. He was Ralph Weston, New York's police commissioner.
Among his friends Weston counted Cranston. The commissioner was therefore interested when he saw
the visitor who inquired for the millionaire. Stepping over to the desk, Weston asked:
"What did that fellow say his name was? Skipper Cray?"
"Yes, commissioner," replied the attendant. "He claimed that Mr. Cranston would recognize the name."
"You asked him to wait here?"
"Yes. He declined. He seemed nervous about it."
Weston looked toward the inner rooms. They were deep, gloomy places, almost like caverns. Once in
the lounge or the library, a person would be cut off from exit to the street.
Was that why Cray refused to wait?
As Weston asked himself the question, he decided that he ought to know more about Skipper Cray.
Striding through the outer door, Weston reached the sidewalk and looked along the street. He did not
see Cray. Turning to the doorman, Weston demanded:
"Where is the man who asked for Cranston?"
The doorman looked blank. Weston gave other details:
"The squatty man, with gray hair. His face looked weather-beaten. He came in, holding his hat like a
beggar."
"That fellow!"
The doorman pointed to a taxi, some thirty feet along the street. The cab was starting to pull from the
curb; its driver was having trouble unwedging it from between two other cars.
"He got in that cab, commissioner," said the doorman. "Want me to call him back?"
"No. Wait a moment."
Weston watched the cab, hoping for a glimpse of Cray. As the commissioner stared, the doorman spoke
suddenly:
"Here's Mr. Cranston now, commissioner."
Weston looked to see a limousine halting at the club entrance. The doorman sprang to the car door; a tall
figure in evening clothes rose leisurely to step to the curb. Weston saw a hawkish, masklike face. He
recognized Lamont Cranston.
Looking along to the cab, Weston saw that it was almost clear. In another ten seconds it would be gone.
Weston wanted to witness the meeting between Cray and Cranston. He saw the chance slipping from
him. Weston showed speed. He shouted:
"Cranston!"
As his friend looked toward him, Weston pointed to the cab with one hand; beckoned with the other.
Starting a quick jog toward the cab, Weston waved his arms and called:
"Wait! Wait there, Cray! Hold that cab!"
The cab stopped abruptly, its nose toward traffic. It was Weston's turn to halt, an instant later. It was not
sight of Cray that stopped Weston; in fact, he did not glimpse the Skipper's face.
What Weston did see was a gun muzzle that jabbed through the opened rear window, just behind the
cab door. The revolver was aiming squarely for the police commissioner.
WESTON was rooted. Totally astonished, he made himself a perfect target. His white shirt front, his
tuxedoed shoulders were a plain sight against the green cedar trees that lined the wall of the Cobalt
Club.
As the cards stood at that moment, New York City was due to have a new police commissioner on the
morrow.
Fortunately, other eyes had seen the glistening gun muzzle. They were the hawkish eyes of Cranston,
whose gaze had followed the commissioner's dash. While Weston halted, while the murderer in the car
poised his gun hand for sure aim, The Shadow sprang to action.
Though he still wore the evening attire of Cranston, he showed the speed that characterized The Shadow.
With whippet speed, he took a diving lunge across the sidewalk, straight for Weston. The commissioner
was bulky; but Cranston's drive bowled him over like a pillow-load of feathers.
With low, hard shoulder lunge, The Shadow sent Weston headlong through the cedars that fronted the
Cobalt Club. Hitting the space beyond, Weston plumped flat behind the wooden, earth-filled boxes at
the bottom of the trees. The crash was a hard one; particularly for Weston's dignity, but it preserved him
for the office of police commissioner.
The revolver stabs that came from the cab window sent bullets whistling past the very spot where
Weston had stood.
Those slugs did not find the figure of Cranston. The well-clad rescuer was on hands and knees, below
the line of fire. The murderer saw him, dipped his gun to fire low. The aiming weapon veered a trifle.
Cranston was coming to his feet. The gunner expected to clip him as he took a forward step.
Instead the figure of Cranston bounded backward with a twist. Without a glance at the cab, The Shadow
had guessed what the murderer's move would be. The gun spat its deadly bullet. The shot was wide.
Swinging hastily to gain another shot, the marksman was belated. His last bullets sizzled above the
deserted sidewalk, as the figure of Cranston dived between cars that lined the curb.
Twice foiled, the man in the cab chose flight. His gun muzzle jabbed the cab driver's neck. The hackie did
not wait to question whether the revolver still held bullets. He had not counted the gun blasts. His only
thought was to obey any orders that came from the rear seat, and trust that he would be allowed to live.
Waiting only until a passing car rolled by, the cabby started his machine out into traffic. Some cars had
sped clear; others were veering to the curb, their drivers frightened by the gunfire. There were shouts
from the sidewalks; shrills of police whistles, but all were far away.
The avenue had opened into a zigzag path. The scene was set for the getaway of the cab that had
brought Skipper Cray to the Cobalt Club. A killer's thrusts had failed; but the man himself was on the
way to freedom.
CHAPTER II. CRIME'S VICTIM
COMMISSIONER WESTON, peering through the cedar branches, saw the cab begin its flight. His
jarring fall, the reverberations of the gunfire, had combined to jolt Weston from his dumfounded state.
Weston cursed the fact that he was powerless. He, commander of law in New York, with thousands of
men at his call! Watching a murder-maker depart without a chance to stop him!
As Weston stared, he saw an amazing sight.
The cab was clear, slowing momentarily as the driver yanked the gear to high. That instant gave an
opening, if anyone could take it; and one pursuer did.
Springing from beyond a parked car, just behind the space that the cab had left, was the figure of
Cranston. Weston was amazed at the swiftness of his leisurely friend. With long, racing bounds, Cranston
was gaining on the cab. His chase ended with a spring that would have done credit to a broad jumper.
Just as the cab whipped into high, Weston saw Cranston land upon the rear bumper. Clutching the spare
tire, the millionaire clubman gained a hold. He did not stop there.
Crowding through the cedars, Weston reached the curb to spy Cranston making a swift upward climb
that ended on the cab top. Spread flat, he was above the steel turret top, where bullets could not reach
him. Cranston had become a menace to the murderer.
That cab was marked. Wherever it went, traffic cops would see the clinging figure on the top. At any
time, he might make a surprise attack through one of the windows. Weston saw Cranston's hand move to
a pocket. He remembered that his friend carried a gun, by police permit.
The murderer had heard the thump upon the top of the cab. He must have recognized that he was
menaced by an armed pursuer, for the cab's course showed that the man within was giving new orders.
At the corner, the cab swung hard to the left. The driver was trying to shake off The Shadow.
Weston saw Cranston take measures of his own. He rolled to the high side of the cab, like a yachtsman
trimming ship. As the cab straightened, there was Cranston, safe on top. That was Weston's last view for
a while. The cab had turned the corner.
ON the cross street came an obstacle that the murderer had not expected; with it, opposition that
threatened The Shadow.
Fleeing cars from the avenue had partly blocked traffic, enough to halt the cab. They had gone against
traffic on a one-way street; and so had the cab, because the murderer thought a left turn would be
tougher for The Shadow.
There was a space to the left of the tangled cars that were halfway along the cross street; but the hackie
could not take it. Other automobiles were trying to force through that narrow opening.
The cab jolted to a stop. The man inside was helpless. He could not reach the enemy on the cab top. If
he opened either door, he would fall prey to an attack from above.
If Weston had been there to witness that scene, he would have credited his friend, Cranston, with sure
victory.
That was before the opposing factor entered.
While The Shadow awaited the murderer's move, a car managed to thrust through from the opposite
direction. It was a long, dull-colored touring car. Guns bristled from its rear seat. Banked thugs were
there, ready for action.
They heard a wild shout from within the cab. They saw the sprawled figure of Cranston on the top. Their
guns swung. They were the cover-up crew, stationed near, to insure the cab's flight.
The Shadow had no chance to meet this opposition. His position gave him no opportunity to shift. He
took the only course that offered. Gunmen howled as they saw his fashionably clad figure roll quickly
toward the right side of the cab top. As revolvers barked and a machine gun ripped, The Shadow was
dropping headlong to the curb, the cab a barricade between him and the death crew.
Crooks could not fire through the cab windows. The man whom they sought to cover was inside. The
murderer, in turn, was too late to guess The Shadow's move. Before he could swing to the window on
the right, the figure of Cranston had dropped below it.
As the touring car whizzed past, the murderer took another course. He shoved open the door on the left;
slammed it shut behind him. Diving among the tangled cars ahead, stooped low as he scurried, he came
to a stalled cab at the very front. He leaped aboard it, jabbed the driver with his gun.
All that was holding up that hackie was a fender, locked with another car. The gun muzzle made him
forget the detaining factor. The cab whipped away, ripping its own fender along with the other. It took
the next corner at full speed and rattled into the clear.
The Shadow did not see the murderer's departure; but he heard the door slam. He leaped to the rear of
the stalled cab, to open fire at the touring car. Thugs saw the white shirt front of Cranston's attire; but
they missed their chance to open fire. The fighter whom they took for a high-hat meddler was quicker
with the trigger.
The Shadow's bullets whined among the hoodlums, clipping the machine gunner and the pal beside him.
The driver stepped on the gas, while the others fired wild, hopeless shots from their departing car.
The Shadow aimed for a rear tire; but could not fire. A sudden veer to the left carried the touring car
beyond a parked automobile.
POLICE cars were shrieking their approach along the avenue. The touring car swung left at the corner,
to flee southward on the avenue. The Shadow saw other cars speed after the thuggish crew. Then came
a pouring of cars along the side street. The first was a patrol car, with Commissioner Weston in it.
"Thank Heaven, you're safe!" exclaimed Weston, as he pounded The Shadow's shoulder. "What about
the murderer - the fellow who tried to kill us?"
"He escaped," was Cranston's calm reply. "The gang covered his dash to another cab ahead."
The driver of the cab the murderer had first been in, stumbling from the front seat, heard Cranston's
statement and nodded. The hackie recognized the police commissioner and mumbled his apologies.
"I couldn't do nothin' else, commissioner," he explained. "How it all happened, I don't know. There was
an old-lookin' guy told me to drive him to the Cobalt Club an' wait there. I was kind of dozin' while I
waited. Next thing, a gun was poked against my neck -"
"We understand," interrupted Weston, brusquely. Then, to The Shadow: "I know the identity of the man
who fired the shots. He claimed to be a friend of yours, Cranston."
"A friend of mine?"
"Yes. But he acted suspiciously at the club. He didn't want to wait there; and no wonder. He would have
been trapped, if he had started gunfire there."
"What was his name, commissioner?"
"He called himself Cray. Skipper Dan Cray -"
Weston saw a reflective gleam in the eyes of Cranston, as though they were visualizing a face from the
past. Weston added brief descriptive details of Cray's appearance:
"Grizzled hair - flat, weather-beaten face - shabby clothes - his hat held tight in his hands -"
With nods, The Shadow marked each point; then spoke, in the reminiscent tone of Cranston:
"Skipper Dan. Old Daniel Cray -"
There was doubt, and Weston recognized it. Cranston, the judge of men, would not believe Skipper Dan
Cray to be a fiend who dealt in murder. Weston chewed his lips.
"There's no doubt about it, Cranston," expressed the commissioner, almost angrily. "I saw Cray myself!
The doorman knew which cab he entered. It was the only cab he could have boarded. This very cab,
beside us!
"That's why I shouted to Cray. He fired the shots, as soon as he heard me. Even the driver has identified
him. You may think well of Cray, but you're wrong this time, Cranston. Cray was the man who tried to
murder both of us. The man who fled and escaped."
AS Weston fumed, he saw a new expression on Cranston's face, as though the tall listener was
winnowing the facts as he received them, separating the false from the true. When Weston had finished,
he saw his friend step toward the cab. With one hand on the door, Cranston spoke.
"Sometimes even facts can deceive us," he told Weston, solemnly. "When they do, we know that we
have bridged those facts with false conclusions. I believe you when you say that Skipper Cray came to
the Cobalt Club; that he entered this cab to ride away.
"I agree also that the interval was short; so brief that Cray could not have left the cab. But when you infer
from those facts that Cray fired the shots, you are mistaken. Daniel Cray was not the man to deal in
murder. He would have done his utmost to prevent it!"
Cranston's hand turned the doorknob. The door came slightly open, toward the curb. Only the hand of
Cranston restrained its swing. Weston saw solemnity upon those hawkish features. The tone from
Cranston's steady lips was like a knell:
"The man who escaped did more than attempt murder, commissioner. He accomplished it! That was why
he began his gunfire when you tried to halt him. Here is the proof."
The strong hand swung the cab door wide. A huddled mass tilted from the floor of the cab, lurched
outward, sprawled to form a human shape. It struck the cab step; rolled over and lay face up on the
curb.
From between the buttons of a threadbare, bloodstained coat projected the handle of a knife that was
thrust deep to the victim's heart. Above the coat collar stared a face, its colorless eyes glazed with death.
Weston knew that face. He had seen the man, alive, only a dozen minutes ago, in the lobby of the Cobalt
Club. The murdered man was Skipper Dan Cray.
Despite their masklike appearance, the features of Lamont Cranston were grim. The Shadow foresaw a
quest of coming vengeance, against the unknown killer who had murdered Daniel Cray.
CHAPTER III. PAST LINKS
A SWARTHY police officer joined Weston and Cranston in the grillroom of the Cobalt Club. Weston
had chosen that convenient headquarters to conduct his inquiry into the death of Skipper Cray. The
arrival was Acting Inspector Joe Cardona, Weston's ace investigator. Joe knew Cranston; he nodded
affably to the millionaire.
Cardona brought news from outside. The thug-manned touring car had gotten away. Though machine
gunners had failed to bag The Shadow, they had at least accomplished one purpose. Their entry, their
cross trail took pursuing police cars in the wrong direction, allowing Cray's murderer a complete escape.
The arrival of Cardona opened the next stage of the inquiry. The details of Cray's death established,
Weston turned to Cranston, to ask:
"Just what do you know about Skipper Cray?"
"He was owner of the schooner Hatteras," replied Cranston. "I took a few cruises on that old
five-master, years ago. Cray retired; the Hatteras was junked. After that, I received a few letters from
him."
"Concerning what subject?"
"Sunken treasure." Cranston's elbow was on the table, his chin in his hand, as though he thought the
subject trivial. "Cray believed that he had located an old Spanish galleon, somewhere in the West
Indies."
Weston became alert. He pictured Cray the possessor of an important secret; sufficient cause for
murder. He wondered why Cranston had not jumped to the connection. If he had noted his friend's eyes
at that moment, Weston would have realized that Cranston had long since picked the link.
It was The Shadow's purpose to preserve his identity. Emergency had forced him to act with whirlwind
speed that was hardly in keeping with the leisurely manner of Cranston. By returning to his indifferent
pose, he was reestablishing himself as the indolent clubman.
"Gad, Cranston!" barked Weston. "This is vital! Can't you see that's why they murdered Cray?"
"It might be," came the musing reply of Cranston. "Cray frequently spoke about a treasure chart that he
possessed. An old map, made on parchment; it gave the location of the galleon."
"You saw the chart?"
"No one saw it. Cray wanted to sell it; but his price was too high. He wanted fifty thousand dollars for his
map. That would be a pretty steep initial investment, considering that the galleon lay in fifteen fathoms of
water."
"I see. It would cost a lot to raise the treasure."
"If there happened to be treasure. Most of those galleons carried gold. But that was something Cray
could not guarantee - gold on this particular galleon."
WESTON began to drum the table. He was picturing Cray as he had seen the fellow. Suddenly, Weston
snapped:
"A man as poor as Cray should have been ready to bargain; to accept a smaller payment, perhaps with a
promise that he would receive a share of the treasure."
Cranston's laugh was a quiet one.
"Cray's appearance deceived you, commissioner," he told Weston. "The Skipper was well off. He
believed that he had years to live; but he was out of active service. Cash on the nose was Cray's motto.
He said that some day, someone would buy his chart for the full price of fifty thousand. If not, he would
leave the treasure quest to his grandchildren, when they grew up."
The mention of Cray's relatives awakened Weston to a most important question; one that had increased
in consequence because of the treasure chart.
"Where did Cray live?"
"I don't know," replied Cranston. "He forgot to mention his address in the last letter; and when I wrote to
the old address, my letter was returned. Cray had a friend, though" - Cranston's lips showed the
semblance of a smile - "a friend named Will Tasper, who had once served as mate on the Hatteras.
Tasper, I believe, has a cigar store somewhere in town."
Weston sent Cardona hopping for a city directory. They consulted it, along with a telephone book.
Tasper's cigar store was listed in the city directory; but the place had no telephone. Weston checked the
Third Avenue address.
"Somewhere in the Nineties," he decided. "Send word to the radio patrol, Cardona."
Cardona had a report within ten minutes. A patrol car had located the cigar store; the place had closed
for the night. From inquiry at a delicatessen, the officers had learned that Will Tasper lived in a little
apartment on the second and only floor above his cigar store.
They found out something else. Tasper shared the apartment with Cray. The old sea captain was well
known in the neighborhood. Sometimes - rarely, though - he tended the cigar store while Tasper was
away.
The upstairs apartment was dark, like the store. Either Tasper had retired, or he was out somewhere.
The officers in the patrol car were waiting further instructions. Cardona asked Weston if he wanted them
to wake up Tasper, assuming that the man was at home. Weston decided against it.
"We'll go there ourselves," declared the commissioner. "Order the patrol car to cruise the block, on
lookout for any suspicious persons. Call my official car, Cardona."
As the inspector left the grillroom, Weston saw Cranston rising. Incredulously, the commissioner
exclaimed:
"What! Aren't you coming with us, Cranston?"
"I have had enough exercise this evening," was the tired reply. "It is late. I am going home, to New
Jersey."
"We may need you when we talk to Tasper."
"I never met the fellow. He wasn't mate on the Hatteras when I took the schooner cruises. Sorry,
commissioner, but I couldn't help you in the least."
WESTON'S expression was testy, as he watched Cranston stroll upstairs to the lobby. With some
friends, Weston might have remained persistent, even changing his request to a command. That was
impossible, though, in Cranston's case. Weston owed too much to Cranston's previous efforts. He could
not insist that his friend go to further trouble.
Outside the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston entered his limousine. As the door closed, he spoke an order
through the speaking tube to the chauffeur. Though his tone was leisurely, his instructions proved that his
purpose had changed. He did not order the chauffeur to drive to New Jersey. Instead, he spoke:
"Times Square, Stanley. Stop near Forty-sixth."
At Forty-sixth Street and Seventh Avenue, Lamont Cranston alighted from his limousine. He found a
streamlined cab. It was empty; but the flag was up, stating: "Hired." Stepping into the cab, The Shadow
gave an order: a sinister, whispered tone. The driver responded with prompt action. The cab started
eastward.
The Shadow was heading for the vicinity of Tasper's tobacco store. He was Cranston no longer. He had
changed his voice; he was altering his attire. Pulling out a cleverly contrived drawer from beneath the cab
seat, The Shadow produced garments of black. A shrouding cloak slipped over his shoulders. He
clamped a slouch hat to his head.
The cab had reached an avenue. It was wheeling north. Moe Shrevnitz, The Shadow's driver - and,
secretly, one of his agents - was the speediest hackie in Manhattan. He would reach Tasper's ahead of
Weston's official car. Weston always found last-minute details that delayed his start.
There was another man, however, whom The Shadow hoped to beat, provided the person had become
an entrant in the race. That possible rival was Cray's murderer.
All along, The Shadow had calculated the time element.
He knew that the murderer's second cab had headed south. Police cars had come from the north.
Though the murderer had outraced them, he must have forced his driver to carry him well toward the tip
of Manhattan. There, he would logically have covered his trail - by a subway ride; another cab; any
device that would mean security.
Meanwhile, Joe Cardona had come to the Cobalt Club, arriving there very soon after the excitement.
Little time had been lost finding the lead to Tasper. The Shadow was confident that the time element was
in his favor. Not only because he expected to reach Tasper's sooner than the murderer could; but
because he would be there if the murder did come.
That was why The Shadow had purposely stalled events at the Cobalt Club. If Weston and Cardona had
made a hurried start for Tasper's, sight of the commissioner's car would cause the murderer to postpone
his visit. If matters worked the way The Shadow wanted, he and the killer would arrive almost at the
same time, with Weston showing up a little later.
There was one obstacle: the cruising patrol car. The Shadow expected no difficulty in slipping past it, and
he figured that the killer would not suffer from the handicap. Nevertheless, there was a definite "if" upon
which the whole quest hinged.
If the murderer came. There was a chance that he might have other plans. At the same time, there was
something that the murderer wanted; something that would certainly be at Tasper's.
That something was Cray's treasure chart.
SKIPPER CRAY had always kept the chart in his own quarters, whether aboard ship or ashore. He had
never told The Shadow, nor anyone else, where it was hidden. Undoubtedly, he had altered the method
of concealment from time to time. Cray had not brought the chart to the club. He had carried no large roll
of parchment; he certainly would not have left his most valued possession in the cab.
The chart could only be at Tasper's. Sooner or later, it would be bait to bring the murderer. Tonight,
almost this very time, was the best bet.
The streamlined cab nosed from a side street, just after the patrol car cruised past. The Shadow spoke a
whispered command. The cab stopped; a cloaked figure alighted and glided into the darkened block
where the cigar store was located.
Through a passageway between two buildings, The Shadow was nearing the open area behind rows of
摘要：

TREASURETRAILMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHDEFERRED?CHAPTERII.CRIME'SVICTIM?CHAPTERIII.PASTLINKS?CHAPTERIV.THEMANINTHEDARK?CHAPTERV.TASPERTALKS?CHAPTERVI.WESTON'SBLUNDER?CHAPTERVII.REVEALEDBYTHESHADOW?CHAPTERVIII.ABOARDTHEBARGE?CHAPTERIX.GHO...

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