Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 036 - The Isle of Doubt

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THE ISLE OF DOUBT
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER II. THE THIRD MAN
? CHAPTER III. THE DEPARTURE
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S WAY
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW SEEKS
? CHAPTER VI. THE MAN FROM THE EAST
? CHAPTER VII. HARRY GETS ACQUAINTED
? CHAPTER VIII. ON THE ISLAND
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW PASSES
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW SEES
? CHAPTER XI. BEFORE DAWN
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER XIII. A MAN IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIV. TRAPPED!
? CHAPTER XV. TABLES TURN
? CHAPTER XVI. THE INVESTIGATOR EXPLAINS
? CHAPTER XVII. STOLEN WEALTH
? CHAPTER XVIII. OTHER VISITORS
? CHAPTER XIX. CROOKS COUNTER
? CHAPTER XX. THE SHADOW UNSEEN
? CHAPTER XXI. THE ACCOUNTING
? CHAPTER XXII. THE REVELATION
? CHAPTER XXIII. WEALTH RESTORED
CHAPTER I. WORD TO THE SHADOW
“BURBANK speaking.”
The words were uttered by a man who was seated at a table in a tiny, gloomy room. A shaded lamp in
the corner provided the sole illumination, and the dim light showed only the speaker's back. The man at
the table was listening intently through a pair of ear phones which were attached to his head.
“Await reply.” Burbank spoke in a quiet tone, after receiving the message over the wire. His hands
stretched to the wall and manipulated the plugs of a small switchboard. A click in the ear phones;
Burbank again quietly announced his identity, and listened for acknowledgment of his call. After receiving
it, Burbank spoke.
“Report from Marsland,” he droned. “Baxton and his mob are at the meeting place. Ready to leave at
eleven o'clock.”
Orders came over the wire. The ear phones carried a sinister click as they vibrated to the uncanny tones
of the voice that sounded within them.
“Instructions received,” said Burbank.
Again the manipulation of switchboard plugs; the clicking of a dial as Burbank rang a number. The first
connection was restored, and Burbank relayed the orders that had been given him.
“Report actual departure of Baxton mob,” were Burbank's words. “Follow and take position outside of
Wilcox home. Await get-away of crooks. Speed it with shots if necessary.”
Burbank leaned back in his chair. His position was one of patient relaxation. While he awaited new
telephone calls, his attitude was one of complete passivity.
There was nothing excitable in the make-up of this man who sat with his back toward the light. Yet
Burbank was a man of amazing endurance. In place of action, he exercised untiring vigilance. It was this
quality that made him a most important factor in the affairs of that amazing personage known as The
Shadow.
Here, in this secluded room, Burbank was nearing the forty-eighth hour of an almost constant stretch of
duty. During that period, he had served as contact man for those active agents of The Shadow who were
engaged in gathering facts which pertained to an impending crime.
Burbank had just received a report from Cliff Marsland, The Shadow's agent in the underworld. That
report concerned the zero hour at which “Punch” Baxton, gang leader, intended to fare forth with his
mob of gunmen. Burbank had relayed the message to the secret sanctum of The Shadow, over a special
wire to which Burbank alone had access.
THE SHADOW!
To fiends of the underworld, that master of darkness was a hidden threat who struck when least
expected. They knew him as a being garbed in black, a lone wolf who battled crime with merciless
power. But none knew the devious ways of The Shadow—of his active agents who obeyed his
bidding—of Burbank, who was always under cover, awaiting messages that told of criminal activity.
A tiny light shone from the wall. Burbank adjusted a plug to receive the call. This report was a brief one.
Burbank again manipulated the switchboard, and relayed the words to The Shadow.
“Report from Burke,” he informed. “He is at detective headquarters. Cardona has a squad in readiness.
Acts as though he expects an anonymous tip-off.”
There was no call back to this report. Burbank relaxed. He had been awaiting Clyde Burke's call.
Burke, a reporter on the New York Classic, paid frequent visits to detective headquarters. To-day,
Burbank had called Detective Joe Cardona, and had given the sleuth a vague inkling that crime was due
to strike. Cardona, in response to the tip-off, was waiting in hope of another call from the unknown
informant. Clyde Burke had looked in at headquarters to see that Cardona was still on the job.
Another glimmer from the tiny bulb upon the wall. Burbank pressed a plug, spoke, and received a
message. He gave orders to expect a return call, then formed connection to The Shadow's sanctum.
“Report from Vincent,” announced Burbank quietly. “Possum Quill and Lefty Hotz are in their room at
the Hotel Slater. Quill has just received a call from Punch Baxton. Quill and Hotz intend to leave the hotel
at eleven thirty, going directly to the transfer point.”
The ear phones vibrated weirdly. Burbank listened until the quivering sound had ceased; then made his
announcement:
“Instructions received.”
Switching back, Burbank put in a call to Vincent. He gave this agent the instructions that he had received
from The Shadow.
“Stay on duty until departure of Quill and Hotz,” announced Burbank. “Report if they stay later than
eleven thirty. No report until that time unless they discuss a change of plan.”
Burbank rested in his chair. Long minutes ticked by in this gloomy room, where The Shadow's agent sat
in motionless vigilance. Crime was brewing. Deeds of violence would occur to-night. To Burbank, these
activities were outside his accustomed sphere. Only in cases of special emergency did Burbank travel
abroad to serve his master, The Shadow. In contrast to the monotonous minutes that went by in
Burbank's abode, fleeting time showed weird activity in another room of mystery not far from where The
Shadow's agent was stationed.
INSTEAD of the mere quiet which pervaded Burbank's room, The Shadow's sanctum seemed under the
spell of a mystic hush. In the corner of a creepy realm where blackness lived, two long white hands were
at work beneath the glare of a shaded lamp which cast rays of ghostly blue upon the polished surface of a
table.
The Shadow, shrouded in blackness beyond the sphere of blue light, was a hidden entity. His hands,
moving like detached creatures, were sorting sheets of paper and piles of clippings, which lay upon the
table.
One mark alone distinguished one hand from the other. That sign was a gleaming gem that shone from the
third finger of the left hand. The Shadow's girasol—a fire opal of priceless value—this was the stone that
reflected the lamplight. The strange jewel was ever changing in its hues. From rich magenta, its depths
became a deep ultramarine; then varied to an azure shade. All the while, the girasol flashed sparks that
might well have come from a living coal amid a heap of dying embers.
There was ease in the motion of The Shadow's hands, yet their speed was incredible when measured. A
strange clock rested upon the table top. Instead of hands, it had marked circles which showed the
passing of seconds, minutes, and hours. Each second seemed to pause as though waiting The Shadow's
order to depart. Here, in this mystic sanctum, ordinary intervals of time were stretched to amazing
lengths.
The hands spread a large map of Manhattan upon the table. Deft fingers inserted pins at certain spots. A
low laugh came from the gloom as The Shadow's hidden eyes studied the chart. The hands applied a tiny
rule to the map. This measuring steel was marked with minutes instead of distances.
To The Shadow, time was more important than space. His keen brain was formulating a schedule of the
events that were due to come.
The first pin upon which The Shadow's finger paused marked the place from which Punch Baxton and his
mob were leaving at eleven.
The second point showed the location of the uptown residence of Caleb Wilcox. The Shadow gauged
the time required for the marauders to reach that destination. It would take a half hour.
Next, The Shadow noted a white-headed pin, which marked the meeting point to which “Possum” Quill
was going at eleven thirty. The hands applied the time rule, gauging the interval between the Hotel Slater
and that appointed spot.
From another marked point—detective headquarters—The Shadow measured the time required to reach
the spot marked by the white-headed pin.
A soft laugh came from The Shadow's lips.
The transfer point, where Possum Quill and “Lefty” Hotz would be waiting, was ten minutes closer to
detective headquarters than it was to the Hotel Slater. The Shadow's laugh indicated that this fact was
useful to his plans.
Upon the map rested one ominous pin. In contrast to the bright heads of the others, this pin was colored
jet-black. Its location was quite near to the residence of Caleb Wilcox—less than fifteen minutes travel
distance separated the two spots.
The black-headed pin marked the location of The Shadow's sanctum, the very place where The Shadow
now was. With the marauding mob thirty minutes away from their goal, The Shadow could give them
leeway, and still beat them to their destination.
FINGERS plucked the pins from the map. The large sheet of paper disappeared. Only the clock
remained upon the table. Lingering seconds crept onward, until the sixtieth second of a sixtieth minute
brought a change to each circle on the dial of the timepiece. The strange clock now marked the hour of
eleven.
The Shadow waited. The supple hands were motionless. One minute moved by; two minutes; then eight
seconds of the third. A tiny bulb glowed from darkness beyond the table. The hands moved swiftly, and
produced a pair of ear phones. These passed into the nearer darkness. The Shadow listened.
“Burbank speaking,” came the quiet voice over the wire.
“Report,” ordered The Shadow, in an eerie whisper.
“Report from Marsland,” announced Burbank. “Baxton and the mob have started for the Wilcox
mansion.”
“Other reports.”
“None.”
A pause; then came concise instructions from The Shadow's lips —words that sounded weirdly through
the darkness.
“Send tip-off to Cardona immediately after Vincent reports departure of Quill and Hotz,” ordered The
Shadow. “Then call Wilcox residence and await my reply.”
“Instructions received,” came Burbank's answer.
The ear phones slid across the table. An invisible hand clicked the switch of the blue light. The sanctum
was plunged into darkness. A soft swish announced the motion of an unseen being. Then, amid the weird
blackness came a shuddering tone that throbbed forth the sound of sardonic mirth.
The laugh of The Shadow! Rising in ghoulish mockery, that amazing cry cleaved its way through the solid
atmosphere. It broke into a chilling taunt, and died away, but in its wake came a myriad of wavering
echoes. A host of demonic throats seemed shrouded in those blackened walls; lingering reverberations
came back in waves that might have issued from the vaults of another world.
When the last reluctant echo had faded, deep silence pervaded the empty sanctum of The Shadow. The
master of darkness had gone. A phantom, he had glided forth upon the quest that would lead him to the
spot where men of crime were due.
The Shadow's plans were made. Tonight, his hand would strike. Before it fell, however, all participants in
crime would be enmeshed. Until Burbank's call would announce the final report from Harry Vincent, The
Shadow would remain unseen.
That would be the final word to The Shadow—the signal that would loose the dread avenger's might!
CHAPTER II. THE THIRD MAN
FIVE minutes past eleven. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, was seated in an easy-chair in his room
at the Hotel Slater. He, like Burbank, was wearing ear phones, but the instruments on Vincent's ears
served a most unusual purpose.
They were connected to dictograph wire which came from a room across the hallway. Hidden from
Harry's view, but brought within his range of hearing, Possum Quill and Lefty Hotz were discussing their
part in to-night's crime, as they prepared to leave on their appointed mission.
Harry had learned all the important details. He was still listening in, hoping to glean a few new items of
information. While he waited, The Shadow's agent visualized the scene in the other room. He could
picture Possum Quill, shrewd and cunning-faced, talking with Lefty Hotz, a hard-visaged gorilla.
Harry had seen both of the men upon whom he was spying. They, on the contrary, had never seen Harry
Vincent.
Hence, Possum and Lefty, as they chatted in their room, had no idea that their conversation was being
overheard by any one.
Possum Quill, sprawled in an easy-chair beside the window, was flicking cigarette ashes over the top of
the radiator. Those ashes were trickling past the microphone which The Shadow, himself, had planted
there during Possum's absence.
Lefty Hotz, big and lumbering, was leaning against the doorway that led into a smaller room. He lacked
Possum's calmness. His attitude showed that he was nothing more than a henchman of the crook by the
window.
“Gettin' close to eleven thirty,” growled Lefty, in an impatient tone.
“Twenty minutes to wait,” retorted Possum, staring idly toward the city lights beyond the window. “Keep
your shirt on, Lefty. We're in no kind of hurry.”
“Yeah,” said the big gangster, “but we don't want to take no chances on missin' Punch Baxton when he
gallops up with the swag.”
“I figured it all out, Lefty,” returned Possum, in a weary tone. “What do you want me to do—draw a
diagram? We'll be out of here by the time Punch is working on the job. We'll get to the end of that alley
before he shows up. There's no use hanging around the place before we're needed.”
“Punch is countin' on you—”
“Don't I know it? I'll be there—and you with me. Say—you might think we were in on the dough, the
way you're talking.”
“Aren't we in on it?”
“Sure!” Possum's snort was contemptuous. “We're in it for a lousy grand—while Punch is grabbing off
the gravy.”
“It's a soft way to pick up a grand, Possum—just by bein' around so a guy like Punch can scram from
one gas buggy to another through an alleyway.”
“Is that the way you figure it, Lefty? Well, let me give you a real idea of values. A thousand dollars is
small change for the work we're doing—and I'm a sucker to be bothering with it. Say—it's a
twenty-to-one shot that some one will spot that car of Punch Baxton's after he makes the get-away. He's
got to transfer to be safe—and he needs a guy that knows how to drive. That's me.”
“I guess you're right, Possum—”
Lefty Hotz did not complete the sentence. Possum Quill, indifferent to his companion's remarks, had
picked up a tabloid newspaper, and was looking at the pictures on the front page.
Lefty grunted. Possum Quill was a cool one, sure enough. To-night's work did not perturb him in the
least. Lefty knew what would follow. Possum would pay no attention to the passing of the minutes. He
would leave it to Lefty—always anxious—to notify him when eleven thirty had arrived.
ORDINARILY, Possum would have read his newspaper in total obliviousness of Lefty's presence. The
shrewd-faced crook regarded his husky companion as a huge watchdog. It was Lefty's business to obey
Possum's instructions, to battle for him when occasion demanded. As an underling, Lefty was formidable.
To-night, however, Possum Quill spied a photograph that he considered to be within Lefty's sphere of
interest. He turned the green-sheeted newspaper toward the big gangster's eyes, and pointed to a picture
of a high-walled building.
“There's where the boys made the jail break, Lefty,” informed Possum. “Neat job, eh? Getting over that
wall was no cinch.”
“The big house out in the Middle West?” queried Lefty.
“That's it,” said Possum.
“Say”—Lefty's voice was reminiscent—“that old buddy of yours was in the crowd, wasn't he? What was
his name? You told me once—”
“Zach Telvin,” interposed Possum, again perusing the newspaper. “A slick worker, if ever there was one.
Only don't go spilling that, Lefty. I don't want any smart dick tailing me on his account.”
“You think he'll look you up?”
“Maybe. We were real pals, Zach and I.”
Silent minutes passed. A small clock on the bureau denoted the quarter hour. The telephone bell began to
ring. Lefty clenched his fists, and stared anxiously at Possum.
“Answer it,” ordered the man by the window. “Don't stand there like a dummy, Lefty.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Punch Baxton, maybe. Find out.”
Lefty picked up the telephone and spoke into the receiver. He covered the mouthpiece, and looked
toward Possum.
“It ain't Punch,” said Lefty. “Some guy wants to talk to you.”
Possum tossed the newspaper aside. He took the telephone and delivered a leisurely remark.
“This is Mr. Quill,” he said. “Who is calling?”
Lefty Hotz could hear the click of the receiver. He saw a flicker of surprise upon Possum Quill's shrewd
visage.
“Come up,” ordered Possum. “I'll be waiting for you. Make it speedy.”
Hanging up the receiver, Possum walked to the door and opened the portal so that the light of the room
showed out into the corridor. He stood there with an expectant gaze.
Two minutes passed—the form of a tall, stoop-shouldered man appeared at the end of the hall. Spying
Possum waiting, the visitor hastened forward. Without a word, he received Possum's handclasp. He
looked suspiciously toward Lefty, who was standing close behind Possum.
“Come in,” said Possum quietly. “This fellow”—he indicated Lefty— “works for me. Glad you showed
up. I'm going out soon.”
THE stranger was dressed in a suit which was new, but ill-fitting. His topcoat, too, had the same
appearance. There was a suspicious challenge in his eyes. Lefty noted it; so did Possum.
That fact explained Possum Quill's next action. The crook invariably discussed all of his affairs in the
presence of Lefty Hotz. This time, however, he departed from his usual rule. He glanced at the clock,
noted that it was barely past the quarter-hour, then nudged his visitor toward the small adjoining room.
“Let's go in there and talk,” suggested Possum. “You wait out here, Lefty. Knock on the door when the
clock hits half past. Not before —understand?”
Lefty nodded. He watched Possum and the visitor go into the inner room. He saw the door close.
He shrugged his shoulders. Possum was boss so far as Lefty was concerned. Never before had Possum
taken a stranger aside for a discussion which Lefty was not to hear, but the gangster accepted the
visitor's wary look as sufficient reason for the unexpected procedure.
There was curiosity, however, in Lefty's demeanor. The big gangster shared that feeling with another man
whom circumstances had also cut off from Possum Quill's conference. Harry Vincent, across the hall, had
heard the words that had followed the ring of the telephone. Peering through the transom, after
extinguishing the lights in his own room, Harry had glimpsed the visitor who had come up from the lobby.
There was no dictograph connection to the inner room, hence Harry, like Lefty, was waiting for some
later word that might explain the purpose of this unexpected visit. Possum Quill had been wiser than he
knew when he had taken the stranger away in order to speak with him.
Within the confines of the little room, Possum was cannily surveying his visitor. He saw a man whose face
he knew, yet whose countenance wore a visible pallor, and whose eyes were furtive and worried. The
stranger, on the contrary, saw Possum's shrewd visage exactly as he had expected to view it.
He sat down on the bed with a sigh of relief. He reached out wearily as Possum extended him a pack of
cigarettes. After one match failed, the man obtained his light and took two reassuring puffs.
“Good to see you, Possum,” said the stranger. “Good to see you, pal.”
Possum Quill smiled.
“Say”—his tone was an easy laugh—“you've got nothing on me. I didn't expect to see you for ten years.”
The visitor's face twitched as it formed a wan smile. A short laugh escaped the man's lips.
The words that Possum Quill had uttered were highly significant. Until a few days ago, there had been
sufficient reason for Possum to believe that he would not have seen this old acquaintance until after a full
decade had passed.
The pale-faced man upon the bed was the very one whose actions had been discussed by Possum Quill
and Lefty Hotz only a few minutes before the visitor's entry.
Possum Quill and Lefty Hotz had made a pair of knaves. There was a third rogue in their company,
now—Zach Telvin, the jail breaker from the Middle West.
A hunted man, an escaped convict, who had just begun a ten-year term, Zach Telvin had come to New
York to find his old pal, Possum Quill.
CHAPTER III. THE DEPARTURE
“YOU'LL help me out, Possum?”
There was anxiety in Zach Telvin's tone as the escaped convict eyed his old associate. Possum Quill, his
face emotionless, nodded in return.
A broad grin appeared upon Zach's face. The expression was a contrast to his hunted look. It seemed as
though the man had gained a new ambition. Puzzlement showed in Possum's steady gaze.
“That's all I wanted to know,” asserted Zach. “I needed a pal like you, Possum—and I thought you'd
make the grade. Lots of guys would turn a fellow like me down—but you're no heel. You're regular. Say
—I'm going to tell you plenty.”
“Spill it fast,” said Possum calmly. “Lefty and I are starting out on a job in ten minutes.”
“A big job?”
“Chauffeuring for a guy that's making a get-away. There's one grand in the job.”
“One grand? Listen, Possum—sit down—I've got to talk.”
New eagerness showed in Zach Telvin's face. His words became rapid as he poured a low-toned story
into Possum Quill's attentive ear. Zach hit the high spots as he spoke.
“You know why they sent me to the pen, don't you?” queried the convict. “I was in Birch Bizzup's outfit.
We pulled the swiftest bunch of bank jobs that they'd ever heard of, out that way. Then they got us
—and what a fight it was.
“Birch got bumped by the bulls. So did a couple of other birds. They landed the rest of us, and sent us
away. Came mighty close to hanging first-degree murder on us, on account of a couple of shootings that
Birch had done.
“I'm in the pen about a month. Then came the chance to break loose. It was a long shot, Possum, and I
wouldn't have gone through with it, but I had a big reason why I wanted to be out. I made my get-away,
and here I am.”
Possum Quill sensed that something of high importance was coming. He was not disappointed.
“I was mighty close to Birch Bizzup,” resumed Zach Telvin. “I was right beside him when he took the
bump—and he didn't spill a word before he croaked. That's why I kept mum. They never found out what
I knew.
“Half a million bucks, Possum—maybe more than that—gold, a little of it—currency, plenty—and
Liberty bonds that are good for cash. That's the main part of the swag that Birch Bizzup stowed away!”
“Stowed away?” questioned Possum.
“That's what I said,” grinned Zach. “Birch knew how to boss his mob. They knew he was on the square.
He packed all the gravy, and had us waiting for the big divvy when the blow-up queered the game.
“Birch was a smart guy. How he figured where the pickings lay is more than I can dope out, but he
always cracked a bank when it was loaded to the gunnels with soft dough. We took the cream, Possum,
and Birch stowed it.”
“Where?”
“That's what I know!” said Zach cagily. “And I'm the only guy in the whole outfit that knew anything
about the lay. I stuck with Birch one night when he took a pile of swag to bury it.”
POSSUM QUILL, seated in a chair, was nodding thoughtfully. His attitude was friendly, but there was
something in his manner that denoted a lack of complete reliance in Zach Telvin's tale.
Possum Quill was crafty. By avoiding a display of eagerness, he aroused Zach Telvin to a state of
anxiety.
“Don't you believe me, Possum?” quizzed the convict. “Listen, pal, I've been riding freights to get here.
Look at these clothes—I busted into a tailor shop, and got the first outfit that came near fitting me. I had
to get to you, Possum—you're the only guy I could count on. You believe me, don't you?”
“Sure I believe you,” nodded Possum. “I'm ready to help you out, Zach. The only trouble is, it sounds so
soft that I'm looking for the catch.”
“It's not soft,” returned Zach. “That is, it may be soft—and maybe it won't be. If you'll listen to me,
Possum—”
There was a rap at the door. Zach Telvin leaped to his feet. Possum Quill waved him down.
“It's only Lefty,” laughed Possum. “He's telling me that it's time to be starting. This is funny, Zach. Here
you're talking about half a million—maybe more—and I'm going out on a job that only means one grand.
“I'm taking chances, too. If Punch Baxton is in a jam when he reaches the place I'm waiting, it may be
tough for me. Well—so long, Zach. You stick here. If I'm not back inside a couple of hours, you'd better
scram, because the bulls will have me. If they do—well, they may be coming down this way to check
up.”
Zach Telvin leaped wildly forward. He gripped Possum Quill by the arm. There was anxiety in his voice
as he pleaded with his old companion.
“It's in the bag, Possum!” exclaimed Zach. “Honest—I'm telling you straight. I'm counting on you. Lay off
that job to-night. Don't chance it; Come along with me—”
Another rap interrupted from the door. Possum growled through to Lefty, telling him to wait a minute.
The shrewd crook turned to Zach Telvin.
“You say there's plenty in it,” remarked Possum. “You don't say how or where. You want me to pass up
the grand that I'm grabbing to-night. Minutes count with me right now, Zach. Spill what you've got in a
hurry, and I'll listen—”
“I'll give you the lay, Possum,” gasped Zach, no longer reluctant. “There's plenty in it—for you—for
me—for this guy that's with you, if he's O.K.”
“Lefty sticks with me.”
“All right. Bring him along. The swag is on an island—hidden somewhere. We can find it—”
“Somewhere on an island,” grunted Possum. “I knew there was a catch to it. What is the place—a
summer resort?”
“It's an island in the Mississippi,” explained Zach. “There's an old house on it—plenty of trees—nobody
ever goes there—”
“The Mississippi is a mighty long river,” remarked Possum.
“I know the spot,” asserted Zach. “Birch took me there, the day after we cracked a crib in St. Louis.
Look, Possum—I'll show you I know the place.”
ZACH grabbed a paper and pencil that were lying on a table. He drew two curving, shaky lines to
indicate the river.
Near one side of the stream he made a long oval; to the left, some short, scratchy lines; among these, a
heavy, elongated dot.
“There's the island,” he declared. “Over to the left here is a swamp —that's how I can tell the place—”
“An island with a swamp,” remarked Possum. “Maybe there's a lot of them like it—”
“Not with this!” returned Zach triumphantly, as he drew a heavy oval around the dot. “I'll tell you what
this is—an old steamboat that went aground years ago. It's all swampy around the boat, now.”
“Where's St. Louis?” questioned Possum.
“Here,” returned Zach, making a small circle, and adding the letters S.L. “It's about—wait a minute—”
He paused to jot down a few figures, then changed his calculation. Finally, he made a square on the left
bank of the river, above the island.
“I can't tell you within ten miles of the distance,” said Zach, “but it's about fifty miles from St. Louis. This
square, though, is a landing about two miles above the island. I know the place, Possum—I know it right
enough—”
摘要：

THEISLEOFDOUBTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.WORDTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERII.THETHIRDMAN?CHAPTERIII.THEDEPARTURE?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOW'SWAY?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWSEEKS?CHAPTERVI.THEMANFROMTHEEAST?CHAPTERVII.HARRYGETSACQUAINTED?CHAPTERVIII.ONTHEISLAND?CHAPTERI...

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