Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 035 - The Black Hush

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THE BLACK HUSH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CARDONA GOES ON DUTY
? CHAPTER II. MURDER STRIKES
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW BEGINS
? CHAPTER IV. FROM THE TOWER
? CHAPTER V. BURKE REPORTS
? CHAPTER VI. IN GOLDY'S APARTMENT
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW MOVES
? CHAPTER VIII. IN THE PENTHOUSE
? CHAPTER IX. THE ROBBERY
? CHAPTER X. SHOTS FROM THE SHAFT
? CHAPTER XI. THE HUSH LIFTS
? CHAPTER XII. NEW ORDERS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XIV. AT HEADQUARTERS
? CHAPTER XV. ON THE ELEVATED
? CHAPTER XVI. OUT OF THE VAULT
? CHAPTER XVII. THE POWER OF THE RAY
? CHAPTER XVIII. FACTS FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIX. GOLDY EMPLOYS STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XX. THE DEPARTURE
? CHAPTER XXI. THE MAN WHO FEARED
? CHAPTER XXII. PLANS OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW LAUGHS
? CHAPTER XXIV. UPON THE TOWER
? CHAPTER XXV. OUT OF THE RAY
? CHAPTER XXVI. BELOW AND ABOVE
? CHAPTER XXVII. PURSUIT IS ENDED
? CHAPTER XXVIII. THE FINAL STROKE
CHAPTER I. CARDONA GOES ON DUTY
The spacious lobby of the Olympia Hotel presented an interesting study to the man who viewed it from a
corner chair. No longer a pretentious establishment, the old hotel at least gained its share of patronage.
Nearly all of the chairs and lounge seats were filled, and many persons were strolling back and forth near
the desk.
The man who was watching from the corner had chosen a spot which was quite inconspicuous.
Hunched in the chair, watching from a gloomy spot, Detective Joe Cardona was effectively avoiding
recognition, and at the same time taking good measures to spot anyone whose features he might know.
The ace of New York sleuths was living up to his reputation.
Cardona's watchful eyes picked out a small group of men who entered through a revolving door. The
detective's quick glance settled upon one individual - a heavy-built man of more than average height,
whose chief item of attire was an expensive astrakhan coat. As this arrival strode across the lobby, he
half turned his head in Cardona's direction. Grinning at a companion's remark, the man displayed a
glimmer of gold in his thick-lipped mouth.
Cardona needed no further sign of recognition. This glitter from a full, heavy face was the identifying mark
of Goldy Tancred. This was the man whose coming the detective had awaited.
AS Goldy and his friends crossed the lobby and entered an elevator, Cardona remained more watchful
than before.
At length, satisfied by his inspection, Cardona arose and strolled toward the revolving door. He turned as
he neared it, tracing his steps so that only his back could be seen from outside.
Shifting the position of his derby, the detective slowly changed his course, so that it neared the row of
elevators.
Waiting for a car, Cardona spotted the outer door from the corners of his eyes. He saw another man
enter and go to the seat which was now vacant at the edge of the lobby. Just the trace of a satisfied smile
flickered on Cardona's lips. This arrival was another detective who had come in response to Cardona's
signal at the revolving door.
"Ballroom floor," announced Cardona, as the elevator ascended. "Which way to the Mohawk meeting?"
"Over to the right, sir," responded the operator. "The meeting is in the Blue Room."
"The Blue Room?" quizzed Cardona. "I was told that the crowd met in the Red Room."
"They used to," explained the operator as he brought the car to a stop, "but they changed it for this
meeting. Go down to the right; turn at the end of the corridor. You'll see the door."
Reaching the Blue Room, the detective looked in through the door at an angle. He spied a waiter and
beckoned to the man. He drew the attendant out beyond the screen.
"I want to speak to Mr. Tancred," explained Cardona. "He just came in a few minutes ago. Wearing a
fuzzy coat. Tell him a friend's out here to see him."
The waiter nodded. He went into the Blue Room.
Two minutes passed, then a head was thrust from the doorway. Cardona recognized the face. It was that
of Bowser Riggins, a man who had come in with Goldy Tancred.
"Huh!" greeted Bowser. "It's you, eh? O.K."
He turned and waved to someone in the room. A moment later, Goldy Tancred appeared in person, to
display his shining molars when he saw the detective.
"Wait inside for me, Bowser," ordered Tancred.
Dressed in Tuxedo, the gold-toothed man made an imposing appearance despite the hardness of his
heavy face. He joined Cardona outside the screen, and walked a few paces along the side passage. Then
with a quizzical frown, he turned to the detective.
"What's up?"
"You know what," Cardona answered. "I've heard the boys are out to get you. What about it?"
"Listen, Joe," Goldy was serious, "that's all hooey - that talk about them being out to get me. I'm not in
any racket. Never carried a gat in my life. Take a look, now. Do you think I'd be a sap if I was in
danger?"
He spread the sides of his Tuxedo jacket, offering the detective an opportunity to frisk him for a
weapon.
Cardona did not accept the invitation. Instead, he made another comment.
"You've got Bowser Riggins along with you," remarked the sleuth. "He sticks pretty close most of the
time, doesn't he?"
"Sure he does," admitted Goldy. "But he doesn't pack a rod, either. I'll bring him out. Look him over.
He's a pal, Joe, not a bodyguard. Maybe he does a strong-arm job for me once in a while - but it never
amounts to much."
"Have it your own way, Goldy," remarked Cardona, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Just the same, I'm
staying around awhile."
The detective strolled along the corridor after Goldy Tancred had gone back into the Blue Room. He
walked toward the elevators, and stared suspiciously into the vacant blackness of the ballroom.
CARDONA noticed that men in Tuxedos were coming from an elevator and heading toward the Red
Room, at the other end of the corridor. He caught a few snatches of conversation and gained the
knowledge that a dinner was being held there by a society of electrical engineers.
Moving back toward the Blue Room, Cardona began to wonder whether or not he had made a mistake
in coming to the Olympia Hotel.
Goldy Tancred had hit the nail squarely when he had suggested that Cardona must have been listening to
misleading rumors. Persistent rumors from the underworld had it that Goldy Tancred was going on the
spot.
There was reason in such rumors. Goldy Tancred was a big shot deluxe. Informants kept him posted
regarding the doings of racketeers. He found ways to make it difficult for those whose activities bordered
on crime.
To be successful, a racketeer found it wise to keep in the good graces of Goldy Tancred. Time and
again, soft graft had been smashed because the perpetrators had ignored the big shot. Hence, there were
many who might like to see Goldy Tancred out of the way.
Goldy was too wise to be at odds with the police. He could not be branded as a racketeer, for there was
no proof that he engineered schemes of his own. He merely sat back and watched others work. Here,
tonight, he was mingling with a group of quasi-politicians, who called themselves the Mohawks.
That was part of Goldy's game. He dealt in protection, giving it or refusing it as best suited his purposes.
Had someone crossed Goldy Tancred? Were important figures of the underworld anxious to launch a
new scheme of crime free from his clever, tribute taking surveillance? If such were the case, there was
reason why Goldy's life might now be threatened.
The detective was not here just to protect Goldy Tancred. He was here to thwart crime that might be in
the making.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Cardona entered the Blue Room. He found a chair at a corner table along
with a group of lesser politicians. These men, enjoying their first evening with the Mohawks, were quiet in
demeanor. They accepted the detective as another of their ilk, and made no effort to open conversation.
The detective sensed that violent death would be attempted within the walls of the Olympia Hotel. On
this very night. He waited patiently while the Mohawks chattered and burst forth in boisterous song.
At last, restless and uneasy, Cardona pushed his chair from the table. He sidled along the edge of the
room, and paused as he neared the door. Something told him that danger might lie without. He felt that
the crucial moment was close at hand.
Then, while the merrymaking was rising to a new height, the unexpected happened. One instant, Joe
Cardona was watching Goldy Tancred and Bowser Riggins as the pair were laughing at the capers of a
stout, bald-headed politician. The next moment, the entire scene was gone.
Without a warning, the room was plunged in darkness. Every light, not only in the Blue Room, but
throughout the entire hotel, was blotted into blackness. With that unfathomable gloom, shouts and
laughter seemed to die away. A black hush lay over all!
CHAPTER II. MURDER STRIKES
WHILE the Mohawks had been enjoying themselves so loudly in the Blue Room, a quiet dinner was in
progress at the other side of the Olympia Hotel. Within the Red Room, some thirty men were listening to
a presiding officer at the head table.
This gentleman was Richard Reardon, a prominent member of the Association of Electrical Engineers, the
organization which was assembled here tonight.
On this occasion, he was introducing a young man who sat beside him. In quiet, convincing terms,
Reardon was telling the assemblage that in Roland Furness, the association possessed a member whose
ability would soon be widely recognized.
While Roland Furness, red-faced and uncomfortable because of Reardon's praise, was glancing toward
the tablecloth, the darkness came to the Red Room. As promptly as if someone had pulled a hidden
switch, blackness replaced light. The change caught Richard Reardon in the middle of sentence.
After a momentary pause, the president resumed his discourse, in a voice that sounded strangely
modulated in the midst of that impenetrable darkness.
"We shall wait," he announced, "until the light is restored. Then we shall be ready to hear from our
associate, Roland Furness."
A sharp exclamation came from the man beside the president. Roland Furness had risen to his feet in the
darkness. Something in the hushing power of the new atmosphere had evidently alarmed him.
He spoke excitedly - almost gasping - amid the thickened gloom as he turned in the direction where
Richard Reardon had been sitting.
"Something is wrong," he said, in a low, muffled tone. "Something that I never believed could happen -
something that may mean serious danger to -"
Only Reardon caught the worried words. The president groped blindly and found his companion's arm.
He could feel Furness trembling.
A sudden gleam of light was sweeping through the room. The brilliant rays of a powerful lantern were
focused upon the men at the head table. The diners could see Reardon and Furness, both raising their
arms in surprise as they were caught within the circle of that terrific glare.
The light was coming from the door of the room. Held by an unseen person, it was a veritable spotlight
that had picked out the two principal men in this assemblage. Furness, open-mouthed, was partly in front
of Reardon's form.
The bark of a revolver sounded from the darkness. Although its flash appeared behind the light, the shot
had a sound that was almost muffled. The firing was repeated - again - again - again.
Roland Furness staggered. He collapsed upon the table, his falling form clearly revealed in the circle of
illumination.
A second later, Richard Reardon dropped. Two men, living but a few moments ago, were sprawled
lifeless before the horrified witnesses!
The powerful glare went out. Stygian darkness was all that remained.
Not a man in the room possessed the immediate resourcefulness to cope with this unexpected situation.
Tragedy had happened before their startled eyes; tragedy that was hidden by an amazing blackout!
APPALLING gloom! The same black hush lay within the Blue Room at the other side of the hotel.
There, Joe Cardona, grim amid the darkness, still stood beside the door, expecting to hear the sound of
shots before him.
But the man who expected did not hear. Those muffled reports from the other side of the hotel had not
reached his ears.
Joe Cardona waited. A click sounded from his left hand. He had drawn his flashlight, and had pressed
the button. The instrument, however, did not work!
Cardona growled. He could not understand this. He jockeyed grimly with the button while his right hand
clutched a revolver. Seconds were ticking into minutes, still the torch was useless. The detective cursed
his negligence; he hoped only that he could fight without the aid of light.
Then came unexpected relief. The Blue Room was suddenly flooded with brilliance. The lights had come
on. For a moment, the detective saw a sea of whitened faces. Then a buzz started as the Mohawks
resumed their interrupted noise-making.
Cardona saw Goldy Tancred. The man was serious and worried in expression; then, slowly, he showed
his teeth in a sickly but glittering grin. Bowser Riggins, gaining courage from his chief, smiled feebly.
A false alarm?
That was Cardona's momentary thought. Then, seeing that all was well here, the detective swung from
the door and entered the corridor. There, as in the Blue Room, light had been restored. No person was
lurking in the corridor, but Cardona's ears caught the sound of wild, terrified shouts.
Responding, the detective dashed along the corridor to the other side of the hotel. He arrived at the open
door of the Red Room. He dropped his flashlight into his coat pocket and displayed his badge as he
encountered a group of frightened, struggling men, who were pushing toward the corridor.
The sight of badge and revolver stayed the near stampede. Men dropped into their chairs. They looked
at Cardona for help. Pointing fingers and excited words directed the sleuth's attention to the sight that had
caused this commotion.
SLUMPED across the head table were the bodies of Richard Reardon and Roland Furness. Cardona
needed no testimony to tell him what had happened. His practiced eye knew that the middle-aged
association president and the young electrical engineer had been slain in cold blood!
Cardona calmly closed the door of the room and locked it. He ordered one man to telephone for
assistance. He motioned all who were standing, to chairs. Grim-faced, he took command; then, after
studying the persons present, he walked up beside the bodies.
It was not long before police arrived. Cardona unlocked the door to admit the officers.
The detective had done the best thing possible under the circumstances. Coming through the corridor, he
had seen no one who might have figured in this double murder. He felt sure that the killer had probably
escaped; nevertheless, it had been essential to hold all who were present. Cardona had done this
effectively.
With policemen to do his bidding, Cardona began a quiz.
He learned immediately that the shots had been fired from the door; that the victims had been spotted by
a powerful light. No one present - and most were close friends of Reardon and Furness - could suggest a
motive for the killings.
Important details in the handling of this case required time. Inspector Timothy Klein arrived; more men
came on the job. At last, with testimony taken and witnesses examined, Joe Cardona found himself alone
in an emptied room. He went out into the corridor and walked slowly to the other side of the hotel. He
looked into the Blue Room.
The Mohawk meeting was still on. Politicians, highly convivial, were still at their merrymaking. They had
not heard the news of murder. Cardona saw Goldy Tancred and Bowser Riggins enjoying themselves at
the head table.
THE detective went back toward the Red Room. He met Inspector Klein. His superior noted the serious
expression upon Cardona's face.
"What is it, Joe?" inquired Klein.
"There's a meeting in the Blue Room." responded the detective slowly. "That's on the other side of the
hotel. The Mohawk Club."
"What about it?"
"It used to be held in the Red Room."
"You think that has something to do with this -"
Cardona nodded.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "it probably has lot to do with it. A gang killing, inspector - one that didn't
click."
The pair started toward the lower lobby. Cardona paused a moment at the head of the stairs. He wanted
to see if there was any trace of a man who had come in this direction.
He drew his flashlight from his pocket, remembered suddenly that it was out of order, then stopped and
uttered a puzzled exclamation.
The flashlight was turned on! It had been gleaming in Cardona's pocket! The switch was just as it had
been pressed; the instrument that had failed to function in a time of need, was now casting rays of useless
illumination.
Puzzled, the detective turned the flashlight off and on. He repeated the operation several times. The torch
worked perfectly.
With a grunt, Cardona extinguished the flash light and thrust it back into his pocket. Even though it
appeared to be in perfect order, he would get a new one. No use to rely upon a flashlight that had failed
once at a crucial moment.
There was important work to do now. Cardona wanted to find out who had entered the Red Room and
left, probably scurrying down the stairs and out to the street amid the darkness. He wanted to learn what
had caused the lights of the hotel to fail.
These proved insurmountable questions. When Cardona's investigation was finished, he had gained
nothing. He thought he knew the motive. He understood the style of killing. Those were important
matters. But the clue that he wanted - the cause of the extinguished lights - was something that he did not
manage to gain.
Cardona, when he reached headquarters, was still disturbed because he had not obtained a shred of
evidence that involved the mysterious darkness. He sat at his desk, and scratched his chin. He felt
something in his pocket thump against the arm of his chair.
Angrily, Cardona pulled out the faulty flashlight and tossed it into a wastebasket. He got up from his chair
and sauntered out to report to Inspector Klein. He did not realize the importance of the action which he
had just performed.
Unwittingly, Detective Joe Cardona had thrown away the only clue that he possessed. That discarded
flashlight was the one link that might have led him to the solution of the black hush that had fallen over the
Olympia Hotel tonight!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW BEGINS
Headlines told of the double killing at the Olympia Hotel. New Yorkers read of gangland's outrage.
Mingled with bacon and eggs came the cry of murder as breakfasters perused their newspapers.
Richard Reardon and Roland Furness were unfortunate victims. Everyone granted that fact, and agreed
that the perpetrators of the outrage should be brought to justice. But in back of all the disapproval was
the established idea that the men had died through a mistake.
Detective Joe Cardona had expressed that belief, and it had been accepted. Every journal in Manhattan
was in accord. The case was too obvious for doubt. Even the man who had been missed was known.
Unknown mobsmen, out to get Goldy Tancred, had made a blunder. Somehow, they had extinguished
the lights in the Olympia Hotel. Under cover of darkness, they had entered the Red Room where they
had believed the meeting of the Mohawks was being held.
Richard Reardon, heavy and conspicuous, had been mistaken for Goldy Tancred. Well-directed bullets
had marked Reardon's form. Roland Furness, also in the danger zone, had been put on the spot as well.
It was possible that he had been taken for Bowser Riggins.
Newspaper columns were filled with hectic details which included garbled statements of the witnesses.
Members of the Association of Electrical Engineers, when interviewed, had given varied stories. Such
statements received no more than passing mention.
One man said that the shots had preceded the light; another told the opposite. One declared that he had
seen the light move away; another that it had been extinguished before it moved. One more declared that
the killer had used an acetylene lantern instead of an electric flashlight.
But the sum and substance of all the reports was that Goldy Tancred had been slated for the spot. A big
shot, liked by politicians, but unpopular among certain gang leaders, had escaped the doom that was
intended for him.
Goldy, himself, knew nothing. He was staying close to his palatial apartment high up in the Hotel
Marathon. His famous astrakhan coat no longer would be seen at Brindle's restaurant. Goldy Tancred -
so reporters affirmed - would prefer to send out for sandwiches in the future.
DETECTIVE Joe Cardona read the morning newspapers with a real relish. His presence at the Olympia
Hotel was universally commended. He had used good sense in watching Goldy Tancred. It was not his
fault that the killers had blundered.
Commissioner Ralph Weston, overlord of New York police, had voiced his approval of Cardona's
tactics. He supported the detective's finding, and he had promptly deputed Cardona to handle the case.
Among the newspapermen who were active on the story was Clyde Burke, a reporter for the New York
Classic. A veteran news gatherer, Clyde believed that Cardona was right. Secretly, however, he
wondered what the outcome of this affair might be. For Clyde knew, from experience, that there was
someone who could deal with gangland's slayers even when the most ardent police measures failed.
Clyde Burke was thinking of The Shadow. For Clyde Burke, himself, was a secret agent of The
Shadow!
In a room at the Metrolite Hotel, another young man was pondering upon the same matters that
concerned Clyde Burke. A resident guest of the hotel, Harry Vincent was scanning the day's headlines.
Like Clyde Burke, Harry believed that Joe Cardona had the correct information. Nevertheless, Harry
was wondering what would follow. He, too, was an agent of The Shadow.
In an office of the huge Badger Building, a chubby-faced man also studied the morning newspapers. With
careful shears, he clipped the columns that carried the story of the double slaying at the Olympia Hotel.
By profession, this placid individual was an investment broker. His name was Rutledge Mann, and his
many acquaintances knew him merely as a specialist on financial advice.
But Mann, who held no opinion regarding Cardona's theory, was also wondering about the future. Like
Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent, Rutledge Mann served The Shadow. Where the others were active and
frequently in the field, Mann acted as a contact agent. He supplied information and data that might be
required. These clippings, that he was gathering today, were being prepared for delivery to The
Shadow.
His compilation completed, Rutledge Mann put all his clippings in an envelope. He left his office, took a
taxi to Twenty-third Street, and entered a dingy building. On an upstairs floor, he stopped at the door of
a deserted office which bore the name "Jonas" on its cobwebbed pane. He dropped the envelope in the
mail slit.
Mann's work was done, until later orders might be received.
The mail slit was the delivery box that enabled Mann to reach The Shadow. Complete reports on the
Olympia outrage were now posted to the master mind. Whatever the sequel might be, Rutledge Mann
would be ready to obey instructions.
Clyde Burke's reportorial work - Harry Vincent's perusal of the newspapers - Rutledge Mann's clipping
service - all these were productive of an important aftermath. A strange, unseen event occurred
somewhere in New York and its beginning was a click that sounded in a secret room.
INTENSE blackness was suddenly ended by a bluish light that appeared in the corner of a black-walled
apartment. An uncanny glow was focused upon the polished surface of a table, directly beneath the
shaded circle of a blue-bulbed light.
In only one place could this phenomenon occur. That spot was The Shadow's sanctum. Away from all
the world, the very location of his secret room unknown, The Shadow, master of darkness, planned his
warfare against the hosts of evil.
Two hands appeared beneath the bluish glow. They were long hands, with tapering fingers that combined
smoothness with strength. There was no mistaking the hands of The Shadow, for upon a finger of the left
hand rested the identifying token of the master.
This was a gleaming gem that shone with a changing hue that symbolized mystery. The Shadow's girasol -
a fire opal unmatched in all the world - glistened like a sparkling eye in ever-changing hues.
From azure, the girasol took on the shades of a rich purple. Its glowing depths became a brilliant
crimson, only to change to a deep maroon that gave the stone an appearance of unlimited depths. All the
while, the illusion of sparks persisted. Flashes of flames seemed to leap upward toward the light.
The white hands produced an envelope and removed its contents. Rutledge Mann's clippings lay in view.
The right hand brought forward a pen and a sheet of blank paper. While hidden eyes studied the reports,
the hand began to write.
Brief, pointed facts appeared like thoughts. As the hand rested, eyes from the dark visualized those
statements. Bluish ink dried, then disappeared. The memory of the vanished words remained, locked in
the brain.
Could Joe Cardona have seen those inscriptions, he would have been amazed. For The Shadow, step by
step, was shattering the detective's theory! He was tracing a very definite connection between the big
shot and the murders in the Red Room!
Where Cardona had pictured Goldy as a man who had escaped a menace. The Shadow saw the big
shot as one who had known of a designed murder. Goldy Tancred - threatened - was the last person
whom the police could suspect of complicity. But The Shadow deduced otherwise.
The change of the Mohawks' meeting from Red Room to Blue Room - the holding of the affair on the
same night as the meeting of the electrical engineers - those had been accepted as mere coincidence. To
The Shadow, however, such an obvious conclusion was not to be accepted.
Cold-blooded mobsmen who attacked beneath a barrage of blackness were not the ones to make so
clumsy an error. The Shadow, versed in knowledge of underworld tactics, was quick to reject Cardona's
theory.
Richard Reardon and Roland Furness: one - perhaps both - had been marked for death.
Why?
They were not men of crime. Yet the explanation must exist. From a study of the past, and an
observation of the future, the reason could be discovered.
CRIME was impending - crime that bore the mark of genius. The secret of mighty schemes was
unrevealed, yet there were ways to reach it. Where the police were content to look for unknown
murderers, The Shadow intended to follow other courses.
The Shadow wrote:
Goldy Tancred.
A soft laugh came through the gloom of the room. Its whispered tones awoke pulsating echoes. The hand
inscribed terse comments beneath the name that it had written. Goldy Tancred must be watched. There
was a way to do it. The Shadow was making his plans.
Two other names appeared upon the paper. Side by side, The Shadow considered them.
Richard Reardon - Roland Furness.
Again, the hand began its comments. The careers of these men must be traced. Somewhere in the events
of their lives might lie an item of evidence.
Earphones slid across the table as the hands reached beyond to obtain them. The Shadow spoke into a
mouthpiece. His low tones were passing over a private wire to a listener as secretive as himself.
"Burbank speaking."
The quiet voice over the wire was that of The Shadow's hidden contact man. Always ready for the
Shadow's bidding, Burbank dwelt in obscurity and kept up a telephonic communication with The
Shadow's agents. Words that came to Burbank were relayed back and forth between The Shadow and
his men.
"Clyde Burke on duty," responded The Shadow, in an even monotone. "Commence observation on the
activities of Goldy Tancred -"
The voice continued. Burbank listened. While The Shadow spoke, his hand was writing. Every word that
he gave to Burbank was inscribed in blue upon a blank sheet of paper. The statements, however, were in
code.
The Shadow concluded his orders. As he told Burbank to stand by, he folded the paper before the
writing had reached the vanishing stage, and placed it in an envelope. This was to go to Rutledge Mann.
The writing would not disappear until after the investment broker had learned its import.
"Harry Vincent on duty," The Shadow went on. "To cooperate with Rutledge Mann in uncovering facts
regarding Richard Reardon and Roland Furness -"
The voice continued; the hand wrote and closed its message. The earphones slid across the table.
Instructions to Burbank were ended. The orders to Rutledge Mann, sealed in separate envelopes, were
carried away by The Shadow's hands.
摘要：

THEBLACKHUSHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CARDONAGOESONDUTY?CHAPTERII.MURDERSTRIKES?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWBEGINS?CHAPTERIV.FROMTHETOWER?CHAPTERV.BURKEREPORTS?CHAPTERVI.INGOLDY'SAPARTMENT?CHAPTERVII.THESHADOWMOVES?CHAPTERVIII.INTHEPENTHOUSE?CHAPTERI...

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