Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 031 - The Red Blot

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THE RED BLOT
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE SHADOW'S QUEST
? CHAPTER II. WITHIN THE SAFE
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER IV. THE LAW DECIDES
? CHAPTER V. PLOTTED CRIME
? CHAPTER VI. THE BANK ROBBERY
? CHAPTER VII. OVER THE WIRE
? CHAPTER VIII. ON THE SUBWAY
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW'S CLEW
? CHAPTER X. THE CLUB JANEIRO
? CHAPTER XI. AGAIN THE BLOT
? CHAPTER XII. THE RED BLOT SPREADS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE ULTIMATUM
? CHAPTER XIV. THE CRIME UNSOLVED
? CHAPTER XV. IN THE LAIR
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW PREPARES
? CHAPTER XVII. THE PRELUDE
? CHAPTER XVIII. ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE
? CHAPTER XIX. FIVE MILLION DOLLARS
? CHAPTER XX. FINAL PLANS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE RED BLOT STRIKES
? CHAPTER XXII. ZERO HOUR
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE END OF THE BLOT
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE COMMISSIONER EXPLAINS
CHAPTER I. THE SHADOW'S QUEST
A swift, repeated ticking was audible amid a total darkness. But for that sound, intense silence would
have pervaded the thickness of absolute gloom. It was not until a sharper noise occurred that any sign of
a human presence was revealed.
A click came from a spot above the ticking. A blue light suddenly cast an eerie glow downward upon the
surface of a polished table. There, beneath the rays of the strange, shaded lamp, appeared the ticking
object.
It was a clock of curious construction. Set at an angle upon the table top, this timepiece showed no
hands upon its large face. Instead, it had three circles, the innermost marked with twelve numbers; the
outer circles divided with sixty.
From grooves on the outer edge of each circle extended rings, so designed that they surrounded only one
number at a time. Just as the light came on, the rings of the outer circles moved. The extreme ring made
another jump a second later; but the intermediate one still remained constant, like the one in the center.
A clock that moved with intermittent precision, this odd dial was designed to mark the passing seconds
by its outer circle; the minutes by the second one; and the hours by the center circle. Although the
mechanism was regular in sound, the indications came at definite intervals, with an unusual psychological
result.
To the eyes that watched this clock, a single second seemed like a prolonged space of time, not as an
idly moving series of moments. Each minute, formed of sixty such intervals, was episodic. An hour, as
shown upon this clock, was a tremendous stretch of time that allowed for limitless accomplishment.
SUCH was the clock that rested in The Shadow's sanctum. The weird blue light that glistened upon the
circled dial existed only in that secret room. This was the abode where the master who fought with crime
reviewed his plans and formed new strategy.
The appearance of the light marked the presence of The Shadow himself. He, alone, visited this mystic
room, located in some unknown section of Manhattan. In the midst of strenuous campaigns, The Shadow
could always seek the seclusion of this sanctuary, there to mock his enemies and devise new ways to end
the schemes of malefactors.
To gangdom, The Shadow was known only as a powerful being whose unseen hand reached
everywhere. There were mobsmen who claimed to have seen him - but only at a distance. Those who
had met The Shadow face to face no longer lived to assert their claims.
Dying gangsters - toughened characters of the type who died grimly - had coughed out their lives through
trembling lips, gasping the name of The Shadow. Time and again, sneering big shots had been struck
down just as they were about to reap the profits of some heinous crime. Here, again, the hand of The
Shadow had intervened.
None knew the identity of The Shadow. It was something that the underworld had long sought. All rats
of crime were eager to eliminate The Shadow. His power had caused consternation in other cities than
New York - both in America and abroad - yet none had ever balked his might.
It was known that The Shadow must be a master of detection, for he had uncovered the most ingenious
of crimes. It was known also that he could travel swiftly and unseen, for he had frequently appeared in
the heart of an enemy's camp.
As for his indomitable purpose - that was understood. The Shadow showed no mercy to those who did
not deserve it.
It was believed that The Shadow was a master of disguise. That, alone, could account for some of the
amazing parts that he had played. It was also believed that he sometimes employed the aid of trained and
skillful agents, for the magnitude of his activities had shown that capable men had been present when
needed.
Yet The Shadow had always managed to protect his temporary identities unknown; and his agents
remained within the cover of the shroud of mystery that constantly blanketed The Shadow from the eyes
of his foemen.
Despite the efforts of those who sought to thwart him; despite the fact that he never invoked the aid of
the police in his own behalf; The Shadow roamed at will in his untiring search for men of evil. None had
ever managed to discover the location of his sanctum; in fact, the existence of such a spot was regarded
as doubtful by those who discussed its possibility.
Thus The Shadow found complete seclusion in that corner of the black-walled room where blue light
shone upon a table top and a strangely dialed clock marked each passing second with a long, gripping
throb.
THE light and the clock were not the only tokens of The Shadow's presence on this night. Into the circle
of illumination crept two objects that seemed like living creatures detached from the body to which they
belonged.
The hands of The Shadow!
Long and white, they showed a combination of velvety smoothness and great muscular power. These
were the hands that had fought so well against crime; and one of them bore the token, which was the
positive symbol of The Shadow.
This mark was a gleaming gem which shone from the third finger of the left hand. It was The Shadow's
girasol, a rare fire opal, unmatched in all the world. Its color was a mingling of hues; the glowing depths
of the stone changed from brilliant blue to dull crimson, and all the shades between.
From the girasol came splashes of fiery light, like the glimmer of living sparks. A dying ember, ever
emitting its final darts of minute flame - such was The Shadow's girasol.
The hands moved in a fashion that portrayed ease of operation. An envelope came into view; from it a
thin bundle of papers. The fingers unfolded a sheet; the hidden eyes behind the light made a brief perusal;
then that paper was replaced by another.
Despite the ease of the hands, their speed and precision were amazing, when judged by the clock upon
the table. An observer would not have believed that those indications on the outer circle of the dial were
mere seconds. It seemed as though The Shadow, even when engaged upon the routine procedure of
summarizing the reports from his agents, could hold back time in its passage.
The simple scene in the sanctum was an explanation of The Shadow's uncanny ability to come out best in
his wars with men of crime. He was a being who dealt in split seconds when he worked!
Another envelope - a third. Papers removed, read, and replaced. Clippings, also; and when The
Shadow's summary was complete, a few remainders were left for careful perusal. Report sheets and
newspaper items - the white hands spread them upon the table top.
Every one of these papers dealt with a single subject. The right hand of The Shadow appeared with a
pen. Upon a sheet of blank paper, it inscribed a phrase which summarized it in one title:
THE RED BLOT
The ink which The Shadow used was crimson. It shone in vivid contrast to the light above. Eyes from the
dark viewed the words; then the poised hand gave the pen a shake.
A large blob of ink spattered upon the white paper. It spread irregularly until it formed a grotesquely
shaped blotch of drying fluid that looked like a huge drop of blood.
No action could have been more significant. The words meant nothing now. There, beneath them, was
the very sign which had been mentioned - a crimson mark that illustrated the title.
The Red Blot!
WHILE the ink still dried beneath the light, a low, sinister laugh came from the darkness. That tone - the
mocking voice of The Shadow - was the feature of the master's presence that had struck stark terror into
many an evil gangster's heart.
The laugh of The Shadow! It came as a challenge to all malefactors.
The pen was laid aside. The fingers lifted the report sheets and the clippings, one by one. Alike, these
items told a story of unsolved crime. Here, in New York, subtle evil was in progress.
A bank messenger shot down in open daylight. A chase of elusive assailants, who disappeared after a
cordon of police had closed in upon them. A huge blot of crimson upon the sidewalk at the spot where
the man had been slain.
The messenger's blood? That had been the theory, until the second crime!
Three masked marauders had entered a club where gambling was in progress. They had extinguished the
lights; with flashlights, they had covered the players and threatened them with guns. They had reaped a
harvest of cash.
While they were robbing their victims, police had arrived. The crooks had fled and, despite the closeness
of the chase, had made an escape so effective that they might have actually melted. Upon the green baize
of the central card table in the club was discovered a huge dab of dulled crimson - again the red blot!
A third crime - the theft of a painting valued at many thousands - had been perpetrated at the home of a
New York millionaire. Servants had arrived as the criminals were departing with the painting that they
had cut from its immense frame. Two servants had been shot; one mortally wounded.
Again, the evil raiders had escaped. Behind them, in the empty frame, they had left their mark - a red
blot!
THE RED BLOT!
In the underworld, it was believed that a master mind of crime had chosen that mark. The Red Blot was
a name - not a sign. Some supercrook had assembled a squad of daring gangsters, who would stop at
nothing.
The police had advanced the same theory. The newspapers had taken up the cry.
Then had come the fourth crime. A big-time fight promoter - supposed to carry a bankroll of more than a
hundred grand upon his person - had been found strangled in his apartment. Upon the starched front of
the victim's dress shirt was that same dread sign of spattered crimson - the mark of The Red Blot!
Men of wealth - from legitimate commercial barons to those who dealt in hazardous enterprises - were in
trepidation. The newspapers had called upon the police to apprehend this supercriminal. The police had
not gathered a single clew.
Underworld and social swim alike - neither revealed the presence of a master mind to whom these
crimes could be attributed. Police, with their stool pigeons at work, had covered all of gangdom's daring
workers; the ones who might be logically picked as henchmen of the supercrook. They had not brought
in a single suspect.
The Shadow, too, had been seeking traces of The Red Blot. His agents had been at work. Their reports
were barren. These crimes which had emanated from the underworld, and had struck in higher places,
left no trail.
But The Shadow's way was not to follow crime when it bore the mark of well-linked continuity. He had
been seeking the forebodings of crime that he might anticipate the next stroke of The Red Blot.
The clock upon the table was more important than all these clippings and reports of frustrated efforts to
line up the cause of past outrages. The Shadow, through his own investigations in the underworld, had
been watching for an impending stroke.
Even whispered inklings had been lacking. Until tonight, each crime had given no preliminary sign. Often
had The Shadow thwarted crooks by prying into their games before the lid had been raised.
Now, amid the quiet of the underworld, he had caught the words he wanted. Here, he was biding his
time until the proper second for his calculated plan.
The ticking of the clock went on. A long second seemed to hover; then the indicators on all three dials
moved at once, That final second marked the completion of a minute which, in turn, showed the end of
an hour.
Before the second indicator moved again, The Shadow's hand had swept up the scattered bits of paper.
A click sounded from the lamp. The room was plunged in darkness. Something swished through the
gloom.
Then came a peal of laughter. The Shadow's mirth rang ghoulishly through the blackness. As his invisible
form moved toward the secret door of the sanctum, the master of the night sent forth his mocking
challenge in chilling tones that foretold disaster to evil brains of crime.
Blackened walls caught up the merriment. Weird reverberations sounded as cries from goblin throats.
Corridors of space seemed to open with whispered answers to The Shadow's taunt.
Those strange, terrifying sounds persisted long. When the last echo had faded into nothingness, only the
smooth, quick ticking of the clock was audible.
The Shadow had departed upon his quest.
CHAPTER II. WITHIN THE SAFE
IT was exactly ten o'clock when The Shadow departed from his sanctum. A half hour later, a strange
phenomenon occurred at the intersection of two obscure streets on the lower East Side.
A moving patch of blackness passed along the sidewalk beneath the glare of a street lamp. It was one of
the many shadows that had crossed that spot during the evening. But in one respect, this moving splotch
differed from all others. There was no sign of the person who cast it.
A long streak of darkness, which terminated in a perfect silhouette. This was the only mark that betrayed
the presence of The Shadow. Somewhere in the darkness of the brick wall beside the sidewalk, the
being whom the underworld so greatly feared, had passed unseen.
Some fifty feet from the corner stood a dilapidated brick building of three-story height. Beside it ran an
obscure alleyway. This structure, apparently an old residence that had seen better days, was actually a
most important adjunct to the decrepit neighborhood.
Three golden balls glimmered faintly above the dim front door. Blackened windows showed the outlines
of heavy bars. This building housed the pawnshop of Timothy Baruch, one of the oddest characters on
this section of the East Side.
Old Baruch's place was known throughout the underworld. The man had been a pawnbroker for many
years, and it was an adage among thieves and burglars that Baruch's bids on stolen goods could be
accepted as reliable.
Baruch was not the usual type of "fence," who disposed of stolen articles. His place was termed a "hock
shop," even by those who had dealt with him under cover.
For Timothy Baruch was a canny individual who had ways of assuring police and detectives that his
transactions were legitimate; and the great proportion of his business was in keeping with the policies of
better-class pawnshops.
The old pawnbroker was unpretentious. He made no great show of worldliness. Nevertheless, it had
been noised about that his safe contained pilfered jewels and other rarities of great value.
These rumors had never gotten back to Baruch's ears, hence the old man dwelt in security. He was sure
that his pretense of poverty would suffice to keep malefactors from his property. Moreover, he relied
upon his connection with the underworld and the security of his safe as positive protection.
Underworld connections might fade; but the fame of Baruch's safe would remain. The huge strong box
was the one thing in which Baruch had invested heavily.
Various gangsters had viewed it; and they held to the opinion that there were but two safe crackers
skilled enough to open it. One was "Tweezers" Darley, at present retired from active practice; the other
was "Moocher" Gleetz, no longer in Manhattan.
Perhaps Timothy Baruch knew of the inactivity of these two safe crackers; at any rate, his safe remained
inviolate, despite the fact that his barred doors and windows were not as formidable as they might have
been.
THE SHADOW now stood in front of Baruch's pawnshop. There, within the fringe of darkness cast by
the old building, his tall form was invisible. No motion, no sound, betrayed The Shadow's presence as he
glided into the entrance of the alleyway.
The invisible visitor did not continue to the rear of the building, the spot where access would have been
most likely. Instead, he stopped beside the wall and began a strange upward ascent in the midst of almost
total darkness.
A low, squidgy sound was the only token of The Shadow's progress. It continued until the unseen figure
reached the second floor.
Here, the windows were barred with gratings only. Working in the darkness, The Shadow easily
removed the barrier from one window. His lithe figure entered a room on the second floor.
Silent inspection showed the room was empty. A tiny flashlight gleamed. Its luminous spot, no larger than
a silver dollar, performed several functions.
First it glittered about the room to show a closed door that evidently led to a hallway. Then it gleamed
upon four peculiar, cup-shaped objects of rubber that lay upon the floor. These disappeared into
darkness as The Shadow with a black-gloved hand placed them beneath his cloak.
These were the devices which The Shadow had used to facilitate his precipitous climb - rubber suction
cups capable of supporting considerable weight with safety.
Finally, the light twinkled upon the dial of a watch. The time was twenty minutes of eleven. A low whisper
crept through the room and stirred up vague, mocking echoes. The Shadow was ahead of schedule.
The light went out. A few moments later, the room was empty. Only the occasional glimmer of the flash
revealed The Shadow's progress down a stairway to the ground floor. When the light finally reappeared,
it shone upon the blackened front of Timothy Baruch's safe, in a back room on the ground floor.
Seventeen minutes of eleven. Again that whispered laugh. The flashlight, set upon some hidden object,
displayed a wider range of illumination as the gloves slipped from the hands of The Shadow.
Long, sensitive fingers began their work upon the dials of the safe. The burning girasol sent forth its
amazing sparks while the hands were operating.
The safe was, indeed, formidable. The turning dials seemed to defy The Shadow's probing touch. Slowly,
carefully, the fingers worked, while keen ears listened for the sound of falling tumblers. Minutes drifted
by; at last, a sound from the blackened door of the safe told that The Shadow's task was successful.
The light glimmered upon the watch. Eight minutes before eleven. The Shadow had accomplished his
work in nine minutes. A finger touched the watch significantly.
The numbers that it indicated upon the face showed that The Shadow had planned to begin at ten
forty-five and end at ten fifty-five. Starting two minutes ahead of schedule, he had gained another minute!
A hand turned the knob. The door of the safe moved slowly outward. Within The Shadow's grasp lay the
contents of this treasure box.
Why had The Shadow come to obtain it?
There could be but one reason. The close adherence to a scheduled routine proved that The Shadow
was not here to commit crime himself; his purpose was to forestall the efforts of crooks who were soon
due!
SURPRISE would be in store for those who attacked this strong box. Instead of wealth, they would find
only what The Shadow might choose to leave for them. The Shadow had anticipated crime tonight. He
was to view the contents of this safe before the others saw it.
The door was open. The Shadow's light glimmered into the interior of the safe. It paused motionless, its
glare revealing an amazing situation that brought a momentary period of inaction. Even The Shadow had
not expected the surprising sight which his eyes now saw.
No money; no jewels; no articles of value. The interior of the safe was a blank, save for a single object.
Yet that one article was more startling than any dazzling array of hoarded gems.
A piece of white paper lay upon the bottom of the safe. It contained no writing; but in its center was a
signature more potent than any inscription could have been. Its crimson hue and its grotesque shape told
by whose order it had come there.
The sheet of paper which lay in the rifled safe bore the crimson splotch of crime - the mark of The Red
Blot!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
THE flashlight moved again. Its probing ray was swift, yet thorough, as the keen eyes of The Shadow
commenced an inspection of the interior of the safe. A hand, now covered with a black glove, lifted the
crimson-spotted paper from the floor. The flashlight's gleam moved beyond the sheet so that the paper
became transparent.
Every detail, even to texture and watermark, was observed by The Shadow. At last, the hand replaced
the paper exactly where it had been found. The door of the safe moved sullenly shut. The flashlight shone
upon the front of the strong box; then along the floor.
Clews were here - for The Shadow - yet there was no evidence of sufficient importance. The previous
crimes engineered by The Red Blot had not been covered well; in every instance, the elusiveness of the
evildoers had been their chief forte.
The Shadow had come here to anticipate crime. The misdeed had already taken place. Nevertheless,
The Shadow remained. His tiny light showed the surface of the watch. Eleven o'clock. The glimmer
disappeared. The Shadow still remained.
Why?
The answer came a few seconds after the light was out. A vague, scratching sound began less than a
dozen yards from the place where The Shadow stood. The noise was from outside the building.
Someone was trying to enter.
A curious paradox! The Shadow had scheduled his work to be finished by eleven o'clock, the time that
the crooks were due to arrive. He had found traces of completed crime; yet here was indication that the
criminals had not been present until this hour!
Silence reigned before the closed but rifled safe in Timothy Baruch's pawnshop. The outside scratching
continued. It changed to a series of muffled thuds. A pause; then boards creaked. The marauders were
within the building.
The beam of a powerful flashlight swept across the floor. It kept away from the walls, where its rays
might have shown through barred windows. Hence it failed to reveal the tall, motionless figure that stood
in a corner. The Shadow had become a shadow.
The torch was focused upon the front of the safe. Two hardened faces came into view. While one grim,
square-jawed ruffian held the lantern, the other, sharp-faced and blinking, thrust out a hand and grasped
a dial.
THE identity of these men was plain. Any mobster would have recognized the pair, well known in the
underworld. One - the man with the lantern - was Hurley Brewster, a dock-walloper, who had
abandoned a safe-blowing career to organize gangs of mobsters. The other - the man whose hand was
on the safe - was Tweezers Darley, whose skill at opening strong boxes was so widely recognized.
"Take it slow, Tweezers," urged Hurley. "Remember - you ain't been doin' this work for some time.
Them tumblers is tricky."
"Leave it to me, Hurley," growled Tweezers. "I hope the bulls think the same as you - that a guy gets
slow when he lays off a while. Then they won't ask me any questions."
"They won't be askin' nothin'," snorted Hurley. "When I set the time fuse, this old box will blow flooey
after we've cleared out. Keep busy, there, bozo."
"Less noise," retorted Tweezers. "I'll have this thing done inside an hour, if you leave me alone."
That ended the conversation for a while. Minutes dragged by while Tweezers worked on. Half an hour
elapsed before the safe manipulator paused.
"Say, Hurley" - Tweezers's voice was irritable - "this sure is a tough baby. I'll bet you Moocher Gleetz
couldn't make any better speed. I'm right back at the beginning."
"Maybe we'll have to blow it."
"No. Give me time. You know what they've said. Moocher or me - we're the only ones."
"And Moocher ain't around."
"Yeah?" Tweezers's tone was a snarl. "Maybe if he had been around, you'd have taken him in on the job
instead of me?"
"I ain't sayin' that," returned Hurley. "Stick with it, bozo! I'm countin' on you!"
Twelve minutes more of silence while Tweezers worked. Suddenly the sharp-faced man emitted a low
cry of satisfaction. He placed his hand upon the knob of the safe.
"Got it, Hurley!" he asserted. "We'll pull open the door and mop up the gravy. I told you it wouldn't take
me a full hour. I'd like to see anybody do it in less time than I took! You won't find the guy in New York,
I'm telling you!"
Hurley Brewster offered no argument. Tweezer Darley's boast stood. Yet even then, within fifteen feet of
the safe openers, stood one who had completed Tweezers's forty-two minute job in nine minutes by the
watch.
The door came open. The torch gleamed. A snarl came from Hurley Brewster. The dock-walloper was
staring at the paper on the floor of the safe.
"The Red Blot!" Hurley's words were a harsh growl. "He's beat us to this lay. Look at that, Tweezers!
Can you beat it? Say -"
The square-jawed man pulled back from the safe. In sudden apprehension, he swung his light toward the
side of the room.
At the same instant, a slight click sounded, and the glare of another torch met that which came from
Hurley Brewster's hand.
Hurley and Tweezers alike caught the glimpse of a strange, black clad outline - the figure of a being who
had advanced from the wall. One black glove held the flashlight; the other gripped a huge automatic.
It was Tweezers, this time, who uttered a startled cry of recognition. Where Hurley had growled in anger
at the sight of the red blot, Tweezers gasped in fear when he saw the form that loomed ahead.
"The Shadow!"
BOTH ruffians were armed; but they made no attempt to reach for their weapons. Their hands went up,
and Hurley's torch clattered to the floor, then rolled to a stop.
With backs against the opened safe, the crooks faced the glare that betokened The Shadow. The
expressions upon their evil countenances showed plainly the effect which the arrival of The Shadow had
created.
A low, sinister laugh crept through the room. The Shadow held these men of evil at his mercy. He had
captured them in the act of crime, and both knew the reputed methods of The Shadow when he dealt
with crooks such as themselves.
"You fear me!" The Shadow's tone was a scornful whisper. "You have cause to fear The Shadow! I
came here to thwart you in the act of crime. I found the trace of one beside whom you are mere
novices!"
"The Red Blot!" blurted Tweezers Darley.
"The Red Blot," announced The Shadow, in his awesome tone, "has been here before you. That is
fortunate - for you. The Red Blot is the one whom I seek."
"I don't know nothin'," gasped Hurley Brewster, "Honest - we ain't workin' with The Red Blot! Ain't that
empty safe enough - with all the gravy gone? Before we got here?"
"You planned this crime," The Shadow, invisible, was speaking sternly, "in a dive called Red Mike's. You
set the hour at eleven o'clock."
Tweezers threw a scared look at Hurley. Neither man would have believed that their conversation could
have been overheard. The ears of The Shadow! How had they listened in? Tweezers and Hurley
exchanged stupefied looks.
"Therefore," ruled The Shadow. "I have questions which you must answer. Where else did either of you
discuss this planned crime? Who could have heard you?"
Blank looks were exchanged between the two ruffians. Both understood the purpose of The Shadow's
demand. The safe had obviously been opened earlier in the evening. It was the work of the unknown
criminal known as The Red Blot. Through indiscretion on the part of either Hurley Brewster or Tweezers
Darley, the master plotter could have learned this game.
It was Tweezers who spoke, staring sidelong at Hurley; then toward the light which The Shadow held.
Tweezers's words came like a confession, drawn forth by his fear of the invisible enemy who had
questioned him.
"SOMEBODY must have got wise when I called Hurley," said Tweezers in a sulky tone. "You
remember, Hurley" - Tweezers was looking furtively toward his companion for corroboration - "the night
after we made the deal? I was to call you to make sure the lay was all right - and I may have said too
much."
"Where did you call from?" came The Shadow's demand, in a tone that carried no interrogation, a tone
that gangsters feared.
Hurley was glowering at Tweezers. The square-jawed ruffian recalled the incident. He was incensed
because his companion was squealing to The Shadow.
"I - I - don't know." Tweezers had caught Hurley's look, and was hedging. "Let's see - it was when I - "
"Answer the question!"
The command came in a shuddering tone that made Tweezers Darley cower. Hurley Brewster, defiantly
facing the light, chewed his lips, and lost his nerve as he heard the sardonic sound of The Shadow's
words.
"At the Black Ship," blurted Tweezers.
"Name those whom you saw there," ordered The Shadow.
摘要：

THEREDBLOTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THESHADOW'SQUEST?CHAPTERII.WITHINTHESAFE?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWSPEAKS?CHAPTERIV.THELAWDECIDES?CHAPTERV.PLOTTEDCRIME?CHAPTERVI.THEBANKROBBERY?CHAPTERVII.OVERTHEWIRE?CHAPTERVIII.ONTHESUBWAY?CHAPTERIX.THESHADOW'...

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