Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 028 - The Shadow's Justice

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THE SHADOW'S JUSTICE
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF NIGHT
? CHAPTER II. TALK OF WEALTH
? CHAPTER III. THE BIG SHOT
? CHAPTER IV. IN HAVANA
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW'S MIGHT
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW'S STRATEGY
? CHAPTER VII. THE HOME-COMING
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SECRET MESSAGE
? CHAPTER IX. THE STOLEN CLEW
? CHAPTER X. CARTER TAKES A TRIP
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S PLAN
? CHAPTER XII. THE ALLIANCE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE MINING CABIN
? CHAPTER XIV. FORCES OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XV. IN THE CLEARING
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW ORDERS
? CHAPTER XVII. OUT OF THE SKY
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S CHART
? CHAPTER XIX. MEN OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XX. THE HIDDEN MINE
? CHAPTER XXI. THE ENEMY REVEALED
? CHAPTER XXII. SHOTS OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST FIGHT
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE SETTLEMENT
CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF NIGHT
“TURN left, Holland.”
“Yes, sir.”
The uniformed chauffeur thrust a warning arm from the window of the sedan. He swung the big car
across the slippery road. The glaring headlights showed a driveway between two lion-topped stone
posts. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the automobile rolled through the entrance of the Long Island
estate.
The man in the rear seat was leaning forward, watching the driveway reveal itself through the drizzling
mist. Rain-soaked shrubs and dripping trees bounded both sides of the roadway. The chauffeur drove
carefully as he settled back behind the wheel, relieved now that he was free of the heavy traffic on the
highway.
The headlights, swinging along the curving drive, invoked moving shadows of the night. Broad streaks of
blackness wavered and swung away. Heavy blotches faded as the car passed. They seemed like living
things, these shadows. The passenger watched them as he stared over the chauffeur's shoulder.
A bright light gleamed like a beacon through the night. The car swerved and pulled up before a flight of
steps that led to the doorway of a large mansion. The beckoning light was under the sheltering roof that
extended from above that door. Compared to it, the glimmers from the windows of the house seemed
faint and obscure.
The passenger stepped from the sedan and spoke to the chauffeur:
“You may call for me in one hour, Holland.”
“Yes, Mr. Tracy,” replied the uniformed man.
The sedan rolled away and left the passenger standing under the sheltering roof. While he waited for an
answer to his ring at the door, Tracy turned toward the steps, and his face was clearly discernible in the
night.
A MAN of medium height, his face firm and aristocratic, this individual made an impressive appearance
as he waited before the closed door. His eyes, keen and perceptive, were staring out into the night,
toward those spots where the sedan's headlights had so recently invoked strange, moving shadows.
All was blackness now. Tracy's eyes saw only mist; his ears heard nothing but the sounds of dripping
water.
The door opened behind his shoulder. Turning, the man entered with the assurance of an expected guest.
Farland Tracy, attorney at law, now stood within the confines of a gloomy hall. The man who admitted
him was standing a few feet away, bowing in courteous greeting.
“Ah, Headley,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Boswick is expecting me?”
“He is upstairs, sir,” responded the attendant, in a quiet monotone. “I shall inform him that you are here.”
Tracy watched Headley walk across the hall and up the stairs. The man's tread was soft and catlike,
quite in contrast to his heavy appearance. The lawyer rubbed his hands thoughtfully and turned his gaze
toward the floor, until the sound of approaching footsteps caused him to glance up.
A young man had entered the hall from a side room. Slight of form, sallow of complexion, and drooping
in appearance, he made an excellent picture of dissipated youth. He was attired in a tuxedo, and in his
loose left hand he held a long holder which contained a lighted cigarette.
“Drew Westling!” exclaimed Farland Tracy. “How are you, boy? I haven't seen you for a month!”
“Perhaps it's as well you haven't,” drawled Westling, with a sickly grin. “I haven't forgotten the last time. I
hope you don't intend to mention it to the old gentleman.”
“To your Uncle Houston?” quizzed Tracy. Then, in an amiable tone: “No, Drew. Lawyers usually keep
their clients' affairs to themselves. I am here to discuss business affairs with your uncle. Your name will
not be mentioned—that is, in reference to the matter of which you have just spoken.”
“Thanks,” responded Westling, in a relieved tone. “The old gentleman has been quizzy enough about my
affairs without him learning anything that won't do any good. I've kept out of jams since that last one—”
“And you don't intend to get into any more,” smiled Farland Tracy. “All right, Drew. I'm glad to hear it.”
Drew Westling turned away and strolled back across the hall.
FARLAND TRACY noticed that Headley was returning down the stairs. The lawyer smiled. He fancied
that Drew Westling would not want the attendant to hear the discussion that had just taken place.
Houston Boswick, owner of this mansion, was, as Tracy had mentioned, Westling's uncle. The old man
had been away for several months, and hence knew nothing of Westling's activities during his absence.
It was Farland Tracy who had twice gained Westling's release, without scandal, after raids on gambling
houses where the young man had been. Such information, coming to Houston Boswick, would prove
most embarrassing to Drew Westling. The young man depended entirely upon his uncle for support.
“Mr. Boswick will see you, sir,” announced Headley. “He is in the upstairs study.”
Farland Tracy walked up the steps. Drew Westling, slowly puffing through his long cigarette holder,
stood in a corner of the hall. With shrewd gaze, be watched Headley depart toward the kitchen. Then,
turning his eyes upward, he waited until Farland Tracy had passed the head of the stairs.
Hastily ejecting his cigarette into an ash stand, Drew Westling pocketed the holder and followed the
direction that the lawyer had taken. He tiptoed rapidly up the steps, turned into a narrow hallway, and
softly approached a door near a turn in the corridor. He stopped beside the closed portal, turned about,
and crouched with his ear to the door.
Watching toward the steps, Westling knew that he would be instantly aware of Headley's approach,
should the butler come upstairs. Listening intently, he could hear the greetings being exchanged between
Farland Tracy and Houston Boswick.
Ready to glide along the hall at the slightest alarm, Drew Westling was in an ideal position to learn what
might be said within the study.
STRANGE purposes were at work within this gloomy old mansion. Standing secluded from the highway,
it was invisible to the passing world. But while one man listened within, there were others who were
watching without.
Across from the lighted porch, amid the blackness of a clump of shrubbery, low voices were discussing
the arrival of Farland Tracy. Those voices came from a spot where the lawyer had looked, but had seen
nothing in the misty night.
“Just lay low, Scully,” came a smooth command. “We've got an hour to wait, at least.”
“An' maybe nothin' to wait for,” was the growled reply.
“Probably nothing,” rejoined the smooth voice. “But we're not going in while the old man has a visitor.
We're not going in blindly, either. That sort of stuff is through. We'll wait until we have a reason.”
“All right, Stacks. You're the boss. But it's too blamed wet out here—”
“Come along,” interrupted “Stacks” impatiently. “We'll slide under the cover of the side porch.”
Two figures emerged from the bushes. They were no more than huddled shapes, but they cast long
shadows as they moved toward the shelter of the side portico. Both Stacks and “Scully” were cautious in
this maneuver, keeping just on the fringe of light that came from above the front door.
Confident that they were not being watched as they crept through the blurry drizzle, the men did not
bother to look behind them. Hence they failed to notice a peculiar phenomenon which accompanied
them.
From a spot not ten feet away from the bush where they had hidden, came a third shadow, longer and
more pronounced than their own. A sinister shape of unreality, this strange silhouette accompanied the
men. A black vagueness in the mist—so obscure as to be almost unseen —was the only living token of
this weird streak of blackness.
Yet, had Stacks or his companion stared back toward the bushes, they would have seen a more potent
sign of a being in the darkness. Two burning eyes, their brightness reflecting the glimmer of the light above
the door, were following the sneaking men. Phantom eyes that seemed to float through the mist, they
watched the progress of these stealthy spies.
“We'll be all right here?” came Scully's question, as the porch was reached.
“Sure,” was the whisper that came from Stacks. “Old Boswick will be up in his study—the little room
that opens on the back yard—”
As he broke off his statement, Stacks chanced to glance back toward the driveway. He caught a
momentary glimpse of a gliding shape along the ground; then attributed it to his imagination.
THE owner of that shadow was invisible. The tall form of a living being was skirting the edge of the porch
even as Stacks spoke. Sharp ears had heard the reference to the little upstairs room. The phantom shape
moved onward, unseen in the darkness.
A dim light glimmered from a small window on the second floor, at the back of the house. Beneath that
window, a tall form emerged from the dampening darkness. Gloved hands pressed against the rough
stone wall of the building.
A figure moved upward. The folds of a rain-soaked cloak flapped gently against the stones. A creature
of the night was making its way to the window. Shortly afterward, a blackened hand appeared against
the dim light, and noiselessly pushed the window sash upward.
The shadowy shape of a slouch hat was momentarily revealed by the vague illumination. A few seconds
later, the head beneath the hat had moved to the side, and was no longer visible. The weird phantom of
the night clung bat-like to the side of the house.
While Drew Westling, listening by the door of the study, overheard the conversation within the room, this
eerie visitant of darkness was also learning what passed between Houston Boswick and Farland Tracy.
Silent, sinister, and unseen, The Shadow, man of darkness, had come to this secluded spot. The
Shadow, mysterious personage who thwarted crime, was interested in the same discussion that had
intrigued Drew Westling.
What was the purpose of The Shadow's visit? Did danger lurk about this place? Did the presence of
huddled watchers in the shrubbery mean that crime was brewing?
Shadows of the night had moved amidst the drizzling mist. One was a living shadow. Where plans and
cross-purposes unfolded; where men of evil design maintained a secret vigil; there did The Shadow
venture!
CHAPTER II. TALK OF WEALTH
WITHIN a small, but finely furnished study, Houston Boswick and Farland Tracy faced each other
across a mahogany desk, totally unaware that listeners were stationed at both door and window.
The two men formed an interesting contrast in the glow of the desk lamp. Farland Tracy, still in his
forties, showed virility in every action. Firm-faced, square-jawed, and stalwart, he had a dynamic air
combined with self-assurance. With it, his eyes expressed understanding and sympathetic feeling.
Houston Boswick, in opposition, was aged and weary. He was a man past sixty, and his thin face
marked him as one who had lost all former initiative.
His eyes, alone, revealed his intellect. At times they were colorless; but at intervals they sparkled with
quick purpose. Occasionally, they showed a distinct trace of innate shrewdness.
Those eyes were Tracy's key. The lawyer watched them steadily and calmly, knowing that they alone
could serve as an index to Houston Boswick's true emotions.
“Tracy”—Boswick's voice was pitifully thin—“I am an old man who has nothing left to live for.”
“Hardly old,” rejoined Tracy, in a quiet tone. “You have not yet reached the dividing line of threescore
and ten.”
“I am nearing it,” asserted Boswick, with a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders, “and my life has been
one of ceaseless labor. The accumulation of wealth is no sinecure, Tracy. I have made my share —more
than my share, to be exact. I began almost in childhood. That is why I am nearing the end of life.”
“You have retired from business,” Tracy reminded him. “That should give you the opportunity to
recuperate.”
“I retired,” interrupted Boswick, “purely because I could no longer continue. When an old horse can no
longer stand in harness, his days are numbered.”
Farland Tracy had no reply. Houston Boswick could see the sympathy in his expression. The old man
smiled wanly.
“Do not attempt to delude me, Tracy,” declared Boswick. “This last trip to Florida was for my health. Its
purpose failed. The writing is on the wall. My physicians have told me that I may not have long to live. I
am ready to die.”
“Why?” questioned Tracy incredulously.
“Because,” explained Boswick, “life holds nothing in store for me. What is wealth when one can no
longer work? That has been my creed, Tracy. I shall always adhere to it.
“All my business associates were older than myself. One by one they have dropped from sight. Death has
accounted for most of them. Senility has seized the rest. For the past year, I have lived with only one
hope.”
“Your son's return.”
“Yes. Now, Tracy, that hope is assured.”
“You have heard from Carter?”
Houston Boswick nodded.
REAL elation appeared upon Farland Tracy's countenance. The lawyer had often heard Houston
Boswick speak of his absent son, Carter.
Years before, the younger Boswick had gone out to seek his own fortune. He had traveled in many parts
of the world. Indirect reports had reached Houston Boswick that Carter was doing well. But not until
now had the old man received direct news from Carter Boswick himself.
“Let me become reminiscent,” remarked Houston Boswick. “Tragedy entered my life some twenty-odd
years ago. Directly following the death of my wife, my sister Stella—my only living relation—perished in
a train wreck with her husband, Hugh Westling.
“I raised their boy with mine. My son, Carter, and my nephew, Drew Westling, were like brothers. The
same age—but Carter was the stronger, and Drew the weaker. Realizing it, I favored Drew.”
“That was considerate,” observed Tracy.
“Too considerate,” corrected Houston Boswick. “Carter became obsessed with independence. Drew
became a weakling, with no initiative. The result was that Carter went away, and Drew remained.
“Only a week ago, I received a letter from Montevideo. It was from Carter. A friend of mine had met
him there, and had given him my Florida address. In that letter, Carter announced that he was coming
home.”
“How soon?”
“He has already sailed. He is aboard the steamship Southern Star. He is coming by way of Havana, and
will be here within two weeks.”
“Wonderful news!” exclaimed Tracy. “He will be glad to see you—and I know that he will receive a
glorious welcome.”
“Hardly,” responded Boswick, in a wistful tone. “I shall not be here to greet him.”
“You will be—”
“Dead. Yes, Tracy, I shall be dead.”
The lawyer slapped his hand upon the table. He could not believe his ears. This statement seemed
incredible—the absurd fancy of a failing mind.
“Dead,” repeated Houston Boswick quietly. “I feel the end of life approaching. It will be for the best,
Tracy. I should not like Carter to see me as I am now. He should always remember me as I was when he
went away—close to ten years ago.”
The lawyer settled back in resignation. He saw that it was no use to dispute the matter with the old man.
“That is why I have summoned you, Tracy,” resumed Houston Boswick. “You have been my lawyer
since my old friend, Glade Rupert, passed away. Our friendship has been a matter of but a few years, but
I feel that you have been most competent and kindly. Therefore, I am relying upon you now.”
Farland Tracy bowed quietly.
“First of all,” resumed Boswick, “my son Carter must not know of my death until after his arrival in New
York. You understand?”
Tracy nodded. The lawyer, to humor the old man, was accepting Houston Boswick's death as a forgone
matter of the immediate future.
“Then,” added Boswick, “you will arrange full discharge of my estate, according to the terms. The bulk
to Carter, with the provision of a comfortable life income for Drew Westling.”
The old man paused speculatively. Then, with a sad air, he continued on a new theme.
“My nephew Drew,” he started, “is a waster. I have provided for him because he is my sister's son. I
have lost all confidence in Drew. I have not told him that I have heard from Carter. Drew knows that my
health is failing. He will expect the full estate for himself. Indeed, it would be his, but for Carter.
“That is the reason, Tracy, why I have always minimized the amount of my possessions. People will be
surprised, after my death, to learn that my estate is scarcely more than a round million. Only the heir
—whether it be Carter or Drew—will learn, some time after my death, that ten times that sum is
available!”
“You have made a great mistake,” declared Tracy seriously. “This secret of yours—the strange hiding of
a vast sum of money—might lead to serious consequences. Some schemer might seek to learn the place
of its deposit.”
“How can any one learn?” questioned Boswick, with a shrewd smile. “I, alone, have knowledge of the
hiding place. My old lawyer, Rupert, told me that he thought the scheme was safe.”
“Even though he, like myself, was never informed of the spot where you had placed the money?”
“Rupert never knew,” smiled Boswick. “But he knew me when I was younger—at the time when I first
evolved the plan of hidden wealth. He had more confidence in me than you have, Tracy. You have
known me only since I became old.”
The lawyer nodded. He realized that Houston Boswick spoke the truth. Nevertheless, his expression still
betrayed doubt, and old Boswick was aware of it.
“Secrets,” remarked Tracy, “have a way of leaking out. Your constant effort to minimize the size of your
estate could certainly excite suspicion.”
“I believe it has,” declared Boswick quietly.
“You do?” questioned Tracy, in momentary alarm. “What cause have you to think so?”
“This house,” explained Houston Boswick, “was closed while I was away. Drew Westling was living at
his club. Headley paid occasional visits here to see that all was well. Upon my return, today, I noticed
that certain things had been disturbed. I questioned both Drew and Headley.”
“What did they say?”
“Drew claimed to know nothing about it. Nor did Headley, until I pointed out certain traces which he had
not noticed. He became alarmed then, Tracy. He believed, with me, that this house had been entered and
searched from top to bottom.”
“Hm-m-m,” mused Tracy. “Was anything missing?”
“Nothing,” responded Houston Boswick. “That shows that a definite purpose was at work. Some one
was looking for something that could not be found.”
“You are sure that the marauders were not successful?”
“Positive. They would never discover my secret, Tracy, although it lies within this house. Only my
heir—whether he be Carter or Drew—can gain the clew to my hidden wealth.”
FARLAND TRACY was thoughtful. Houston Boswick's discovery surprised the lawyer; now, he was
trying to find a plausible explanation for this mysterious occurrence. The old man divined the attorney's
thoughts.
“Do not worry, Tracy,” he said dryly. “I do not care to know the identity of the instigator. It could be
Drew Westling; it could be Headley; it could be some one entirely unknown to me. As you say, I have
been almost over-emphatic in my efforts to make it appear that my supply of worldly possessions has
shrunk to exceedingly small proportions.
“But what do I care now? Carter is returning. He will receive my visible wealth. Let him find the unknown
treasure, if he has the initiative. Should any thing happen to prevent Carter's return, the task will belong to
Drew Westling.”
Farland Tracy shook his head in stern disapproval. This strange method of handling vast resources
seemed atrocious to the lawyer.
“Suppose,” he presumed, “that Carter—or Drew, for that matter —lacks the initiative. Then what will
become of the wealth?”
“It will remain where it is,” smiled Houston Boswick weakly. “Why not? I shall have no use for it. My
heir will not deserve it. But do not fear that consequence, Tracy. Simply proceed with the simple duties
governing the affairs of my estate. The rest will take care of itself.”
The old man's gaze became prophetic. Farland Tracy was amazed at the change which filled those sad
gray eyes. He listened while Houston Boswick spoke in a far-away voice.
“Carter will return,” presaged the old man. “I am sure of it now. He will find the wealth that is rightfully
his. Drew Westling will subsist upon the income that I have provided for him.
“I know this, Tracy. I know it as positively as I know that I shall be dead when Carter reaches New
York. I have made my plans. They will succeed, no matter what may oppose them.”
The old man was leaning weakly on his desk. With one hand, he made a feeble motion to indicate that
the interview was ended. Farland Tracy arose and grasped the hand. Concern showed in the lawyer's
face.
NEITHER Tracy nor Boswick heard the slight motion that occurred outside the study door. Drew
Westling, hearing footsteps on the stairs, had moved quickly along the hall.
Now came a rap at the door, followed by the even voice of Headley, Boswick's serving man. The old
man pointed to the door; Farland Tracy gave the order to enter. In came Headley.
“Mr. Tracy's car is here, sir,” announced the servant.
“Good night,” said Houston Boswick. “Remember, Tracy. Remember. I rely upon you.”
“I shall remember,” replied the lawyer.
Farland Tracy's last view of Houston Boswick showed the old man collapsed upon the desk, with
Headley bending over him in apprehension. Going downstairs alone, the lawyer began to believe the old
man's statement that his death was near.
There was no sign of Drew Westling on the gloomy first floor. Farland Tracy donned coat and hat, and
left the house. He found Holland standing by the door of the sedan. Tracy hurried into the car to escape
the drizzle. He ordered the chauffeur to drive him home.
Lurking figures came from the side portico after the automobile had gone. They reached the shrubbery
and lingered there for several minutes. Then came a low voice in the darkness:
“All right, Scully. It's all off for tonight. Slide along. I'll take care of myself.”
“O.K., Stacks. I thought this waiting would be a lot of hooey.”
The figure of Scully moved along the shrub-fringed drive, and was swallowed by the darkened mist.
Stacks still remained, as though expecting some signal from the house. Finally, he followed in his
companion's course.
A dim shape emerged from the shelter of the side portico. It was the same vague figure that had clung to
the wall outside of Houston Boswick's study window. Weird and phantom-like, it took up the trail of
“Stacks.”
The Shadow was following the chief of the two watchers. Into the darkness he had gone, trailing a man
whose purpose here had been one of evil. Silently, mysteriously, a being of darkness was hounding a
minion of crime.
The light went out above the front porch of Houston Boswick's home. The old mansion loomed dull and
forlorn amid the swirling drizzle. Its inmates no longer concerned The Shadow this night. Hidden
watchers had remained unsummoned. Their work still belonged to the future. Representatives of a plotter
who had sent them here, they had retired.
Out of the night had The Shadow come; into the night had he returned.
An unwitting spy was leading this master of darkness to an evil lair where a man higher up awaited!
CHAPTER III. THE BIG SHOT
“STACKS LODI is outside, chief.”
“Bring him in, Twister.”
The man who uttered the order was seated in a deep-cushioned chair, in the corner of a sumptuous
apartment. His words were spoken in a harsh monotone that befitted his importance.
For the speaker was none other than “Hub” Rowley, big-time gambler and racketeer, a man whose
disdain for the law had gained him fortune, and whose smooth and devious cunning had kept him aloof
from the toils of the police.
Here, in his apartment on the twentieth floor of the Hotel Castillian, Hub Rowley dwelt in royal state. The
portals of his abode were under the jurisdiction of “Twister” Edmonds, Hub's bodyguard. The
magnificent suite occupied half the floor.
Attired in garish dressing gown, cigarette in hand, and a half-emptied glass upon the table beside him,
Hub Rowley appeared to be a gentleman of leisure.
His hardened face, with pudgy lips and thick black eyebrows, marked him otherwise. Yet Hub preferred
to keep up the pretense. He considered himself an aristocrat, even though he bore the stamp of the
underworld.
The door opened, and Twister, a wiry, leering fellow, ushered in the visitor. Stacks Lodi, wearing a
rain-soaked overcoat and carrying a dripping hat, came into the presence of his chief.
Stacks was a suitable underling for such a master as Hub Rowley. Stocky, swarthy, and shrewd of eye,
he was schemer rather than mobster, yet his deportment showed him to be a hardened product of the
school of crime.
“Hello, Stacks,” greeted Rowley, in a methodical tone.
“Hello, Hub.” was the rejoinder. “Nothing doing tonight.”
“So I supposed,” remarked the big shot. “Call Twister. He'll get you a drink. I guess you can use it from
the way you look.”
Twister, stepping out through the door, heard the order and promptly reappeared. Stacks Lodi threw his
hat and coat on a table, and took a chair near Hub Rowley. Both men watched Twister Edmonds while
the man uncorked a bottle and poured out a supply of liquor for the visitor.
IT was one of those minor incidents that happened to attract the attention of all concerned. Hence it was
not surprising that none of the three observed what was happening at the half-opened door while their
interest was centered on the bottles.
There, from the gloom of the dim outer room, came a tall, gliding shape that stopped when only partially
in view. Gleaming eyes detected that the men in the room were looking elsewhere. Those same eyes
spied a pair of curtains that led to another part of the apartment.
There was not an instant's delay. A tall form clad in black moved boldly into Hub Rowley's reception
room. The Shadow stood in full view; then, with swift, silent stride, the black-garbed visitant glided
toward the curtains beyond which lay darkness.
It was a cool, daring venture; and one that succeeded only by the fraction of a second. Hub Rowley,
glancing up, noted that the door was ajar. He grunted his disapproval as his eyes swept about the room,
stopping at the curtains just after The Shadow had vanished behind them.
“Close that door, Twister,” ordered the big shot. “Stay outside. I'll let you know when I need you.”
Twister handed the drink to Stacks, and obsequiously obeyed Hub Rowley's order. A few moments
later, the big shot and his caller were alone in the room, neither one suspecting that a hidden listener was
there to hear the conversation.
“Nothing to report, eh?” growled Hub.
“Only that some fellow called to see the old man,” declared Stacks. “That was about nine o'clock. The
guy went away at ten. You told me that some fellow was coming there, and to lay low until after he had
gone. That was the time for the tip-off; but it didn't come.”
“I doubted that it would,” said Rowley, in a calm tone. “In fact, I felt rather sure that I would not need
you tonight. Just the same, I wanted you there—in case—”
Stacks nodded.
摘要：

THESHADOW'SJUSTICEbyMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.SHADOWSOFNIGHT?CHAPTERII.TALKOFWEALTH?CHAPTERIII.THEBIGSHOT?CHAPTERIV.INHAVANA?CHAPTERV.THESHADOW'SMIGHT?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOW'SSTRATEGY?CHAPTERVII.THEHOME-COMING?CHAPTERVIII.THESECRETMESSAGE?CHAPTE...

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