Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 025 - Fingers of Death

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FINGERS OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DYING WORDS
? CHAPTER II. OUT OF THE PAST
? CHAPTER III. ADAMS GIVES ADVICE
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S METHOD
? CHAPTER V. FINGERS AND A FACE
? CHAPTER VI. HARRY ACTS
? CHAPTER VII. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW MOVES
? CHAPTER IX. THE FINGERS WORK
? CHAPTER X. SAYBROOK HAS SUSPICIONS
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW WORKS
? CHAPTER XII. THE CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER XIII. HIDDEN FINGERS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XV. BOLD FINGERS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE EMPTY ROOM
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW ARRIVES
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHAMBER OF DOOM
? CHAPTER XIX. THE PENALTY OF REMORSE
? CHAPTER XX. THE SIGN OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XXI. AT THE MONUMENT
? CHAPTER XXII. FOES FROM THE CRYPT
? CHAPTER XXIII. DEATH TO THE DEAD!
CHAPTER I. DYING WORDS
A SPECTRAL gloom seemed to pervade the room where Josiah Bartram lay. Perhaps it was the silence
that caused the strange condition; perhaps it was the appearance of Bartram himself. Grace Bartram
sensed the tenseness the moment that she entered her uncle's bedroom.
Josiah Bartram was a man just past middle age; but his appearance to-night marked him as an old man.
His form was motionless beneath the coverlets of the bed. His face, with eyes staring straight upward,
showed a yellow hue against the whiteness of the pillows. His hands, too, were yellow, as they slowly
twitched upon the surface of the bedspread.
Josiah Bartram was not alone in the room, but the old man seemed entirely unconscious of the presence
of the others.
One of these persons was a white-garbed nurse. The other was Mahinda, the old man's trusted Hindu
servant. The nurse was seated at a table, writing a report. The Hindu was standing stolidly beyond the
foot of the bed.
Grace Bartram saw all three persons as she tiptoed into the room, but the only one to command her
direct attention was her uncle. The sight of that pathetic figure brought a look of anguish to the girl's face
as she advanced softly toward the bed.
JOSIAH BARTRAM seemed to detect his niece's approach. His eyelids closed and he spoke in a low,
feeble voice. His words were uttered in a dull monotone from lips that scarcely seemed to move.
"Grace - Grace" - there was an effort in the old man's speech - "you will remember - remember all that I
have told you. Remember that all my worldly goods belong to you - that, when I die, there is to be no
ceremony -"
Grace Bartram had reached a chair beside the bed. Her soft hands were grasping her uncle's scrawny
fingers; her soothing voice was uttering words of comfort to allay the old man's fears.
"You will be better, uncle," said the girl. "Doctor Shores will be here shortly. I telephoned to him after
Mahinda told me that you were - that you were not feeling as well as before -"
As the girl's voice wavered, Josiah Bartram spoke again, in the same slow monotone.
"Do not forget Mahinda," he said. "Live here, Grace, and be happy. Mahinda will always be trustworthy.
He is faithful; he will protect you - after I am gone -"
These words increased the girl's unhappiness. Bravely, Grace tried to overcome Josiah Bartram's belief
that he was about to die. The old man's hands ceased twitching. As he rested quietly, Grace heard the
faint ringing of a distant doorbell. She saw Mahinda, the Hindu, walk softly from the room.
Grace was sure that the bell had announced the arrival of Doctor Felton Shores, the attending physician.
Motioning to the nurse to keep watch, the girl rose silently and left the room. She closed the door behind
her, and hurried across the hall to the stairway that led to the first floor.
On the steps, she saw that her surmise had been correct. Mahinda had just admitted Doctor Shores. The
physician was removing his hat and coat. Grace hastened down the stairs and approached the physician.
Doctor Felton Shores was recognized as the leading man of medicine in the city of Holmsford. For years,
he had been Josiah Bartram's physician. There was nothing surprising in that fact, for Doctor Shores was
the practitioner most favored by the wealthy members of the community; and Josiah Bartram, successful
building contractor, was regarded as one of the wealthiest men in Holmsford.
There was a quiet, assuring tone in the physician's manner that had always impressed Grace Bartram.
She felt sure, now, that this one man could be relied upon to offset her uncle's critical condition.
"Good evening, Grace," said Shores, in a placid voice. "Your message was waiting at my home when I
returned from a call. Did I understand that your uncle's condition appeared to be less encouraging?"
The girl nodded.
"Yes, doctor," she asserted. "He has relapsed into the same weakened state that he was in before. You
brought him out of it three days ago. I can only hope that you will succeed again. But -"
The physician patted the girl's shoulder when he noted that Grace's voice was faltering. He did not
appear to be alarmed; and the action was encouraging.
"Your uncle's condition is serious," declared Shores, "but I can hardly regard it as critical. You must not
be worried, Grace. With plenty of rest and careful treatment, I believe that he will show a marked
improvement."
"I had hoped so," responded the girl solemnly. "I had hoped so, doctor, until to-day. But when my uncle
talked to me -"
Grace Bartram's eyes were moist as they looked toward the physician's sympathetic face. Doctor
Shores, adept in human understanding, could see that the girl's mind contained a burden.
Shores had known Grace since she was a child. He had seen her develop into beautiful young
womanhood. He knew that she regarded him as a confidant.
He saw worry in the girl's face. He watched her turn to see if Mahinda, the servant, was close at hand.
Then, he felt her pluck nervously at his sleeve and, at her bidding, the physician followed the girl into the
gloomy, paneled living room that adjoined the hall.
THERE, away from any spot where they might be overheard, Grace engaged the doctor in serious
conversation. Her eyes no longer welled with restrained tears. She was bravely trying to explain her
apprehensions.
"Uncle talked to me, this afternoon," declared the girl. "I was alone, beside him. He has a premonition
that he is going to die. He seemed complete in that belief."
"That is not serious, Grace," responded Shores. "At the same time, it is sufficient to unnerve you "
"It is very serious, doctor," insisted Grace. "Uncle impressed it upon me. He made me promise to see
that he was buried without ceremony; to live here and retain Mahinda, who has been so faithful to him.
More than that - he made me send for Hurley Adams."
"His lawyer?"
"Yes. Mr. Adams was here a few hours ago. Uncle repeated instructions to him. Mr. Adams has his will,
and is the executor of his estate. It is dreadful, Doctor Shores - dreadful - to see one whom you love -
preparing for death -"
"It is not unusual, Grace," interposed the physician quietly. "He will recover from that delusion. Is he
resting at all comfortably?"
"Only when I soothe him -"
"An injection will help. He is nervous and needs sleep. His present condition may prove to be
encouraging. It is at least a sign of arousal from the lethargy which has persisted since he first took to
bed."
The doctor's emphatic tone was comforting. As Shores turned toward the doorway, the girl followed him
from the gloomy room. They encountered Mahinda in the hallway. The Hindu bowed solemnly.
"I have told my master that you are here, sir," he said to Doctor Shores. "He says that he would like to
see you very much."
The physician nodded and walked up the stairway, accompanied by Grace Bartram. The Hindu servant,
moving silently, followed them at a respectful distance. When they reached the door of Josiah Bartram's
bedroom, Shores entered first, and Grace followed. Mahinda remained in the doorway.
Josiah Bartram moved his eyes as Doctor Shores entered. The old man recognized the physician, and
stared at him with glassy eyes. Shores took the chair beside the bed, and felt the patient's pulse.
"I am going to die, Felton," announced Josiah Bartram, in a crackly monotone. "I have talked to my
lawyer. I have talked to my niece -"
Doctor Shores slowly shook his head.
"You will recover, Josiah," he said. "Your condition is improving right along. You are a young man yet.
This illness will not continue much longer."
The physician beckoned to the nurse. The woman approached and assisted with the hypodermic. Josiah
Bartram's arm was bared, and the injection was completed.
Grace Bartram looked on. She could see the pockmarks of previous injections upon that pale, weak
arm. This treatment had been utilized at intervals during Josiah Bartram's confining illness.
"You will talk with Hurley Adams," continued the old man in his monotonous voice. "Talk with him,
Felton. See that all the details of my plans are carried through. I want a quiet burial, in my own
mausoleum - beyond the house - quiet - and soon - when - I die -"
The voice faded away as Josiah Bartram rested more easily upon his pillows. His pale eyelids had
closed. Doctor Shores arose and gave instructions to the nurse. He turned to the door and gripped
Grace's arm, signifying for the girl to come with him.
Mahinda stepped aside as the two made their exit. The Hindu closed the door. Josiah Bartram, resting
comfortably, was alone, in charge of the nurse.
"No cause for worry," remarked the physician, as they reached the foot of the stairway. "I look for rapid
improvement. We must humor him if he continues to talk about his plans -"
The ring of the doorbell interrupted the speech. Mahinda appeared upon the stairway in answer to the
call.
Both Grace Bartram and Doctor Felton Shores watched as the servant opened the front door to admit a
tall, dignified man, whose white hair formed a conspicuous mop as he removed his hat.
THE visitor was Hurley Adams, Josiah Bartram's attorney. He bowed to Grace Bartram, and nodded to
Doctor Shores. He approached, and began to question the pair.
"Is Josiah worse?" asked Adams.
"His condition is serious," admitted Shores, "but I see no cause for immediate alarm."
"It worried me this afternoon," asserted Adams. "His constant thought of death - his desire that I would
respect his dying wishes -"
"That," said the physician seriously, "is an unfortunate point. Sometimes, the positive feeling of death does
bring an unexpected demise."
"This is a great burden for you, Grace," said the lawyer, turning to the girl.
"I'm bearing up," responded the girl. "Willard Saybrook will be here within a few days. It will be good to
have him here. Uncle likes him."
"Your fiance is a fine young man," agreed Adams. "I am glad that Saybrook is coming."
He motioned toward the stairs as he turned to Shores, indicating that he would like to see the patient.
The physician nodded, and Adams ascended. He passed the nurse at the top of the stairway.
Three or four minutes elapsed before Adams reappeared. He tiptoed down the stairs and spoke to
Shores and Grace Bartram.
"Resting quietly," said the lawyer, with a gentle smile. "I watched him as he slept, but did not disturb
him."
While Adams spoke, the nurse came across the hall. She had been to the kitchen to obtain a pitcher of
water. She went up to the sick room. Adams, in the meantime, bowed good night. Mahinda opened the
front door, and closed it after the departing attorney.
While Shores talked with Grace Bartram, Mahinda went in the direction of the kitchen. Thus the
physician and the girl were alone when a scream came from the top of the stairs.
"Doctor Shores!" The nurse was calling. "Doctor Shores! Come at once!"
The woman's call showed consternation. There was a moment of breathlessness; then Shores headed up
the stairs. Grace Bartram followed with all haste. They found the nurse at the door of the sick room.
They saw the cause of the alarm.
JOSIAH BARTRAM was sitting upright in bed. His eyes were gleaming in a wild, frenzied stare. His
arms were doubled across his chest. His fingers were gripping his throat, and he was gasping broken
utterances.
"I am dying!" Bartram screamed hoarsely. "Dying - dying as I said I would die! Grace! Remember!
Remember!"
Felton Shores was by the bed, gripping the old man's shoulders. Bartram's terrible gaze centered itself
upon the physician.
Mahinda had appeared at the door; now, behind him, arrived the face of Hurley Adams. The old lawyer
had heard the nurse's cries from the street, and had rushed back into the house. Bartram's eyes, the
optics of a madman, could not see the faces at the door.
Dry lips parted in a hoarse chortle. The old man's expression was uncanny. He seemed to be visioning a
world beyond - a new existence that the others could not see. Delirium caught him in a convulsive wave.
His next words were the vague, mad statements of thoughts that were known to him alone.
"I feel death!" was Josiah Bartram's cry. "Here - at my throat! Death! Fingers of death! See? See?
Fingers of death!"
The old man's hands were clutching his own throat. A convulsive shudder racked Josiah Bartram's
frame.
As Doctor Shores grasped the thin wrists, a long, weird gasp came from the old man's lips. Josiah
Bartram's hands dropped away. His body wavered and fell back upon the pillows. His head tilted crazily,
and his eyes set in a glassy stare.
Those in the room formed a strange, stunned tableau, as they viewed the form that had so suddenly
become a motionless object.
Hurley Adams was tense as his hand pressed Grace Bartram's arm. The girl's eyes were fixed in horror
as they viewed Josiah Bartram's face. The nurse was gripping the post at the foot of the bed. Mahinda,
the Hindu, stood just within the doorway, as silent as a statue.
Even Doctor Felton Shores was transfixed by the strange suddenness of the old man's collapse. He held
Josiah Bartram's wrists in a cold, firm grasp. It was the startling drooping of those wrists that brought the
physician to his senses.
The first to regain his control, Doctor Shores leaned over the body in the bed and made a slow,
deliberate examination, while the others watched, unspeaking. Rising mechanically, the physician turned
and looked from one face to another. His eyes reflected the thought that was in every mind.
"Nothing can be done now," declared Doctor Shores, in a solemn tone. "Human aid is ended. Josiah
Bartram is dead."
Grace Bartram repressed a sob. Hurley Adams tightened his lips. The nurse shuddered. Mahinda, by the
doorway, remained as stolid as before.
Something had been said that caused this tenseness. Not the statement of Doctor Shores - indeed, the
physician's announcement had almost brought relief. The words that were in every mind were the words
that Josiah Bartram himself had uttered.
"Fingers of death!"
Those were the dying words that had come from crackling lips. Words that might have been brought by
delirium; words that might hold a sinister meaning.
"Fingers of death!"
CHAPTER II. OUT OF THE PAST
AFFAIRS in the town of Holmsford were of little interest to New Yorkers; but the news of Josiah
Bartram's death came very definitely to the attention of one resident of Manhattan.
In a high office of the Badger Building, a chubby-faced man was going over a stack of newspapers.
Some of these were New York dailies; but there were representative journals from other cities. Oddly
enough, there were a few from towns of comparatively small importance.
Having finished his perusal of the more important newspapers, the reader glanced through the others. The
last that he examined was the Holmsford daily. One of the first items that attracted his attention was the
account of Josiah Bartram's passing.
The chubby-faced man carefully clipped the story. He folded it and placed it in an envelope, along with
other notices. His task finished, he sealed the envelope and arose from his desk. He passed through an
outer office; then through the door to the corridor.
Upon the panel which closed after the parting man was this inscription:
RUTLEDGE MANN
Investments
An odd practice! A man whose business was dealing in securities seemed to be handling a clipping
bureau as a side line. Moreover, his inspection of various newspapers, particularly those of smaller cities,
was rather difficult to analyze.
Why did Rutledge Mann engage in this odd practice? The answer was a secret which the chubby-faced
investment broker guarded with the greatest caution.
Rutledge Mann was an agent of The Shadow.
Who was The Shadow?
Rutledge Mann did not know. For a long while, now, he had been in the employ of this mysterious being,
and he had gained no inkling to the identity of the personage whom he served.
Rutledge Mann knew only that when he had been in financial straits - a failure with no hope of the future -
he had received a summons from The Shadow. A strange, weird being - a black-cloaked shape, that
bore the semblance of a man - had appeared in Mann's abode and had offered him opportunity.
WITH his promise to serve The Shadow, Mann had gained the monetary aid which he needed to
reestablish himself in business. Since then, he had been an investment broker on the surface - actually, an
important cogwheel in the human mechanism which The Shadow required in his constant warring against
crime and injustice.
It had become Mann's duty, while he posed as an investment broker, to look for printed statements
regarding current crime. In addition, the investment man conducted special investigations and served as
contact man between The Shadow and a group of active agents.
At The Shadow's order, Mann had subscribed to certain small city newspapers - among them the
Holmsford publication - and had made it a practice to cut out all unusual local items. The reason, Mann
believed, must be that The Shadow knew of lurking crime in those communities and was awaiting any
development that might lead to a connecting link with the past.
After a taxi ride down Broadway, Rutledge Mann found an old building on Twenty-third Street. He
entered this decadent edifice, and reached a deserted office on the second floor.
The name "Jonas" was inscribed upon a cobwebbed black panel. Rutledge Mann dropped his envelope
through a mail slit, and went away.
The investment broker had never passed through that dingy door. So far as he knew, the office was
vacant. But Mann knew, for a fact, that messages dropped therein always reached the hands of The
Shadow.
IT was late afternoon when Rutledge Mann had completed his errand to The Shadow's post office. It
was early evening when the aftermath occurred. This came in the form of a sharp click which sounded in
the confines of a pitch-black room.
A blue light cast a ghastly glow upon a polished table in a corner of a sable-walled apartment. Long white
hands appeared beneath the glare of the azure-tinted globe. Strong but slender fingers opened an
envelope. Rutledge Mann's clippings slipped to the table.
A strange, iridescent gem glittered in the bluish light. With ever-changing hues, the amazing stone gleamed
purple, maroon, and blood-red crimson from the third finger of the hand that wore it.
The Shadow's girasol - a precious fire opal unmatched in all the world - reflected the light, and splashed
back sparks of scintillating flame.
A low laugh came from unseen lips, as the clipping from the Holmsford newspaper was lifted by the
tapering fingers. To The Shadow - he who now dwelt in darkness but for his moving hands - this item
was one which had been long awaited.
The hollow tones of whispered mockery indicated an unusual connection between sudden death in
Holmsford and secret knowledge that existed in The Shadow's brain.
The hands disappeared. The light glowed upon a blank tabletop. At last, the hands reappeared, carrying
a yellowed envelope. From it slipped clippings - records which bore dates of twenty years ago.
Like the item which Mann had sent, these were from the town of Holmsford.
Hidden eyes pored over these accounts. Moving fingers brought forth record sheets which referred to
those yellowed clippings. Upon a blank sheet of paper, in a brilliant blue ink, the hand of The Shadow
wrote the name of Josiah Bartram, as though linking it with past events.
The name faded away. Not a touch of the blue ink remained. That was a feature of the fluid with which
The Shadow wrote his thoughts. Its chemical formula caused it to vanish after it had dried and the air had
made contact to absorb it.
The hand of The Shadow wrote again; it inscribed a brief and definite note in coded words. The fingers
folded the paper before the ink had time to disappear, and inserted the message in an envelope.
With another pen - one provided with ordinary ink - The Shadow addressed this packet to Rutledge
Mann, in the Badger Building.
A message to Mann - instructions to be forwarded to an agent. Should another open that letter, its
writing would disappear before he had time to study the code. But Mann could decipher the cryptic
writing as easily as he could read an ordinary message, for Mann was versed in that particular code.
The light clicked out. In the dread darkness of that mystic room a weird, sinister laugh broke forth.
It was a long, chilling burst of spectral mockery, a tone that rose and died away, only to be answered by
ghoulish echoes that crept from sullen, invisible walls.
Something had occurred in Holmsford two decades ago - some unsolved event which The Shadow, who
collected strange records for his archives, had alone divined as an affair which might have a later
culmination.
To The Shadow, the death of so prominent an individual as Josiah Bartram signified a possible
reawakening of crime in Holmsford. Did that demise import impending doom to others?
Only The Shadow knew - and the dying echoes of his laugh gave no answer to the problem. Taunting
whispers of reflected mirth faded in the silent room.
This black abode - this unknown spot which was The Shadow's sanctum - was empty. The Shadow had
departed while the whispers of his mockery were still alive within the jet-black walls.
A BLACK patch flickered along the sidewalk of an uptown street. It reached the corner of Manhattan
Avenue. Without a revelation of the figure which cast it, this shadowy shape glided into a waiting cab.
A voice from the darkness spoke to the sleepy driver and gave him a destination. The man awoke,
wondering how a customer had so suddenly arrived in the cab.
The Shadow was bound upon some mission. Thus did he move, a living phantom, whose very form was
shrouded by a cloud of blackness. Like a creature of the night he arrived and went his secret, mysterious
way. Unseen, unheard, unknown, he could strike and leave no sign of his unfailing hand.
The Shadow was in New York; but his eyes had turned to Holmsford. He had given orders; one of his
agents would soon be there.
The ending of crime was The Shadow's penchant. He knew no restrictions in his endless battle against
those who dealt in evil.
Fingers of death! Had they clutched at Josiah Bartram? Were they seeking new victims? Were they but a
chimera of a weakened brain, or did they exist as a menace?
Those were strange questions. As yet, they had not come to The Shadow's mind, for he had learned only
of Josiah Bartram's passing; not of the circumstances attendant to the deathbed scene.
But if such fingers did exist; if they were to be used for evil, they would find more than helpless victims in
their path.
Fingers of death, stretching forth to deliver doom, would be destined to meet The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. ADAMS GIVES ADVICE
HURLEY ADAMS was seated alone in the inner office of his suite. With hands resting idly upon the
glass-topped surface of a mahogany desk, the lawyer was staring from the window.
His keen eyes peered across the irregular buildings of the thriving city of Holmsford, toward the hillside
beyond, where the roof of a large mansion showed its toylike chimneys from amid clustered trees.
Hurley Adams was picturing the interior of that large homestead. Here, in broad daylight, his mind was
picturing the scene of a few nights ago. The lawyer was visualizing the death of Josiah Bartram.
The old contractor was dead and buried. His remains now lay within the walls of the mausoleum on the
hillside. Josiah Bartram had died as he had lived - planning for the future. Hurley Adams, now the
executor of Bartram's estate, had carried out the old man's wishes to the letter.
In this work, Adams had been aided by both Grace Bartram and Doctor Felton Shores; also, in a
measure, by Mahinda, the old man's servant. The Hindu, ever faithful to his master, had been a willing
helper in the simple duties that had occurred after the passing of Josiah Bartram.
No one had been admitted to the mansion. The death of the wealthiest man in town had been an
important story for the newspapers, and Hurley Adams had given forth the details. Grace Bartram had
talked with the few friends who had expressed condolences. Doctor Shores had attended to the funeral
arrangements.
All this had been in accordance with the instructions given by Bartram to Adams before his death. Josiah
Bartram had always hated ceremony. There had been none of it after his passing. Adams and the others
had seen to that. Yet the lawyer, despite the fact that all had been followed to the letter, felt a keen sense
of worry.
His thoughts were constantly reverting to the night when Josiah Bartram had died; and through his brain
kept throbbing the phrase that had been unexpected, and which was still unexplained.
"Fingers of death!"
NO one had mentioned the words after they had been uttered. Nevertheless, Hurley Adams knew that
they must have impressed themselves upon the others as well as himself.
The words held a mystic significance for Hurley Adams. The lawyer was wondering, now, what they had
meant to the rest of the persons present!
Felton Shores had been Josiah Bartram's physician. Grace Bartram was the old man's niece. Mahinda
had long been a faithful and trusted servant. The nurse, alone, was a nonentity.
Hurley Adams felt that he knew more regarding Josiah Bartram's past than any of the others. Was he
correct in this assumption? That question was perplexing, and a source of worry to Hurley Adams.
Fingers of death!
Certain persons, Hurley Adams believed, might have felt the strange shivers that he had experienced
when he had heard Josiah Bartram's maddened death cry. But neither Doctor Shores, Grace Bartram,
nor Mahinda were among the few whom Hurley Adams had in mind. Hence, vague speculation was a
dominating matter in the lawyer's reflective consideration.
Reveries came to an end as a secretary entered the lawyer's office. Adams, turning with an unrepressed
shudder, received the announcement that Willard Saybrook was in the reception room. He told the
secretary to send him in.
A few minutes later, Adams arose to greet a well-attired, frank-faced young man who entered the door.
"Glad to see you, Saybrook," said Adams. "When did you arrive in town?"
"Last night," was the reply. "I would have been here sooner, had I heard of Josiah Bartram's death.
Unfortunately, I was traveling, and the news reached me later than it should have."
"You stayed at the house last night?"
"Yes. I shall remain there for a while."
"How is Grace?"
"In excellent spirits, considering the ordeal that she has undergone."
A short silence followed; then Adams asked a question pertaining to Saybrook's visit.
"I suppose," smiled the lawyer, "that as Grace Bartram's fiance, you naturally thought it well to call upon
the executor of Josiah Bartram's estate."
"No," responded Saybrook, "I had no such idea in mind. I merely dropped in to see you because you
were a close friend of Josiah Bartram."
"I knew him well," admitted the lawyer. "His death was a great blow to me, Saybrook. I was present
when he died."
Another pause; then Saybrook came forth with an unexpected statement.
"I was not present when Josiah Bartram died," he said. "Nor was I present at the funeral. I have talked
with Grace - who was there at both events. That is why I thought it well to talk with you."
"With me?" asked Adams, in a puzzled tone.
摘要：

FINGERSOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DYINGWORDS?CHAPTERII.OUTOFTHEPAST?CHAPTERIII.ADAMSGIVESADVICE?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOW'SMETHOD?CHAPTERV.FINGERSANDAFACE?CHAPTERVI.HARRYACTS?CHAPTERVII.THEMEETING?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOWMOVES?CHAPTERIX.THEFINGE...

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