Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 023 - The Shadow's Shadow

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THE SHADOW'S SHADOW
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER II. THE MESSAGE MOVES
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER IV. THE MESSAGE
? CHAPTER V. THE TRAP IS SET
? CHAPTER VI. OUT OF THE DARK
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW FIGHTS
? CHAPTER VIII. INTO THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER IX. THE CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW SHADOWED
? CHAPTER XI. FORTUNE FAVORS ZUBIAN
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOWING
? CHAPTER XIII. DEATH TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIV. UNDER THE RIVER
? CHAPTER XV. THE NEXT STROKE
? CHAPTER XVI. ENTER THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVII. THE ORDEAL
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE TWELFTH MINUTE
? CHAPTER XIX. NEW STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XX. THE TRAP BRINGS DEATH
? CHAPTER XXI. THE BIG GAME
? CHAPTER XXII. CARLETON GIVES ORDERS
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SYNDICATE OFFICE
? CHAPTER XXIV. SMOKE WAGONS
? CHAPTER XXV. THE DEATH ORDER
? CHAPTER XXVI. THE BREAK
? CHAPTER XXVII. THE LAST SHOT
CHAPTER I. TO THE SHADOW
"CHECKING out, Mr. Vincent?"
Harry Vincent nodded in reply to the desk clerk's question. He indicated a time-table which he held in his
hand.
"Just a short trip to Michigan," informed Harry. "I'll be back here in a week or two. I try to get home
every now and then. The folks are always glad to see me."
Strolling across the spacious lobby of the Metrolite Hotel, Harry Vincent smiled quietly to himself. He
reached the grillroom, ordered his usual breakfast in a methodical manner, and waited in reflective
thought.
It was not often that Harry Vincent could plan a trip to Michigan. He had said that he was going home. In
the past few years, New York had come to be more of a home to Harry than the little town from which
he hailed. As a resident guest at the Metrolite, he had long since acclimated himself to hotel life.
The Metrolite had its advantages. In a large hotel in Manhattan, guests seldom spoke to one another.
One saw hundreds of new faces every day. It was possible to live here in virtual obscurity, free from any
interference. A man of quiet demeanor could isolate himself from those about him with little difficulty.
Yet, despite the fact that the guests of the Metrolite Hotel moved like human automata, each indifferent to
the presence of his fellows, there was more drama and mystery about their individual lives than one might
find elsewhere. This was Harry's opinion; and it was well founded. For Harry Vincent, himself, was
leading an amazing life beneath the guise of placid existence.
No one knew the affairs of Harry Vincent. The natives of his home town classed him simply as a local
man who had gone to the big city, and had made good there. They knew nothing about his occupation or
his whereabouts. Here, at the Metrolite, Harry Vincent was merely another guest among several
thousand.
A handsome, well-built young man, about thirty years of age, Harry Vincent presented an excellent
appearance. One would have classed him as prosperous— perhaps a successful salesman or a minor
executive of a business house. None would have suspected his actual occupation: that he was an active
and trusted agent of The Shadow!
THE name of The Shadow was known everywhere. It was synonymous with mystery. Millions of people
had heard the voice of The Shadow, over the radio, and had been spellbound by its awesome tones.
But to one class of people—the riffraff of the underworld—the name of The Shadow meant more than a
voice. These crime-steeped mobsters feared the very name of The Shadow; for to them, The Shadow
was a living menace!
The hand of The Shadow reached everywhere. It had risen to smash the well-plotted schemes of master
crooks. It had struck down hordes of evil mobsters. It had reached across the ocean to pluck the
ill-gotten gains of international criminals. Always, the man behind that hand had remained invisible.
Shrouded in darkness, The Shadow moved like a phantom of the night; appearing in the most
unexpected places; relentless enemy of evildoers. When The Shadow's laugh was heard, the fiercest of
criminals quailed before its mockery. The presence of The Shadow was the knell of doom to all
wrong-doers.
Some had seen The Shadow; but they had never looked upon his face. Garbed in flowing cloak and
broad-brimmed slouch hat—both garments of jet-black hue —The Shadow was master of darkness, a
being who seemingly came from the outer corridors of boundless space.
The Shadow held the ever-changing scales that weighed the struggle between justice and crime. When
the balance turned against the forces of the law, it was The Shadow who thrust back gang leaders and
their minions, that justice might prevail.
Time and again, the master minds of gangdom had sought to wrest themselves clear of the menace of The
Shadow. They had striven in vain. The true identity of this black-clad being had remained a mystery.
On certain occasions, agents of The Shadow—Harry Vincent and others— had fallen into the clutches of
the enemy. Always, The Shadow had rescued them, despite the fearful odds that had confronted him.
The great strength of The Shadow's secrecy lay in the fact that not even his agents knew his identity. This
fact came vividly to Harry Vincent's mind, as the young man breakfasted in the grillroom of the Metrolite
Hotel. He recalled his own experiences with The Shadow. They seemed like a chain of fantastic dreams.
Once—the event seemed long ago—Harry Vincent had attempted suicide. Poised upon the rail of a high
bridge, he had prepared for a death plunge to the depths below.
A hand had come from the blackness of a swirling night mist. Harry had been carried back to safety by a
grip of steel. In the rear seat of a luxurious limousine, he had listened to a whispered voice from invisible
lips.
Since then, Harry had obeyed the mandates of The Shadow. As a trusted operative, he had done his
appointed part in the unending war against crime. He had never lacked money, nor the comforts of life.
In return for them, he had faithfully followed The Shadow's bidding. No task was too large, no danger
was too great, to cow Harry Vincent. So long as he possessed the friendship of The Shadow, Harry was
a man without fear.
Excitement and adventures had followed Harry Vincent in every enterprise. His amazing experiences
were facts that he had told to no one. To serve The Shadow meant to preserve secrecy. Harry had never
yielded in this duty.
THERE were times when Harry remained temporarily idle. Sometimes, readiness was all that was
required. On other occasions, he was given complete leave of duty. When such spells arrived, Harry
usually left New York for a short visit home, to return when a special summons commanded him.
One of those periods was present now. Although Harry seldom let his mind speculate upon The
Shadow's possible activities, he could not help but wonder what his chief might be doing at present.
Perhaps there was a lull in super-crimes that attracted The Shadow's vigil. Perhaps The Shadow was
engaged somewhere other than New York.
Whatever the case might be, Harry would eventually receive orders from him —not directly, but through
the agency of a placid gentleman named Rutledge Mann. This chap was an investment broker, who had
recently occupied a new suite of offices on the twenty-first floor of the Grandville Building.
Like Harry Vincent, Rutledge Mann was an agent of The Shadow; but the duties of the two differed
widely. To Harry was given active work; whereas, Mann played a passive part. The investment broker
seldom left his desk during the daytime; there, he serenely investigated and assembled facts that he
obtained from various sources, to forward to The Shadow.
Finishing his breakfast, Harry went back into the lobby and began to read the morning newspaper.
Completing this perusal, he glanced at his watch, and summoned the porter. He asked for his key at the
desk, and went to an elevator, with the porter at his heels.
Harry's room was 1408, at the end of a long corridor on the fourteenth floor. Walking along the gloomy
passage, Harry found his thoughts again turning to The Shadow.
Curiously enough, he was wondering how long this vacation might last. It would probably end with a
cryptic summons, sent through Rutledge Mann.
Perhaps duty would arise within a month—within a week—even within a day! Such were The Shadow's
manifold activities that his agents might expect a call almost at any minute!
Harry Vincent was at the door of his room. He unlocked the door and entered. He stopped at the
narrow entrance to the room, and motioned the porter to go ahead while he opened a closet door.
The uniformed man shuffled into the room; then stopped with a startled cry that made Harry Vincent
clutch the door, aghast.
He could see the wizened, expressionless face of the porter. Only the eyes of that countenance reflected
the emotion which the man had experienced. The eyes were staring with fixed gaze toward the other side
of the room. The lips were trembling, but they were now mute with horror.
Springing forward, Harry crowded the porter aside and looked into the center of the room. Then he, too,
stood motionless!
LYING on the floor, beside the bed, was the sprawled form of a roughly clad man. The crumpled
bedspread showed that he had been lying there, but had tumbled to the floor, to spread crazily upon the
carpet. The man's face was turned sidewise; its pasty profile showed the rigidity of death.
Beside the man's body, close to a twisted elbow, lay a small pile of objects that had dropped from the
fellow's pocket. A wallet, a few slips of paper, a cigar—these were evidences that the fall had been
headlong. Harry's quick eye visualized the situation.
The porter still gaped in terror as he viewed the hideous expression of the death-distorted face. It was
Harry's rough shake that brought the attendant back to his senses. There was a firmness in Harry's tone
as he gave the man terse instructions.
"Call the desk"—Harry indicated the telephone beyond the bed— "and tell them what has happened.
Hurry, while I look at this man."
The porter stumbled toward the telephone, avoiding the body as he went. His quavering voice sounded
weakly as he stammered the word that a dead body lay in Room 1408.
Meanwhile, Harry, with the cold air of a man who has often witnessed death, bent carefully above the
sprawled form to make sure that the man was really dead. It required but a few seconds for him to
recognize the fact that life was gone.
Harry did not touch the body, nor did he disturb the articles that lay beside the dead man's elbow. He
knew that this would be unwise until the police arrived.
But Harry used his eyes to good advantage. He quickly noted the features of the dead man's attire: the
shoddy suit, the wrenched necktie, the unstained, stubby shoes.
Then his studied gaze observed something that projected from beneath the under elbow. This was a
manila envelope, that had evidently dropped ahead when the man had fallen.
Harry's eyes were keen as they spotted a scrawl upon that envelope. As he read the inscription, Harry
uttered a repressed gasp.
He raised his head quickly, and looked across the bed. The porter had dropped, gasping, into a chair, his
head buried in his hands. He was not watching Harry Vincent.
Footsteps and muffled voices were sounding in the corridor. The response from the desk had been
rapid.
Without a moment's hesitation, Harry stooped again and deftly withdrew the envelope from beneath the
unrestraining elbow. As he rose, Harry thrust the manila wrapper up beneath his vest.
When two men hurried into the room a few moments later, they discovered Harry Vincent standing
against the wall, surveying the body with a puzzled look. The porter was standing, having risen when he
heard the men rush in.
The newcomers paused. They, too, stared at the body. They saw the details.
The dead form had not been moved. The articles from the pocket were still beside the elbow. The
picture seemed complete. Only one thing was lacking—the envelope that Harry Vincent had secretly
purloined.
Only Harry knew of that envelope's existence. He had seized it instinctively, governed by an
instantaneous thought that had resolved itself into prompt duty. For, to Harry's way of thinking, that
envelope did not belong upon the floor. He had exercised a right when he had taken it.
In one brief moment he had read the words upon the envelope. He was thinking of them now, despite his
apparent calm. He was wondering about their significance. He was resolved that the very existence of
that envelope should not be known to any investigators who might appear upon that scene.
To keep that envelope was Harry's trust, for he felt that it belonged to the man whom he served. This
belief was based upon the inscription which Harry had read—words which now seemed unbelievable
with the envelope out of sight.
With half-closed eyes, Harry Vincent received a visual impression of the scrawl which he had seen, and
its blue-inked words remained in vivid import. With lips unmoving, Harry whispered the words which he
had read upon the envelope:
"To The Shadow."
A message from an unknown source; a message dropped by a dying man; a message picked up by a
secret agent, who alone could deliver it to its proper destination!
Beneath his vest, Harry Vincent held a message to The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE MESSAGE MOVES
A SWARTHY, heavy-set man was in charge of Room 1408 in the Metrolite Hotel. Detective Joe
Cardona, able investigator of the New York headquarters, was on the job a half hour after the report
came in. He had finished his study of the dead form on the floor. Now he prepared to question living
persons about him.
"You say you left this room at nine o'clock?"
Cardona's question was addressed to Harry Vincent. It met with a prompt response.
"Nine o'clock," replied Harry. "I went directly to the lobby. As I left the room, the chambermaid entered
to make the bed. I told her I was checking out."
"Is that correct?" questioned Cardona, turning to a woman clad in uniform.
"Yes, sir," replied the chambermaid, in a plaintive voice. "I seen him when he come out of the room, sir."
"Did any one enter while you were here?"
"No, sir. But after I had gone out -"
"What happened then?"
"Well, sir, a man was standing in the corridor. It's kinda dark there, sir. He says to me, that he wants to
get back into the room. Says he has forgot his key. So I never thinks about it; I lets him in."
"Was it this man?"
Cardona indicated Vincent.
"No, sir," responded the maid. "I wasn't thinkin' right, sir. I just opens the door and lets the man go in. It
ain't always that I does that, but I kinda forget myself now and then. After he goes in, I begins thinkin'
that I'd made a mistake. I was goin' back, sir, but then I figured all must be right."
"Would you recognize the man who spoke to you in the corridor?" interrupted Cardona impatiently.
"I couldn't say, sir," pleaded the maid. "It's so dark out there -"
"Then how," questioned Cardona, "do you know that it was not this man?"
"His voice was different," stated the maid. "He was kinda hunchedlike. I didn't see his face, but I heard
him speak, and that's how I knowed when I thought that he was different."
"Could it have been this man?"
Cardona pointed abruptly toward the body on the floor. The maid stared with blinking eyes.
"It was about like him, sir," she answered. "It could have been him. Yes, it could have been him, but not
the gentleman who belongs in this room."
"That will do."
Cardona turned to quiz Harry. In response to the detective's questions, Harry replied with direct and
firmly spoken words. Both his manner and his tone were convincing.
Harry had been absent from his room more than an hour and a half. He had gone directly to the desk
when he had reached the hotel lobby. From there, he had entered the grillroom, returned to the lobby
and finally had summoned the porter.
HARRY'S testimony was followed by amazing corroboration. Well known about the hotel, it seemed as
though all his actions had been observed by witnesses.
The elevator operator had remembered his descent to the ground floor. The clerk at the desk recalled the
exact time that Harry had approached—three minutes after nine. The waiter in the grillroom had seen him
eating there. The clerk and the man at the cigar counter had noticed him reading in the lobby. The
elevator operator remembered bringing him upstairs with the porter.
Coupled to this was the negative testimony of the second elevator operator. He knew Mr. Vincent well,
he declared, and he was sure that Harry had not ridden in his car. Every minute of Harry's absence from
his room was covered by a perfect alibi, supported by disinterested witnesses.
One by one, the testifiers filed from the room. Only three people remained: Joe Cardona, Harry Vincent,
and the doctor, who was there to examine the body. While the physician was at work, Cardona turned
to speak to Harry Vincent.
"You were checking out to-day," remarked the detective.
"Yes," replied Harry. "I intended to make a trip to Michigan. I can arrange to remain in New York,
however. There was nothing urgent about my journey."
Cardona studied Harry; then spoke frankly.
"I am not anxious to inconvenience you," said the detective, "nevertheless, your presence here would be
advisable. In a case like this, I should like to call on reliable witnesses if it becomes necessary."
Harry nodded. Cardona's words were pleasing. They showed that the detective was considering Harry's
release.
"You will be here at the Metrolite?" asked Cardona.
"In another room," responded Harry dryly.
There was a pause.
Harry was thoughtful. What would Cardona do if he suspected the existence of the mysterious envelope
that Harry had appropriated? All the other articles beside the dead body had been taken by the
detective. They had given no clew to the man's identity.
The physician spoke to Cardona. He was very positive in his declaration concerning the death. The man
on the floor was a victim of a slow but virulent poison. His end had evidently come with a sudden spasm
of agony.
Cardona noted the report. The physician left. The detective was alone with Harry Vincent. Cardona
turned suddenly and asked an unexpected question.
"Did you ever hear of Zipper Marsh?" he quizzed.
"No," replied Harry, shaking his head.
"I didn't think so," said Cardona. "You don't have the earmarks of a gangster."
The detective stared at the body thoughtfully, then again addressed Harry.
"There's no use holding you," declared Cardona. "The statements you and the others made shows you
are O.K. Coming into a room like this is enough for a man to worry about, when he's a regular guest at a
good hotel.
"But it's not the testimony alone that's influencing me. Under the circumstances, I might just as well tell
you what's in back of it. I happen to know who this dead man is. I've seen his mug a good many times
before. Dobie Wentz—that's who he is. Ever hear that name?"
"No," Harry again responded.
"He was a tough guy," said Cardona reminiscently. "I guess he thought he was tougher than Zipper
Marsh, the bird he worked with. That's why he's here. Pulled a double cross."
Harry, listening, thought of the envelope. A dead gangster—a pal of another ruffian—a letter to The
Shadow—the facts connected themselves in his mind. Harry made no comment, nor did he change
expression.
"Dobie was in wrong all around," continued Cardona, "that's why he got what he got. These mobsters
pull stuff in any hotel. If Zipper didn't get him, some other gangster did. That's why I'm easing you out.
You're just an innocent goat in the mix-up. They don't care who gets in wrong, those fellows."
Cardona was studying the body; Harry was watching the detective. This revelation of the dead man's
name was important news. With the mysterious envelope, it must go to The Shadow. Here, Harry knew,
might be the beginning of insidious crime.
HARRY had a friendly feeling toward Joe Cardona. He knew the detective well by reputation; he also
knew facts that Cardona could not possibly suspect.
Stupendous crimes had been solved by Cardona—according to the New York newspapers. Harry was
one of the few who knew the truth about the cases. Credit which Cardona had received, rightfully
belonged to The Shadow.
Harry repressed a smile as he considered his own indirect connection with Cardona. Should the detective
suddenly decide to hold him, his release would not be long forthcoming, of that Harry was certain.
Often—to what extent Harry did not fully know—Cardona had been aided by The Shadow. Harry
realized that it would be no task at all for The Shadow to see that one of his agents was freed from
custody when Joe Cardona was in charge.
This, however, would not be necessary, unless the detective suddenly changed his mind. Cardona gave
no sign of so doing. He was engrossed in thought, and Harry wondered if the sleuth were thinking of The
Shadow.
Should this case of Dobie Wentz prove the forerunner of greater crimes, The Shadow would most surely
appear in the offing.
"That's all!" remarked Cardona abruptly, as he turned to Harry. "I've put you wise just so you'll
remember to say nothing about this matter. Chances are I won't need to talk to you again. I've got all the
dope there is to know. But if I want to get your testimony over again, I'll find you here, eh?"
"Yes," responded Harry. "I intend to stay at this hotel. I'm in no mood for traveling after this. I'm going to
pick a room on another floor. That's all."
HALF an hour afterward, Harry Vincent was secluded in a room on a higher story of the Metrolite
Hotel. The young man was seated at a writing desk. Before him lay that mysterious object—the letter to
The Shadow. Harry congratulated himself that he had carried it away without Cardona's knowledge.
He wondered what lay within the envelope; yet he resisted all impulse to open the mysterious wrapper.
That act must be left to The Shadow.
Taking a sheet of paper, Harry wrote a series of cryptic words, using a fountain pen that he took from his
pocket. The words were in simple code, which Harry knew by heart. He folded the message and sealed
it within a blank envelope. This would go to The Shadow with the gangster's letter.
In all communication with The Shadow, Harry used both that code and the special ink which the fountain
pen contained. Orders that he received were similarly inscribed.
The code was easily read by a man who might know its secret; but should the messages fall into the
hands of other parties, no time would be afforded toward attempting to decipher the code. The ink which
The Shadow used, and supplied to his agents, had a habit of disappearing very rapidly after a letter had
been exposed to the air.
Harry remained in his room for a short while; then went down to the lobby. He saw no sign of Joe
Cardona. He decided that the body of Dobie Wentz must have been removed from Room 1408, and
that now the detective was gone.
Harry gave no sign that he was looking for any one. He retained his usual calm demeanor. Long service
with The Shadow had taught him many wise and effective lessons.
At last, Harry walked to the street in a leisurely, unaffected fashion. He turned his steps toward
Broadway. He was in no apparent haste. To all intents, he was out for a lazy stroll along Manhattan's
winding thoroughfare.
Slowing his steps, Harry Vincent gradually stopped before the entrance of a towering office building.
Here he entered, in an unconcerned manner. As though engaged in no business of importance, he went
into an elevator and give his stop as the twenty-first floor. Alighting, he walked along a corridor and
stopped at Suite 2121. Upon the door appeared this title:
RUTLEDGE MANN
INVESTMENTS
A few minutes later, Harry Vincent was talking with a quiet, full-faced individual who sat lazily at a large,
flat-topped mahogany desk. He was reporting to Rutledge Mann, in the inner office of Suite 2121.
In his hand, Harry held his own coded report, and with it the manila envelope that was addressed to The
Shadow.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
EARLY the same evening a thick, square-set man entered the lobby of the Metrolite Hotel. Although
quiet and deliberate in action, there was something about the man's appearance that gave him a distinctive
air.
His firm face wore a set expression. His right hand swung a long, thick cane. His left held a smoking
cigarette.
This arrival walked directly into an elevator. He stood motionless in a corner as the car moved upward.
His shoulders were erect. His right hand held the cane straight beside him. His left, with crooked elbow
aiding, kept the cigarette only a few inches below his chin.
This pose was apparently habitual with the man. It gave him a somewhat military appearance. Despite
this, the man was not conspicuous. The other passengers in the elevator scarcely noticed him. When he
told the operator to let him off at the sixteenth floor, his tone was carefully modulated.
After leaving the elevator, this stranger went directly to a door marked 1609. He tapped lightly with the
head of his cane. The peculiar resonance of the tap was evidently recognized from within. The door
opened, and the visitor was admitted.
One small light shone in the corner of the room. It dimly outlined the figure of the man who had answered
the door. This individual was shorter and chunkier than his visitor. His face, too, was firm; but it showed
crude features that gave its owner a wolfish expression.
"Hello, Zubian," croaked the occupant of Room 1609. "Been expecting you ever since morning."
"I waited until after nightfall, Gats," responded the visitor dryly. "Discretion is wise at all times."
"Thought maybe I was in a jam, eh?" "Gats" chuckled as he spoke. "Well, I don't blame you. That looked
like a risky job this morning, but I knew it would swing easy. When Gats Hackett does his stuff, it goes
across."
"Apparently," said Zubian, with a smile.
Gats Hackett grinned. He took the statement as a compliment.
THE contrast between the two men was obvious. Gats Hackett was as crude as his visitor was subtle.
That was why Gats had a wholesome respect for this man whom he knew as Felix Zubian.
With an evil smile, Gats produced a bottle of liquor. He offered his visitor a drink, and Zubian accepted.
This act completed, Gats sat in a chair opposite Zubian, and began to talk in a low tone.
"I'll give you the whole lay, Zubian," he said. "If I've figured it right, the job is going through on schedule.
You're not in on this part of the work, but Carleton wants you to know the whole business, so I might as
well start with the beginning, even if he's already told you some of it."
"Proceed," said Zubian quietly.
"Well, we're out to get The Shadow!" declared Gats emphatically.
"The Shadow," repeated Zubian reflectively. "The Shadow—whoever he may be."
"The Shadow's real enough," stated Gats, licking his cracked lips. "Maybe you've never heard much
about him—being out of the country the way you've been; but I've heard about him. Say—you don't
think I run a mob for nothing, do you?"
Zubian did not reply. He merely shook his head.
Gats helped himself to another drink, and stared directly at Zubian as he continued to assert the reality of
The Shadow.
"Listen, Zubian," said Gats, "when this silk-hat fellow, Carleton, came to me and give me a chance to
work in on the big jobs he's planning, I grabbed the idea quick. Savvy? Carleton tells me that with a
good guy working for him—a guy with a mob—he can knock off plenty. He's got the dough to back it.
"When he told me that he had lined up a smart guy from the other side of the pond—meaning you—I
figured there would be plenty in it. But when Carleton spills the thought that he's going after jewels in a
big way, I tells him that we've got to fix The Shadow first."
"Why The Shadow?"
"Because that bimbo has queered some mighty big jobs in the jewel line. Did you ever hear about the raid
that some smart boys pulled on the Bolsheviks in Moscow; when they went after the Russian crown
jewels?"
"Yes. I heard talk of it in Paris."
"Well, those in the know figure The Shadow put the skids under that job. But there's another case that
goes further back than that. Ever hear of Diamond Bert Farley?"
摘要：

THESHADOW'SSHADOWbyMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.TOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERII.THEMESSAGEMOVES?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOW'STRAIL?CHAPTERIV.THEMESSAGE?CHAPTERV.THETRAPISSET?CHAPTERVI.OUTOFTHEDARK?CHAPTERVII.THESHADOWFIGHTS?CHAPTERVIII.INTOTHENIGHT?CHAPTERIX.THE...

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