Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 309 - No Safety in Numbers

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No Safety In Numbers
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
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I.
THE washroom, so full of laughing, jostling men a few moments ago, was quiet now. The one man who
was left was grateful for the silence. He had a lot to think about. He looked at his watch. Whew—almost
time to meet her and he hadn’t figured out yet how he was going to do it.
He lathered his hands, realizing as he did it that he was really stalling for time. He ran through in his mind
all the scenes in the movies that he’d laughed at—How did you do it without making a fool of yourself,
that was the big problem. He punched the handle that allowed the soapy water to run down out of the
bowl. The white walls of the washroom lit his face as he looked at it in the mirror. He could have shaved
a little closer, he realized.
Now, he turned hands dripping wet to the towel container set on the wall. They were paper towels and
as he irritably balled one up and threw it away he wondered how anyone was supposed to dry their
hands on one towel. He ripped another down. It was really getting late now. She was to meet him across
the street. If he hurried he’d be just about a minute late.
His hands were still a trifle wet. He turned back to the towel dispenser. Were they all gone? No, he
reached his fingers up under the lip and pulled the last towel out of the receptacle. The next guy was
going to be out of luck.
He barely noticed out of the corner of his eye, that a small slip of paper had dropped out after the last
paper towel. While he wiped his hands dry, he thought, all this brooding and I still don’t know how I’m
going to say it.
He was almost at the door before he realized that the slip of paper still lay on the floor. What of it? He
started to leave again, but then with a grin quirking the corners of his mouth, he went back, for he
remembered one time he had been superior and not stopped to look at what a pitchman had been selling.
He had walked on purposefully and as a result had always had a nagging wonder at the back of his mind
about what the pitchman was selling. Now, knowing his own curiosity, he walked back to where the little
slip had fluttered down.
It would only make him another couple of seconds late and as he still hadn’t figured out what he was
going to say, it was time well spent.
He picked up the paper and looked at it. He had expected it to be some kind of ad for the specific kind
of paper towels in the receptacle. Instead, he saw a column of figures. They were hand-written and
definitely purposeful. But, despite the fact that they were set up like a problem in addition, the answer, or
what was under the line that totaled the list, had no relevance to the sum.
His eyebrows drawn together in thought, he brushed by a man who entered as he left. The man looked at
him cautiously. The young man was gone. The man who just entered looked from the closing door to the
towel dispenser.
In the elevator the young man spent some more time looking at the figures on the slip of paper. But when
the operator said, "All out, ground floor," the young man stuffed the paper into his pocket and, looking at
a clock on the wall, suddenly swore and ran out of the building.
Across the street, down the block at a diagonal angle, she was waiting. Even if he hadn’t been in a hurry,
he wouldn’t have seen a man’s head sticking out of the washroom window. But the man in a parked car
did.
The girl who was standing still, tapping her foot on the pavement, suddenly saw him running down the
block across the street. The dear, sweet fool... leave it to him to let it go to the last possible second, and
then run. He was starting to cross the street now. He was grinning, and his mouth was forming words she
could not hear.
He was all she could see. He meant romance, satisfaction, life itself to her. She smiled forgivingly as she
would always forgive him no matter what.
He saw the smile, knew that he was forgiven for dawdling, and ran a little faster. That was when the car
that had come out from the curb drew even with him. He was almost on the same side of the street now
that she was. She waited.
The sound was almost lost in the hubbub of traffic. It was like more of a spat than a real pistol shot. The
bullet caught the young man between the shoulder blades. He crumpled in midstep, front foot reaching for
the curb that would have brought him close to her. His head was over on the side now.
She was numb with shock. A man leaped from the car and leaning over, ran his hands through the young
man’s pockets. He found what he was looking for.
In a split second he was erect again. Another fraction of time and he was in the car. It drove off and still
the girl had not escaped from the paralytic grasp of shock. People on the street, passersby alert to
trouble of any kind, had that pitying smile on their faces that urbanites save for the sight of a drunk who is
too far gone to navigate.
It was an offshoot of that attitude that broke the spell of horror for the girl. A thin-nosed ascetic-looking
middle-aged woman going by sniffed, "There now, if that isn’t enough reason for bringing back
prohibition... it’s disgusting, a young man like that rolling in the gutter!"
For he was rolling in the gutter. He had turned over so that his poor strained face was looking straight up
at her as she ran to his side.
She bent over as he gasped, "Darling, I love you. Will you marry me?" He had finally found words to say
it.
As she nodded, her eyes full of tears, he died.
In another section of town, a man walked up to another man who was standing on a corner holding up a
building with his back. He was well dressed in a peg-trousered, too-padded-in-the-shoulders way. He
had a key-chain in his hand, which he was whirling around and around. The chain never stopped moving
as the man who walked up said, "I dreamed up a beauty last night, 329. Dreamt about cigars and tables
and the dream book says that’s gotta be 329. Put me down all the way down the line."
"Gasmeter?"
The other nodded as he flipped a quarter through the air. The chain continued to circle as the man
grabbed it with his free hand.
On the heels of the man who had dreams, a dowdy old woman walked up to the chain twirler. She said,
"My same old number, Joe. It’s gotta come in soon"
He took the two cents she gave him and said nothing.
In still another section of town, and this was as different as eclipse from sun, a parlor maid looked out the
back window of the mansion that she worked in and said, "Marie, Ronnie, come in, here comes the ice
man!"
They dropped what they were doing and came to the back door. The ice truck that drove up to the back
door was an anomaly. It had no place in that section of electric refrigerators.
The ice man grinned down from his truck as they walked up. "Gotta tip?"
The parlor maid shook her head, "No, but that snooty cook next door hit yesterday for a nickel. If she
can do it so can I. Here, a nickel on 999."
"Mine’s on 743. I figured it out. It’s due. Hasn’t come up in three months." That was Ronnie the valet.
"I’m hunchin’ mine. Here, a dime on 432." Marie handed over the ten cents.
The ice man scratched his head and, taking a soiled notebook out of his pocket, said, "Let’s see if I got
the orders right. A dime’s worth of ice for you, a nickel on 999 and 743. See you tomorrow." The ice
wagon drove off and the servants returned to work.
A sharply dressed character, twin to the chain twirler, walked up to a funeral parlor. He looked through
the window at the two depressed palms that drooped in their pots. He looked in the glass till his eyes had
adjusted and the glass acted like a mirror. Nobody around.
He opened the front door. A man in a cutaway stood up and said, "In what way can I help you in your
bereavement—Oh, it’s you, Charlie. Couldn’t see with the sun outside." He jerked his thumb past him.
"G’wan in; you’re late. It’s almost three."
Hunching his padded shoulders, the man who had just come in elbowed his way past the man in the
cutaway. He pushed the door open. Behind the quiet sombre hangings of the funeral parlor, there was a
lot of activity.
At the far end of the room, adding machines, run by expert fingers, made a pleasant clacking. Just before
him, in the center of the room, there was a broad table with a series of cash registers on it.
He smiled with the corners of his mouth, although his eyes strayed warily as he emptied his pockets on
the table. A man who was standing at the far end of the room looked up at the sound of small change
hitting the table. "Late again?"
"Yeah, waited for a pickup. Good customer. Don’t like to lose one."
"You’re gonna be late one time too often. I don’t like it."
"Awright, don’t read the hymn to me now, I’m busy."
"Too busy to take orders?"
"What goes on here anyhow? This is worse than the army!"
"In the army you could gold brick. Me, I don’t like it!" The man was still quiet, conversational. "Now,
why were you really late?"
"I told’j’a. What gives? You makin’ like a boss all of a sudden? So I’m a couple minutes late, so what?"
The man looked at him for a little while. Then his hand went into his pocket. He took it right out. He was
holding something in his hand. He held it up and looked at it for a moment. He didn’t say anything. Then,
he put the object back into his pocket again.
It was a curious thing to cause the reaction that it did in the man who had been in the army such a short
while ago. He looked at it with horror in his eyes. He tried to say something and then evidently thought
better of it. He licked his suddenly dry lips. The room was quiet. The men had stopped their work at the
adding machines. All of them had seen the little thing. It was about two inches long, round and pointed
like a pencil, and it was the color of a blue crayon.
The man gulped, then said, "I can take a hint. I won’t be late again." He moved his shoulders nervously
under the padding. His eyes darted from side to side. He had been publicly disciplined. At any other time
he would have resented that more than the discipline. But that little... He turned on his heel and left.
"All right, the rest of you, show’s over. Get to work." The quiet man fingered the little blue object in his
pocket, and a grim smile played over his lips. This was more like it. This was only the beginning of what
this town was going to see.
The rackets were in, and they were going to stay in—unless a telephone call that was being made at that
moment could stay the course of dread events.
II.
IN the midst of the web of wires that fed into the telephone answering service where Burbank, one of
The Shadow’s most trusted aides, sat like a spider, a phone call was in progress. Harry Vincent was on
the other end of the line. He said, "Burbank, you kill me. I don’t know how you know there is something
due to pop up here in Skillton, but it’s popping all right. You better let The Shadow know. I haven’t seen
anything like this since prohibition!"
"How’s that?" asked Burbank. He had known there was some deviltry afoot because of little shreds of
gossip he had heard, but as to the size of the mess, or what was causing it, he was in the dark.
"The racket boys have walked in and are taking the whole place over lock, stock and barrel. It looks to
me like a fix is in to the gendarmes. I don’t see how else they’re operating the way they are."
"I see. Anything concrete?"
"Plenty. A young lad on his way to propose to his one-and-only just got knocked off like a torpedo in
Cicero in the old days. The shot came from a car. No one got the license. The boy’s clean as far as I can
find out. His girl, his family, the cops, nobody has any idea why he was killed. And in such a way. Strictly
a gang killing!"
"How far is the town organized?"
"All the way. I tell you it’s a job for The Shadow! Is he back?"
"Yes, he’s home now, resting. I’ll give him a ring. You sit tight up there. I have to send some of the other
boys up there to you to help."
"If you do, deal Hawkeye in. I have a hunch we’ll be able to use a spotter like him. I’ll keep in touch with
you, ‘bye."
Burbank yanked the plug out of the board and plugged in on a secret phone number. There was no
answer. Burbank thought a moment before he dialed the number of Lamont Cranston’s home. It was
busy.
It was busy for good reason. A call from Skillton had come in ten minutes before. Cranston was
speaking, "But Gerald, what do you want me to do?"
"Good heavens, Lamont, if I knew, do you think I’d be calling you? Here I am with the most influential
newspaper in town, not unpossessed of some personal influence myself, and yet I am powerless!
Powerless, I tell you! I’ve seen the D.A, the commissioner, we’ve had about ten blue ribbon grand juries,
and the net result is another gang killing this afternoon. A young man, shot down in the streets like an
animal!"
Cranston thought a second. Gerald Winthrop was certainly a personage in his home town. If he said
things had come to this sorry pass, then the situation must be desperate. For Winthrop had his eye on the
mayoralty as a stepping stone to the gubernatorial mansion of his state. He would not like having his town
used as a shooting gallery.
"Gerald, I’ll come up, if you think I can be of any assistance, but I can’t promise you anything, of
course."
"Of course, I understand that. Perhaps I am behaving in a silly fashion, Lamont, but believe me, I am
frightened at the turn events are taking. There’s the same air about all this that there was in that lawless
period during prohibition. I don’t like it one bit!"
"I can see why you wouldn’t. I’ll see you tomorrow."
Cranston no sooner set the phone down than the bell rang again. It was Burbank. "Heard anything about
the deal up in Skillton?"
"What, you too?" There was grim amusement in Cranston’s voice.
"Me, too? What have you heard?"
"Winthrop, who owns the Skillton Journal, has just been telling me about conditions. From what I can
gather, you may have to send some of our friends up there."
Burbank knew what that meant. Cranston’s views then were coincidental with his own. "Think you’ll
need me?"
"You’re more valuable right where you are. Stay put and keep your finger on things. This may be just the
snow-capped top of a glacier of crime. I don’t think this can be just an isolated instance. It may be the
precursor of a nation-wide attempt to put things back on the old gang war basis. That must be prevented,
no matter what the cost!"
Unseen, Burbank’s face was wreathed in smiles. Nobody could put anything over on his boss. He had
smelled the same something wrong. This was bad medicine and the cure had to be applied quickly!
Suppose Skillton were the testing ground, the guinea pig for crime leaders all over the country. If the law
could be shown to break down in this one place, it might well be the signal for all the criminals to make
their bid for control!
"Harry Vincent’s up there now and I’m sending Hawkeye. Need anyone else?"
"Not right away. I’ll let you know." There was a quiet click. There was not time for anything else.
Cranston walked away from the phone. On a library table the brief case that hid the raiment of the night
lay waiting.
Cranston tucked it under his arm. In the brief case, under a zipper, was the cloak; that deep black cloak
that masked the movements of the creature of night, of sudden vengeance, The Shadow!
It was Lamont Cranston who flew up to Skillton; it was even Cranston who took a taxi to the middle of
town. Again, it was Cranston who looked up and down a long street with a practiced eye. He saw the
mouth of an alley. It was a dark alley, and despite the fact that it was Cranston who went into the alley, it
was The Shadow who, a moment later, stood bathed in darkness looking up and down the street. He
had an idea that this was no time for half measures, no time for appearing in his normal guise. This was a
case for the sure eye and steady hand of the master of men!
A low, mirthless laugh rolled down the cobbled street that led to the end of the alley. A cat, nervous as
nature had made her, leaped half out of the garbage can she was munching in. The laugh had rubbed her
sensitive fur the wrong way. It would have been luckier for certain denizens of Skillton’s underworld if
they had been possessed of the cat’s sensitivity. The Shadow was on the prowl!
Raw, unshaded light spilled down on the green baize table. The reflection on a narrow pool cue looked
like a lance of brightness. At the far end of the table, a ball, the thirteen, teetered at the edge of the
pocket. It teetered and then stopped, half in and half out of the pocket. The man who was shooting
swore. He banged his cue down on the floor, but even that did not cause the ball to overbalance in.
His opponent said, "You’re as scatty as a viper tonight, what’s the matter?"
"Nothin’." His voice was flat. It was the man who had been disciplined with the strange little blue pellet.
He was scatty, there was no use denying it. What had he let himself in for? Things hadn’t been this way
before he went to war. What was going on? Deep in thought, he had to be called before he realized that
his opponent had scratched.
"There’s your chance for a run. Can you clean up the table?" The man’s voice was mocking. He had
seen early in the game that something was up. There was something in the wind. He was using it to win
the game of pool. After all, he’d been beaten a lot of times by this guy.
"Yeah, sure, you want to make another side bet?" No sense in letting everyone in the pool room know he
was upset.
"Like candy from a baby, Charlie. Like candy."
Charlie threw some more money down on the table. He had to get a grip on himself. If he could end this
game he’d go home and try to think this thing out.
He chalked the tip of his cue and bending gracefully over the table, took careful aim. This was his meat.
He couldn’t miss it with his eyes closed. But he did.
"Cripes, can’ch’a even make hangers? Out’a the way and let a guy shoot pool as can."
With neat precision as another man might hold a scalpel, the man clicked off a run of fourteen balls. It
took quite a while. He looked up and said, "How did you like that? Hey, Charlie—"
But he was talking to the walls. Charlie was gone.
On the street, alone and still nervous, Charlie looked around him. His walking out like that had been a
giveaway as to how he was feeling. It was not too good to let the boys know he was upset. Now, what
was it that was getting him down? He thought about it for a while. It was a difference in attitudes. Before
he’d gone into the army, this racket had been simply a way to make a soft dollar, but now it was rigged.
There was a peculiar sense of strain that Charlie could not understand. After all, the fix must still be in, the
cops were being paid off—then what was in the wind?
That rumor? That business about Larry Bonds trying to move uptown?
The North Side had always been big enough for Larry; why should he decide to try and muscle in on the
South Side? Was Joey Raoll getting soft? No, he wasn’t getting soft... that was part of it. Joey was
tougher than ever, but why? What was there to get tough over?
The dark areaways to his side were secret mouths that, in this slum part of town, might hold anything.
Charlie eyed each of them as he passed.
But when it came it came right out in the open. A man walked up the street towards Charlie. The man
was next to him now. He asked, "Gotta match, bud?"
Charlie snarled more from nerves than nastiness, "Nah, beat it! Scram."
He tried to walk past the moocher, but a hand appeared from the man’s clothes and the hand was heavy
with a gun. The gun was in Charlie’s stomach. He looked at it and took an involuntary step back. This
brought an iron railing into the small of his back. The railing was meant to keep you from falling into the
areaway.
It did not serve its function. For, as the bullet wiped all fear from Charlie’s mind, as well as every other
thought, forever, his slumping body fell backwards onto the railing.
He remained there, dead, for a moment teetering like some horrid kind of see-saw. The man who had
shot him grinned and reaching forward, flipped the feet upwards. The seesaw overbalanced and the body
fell backwards into the darkness of the areaway.
The muffled sound of the body did not reach far. No one seemed to have heard either the bullet shot,
which was low, or the sound of the body landing in terrible disarray, all dignity gone, like a sack of
garbage.
Gun back in pocket, the killer looked up and down the lonely street. No one. That shadow down near
the corner? No... just his eyes. He blinked. He wasn’t used to seeing things. There had been a strange
lengthening of that shadow... but, it was probably an alley cat looking for dinner. He shrugged and
walked back towards the lights that illumined the avenue that led into this back street.
He walked with no tremor of fear towards the lights. Fear? What had he to fear? Certainly no pangs of
conscience, for this was his job. Other men sold milk, drove cabs, conducted businesses. This was his
business. There are his like in every big city and in more than one small one. Completely amoral, with no
compunctions, no regard for the value of life, they sell their services with gun, knife or poison to the
highest bidder.
Fear of the police? He would have laughed at that. He had been booked twenty times. Nothing ever
came of it. If there were witnesses they showed a curious ability to forget. At least they did after some
friends of his went around and saw them—
Then, he was usually careful that his killings took place in a section of town where there might be a venal
cop or two who could be bought. That was part of his insurance. He was willing to split his price if it
meant staying out of jail. No, he was not afraid of anything. Not until there came, low, chilling, like a blast
from the grave, the whisper of laughter. He had never heard it before in his life, but he knew what it
meant!
That laugh could only emanate from the lips of one man! The Shadow! Somewhere behind him, hidden in
the darkness of the night, there was a minion of the law who could not be bought or intimidated!
III.
IN an over-decorated suite, in the finest hotel in town, a figure stood before a mirror. It was the figure of
a man. He was dressed well; nothing overdone, but his clothes were too well pressed, his shoes too
shined, his necktie too pristine. Each of his garments looked as if they had never been worn before.
It was a far cry, thought Larry Bonds, from the way he had dressed ten years ago. He was well-satisfied
with his appearance. To his eyes, he was the perfectly dressed gentleman as seen in the pages of a man’s
fashion magazine.
He compared the sombre richness of the fabric of his clothes with the loud patterns which he had once
thought were a sign of richness, A voice broke in on his narcissistic revery. It was harsh, brittle.
"You gonna stand there all night, or do we do the joints?"
He turned and looked at her. She seemed even less satisfactory tonight than usual. She had not been able
to peel off the layers of cheapness and vulgarity the way he had.
He looked at her for a long time while she piled even more lipstick onto her already neon red lips. His
gaze and silence finally caught her attention. She looked up from her compact mirror. She said, "Now,
what’s goin’ on in that dizzy head of yours?"
"Nothing—not a thing." His eyes were steady. She had to go, that was all there was to it. She was an
anchor tying him to the past. Reminding him of the slums from which he had fought his way. It was a
reminder for which he did not care. He waited at the door, topcoat thrown over his arm, while she threw
a stone marten cape around her shoulders, took a last look in a full-length mirror and walking
stiff-leggedly, the way a model does when she is displaying clothes, joined him.
"At least pretend you enjoy goin’ out with me. C’mon, put on a smile so the elevator boy doesn’t give me
a look like he always does."
It was hard, but he pretended to be an ardent husband while they made their way down and out of the
building. Once they were in his long black car and he had told the chauffeur the address, he let his face
go all grim again.
"Look, Larry, what’s cookin’. You’re not conning me. Something’s up and I got a right to know what!"
He hid what was in his mind and said, "Business troubles."
"How come? I thought you had the town taped up."
"So did I, but the boys on the South Side are getting too big for their breeches. Two runners came in
today and gave me the tip that some of Joey’s controllers are looking for a spot for a control room."
"How long ya gonna let them get away with it?" She was curious, for he didn’t even sound mad.
"Not long." He looked at his watch. "About ten minutes to be exact."
"That’s why we’re making with the judge tonight, huh? An alibi? Is that it?"
He pointed to the chauffeur and said, "Can’t you ever button your lip?"
There was no further conversation till they were in the judge’s house. They handed their clothes to the
man at the door and walked into the large living room with the old oak paneling that was as phony as the
judge’s pretension to fairness and justice.
He looked up as they entered and smiled a greeting. Larry shook hands with him and took that chance to
look at his watch. 9:32. This was it. He’d see how tough the South Side wanted to make it after tonight.
Down in the neighborhood that Joey Raoll made his stamping grounds, Raoll, tall, well dressed,
handsome in a strange way, for his face was too harsh for normal standards of good looks, was coming
out of his controller’s office. The receipts had been up to standard and he was pretty satisfied with the
way things were going.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a car racing up the street. The only thing that signaled suspicion to
his quick brain was the fact that the car was too close to the curb.
With the jungle-quick reflexes that had helped him to fight to the particular top of the crime heap that he
called his own, he spun on one toe and leaped behind a low wall that sectioned off a space next to the
store he had just quitted.
He landed on all fours in a mass of garbage that had spilled from some brown paper bags. Without a
second’s loss of time he flattened down in the muck of highly smelling garbage and waited. The car
zoomed by. He waited. Curious, he didn’t quite know what he was expecting, but silence was not part of
it. Seconds passed. He risked his life and looked at the front of the store that hid his illegal bookkeeping
department.
The window was whole; they hadn’t thrown a pineapple. It was then that he saw it, and he flattened
down on the ground a second before the blast. For, sticking to the icy smoothness of the glass front he
had seen a round lump with a fuse hanging from it. A sticky bomb like the ones the anti-tank boys had
used in the war.
It rocked the neighborhood. The glass was gone as though it had never existed. The inside of the shop
was full of torn and scattered remnants that in no way resembled what they had been such an infinitesimal
time before.
The sound was gone. The smaller sounds of plaster and brick falling had long since ceased before Raoll,
sick at his stomach and with blood running from his ears, staggered out from behind the breastworks that
had saved his life.
He looked at his store, or what little was left of it. He was rocky. Even as he stood there, he swayed
from side to side like a fighter who had been hit on the jaw and hasn’t quite realized he’s knocked out.
So the rumors had been correct. Bonds was trying to muscle into his section. He wanted the whole town.
Raoll took one last look at his store and turning, walked away, staggering, before the police cars rocked
into view.
In the wonderful old house that Gerald Winthrop’s family had owned for a hundred years, Winthrop, a
badly worried man, waited. He had heard from his city desk, and the editor was as excited as Winthrop
had ever known that phlegmatic man to be.
Reports had come in that showed the town was in for a criminal war. The city editor had mentioned the
murder of an unidentified man in a lonely alley that was capped by an explosion that had torn up a whole
building down on the South Side of town.
Winthrop, waiting, wondered what, if anything, Cranston could do. The bell rang. Winthrop, in a moment
of bad manners that was rare, elbowed the butler out of the way as he ran for the door. In the open
doorway stood Lamont Cranston, cool, impeccably dressed, carrying the inevitable brief case.
Winthrop grabbed him by the arm and piloted him into the library. He mixed two drinks and offering one
to Lamont Cranston, downed the other at one gulp. He told Cranston about the blast.
As it happened, this was a twice told tale, for Cranston in that guise of night, that costume that brought
fear to even the hardiest criminals, had followed the keening sounds of the police cars. At the outskirts,
unseen, he had looked at what remained after the bomb had finished its work. Not that it had been
necessary, but the profligacy of the method had given another spur to his desire to end this menace to the
peaceful life of the city of Skillton.
However, he listened and pretended to be amazed as Winthrop, with a wealth of adjectives, described
the scene, the loss of property, the two old people in a nearby house who had died of shock, and wound
up with a heart-felt plea to Cranston.
In the background, almost unnoticed because of Winthrop’s commanding air, was Peebles, a secretary
who looked precisely like what one would imagine a male secretary to look.
He gulped before he said, "It’s terrible, that’s all I can say, terrible!" He shivered to show how terrible he
thought it was. His thin frame, narrow shoulders and a certain pigeon-breasted look that he had, all
combined to make him look like a mouse in an animated movie.
Winthrop turned, looking down from his greater height, glowered at his employee. "That’s certainly a big
help, Peebles. Do you have anything else as concrete to offer to this meeting?"
摘要：

NoSafetyInNumbersMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?I.?II.?III.?IV.?V.?VI.?VII.?VIII.?IX.?X.?XI.?XII.?XIII.?XIV.?XV.?XVI.I.THEwashroom,sofulloflaughing,jostlingmenafewmomentsago,wasquietnow.Theonemanwhowasleftwasgratefulforthesilence.Hehadalottothinkabout.Helo...

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