Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 298 - The Stars Promise

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THE STARS PROMISE DEATH

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I

? CHAPTER II

? CHAPTER III

? CHAPTER IV

? CHAPTER V

? CHAPTER VI

? CHAPTER VII

? CHAPTER VIII

? CHAPTER IX

? CHAPTER X

? CHAPTER XI

? CHAPTER XII

? CHAPTER XIII

? CHAPTER XIV

? CHAPTER XV

? CHAPTER XVI

? CHAPTER XVII

? CHAPTER XVIII

? CHAPTER XIX

? CHAPTER XX

? CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER I

FROM the lounge car of the Shore Express, Lamont Cranston watched the meadows slither by as the

speedy streamliner ate up the last few miles of its run to Seaview City. Ahead, jagged in the afternoon

haze that was creeping in from the ocean, the skyline of the resort hotel was growing like a school of

leviathans rearing from the deep.

Perhaps the scene fascinated Cranston, but Margo Lane wasn't watching it at all. Rather annoyed by the

proximity of Seaview City, Margo was staring steadily at Lamont to remind him of a promise that he'd

apparently forgotten.

Except that Cranston seldom forgot anything and never a promise. How he was to keep this one rather

puzzled Margo, since she felt sure he had a lot to tell within a very few minutes.

It never helped to rush Lamont Cranston. His face, impassive and calm, was the very symbol of

deliberation. Odd features, Cranston's, the sort that might be classed as those of a rugged mystic. Caught

now in the glint of the setting sun, Cranston's visage was singularly masklike, as impenetrable as the

thoughts that Margo was waiting so eagerly for him to express.

Whether Cranston was gauging the distance to Seaview City or the limit of Margo's patience, was a

debatable question. Perhaps both factors were the answer, for he timed it to perfection. An annoyed

frown was forming under Margo's wealth of brunette hair as she opened her lips to deliver an

exclamation. She was at her prettiest that way, though oblivious to the fact, as Cranston noted with a

calm turn of his eyes.

Then, in an even tone that interrupted Margo before she managed to speak, Cranston announced:

"I shall tell you why we are coming to Seaview City. A dead man sent us."

Margo's undelivered exclamation transformed itself into a gasp.

"A dead man!" Margo heard herself saying it. "Then - you mean there's been murder in Seaview City?"

"I said a dead man sent us," Cranston reminded, "not that one brought us."

To Margo, that detail was more astounding than the statement that produced it, at least until Cranston

specified the person.

"Odd that you should have forgotten so soon," remarked Cranston, casually. "Hugo Trenkler died only

this morning."

It wasn't that Margo had forgotten Hugo Trenkler; she just hadn't imagined the connection. She started to

say so, then decided to let Lamont do the talking, since the train was now half way across the Meadows

and minutes were becoming few.

"Nothing ominous about Trenkler's death," declared Cranston. "The doctors expected it, but they hadn't

broken the news. He was just a little ahead of schedule, like this train."

As he spoke, Cranston produced his watch to show that there were a few more minutes than Margo

expected. As if timed to the action, the streamliner slackened speed. Relaxing with a smile, Margo shook

her head. She'd never known Cranston to miss with a display of casual dramatics.

"Go on about Trenkler," suggested Margo. "I know you went over to his house to make sure his curio

collection was safe, but that was after he had died. So Trenkler couldn't have told you anything."

"Neither did his collection," added Cranston. "It is gone - like Trenkler."

"You mean - stolen?"

"Sold, to the last item, with the money deposited in the bank. Trenkler did fairly well disposing of it. He

took in better than one hundred thousand dollars."

Margo's new frown was of the recollective type. She was trying to think of Hugo Trenkler minus a curio

collection. It just didn't fit, for Trenkler had been a miser when it came to curios. Margo could picture his

place as she had last seen it, a veritable potpourri of oddities that old Trenkler had gathered from all over

the world.

"As a curio," defined Cranston, "Trenkler was probably the best in his collection. He was the hook that

gathered things by crook, or vice versa."

"You mean his house was full of stolen goods?"

"Practically," nodded Cranston, "considering the way he swapped bad items for good. I'd been watching

Trenkler for quite some time, expecting him to step too far out of line."

"So he wound up with a legitimate sale," said Margo, sadly. "Too bad, Lamont. If only he'd left a few

odd items that could have revealed his past, especially the sort that you might have returned to their real

owners."

"He did leave a trifling collection of that type," declared Cranston. He was watching from the window as

the train snailed across the drawbridge that brought it into Seaview City. "It consisted entirely of hotel

keys."

"Hotel keys!" exclaimed Margo. "Why did Trenkler steal those?"

"He didn't exactly steal them. His housekeeper said he intended to return them, but the jackdaw in him

made him forgetful. That is, Trenkler planned to return all his hotel keys except this one."

From his vest pocket Cranston brought a sizeable key that bore the number 608. Staring at it, Margo

didn't notice that the porter was gathering the luggage as a sign that the train was practically at the depot.

"Returning a hotel key is a simple matter," explained Cranston. "You simply drop it in the mail-box. But

this one was posted in a little package."

"That's odd," remarked Margo. "Do you know why it was mailed that way?"

"Certainly," replied Cranston. "Because it was sent to Trenkler. That's odd, too, having a hotel key come

to a person instead of the other way about."

Margo was looking closely at the key, noticing that it bore no tag to identify the name of the hotel. Before

she could question Cranston on that point, he was motioning her to her feet, since the train had come to a

stop.

"The package was postmarked Seaview City," undertoned Cranston, as they moved toward the line of

passengers waiting at the door. "So it seemed worthwhile coming here, since the long distance call was

from Seaview City too."

"What long, distance call?"

"One that the housekeeper received last night. She said that Mr. Trenkler wasn't feeling well, but she

didn't specify how well he wasn't feeling."

"Who made the call?"

"Some man who didn't give his name. He said for Trenkler to come tomorrow - that meant today - or to

send somebody. Today would be his last chance."

The line was through the doorway now, but Margo paused to ask another question.

"How will you find out where the call was from?"

"The man said something else," replied Cranston. "He told the housekeeper to remind Trenkler to take

the blue green cab."

"The blue green cab!"

Margo was repeating the words as Cranston gestured her from the platform down the steps where the

porter was waiting to take her arm. Somehow the combination didn't make sense, but Cranston took it at

face value, whatever that was worth. Beckoning a red-cap to take Margo's bag, Cranston gestured to a

row of station wagons that bore the names of Seaview City's leading hotels.

"Take your choice," said Cranston with a smile. "I'll phone you later, Margo. I'm going to look for that

odd cab."

"If you find it," came Margo's parting shot, "you'll have something crazier than any of the items Trenkler

collected."

After watching Margo pick her hotel by its station wagon, Cranston sauntered along to a line-up of cabs.

From the window of her own vehicle, Margo watched his tall figure, saw Cranston thread his way out

from a cluster of train passengers and take his stance beside a waiting cab. Margo hoped the cab would

stay until the station wagon pulled out, and it did. In fact it was the last cab left, with Cranston still

lounging beside it, when the hotel car began its trip and rolled by.

Meanwhile, Margo hadn't been oblivious to the other cabs. They were all of regulation pattern, bearing

the names of two different companies; one called the Black and White, the other the Green.

Appropriately, all the cabs were of the colors that their names represented.

All except Cranston's.

Driverless, the cab was standing with Lamont waiting patiently by when Margo saw it closely. In the

sunset the cab showed its color plainly and its hue was a vivid blue. But on its door, Margo saw the

painted emblem that belonged to one of the regular cab companies.

Emblazoned in a yellow diamond were the words:

GREEN CAB COMPANY

The message to a dead man had brought results here in Seaview City. Substituting for Hugo Trenkler,

deceased, Lamont Cranston had found the blue Green Cab!

CHAPTER II

ATTACHED to the Seaview City depot was a lunch room that Cranston watched with a casual but

expectant gaze. It was a logical place from which a driver would arrive, should the blue Green Cab be in

operation.

Other persons, however, came from the lunchroom first. Two looked like workmen, a third was a crisp

faced old gentleman who was mostly wing-tipped collar and polka-dot necktie. The workmen saw the

cab, decided they could use it, and went back to rap on the window of the lunchroom. While the old

gentleman was looking from the cab to Cranston and back again, a middle aged lady with a shopping bag

and umbrella was attracted to the scene. It was then that the cab driver put in an appearance. He was

shirt-sleeved with the sleeves cut off to show a pair of brawny arms, as freckled as the broad face that

showed beneath the warped visor of his cabby's hat. He looked over the prospective passengers and

grunted.

"I was supposed to haul this back into the garage," the cabby affirmed. "But since there's a load of you, I

guess I can make deliveries. Only room for four though. Who's first?"

The cabby put that question straight at Cranston as though expecting him to answer it, which Cranston

didn't. The gentleman with the wing-tip collar began to clear his throat, but hadn't finished when one of

the workmen spoke.

"This gent was," the workmen said, with a nudge toward Cranston. "He was waiting when we came

along."

"The lady here was last," vouchsafed the other workman, "only what's this you're telling us about an

overload? You can ride two of us in front, me and my pal here."

The cabby decided that he could, since two passengers asked for it. So Cranston found himself in the

rear seat, between the umbrella lady and the polka-dot gentleman, riding toward the Main Boulevard,

which was the name of Seaview City's principal street that paralleled the ocean. But before reaching that

thoroughfare, the cab driver asked for destinations.

All gave them except Cranston. He wasn't sure where he intended to go. He said drily that he'd expected

a friend to meet him at the station, but without result. Having no hotel reservation - he'd expected the

missing friend to attend to that - he would be glad to accept the cabby's recommendation.

"I'll see what I can figure, mister," the cab driver declared. "It's the summer season and the hotels are

pretty full. Maybe we'll hit luck, though, only I ought to drop these other fares first."

Cranston acquiesced and the cab headed to its first stop which was a side street rooming house between

the Boulevard and the Boardwalk. This was the address given by the gentleman with the wing-tip collar

and the procedure brought an argument from the umbrella lady.

"I told you the City Market!" the lady reminded the cabby. "You've taken me right past it! I have to do

some shopping and it's getting late!"

"Better late than never, lady," retorted the cabby. "The Market's on the other side of the Boulevard, ain't

it? Well, if I drop this gentleman first, I can hit the Market coming back and you won't have to go walking

across the Boulevard through all the traffic. I figured you as kind of careful and foresighted, seeing how

you had an umbrella with you and now it's raining." It wasn't exactly raining, but the mist was bringing

what amounted to a drizzle. A bit mollified by the cabby's flattery, the lady reduced her grumble.

"Slippery, too," the cabby added. "That makes it even worse, walking across streets. Guess we're both

of us smart at looking ahead, lady."

The cabby emphasized this with a jerk of the steering wheel as he veered toward the curb beside the

rooming house and the blue cab responded with a slight skid. The man with the polka-dot tie stepped out

but Cranston's eyes weren't following him.

What Cranston was studying happened to be the net result of the cab's slight skid. The sun-flap above

the windshield gave a slight flip, revealing what should have been on constant display, the cabby's license

card.

Only part of the card showed, enough to disclose the name "Jerry" but no more. Quickly, Jerry pushed

the flap up again and reached out to receive the fare from the passenger who had just alighted.

One of the workmen riding in the front seat said: "S'long, Colonel" to the departing gentleman with the

wing-tip collar. Benign until this moment, the "Colonel" turned to throw back an angry glare that was

something more than mere annoyance. A muttered apology from the workman soothed the face above

the fancy collar, but Cranston's eyes, idling in the Colonel's direction, didn't miss the incident.

Apparently Mr. Wing-tip really styled himself "Colonel" and for some reason didn't like the reference. At

any rate, Cranston gained a good index to the Colonel's nature. Until now, the Colonel's face had been

drab, almost expressionless, but the purpling of his features, the narrowing dart of his eyes beneath a

broad, high forehead, were the sort of characteristics to be remembered. So too was the tremble of the

Colonel's lips, which rendered them puffy and naturally so, rather than tight and compressed, the way he

had hitherto retained them.

Continuing, the cab dropped the umbrella lady at the City Market where Jerry suggested that one of the

front-seat passengers get in back, rather than have an argument with any of the local law and order, since

the cops didn't like three in the front, especially along the Boulevard.

But the cab didn't do much rolling along the Main Boulevard. Instead, Jerry wangled it in and out of side

streets, up to beach front hotels and around again, pausing at each hostelry to get out and talk with door

men. Always, Jerry returned with a head-shake, meaning that the hotel in question was filled.

Just why the two work-men didn't object to a tour of Seaview City was something that might have

puzzled a less astute analyst than Cranston. His face retained the constant calm that to persons who knew

him indicated a lot of keen thought behind it, but these workmen didn't know Cranston. If they had, they

wouldn't have been so careless. The one in front kept talking in an undertone to Jerry, which was rather

surprising on so short an acquaintance. The fellow in back kept his arms folded with one hand under his

coat. right where it ought to be if he wanted to grip a hidden gun and keep it secretly trained on

Cranston.

This had the makings of a one-way ride if Cranston started to act nervous, which he didn't. Should the

situation be more than imaginary, the time to worry would be when Jerry gave up trying the hotels and

decided to take his passenger elsewhere, but Cranston wouldn't worry even then. The trip wouldn't get

that far with Cranston, even if Jerry so intended it; but Cranston doubted that such would be the plan at

all.

The runaround was nothing but a stall, in Cranston's estimate. For some reason it wasn't time to deliver

the very special passenger to the hotel where he was expected. So Cranston maintained the patient

manner that properly should be adopted by an appointed representative of Hugo Trenkler.

It worked out as Cranston expected.

Pulling to a stop in front of a fairly pretentious hotel called the Neptune, Jerry gave a nod to a door man

who wasn't looking. Acting as though he'd received a similar response, Jerry turned in the driver's seat,

and announced:

"This is it. One buck."

It was dusk now, thanks to the increasing fog, but the lights of the hotel portico gave Cranston a good

look at Jerry's freckly face, just as a last tally. Paying the dollar, Cranston alighted, carrying a briefcase

that constituted his entire luggage. Instead of handing the briefcase to the door man, Cranston walked

into the Hotel Neptune as though he belonged there, which was quite the thing to do. Scarcely through

the revolving door, Cranston heard the rumble of the cab motor as Jerry jockeyed away.

So far so good. Cranston had passed muster with Jerry and the cabby's gun-bearing associates, which

the hard-faced workmen unquestionably were. That deferred future events until Cranston reached room

608 which was his - or Trenkler's - appointed destination.

Entering a waiting elevator Cranston turned to the operator and said: "Seventh."

Well-timed, that order for the wrong floor, Cranston didn't give it until he'd turned around and viewed the

lobby to make sure that no one was close enough to be checking on him. By going one floor above the

sixth, Cranston could approach the latter from a proper vantage and besides, there were some

preliminaries before he visited room 608.

Those preliminaries took place while Cranston was coming down one flight of deserted stairs. With a

twist of one hand he inverted his briefcase while the other automatically drew a hidden zipper in the

bottom. A V-compartment opened between the regular divisions of the briefcase and from it,

compressed garments literally disgorged themselves. With a single sweep, Cranston slid a black cloak

over his shoulders and topped his head with a slouch hat that accompanied it. A pair of thin gloves

completed his new regalia, while the briefcase, a flexible contrivance, disappeared beneath his cloak.

The fringing gloom of the stairway literally swallowed Lamont Cranston, or in another sense, it became

the unseen route for his other self, The Shadow. The same applied to the sixth floor corridor when The

Shadow reached it. He knew exactly where 608 would be and how to get there without encroaching too

much in the light. He'd simply made a quick survey of the seventh floor hallway, knowing that the sixth

would be practically identical.

In fact the sixth floor corridor was made to The Shadow's order, specifically the door of 608. It was set

between two pillars marking the connection of the original hotel and an additional section; hence anyone

stopping at that door could step completely from sight.

Apparently room 608 had been selected for the benefit of clandestine visitors, to give confidence to

strangers such as Hugo Trenkler. All that anyone had to do was unhook the door quickly and spring into

the room.

So The Shadow did neither.

Silently, as smoothly as though engaged in a piece of fine precision work, which indeed this was, The

Shadow inserted his key and unlocked the door without a click. His gloved hand squeezed the knob,

turning it as noiselessly. The door seemed to open of its own accord as The Shadow released the knob

and applied pressure of a single thumb at the hinged side.

The interior of the room was dim, the floor being entirely obscured because the only illumination came

from the fog-laden dusk above the window level. Without a sound, to all practical purposes an invisible

entity, The Shadow entered and closed the door with the same care.

Probing the wall, gloved fingers found a light switch and pressed it. Lights flashed from wall brackets, but

their mild illumination still did not reveal The Shadow, motionless and well-nigh spectral in the gloom just

within the door.

It was by voice that The Shadow signified his arrival and his tone was a whispered laugh, grimly

significant. Perhaps that laugh should have been given an hour ago, when Margo Lane, misinterpreting a

remark by Lamont Cranston, had asked if there had been a murder in Seaview City.

Grim in turn was the sight that brought that mirthless laugh. From what The Shadow saw upon the floor,

he knew that he hadn't just reached the threshold of a new adventure.

The Shadow had crossed that threshold.

CHAPTER III

THE thing upon the floor was a body, sprawled in the half-writhed fashion that represented violent death.

The victim was a man of frail appearance, which gave an inkling to the mode of murder. Past middle age,

he wasn't the sort who could have put up much of a struggle; therefore The Shadow judged that the man

had been strangled.

Over toward the corner was an easy chair in which the man had probably been seated. The chair had a

broad back, wide enough to hide a lurker. Looking at the victim's throat, The Shadow saw no traces of

finger marks nor the impression of a rope, so he began a search for some other form of lethal instrument

and promptly found one.

From a bureau drawer poked the corner of a silk scarf that had been poked there hurriedly. Down

through the slight opening, The Shadow saw that the scarf was twisted and its strands showed signs of

strain. It could have sufficed for murder and probably had.

On a writing table lay a ruler along with some pencils. An interesting exhibit the ruler, since it could have

completed a tourniquet if thrust through the knotted ends of the silk. Apparently some murderer knew the

methods of his calling, although crude in modes of covering up.

Now for other clues.

The victim was well dressed, but his face had the droop of dissipation that went with failure. The Shadow

classed him as some boardwalk character who probably traded on old acquaintance or chiseled his way

as a better-class panhandler. In giving the man this broken-down status, The Shadow allowed for the

changes that death had brought to the scrawny face.

Carefully searching the man's pockets, The Shadow came across some pawn tickets, an employee's pass

to the Long Pier, a hotel key for this very room, but with a hotel tag attached, and finally several dollars in

small bills. The pass bore the name of Peter Klurg and had a passable picture of the dead man.

These items were not all that The Shadow found. Beside Klurg's chair, half covered with a footstool in

which the man had apparently tangled during his forward sprawl, was a newspaper open at the racing

page. This edition of the Seaview City Evening Breeze, had probably been printed about two hours

before.

What intrigued The Shadow, however, was a chance item on the page opposite. It linked with other

matters in such fashion that a whole mental chain seemed to clank.

It was a death notice, covering a former resident of Seaview City, a wealthy collector named Hugo

Trenkler.

Again, The Shadow's laugh came with grim softness.

Here was something that The Shadow hadn't checked, the fact that Trenkler once had lived in Seaview

City. A resort of this size was the sort where one would make acquaintances merely as a visitor, hence

The Shadow had thought the fact applied in Trenkler's case. The housekeeper hadn't mentioned any

connection between Trenkler and Seaview City, but the news item itself explained why.

It stated that Trenkler had moved to New York more than thirty years before. The housekeeper, The

Shadow now recalled, had been in Trenkler's employ only during past few years.

At any rate, the news of Trenkler's death had reached Seaview City ahead of The Shadow's arrival as

Lamont Cranston. The Shadow had left such a possibility out of his calculations, since Trenkler wasn't

important enough to rate an obit except in his home town. It was just bad luck that the home town

happened to be Seaview City, though The Shadow could see other connections.

Something was afoot in Seaview City that called for outside contact. Somebody must have remembered

Trenkler for the doubtful character he was, or kept in touch with him during the years between.

What Trenkler's name may have meant to Klurg was a wide-open question. Perhaps it meant less than

the names of certain race horses, because Klurg had checked a few of those on the sporting page. The

newspaper, however, wasn't all that served Klurg in the way of literature. Lying over beside the chair

was a folder that The Shadow promptly picked up and spread out to half the size of a newspaper.

The folder bore the photograph of a man who wore a turban and a bushy black beard and in large type it

stated:

DOCTOR DEE

HE TELLS

YOUR LUCKY STARS

AND NUMBERS

Pictured on the chart was a figure with bow and arrow, entitled "Sagittarius, The Archer" and beneath it

was the legend: "A Reading for Those Born Under This Sign."

The reading was largely stock stuff, but Cranston's eye was quickly caught with certain paragraphs

marked in pencil, which Klurg appropriately would have checked.

One paragraph referred to "Business and Speculation" and gave a list of lucky days where such were

concerned. One of the dates was the tenth, which happened to be this day, and there was a penciled ring

around it.

Further along was a paragraph with a much more vital significance. Since it was also marked, Cranston

read it closely. It stated:

"Due to the unfavorable position of Saturn, Sagittarians are at present subject to serious accidents during

this period. They should therefore guard well their actions as they may meet with untimely and perhaps

fatal misfortune often due to highly unexpected causes."

A voice spoke suddenly at The Shadow's elbow; it might have startled another person, but he instantly

defined its tone. It was coming from the radio, a small set half hidden among a stack of old newspapers,

and an announcer was giving the results of the day's races.

Dee's chart hadn't been wrong in naming the tenth as one of Klurg's lucky days, where speculations were

concerned. As the announcer reeled off the names of winning horses, The Shadow heard the names of

two that Klurg had picked.

Among The Shadow's unusual faculties, one was this: his off moments were his best. In short, The

Shadow never allowed anything to distract him. His survey of this room where Klurg lay dead had been

intensive, therefore it had commanded considerable concentration. But while listening to a radio newscast

and merely making mental tally of some minor item in the case, The Shadow wasn't otherwise idle,

because he couldn't be.

The Shadow's eyes were noting the half-open window, with an old-fashioned cast-iron balustrade that

lay beyond, about all that even his keen gaze could discern, considering that darkness had settled

completely outdoors.

Even the balcony with its old wrought rail wasn't a new discovery to The Shadow. He'd noted a whole

tier of such balconies when he had entered the main door of the hotel which lay on a plumb-line beneath

this room. But now The Shadow was noting something else.

That something was a reflected flicker from somewhere off in the lower darkness. With swift, sweeping

paces, The Shadow reached the window and spotted the cause.

Those repeated flickers were the lights of a car, parked over on a side street away from the hotel. They

came from about the only patch of darkness where a car could be stationed and still seen from this

room.

Instantly The Shadow thought of the blue Green Cab and his mind completed a deductive process.

The car hadn't parked so he could see it. Jerry's purpose had been to put it where Jerry himself could

view the window of 608. Having seen the lights come on in that room. Jerry was becoming nervous

because something hadn't happened; therefore, he was repeating a signal blink for other people to see.

How long this had been going on, The Shadow didn't know, but it was the sort of thing that might nullify

his clever job of entering 608 unseen. The thing now was to maneuver an equally invisible exit. Acting on

that plan, The Shadow wheeled toward the door.

Sounds greeted The Shadow before he could reach his goal. Fists were hammering against the door, and

hard, accompanied by a gruff, powerful voice that ordered:

"Open! Open in The name of the law!"

So that was it: a frame. Somebody had tipped off the police that matters weren't too right in room 608 at

the Hotel Neptune. At least somebody was to have sprung the tip-off, but hadn't, until Jerry's lights began

telling them that they were missing out on an important detail. With a quick turn, The Shadow strode

across the room. Behind him, the door really echoed with the newer and harder pounding of gun butts.

Too much of that hammering and the door would come crashing through. Time was getting short, even

for The Shadow.

Not too short, though.

The balustrades were the answer. In the darkness they would serve as a simple ladder. Dropping from

one ornate contraption to another wasn't even a task for an acrobat, let alone The Shadow. Something of

a laugh was on The Shadow's lips when he cut it short, along with his stride.

Getting out of here was too easy. Those gunners who had posed as workmen could handily be down

below. Not having seen the interior of the blue cab's trunk rack, The Shadow couldn't swear that it hadn't

contained a very modern machine gun. If Jerry's comrades wanted to dispose of a wrong visitor to room

608, they could certainly do it with such a weapon. Even The Shadow couldn't help but darken the

window, target fashion, unless he turned the room lights off. At that, it would be best to test the outside

and for that The Shadow's quick mind promptly found a way.

With a swift swirl, The Shadow hoisted Klurg's body from the floor, finding the task easy despite the

dead weight of the corpse. With a forward motion that gave the body a fantastically lifelike motion, The

Shadow sent Klurg's remains on a slow topple against the balcony rail so that it would pause there,

leaning, like a figure of someone taking stock of the route below.

That would bring a response from itchy fingers on machine gun triggers, if there were such over by the

cab. But there was more for The Shadow to do, and hurriedly.

Lights out, next; then a quick spurt to the window before the police crashed through the door. Provided

of course that machine guns didn't begin a tattoo.

No machine guns rattled. Instead, the door crashed open before The Shadow could even reach the light

switch. His only chance was a quick swerve to get behind the incoming door before the invading police

spotted him and The Shadow made it by inches.

Even then, the chance was slim, for the police might readily have guessed that the rebound of the door

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 298 - The Stars Promise

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