Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 276 - Syndicate of Death

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SYNDICATE OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
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 I
THE last act was coming to its close.
Back stage, Jan Kranda was pacing a small circle, his eyes fixed on the floor. His hands were deep in the
pockets of his ragged coat, his shoulders thrown forward in a habitual stoop. There was a twitch to
Kranda's lips and his eyes showed an ugly glare.
Over by the switchboard, the electrician nudged the stage manager and gestured toward Kranda:
"Look at the guy working up for his big scene. You wouldn't think he'd been playing it for a solid year."
"That's why he's good," retorted the stage manager. "Give him a part and he lives it. He ought to be out
there right now."
The manager thumbed toward the stage, where Rex Troy, the leading man in "The Impostor," was
hamming in the gorgeous costume of the Prince Regent. Popular though Troy was with audiences, his
fame didn't carry back stage.
"He's supposed to be tossing woo at the Crown Princess," sneered the stage manager. "Instead, he's
checking on the dames in the audience. Now he's getting back to business. There goes the old 'Come
hither' gesture to the princess."
"Pretty near time for Kranda's cue," reminded the electrician. "You'd better tell him."
The stage manager walked over and stopped Kranda's pacing with a shoulder tap.
"Prince Charming is waiting," said the stage manager. "Ready to be shot at, in his pretty red uniform with
the brass buttons and gold braid. Give him an extra one for me tonight, will you?"
Kranda blinked momentarily, then ended his lip twitch with a grin. He began to move his hands in his coat
pockets.
"Forgotten the gun again?" grinned the stage manager. "Well, the show closes tonight. Why don't you
choke Troy for a change. I'll tell the guards to hold back until I cue them."
Kranda shook his head and gave a short, tense laugh.
"I'll get the gun," he said. "I left it on the table in my dressing room. The blanks are in it, so I won't hold
the show long enough to matter."
Hurrying to his dressing room, where the door was open, Kranda plucked up an old-fashion Colt that
was lying on the table. Turning, he came back at a rapid pace. As Kranda passed, the stage manager
noticed that he was tense again, his eyes showing a determined glint, but all that went with Kranda's part
as Heinrich, the mad assassin.
On stage, Rex Troy was going through the ordeal of a prolonged clinch with Claire Winthrop, who
played the part of the Crown Princess. Across Claire's shoulder, Troy was watching the wing where
Kranda was to appear.
"Jan is late again," muttered Troy. "He delights in being late. He knows it annoys me."
"Thanks for the sweet words," murmured Claire. "But don't flatter yourself. I detest this love scene worse
than you do."
At that moment, Kranda appeared at the wing, brandishing his revolver. The "book" called for the Prince
Regent to drop the Crown Princess at sight of the mad assassin. Rex dropped Claire fairly enough, with a
fling that brought snickers from the audience; then confronting Kranda, Rex exclaimed:
"Heinrich!"
Aiming between the brass buttons of Rex's scarlet uniform, Kranda fired point blank. At the second shot,
Rex gave a dramatic backward stagger, but Kranda kept on shooting. He put in more than the one extra
that the stage manager had requested, for he fired until the hammer was clicking on empty chambers.
By then, Claire had begun to shriek. The palace guards swooped on stage, seized Kranda and dragged
him off through a doorway. His stagger turning to a sag, Rex Troy was finishing with a realistic sprawl
that left him prone upon the stage. Turning to the crumpled form in scarlet, Claire stooped and tried vainly
to rouse the victim.
Off stage, the guards were releasing Kranda. As he turned and stalked to his dressing room, one called
after him:
"Don't forget the party tonight, Jan. It won't be a party unless you show up."
Inside the dressing room, Kranda swung the door shut behind him. Planking the revolver on the table, he
sank into a chair and stared at his reflection in the mirror. For the moment, Kranda was wild-eyed, as
though viewing the face of an actual assassin. Then, as his face relaxed, he tilted back his head and began
to laugh.
"A surprise party," cackled Kranda. "A surprise party for me - the only real actor in this show!"
Leaning forward, Kranda spoke to himself in the mirror, giving a gesture below the level of the dressing
table, so that it wouldn't show in the reflection.
"The surprise is out there," Kranda told himself. "Only they won't know it until the curtain falls. Rex Troy
had his surprise first, only it didn't last long. A funny thing, when those bullets dented him, he acted as
phony as he always did with the blanks.
"That scarlet uniform is a help. The blood won't show until after the curtain falls - maybe not even then.
I'd like to see what happens out there, but it wouldn't be good judgment. I'd better wait and be myself" -
with a smile, Kranda reached for a jar of cold cream - "yes, I'll remove my make-up and be myself -"
His fingers dipping the cold cream, Kranda halted in alarm and stared sharply at his mirrored image.
"I can't be myself, just yet!" he exclaimed. "I almost forgot! I have to take a final bow - as Heinrich!
What a fool I was, not to remember. But you reminded me" - with a smile, Kranda bowed to his
reflection which politely returned the nod - "and I thank you for it. I must go out, before they come for
me."
About to rise from his chair, Kranda gave a nervous blink. He wasn't staring at his lone reflection; two
other faces had moved into the mirror. Both were men who wore tuxedoes: one, a dark-eyed chap
whose hair was sleek and black; the other a long-faced fellow whose hair had a reddish tinge too
reminiscent of Troy's scarlet uniform.
It was the dark-eyed man who spoke first. His face, smooth but sallow, showed a gloat.
"We've come for you already, Kranda." The speaker drew back his coat and showed a badge on his
tuxedo vest. "Now you're coming along with us."
Kranda tried to stammer, but couldn't.
"My name is Graff," announced the man with the badge. "I'm from headquarters. Come along."
As Graff's hand clamped Kranda's shoulder, the actor made a snatch for the revolver on the dressing
table. He didn't find it, for Graff's red-haired assistant was already picking it up, in the folds of a
handkerchief.
"Nice work, Melvin," complimented Graff. "That rod is evidence and so are any finger-prints we find on
it. And this gun" - Graff exhibited a stubby revolver of his own - "is loaded like yours was, Kranda. So
let's go - quietly."
Brought to his feet, Kranda finally managed to stammer the question that was coming to his mind:
"But how - but why - why didn't you -"
"Don't ask questions," snapped Graff. "Right now we want to get you out of here."
"Yeah," put in Melvin. "There's liable to be a panic when they find that Troy is croaked."
"And you're the guy responsible, Kranda," reminded Graff. "Troy's friends might try to lynch you. We've
got to protect you."
"Troy's friends," sneered Kranda. "He hasn't any."
Graff shoved his stubby gun into his pocket and thrust the muzzle through the cloth, pressing it against
Kranda's ribs. The move silenced Kranda instantly and Graff nodded for Melvin to open the door.
Between the two tuxedoed men, Kranda found himself marching toward the stage door; as he passed the
wing, he managed a brief glance toward the stage.
Claire Winthrop was facing the audience across the body of Rex Troy. Dramatically, she was beginning
her closing lines:
"Dead! He is dead - and all my hopes have died with him -"
Two minutes more, by Kranda's calculation, and the facts of murder would be known. Maybe Graff and
Melvin were right, getting him away to headquarters before chaos followed the discovery of Troy's
death.
His own part as Heinrich kept drilling home to Kranda. Having played the assassin for a solid year on
Broadway, it wasn't surprising that he should stay in character. Heinrich hadn't fought or argued with the
palace guards; he'd contented himself with the satisfaction of a deed well done. It behooved Kranda to
do the same.
There was a car parked just outside the stage alley. With a nudge of the pocketed gun, Graff thrust
Kranda into the front seat while Melvin was clambering in from the other side to take the wheel. In less
than Kranda's estimated two minutes, the car was on its way, carrying the captors and their prisoner.
Something was lacking in Kranda's whirling thoughts. He realized suddenly what it was - a siren. There
wasn't any on this car, or at least Melvin wasn't using it, though he should have been, considering that he
and Graff were in a hurry to take a murderer to headquarters.
Out of that mental whirl, Kranda suddenly remembered the question that Graff had cut short earlier.
Abruptly, Kranda put it:
"Why did you let me kill Troy? You wouldn't have been there, waiting for me, if you hadn't guessed what
I was going to do."
"We didn't guess," returned Graff. "We knew."
"He means we found out," added Melvin, "while we were waiting to talk to you."
"We saw the gun," explained Graff. "Rods are kind of our specialty" - in emphasis, Graff gave a nudge
through his pocket - "so we took a look to see if you'd already loaded the blanks."
"And we found the real slugs," completed Melvin, "so we left them to see what happened."
Amazement spread across Kranda's made-up face. As he turned his head from side to side, he saw that
his captors were responding with wise but friendly smiles. The thing was like a dream, to find these
headquarters detectives treating Kranda - an actual killer - the way the palace guards did with Heinrich
after dragging him off stage.
Very suddenly, the answer dawned on Kranda.
"You mean - you aren't detectives?"
"That's right," returned Graff. "We aren't. I'm Brodie Graff and this is Red Melvin - to make the
introduction complete. We came around to talk to you about a deal that means dough to everybody."
"And when Brodie found you were pulling a deal of your own," put in Melvin, "he decided to let you go
through with it. If you wanted to rub out this guy Troy, why should we care?"
"That's it," snapped Brodie. "We figured you for a pal so we did the right thing by you. I was rigged for
the headquarters gag in case I had to convince the door man to let us inside. I pulled it on you rather than
waste time getting into the clear."
As Kranda received the hand that Brodie thrust toward him, Red spoke a reminder:
"Tell Jan about your proposition, Brodie. Being a pal, he'll want to hear it."
There wasn't a doubt that Jan Kranda wanted to hear whatever Brodie Graff offered. Luck had tossed
Kranda with the very friends he wanted, gentlemen of crime. Back at the theater, death could take its
bow; Kranda no longer feared the consequences.
In the opinion of Jan Kranda, these men who had so deftly whisked him from a scene of murder were
just the sort who could plan a way whereby he would escape the penalty of crime!
CHAPTER II
THE curtain struck the stage and rose again to show Claire Winthrop gazing sadly beyond the prone
form of Rex Troy. Impressed with the realism of the scene, the audience furnished waves of applause that
brought a smile from Lamont Cranston.
It was seldom that Cranston smiled, but at present he had good reason. In the box where he sat with
Tracy Singledon, he had wondered how an intelligent audience could enjoy Troy's exaggerated portrayal
of a mid-Victorian hero. Perhaps at last, Troy was receiving his just due. Lying silent on the stage, he was
getting more applause than when he had strutted through his part as Prince Regent.
The humor of the thing was lost on Singledon. He was all business and always business. Singledon was
beckoning for Cranston to leave the box.
"Let's get back stage," suggested Singledon in a brisk tone. "Troy will be coming off by the time we get
there. He will probably want to go along and meet Professor Bartlett. Troy is buying an interest in
Bartlett's invention, like the rest of us -"
There was a sudden interruption as a girl came through the curtains of the box and thrust a note into
Cranston's hand with the exclamation:
"Lamont! Read this!"
The girl was Margo Lane, who had promised to meet Cranston back stage after the show. A brunette of
the calmer type, Margo seldom displayed her present excitement. Tilting the note so that the box lights
fell upon it, Cranston read these lines:
Dear Claire:
Forgive the shock that I have caused you. It was not hatred but the misery of injustice that made me kill
Troy. If you are blamed, use this note to exonerate yourself.
Jan Kranda
The curtain had fallen again upon the final tableau. As Cranston gazed toward the stage, Margo explained
how she had received the note.
"An usher handed it to me," said Margo. "He said it was left for Claire. Don't you understand, Lamont?
Rex Troy is dead! Jan Kranda used bullets in the gun to-night!"
Singledon snatched the note from Cranston's hand. His face, usually bluff and expressionless, had
become a study in mixed emotions.
"Not a word about this note!" exclaimed Singledon. "We must make sure that Kranda really wrote it. It
may be a forgery. Perhaps someone else killed Troy -"
"Nobody killed Troy," interposed Cranston. "Look!"
He waved toward the stage where the curtain was beginning another rise. As it came above the level of
the actors, both Margo and Singledon stared in amazement. There stood Rex Troy, hand in hand with
Claire Winthrop. Both were bowing, but Troy was acting as though accepting the applause as entirely for
him.
Taking the note from Singledon, Cranston folded it and put it in his pocket. Somewhat chagrined,
Singledon led the way backstage. Following with Cranston, Margo queried:
"How did you know Troy wasn't dead, Lamont?"
"I have seen too many men stop bullets," replied Cranston, calmly. "I would have recognized the
symptoms, Margo. Troy faked his fall in his usual poor style."
"Then the note was just a hoax?"
"I'm not sure, Margo. Kranda didn't come on stage to take a final bow along with the rest of the cast.
Rather odd, considering this is closing night."
All was hubbub back stage with everyone exchanging mutual congratulations except Kranda, who was
scarcely missed amid the excitement. Rex Troy was surrounded by a knot of actors who were burying
their past animosity toward the leading man by offering him hearty hand-shakes. Margo suddenly found
herself alone and wondered what had become of Cranston and Singledon.
The first to rejoin her was Singledon. He had stopped to make a call from the backstage phone. Pushing
his way through to Troy, Singledon shook hands and drew the actor aside.
"I just phoned Rupert Suffolk," stated Singledon. "He says that Bartlett won't be ready for another hour."
"But the party will be starting by that time!" exclaimed Troy. He gave a gesture toward the actors as if
they were now his audience. "I can't disappoint these people."
"I'm sorry," apologized Singledon, "but you know how Bartlett is. Still, this is only to be a preliminary
demonstration of the cathodoscope. There will be others later."
"I certainly hope so," snapped Troy. "For an invention that is supposed to be a finished product, the
cathodoscope has hardly lived up to its advance notices."
"Bartlett is anxious to have it work perfectly, Troy."
"He should be. Frankly, Singledon, I am beginning to lose interest. However, I shall be guided by your
opinion of tonight's demonstration. Give me a call tomorrow."
As Troy stepped away, Singledon turned to Margo. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Singledon let
his worried features relax into a smile.
"You never can tell about actors," observed Singledon. "However I can't blame Troy for being
temperamental on a night like this. Tell Cranston I've left to pick up Suffolk and the other investors. He
can meet us at Bartlett's - but not for another hour."
Hardly had Singledon left before Cranston returned. Margo gave him the message and Cranston received
it with a nonchalant nod. Stepping to the telephone Cranston put in a brief call of his own, then ushered
Margo out through the stage door. As they went, Margo noticed that Cranston looked back with a
parting glance at Troy who was still the center of congratulations.
"Do you think it's safe to leave Troy?" bantered Margo as they walked down the stage alley. "Aren't you
afraid that Kranda may be lurking in his dressing room, ready to make good his death threat - if there
really was one?"
"Kranda isn't in his dressing room," returned Cranston, calmly. "But he may have meant what he said in
the note."
"You found something in the dressing room?"
"I found these." Cranston opened his hand and Margo saw six cartridges, all with bullets. "They were in a
box with a lot of blanks. These were on top."
"Do they fit Kranda's gun?"
"I don't know. The gun wasn't there. Kranda must have taken it when he went out with his friends."
"His friends?" echoed Margo. "What friends?"
"Two gentlemen in tuxedoes," defined Cranston. "The stage manager saw Kranda go out with them, arm
in arm. Don't try to figure it out, because I haven't, except that I'm sure Kranda intended to deliver more
than smoke with his fire."
The mystery deepened for Margo. She could appreciate that the discarded bullets tallied somewhat with
the note, but Kranda's departure in the company of persuasive friends was a puzzling factor, particularly
if Kranda had changed his mind about murdering Troy. Margo was still debating the question mentally
when Cranston halted her at a corner.
"Shrevvy will be here in a few minutes," remarked Cranston. "He's bringing Vincent in the cab."
To Margo the news spelled action. When Cranston traveled in Shrevvy's cab, he usually did so as his
other self - The Shadow. That tonight might mark the beginning of another of The Shadow's strange
adventures was emphasized by the fact that he had summoned Vincent also. Among the tried and trusted
agents who served The Shadow, Harry Vincent rated tops.
Before Margo could express enthusiasm over the coming expedition, Cranston's quiet tone intervened.
"It's all a hunch, Margo," he said, "but I have an idea that all trails may lead to Bartlett's. We may learn
more if we arrive there first."
"What is this invention of Bartlett's?" queried Margo. "The thing Singledon called a cathodoscope?"
"It can best be termed an amplified x-ray," explained Cranston, "so intensified that it gives clear vision of
objects on the far side of a solid obstruction. If it lives up to Bartlett's claims it should be worth a million
dollars to the right people - or the wrong."
The pause before the final words drove its full emphasis upon Margo.
"By the wrong people," queried Margo, "do you mean criminals?"
"Exactly," returned Cranston. "I'm willing to invest in the cathodoscope on the chance that it may really
work, just so I can keep it under the proper auspices. Tonight's demonstration was to be the test. But
this delay that Singledon mentioned, coming right after the Kranda incident, produces an uncertainty."
"You mean crooks may be after the cathodoscope already?"
"Yes, even though they are taking a long way around. One thing at least is certain. Professor Bartlett
needs the special protection that I can best give him as The Shadow."
A cab wheeled up to the corner, its door opening as it arrived. Cranston helped Margo in with Harry and
closed the door as he followed. From the empty seat he plucked a black cloak and a slouch hat that
awaited him. By the time the cab had swung the next corner, Lamont Cranston had faded into an invisible
passenger, whose sable-hued form blended with the interior of the cab.
The whispered laugh that Harry and Margo heard was an anticipation of events to come. Seldom did The
Shadow's hunches fail; rather they grew, with uncanny precision that he was evidencing on this occasion.
Singledon, Suffolk and the others who were due at Bartlett's would be preceded by a mysterious visitor
in the person of The Shadow.
Along with anticipation there was an added significance to The Shadow's whispered mirth. It told that his
keen brain had already analyzed the possible reasons for the sudden disappearance of Jan Kranda, the
character actor whose scheme of murder had somehow gone astray!
CHAPTER III
IN HIS uptown apartment, Professor Lucien Bartlett was saying goodnight to his daughter Elaine and a
small group of friends. The evening's party was something of a brief farewell, since Elaine was leaving on
a late train for a vacation in New England.
An elderly man whose sharp eyes contrasted with his wrinkled face, Lucien Bartlett was of a type
commonly classified as peculiar. For months he had never left the apartment except to visit his laboratory,
a single room on the same floor. Only on rare occasions did Elaine bring visitors to the apartment and she
was very careful to pick the limited few that she knew her father would trust.
The curious feature on this occasion was that Bartlett lacked his usual worry. On the contrary, Elaine,
usually the brightening influence, was definitely troubled. Elaine was an attractive blonde with a genuine
smile that sparkled like her clear blue eyes, but tonight her attempts to be cheerful were obviously
forced.
From Elaine's glances toward the clock it was plain that time was on her mind. Noting those glances,
Bartlett nodded.
"Nearly midnight," he remarked. "You'd better be starting, Elaine. Only half an hour until train time."
"But I can't leave you alone," protested Elaine. "I thought your visitors would be here before this -"
"They will come," assured Bartlett, "and my demonstration will convince them. Come, Elaine, bring your
friends to the laboratory and let them see how safe I will be."
Bartlett led the group down the hall to a door opposite the elevator. The door had two locks, both
intricate, that Bartlett opened with special keys. As he swung the door outward he pointed to a huge
inner bolt that gave triple security; then, as the professor stepped across the threshold, Elaine's friends
peered curiously at the cathodoscope.
The famous invention stood on the rear half of a large table that occupied the center of a windowless
room. The device was about three feet square and resembled a complicated x-ray camera. In front of it
was a large skeleton frame from which Bartlett drew down a metallic curtain. Further in front he placed a
little stand on which he set a few odd objects: a book, a vase and a wine glass.
With a crablike gait, Bartlett started toward the rear of the room, then halted and gave a wheezy laugh as
he returned.
"I forgot myself," he chuckled. "I was about to begin my demonstration, thinking you were the visitors
who are to witness it. Good-bye, Elaine, and have a good vacation. Hurry now and catch that train."
The three young friends who stood beside Elaine noticed the anxious glance that the girl gave through the
doorway. Apparently Elaine wanted to make sure that all was as secure as her father claimed it was. One
glance was enough, for the room was utterly devoid of hiding places.
Closets were lacking, likewise windows. In one corner stood a workbench but there was nothing
underneath it. On the bench were spare parts for the cathodoscope along with a supply of tools. In
another corner was a small table stacked with boxes containing special electric bulbs. A wheeled stand
supported a dictaphone which Bartlett used when making notes that Elaine typed for him. The shelf under
the stand had a supply of cylinder records.
Except for a few folding chairs the room had no other furnishings. The filing cabinet where Elaine kept the
notes was in the apartment along with the typewriter. Though he made copious notes Bartlett never
included any data vital to his great invention, hence he did not need to keep the filing cabinet in this strong
room that served him as a laboratory.
Approaching Elaine, Bartlett gave her a good-bye kiss and urged her gently into the hall. He drew the
door shut and the locks operated automatically. There was another clatter as Bartlett thrust home the
heavy bolt, closing himself tightly in his stronghold. With a sigh of relief, Elaine turned to the elevator
where one of her friends was vainly pushing the button.
"Out of order again!" exclaimed Elaine. "That's the one trouble with this apartment house. Well, there's no
use waiting for the elevator to make up its mind, which it does most unexpectedly. We'll have to use the
stairway."
There were four flights down to the ground floor and Elaine took them on the run, her friends following
with her bags. As luck had it, a taxicab was parked in front of the apartment house, which was unusual at
this hour. Elaine didn't waste time cheering over her good fortune. Her fears for her father forgotten, she
sprang gladly into the cab, grabbed the bags that her friends tossed after her, and told the driver to hurry
her to Grand Central Station.
As the cab swung the corner, Elaine looked back at the six-story apartment building. She saw the lights
on the fifth floor that represented her father's apartment, for she had left them on in expectation of his
visitors. Even more assuring than those lights was the blank area of solid wall that represented Bartlett's
strong room, where he would remain secure until those visitors arrived. They were men who could be
trusted.
One of them, Tracy Singledon, was the man who had promised to promote Bartlett's invention. He had
been friendly from the start, the big bluff man whose ability at interesting other investors was
unquestioned. If anything, Singledon was too gullible. He believed whatever they told him and often they
failed to live up to their claims. Yet Singledon took all disappointments in his stride; as he put it, they
simply taught him to be more careful.
A direct contrast to Singledon was Rupert Suffolk.
Careful from the start, Suffolk had at first impressed Elaine unfavorably. He was a suave man, wise in
manner, noted for his foresight in financial matters. Until recently Suffolk had specialized in real estate, but
finding himself overloaded, had decided on other ventures, hence his sudden interest in the
cathodoscope. Once convinced that Bartlett had a real invention in the making, Suffolk had become
more than cooperative.
Learning that Bartlett needed a combination strong room and laboratory, Suffolk had provided one in this
apartment house which he owned. Since the place was being remodeled, the room was fixed to Bartlett's
specifications. Elaine's father had been allowed to provide his own locks, products of his inventive skill.
The door, equipped with pivot hinges built into the frame, was the final word in burglar-proof equipment.
Other faces came to Elaine's mind as she settled back reflectively.
Rex Troy, beau ideal of the matinee trade, wanted stock in the Cathodoscope Corporation. Elaine had
seen Troy perform in "The Impostor" and had met him back stage with her father. She hadn't liked him as
an actor or an individual, but perhaps the contrast with Jan Kranda was the reason.
As a character actor, Kranda was perfection. His portrayal of Heinrich had greatly impressed Bartlett.
Quickly these recollections swept through Elaine's mind. The cab had covered a mere five blocks during
her mental process. And now Elaine was thinking of another man, a newcomer in the group of investors.
His name was Lamont Cranston, and there was something in his very silence that had struck Elaine as
impressive.
In the smoke of the cigarette she had lighted, Elaine could picture a face that was moderately hawklike.
She could see two eyes that gazed from an impassive countenance; eyes that were hypnotic in their
steadiness.
Suddenly her cab stopped with a jolt. Half turned about, Elaine stared through the window and caught a
glimpse of Cranston!
A moment later the illusion was gone.
Though Elaine didn't realize it, the eyes had recognized her. They had simply changed direction to study
the driver of Elaine's cab. The Shadow's new survey was inspired by an undertone from the front seat of
his own cab.
"Take a look at that hackie, boss," Shrevvy was saying. "He's a phony, one hundred proof. Even the
boys from Brooklyn know the lights around this triangle. And that hack of his is non-McCoy. It's an Indy
with a repaint to make it look like a company job."
To The Shadow, the face behind the wheel of the other cab was as familiar as Elaine's. It looked like a
摘要：

SYNDICATEOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI?CHAPTERII?CHAPTERIII?CHAPTERIV?CHAPTERV?CHAPTERVI?CHAPTERVII?CHAPTERVIII?CHAPTERIX?CHAPTERX?CHAPTERXI?CHAPTERXII?CHAPTERXIII?CHAPTERXIV?CHAPTERXV?CHAPTERXVI?CHAPTERXVII?CHAPTERXVIIICHAPTERITHElastactw...

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