Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 272 - King of the Black Market

VIP免费
2024-12-22 1 0 200.14KB 81 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
KING OF THE BLACK MARKET
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," October 1943.
Not just the life or death of one individual or one group, but the life
or
death of the entire country was at stake as The Shadow battled this evil
genius
who sought everything for himself, regardless of the danger to a country at
war!
CHAPTER I
CRIME POINTS THE FINGER
AGAINST the gathering dusk, the lights of the Pyrolac Co. formed a solid
array that spoke of overtime. Every window in the outspread buildings was
aglow,
proving that this plant was doing its utmost to crack whatever bottlenecks it
could.
There was further proof of Pyrolac's importance.
Around the plant, a wall surmounted with barbed wire was patrolled by
armed
guards, whose presence marked Pyrolac as a vital industry. The wall was broken
only by a huge steel gate, at present open but well guarded. Through the gate
ran a siding from the railroad that passed the humming factory.
A switching engine was backing through the gate to pick up a short string
of box cars, to take them for a mile haul down to the yards, where a freight
would pick them up for a run across New Jersey to a junction with a trunk
line.
By tomorrow, Pyrolac would be racing on its way to serve as airplane dope
and play its part in paint jobs at the shipyards. Another batch of freight
cars
would be loading for another night trip to supply the hungry needs of those
essential industries.
As a quick-drying, weatherproof lacquer, nothing could equal Pyrolac. It
was costly, but worth the price. Those who thought so were the men who knew,
and
Chet Conroy was one of them.
From his office near an inner corner of the yard, Chet watched the
switcher
coast in through the gate and felt a surge of satisfaction. They'd said that
Pyrolac wouldn't deliver its full quota for another three months, but Chet had
done his part in showing it could be done. For weeks, the stuff had been going
out in carloads, to a total value that would soon be represented by figures as
high as the numbers on the cars themselves.
Though Chet Conroy was young, he held an important job. More important
than
his plain office indicated.
Chet handled the inspection department. Outside his office was the room
where the belt line ended. There the gallon cans of Pyrolac were stacked,
stamped, and turned over to the loaders. At present, the room was empty, but
soon the belts would teem. Which meant that it was time for Chet to be
starting
through the plant to check things all along the line.
It was good business, though, to watch the loaders. Their work took up
where Chet's left off, and things might happen, even to certified goods. That
was why Chet's eyes kept following the shifting engine until it reached the
box
cars. Then Chet's dark eyes narrowed; his square jaw tightened forward.
A splotch of blackness was the reason.
The blot looked huge, vaguely human, as it detached itself from the front
of the shifter. Oddly, it seemed as though a chunk of the locomotive had
broken
loose to come to life. Crouched in the engine's own gloom, such living
blackness
could have passed the guards unnoticed, riding right into the yard of the
Pyrolac factory.
At that thought, Chet laughed.
The blotch of blackness was gone, so suddenly that it could not possibly
be
a thing alive. Just the jolt of the shifter, cutting off the lights of the
building opposite, that was all. That, plus Chet's eyes, which had been
bothering him lately, from overstrain at test tubes, studying the reaction of
Pyrolac samples. No wonder he was seeing black spots, but it wasn't pleasant
to
view such big ones.
Rubbing his eyes, Chet took another look from the window, this time at
the
loading platform. The loaders were sliding one car door shut, so that it could
be double locked and sealed. Chet looked for a familiar face, but didn't see
it.
He wondered what had become of the swarthy man with the dark mustache, who
usually supervised the operation.
Chet hadn't yet become acquainted with the chief loader. His own
associates
were the chemists who so zealously handled every stage in the manufacture of
Pyrolac. Chet was something of a chemist too, otherwise he wouldn't be holding
the inspection job.
A good job, too.
The telephone on Chet's desk seemed to agree as it tingled furiously. And
when Chet answered the call, the voice he heard corroborated his opinion. Chet
found himself talking to none other than Hiram Biggs, the president of
Pyrolac.
And Biggy, as he was nicknamed, wanted the inspecting chemist to come to his
office right away!
ADMITTED to the president's office, Chet found Biggs surrounded by half a
dozen visitors, all as serious of manner as the head of Pyrolac. With a wave,
Biggs introduced them, and Chet heard names he recognized. These men were the
customers who had received recent shipments of Pyrolac.
The final name impressed Chet most.
It was Humphrey Thorneau, and the man fulfilled all specifications.
Thorneau's name, like his industries, was widely known. He was a man whose
slogan was one word: results. And every factory that Thorneau controlled in
part
or whole, produced those results.
Under Thorneau management, aircraft factories sped their output. So did
the
plants that handled instruments, or products needed in anything from shipping
to
munitions. Thorneau was the man who opened bottlenecks wide. Having helped on
such a task in the Pyrolac factory, Chet was more than pleased to meet the man
who had done the same, single-handed, in every case that required his
attention.
The mere name Thorneau told Chet why this individual dominated the group
of
customers. They had automatically chosen Thorneau as their spokesman. Meeting
Thorneau face to face, Chet was impressed by a blunt visage with keen, though
deep-set eyes; lips that carried a friendly, understanding smile, yet
delivered
a heavy-toned greeting. In Thorneau's handclasp, Chet could feel a grip that
stood for power, even though its pressure was restrained.
Perhaps the satisfaction of meeting Thorneau caused Chet to overlook the
gloom that clouded this assemblage. It was Biggs who bluntly supplied the news
that these customers, Thorneau included, had not come to deliver testimonials
favoring Pyrolac.
"Those recent shipments, Conroy," spoke Biggs, abruptly. "Our customers
say
there is something wrong with them."
Chet turned about, puzzled.
"Something wrong?"
"See for yourself." Biggs proffered an open can of Pyrolac that he
brought
from beside his desk. "You won't have to make a chemical test to know that
this
Pyrolac has been adulterated."
Chet took a look at the gummy liquid. He poured some into a glass that
Biggs supplied. The stuff was muddy.
Shaking his head, Chet said:
"This can't be Pyrolac."
"It was Pyrolac," announced a voice near Chet's shoulder. "At least it
was
branded as such when it left your department, Conroy."
Turning, Chet faced the swarthy man with the dark mustache who had been
absent from the loading platform. He decided he didn't like the chap nor his
implications.
"If you mean I certified faulty lacquer," declared Chet, coldly, "I'd
suggest that you reconsider the statement. Nothing leaves my department unless
it tests one hundred percent. But my job is finished when the shipments go to
the loading platform."
That was tossing it right back at the swarthy man. Chet didn't bother
about
noting how Biggs reacted. Instead, he glanced toward Thorneau and saw that the
blunt-faced man still retained his firm smile. Evidently Thorneau approved
Chet's way of meeting an issue squarely. The fact made Chet like Thorneau all
the more.
Unfortunately, Biggs wasn't so impressed. It happened that Biggs was the
one man qualified to settle the present issue. Looking straight at Chet, Biggs
waved his hand toward the swarthy man, and announced:
"Perhaps I should have introduced you, Conroy. This gentleman is Mr.
Marquette. He and the more important members of the loading crew are
operatives
from the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
Chet found himself in a mental whirl. With F.B.I. men on the loading job,
nothing could have happened to the Pyrolac during the loading operation.
Therefore the responsibility lay somewhere in the plant.
But where?
STEP by step, Chet could recall every portion of the tested process,
double-checked to the sealing of the cans. He'd have sworn that there couldn't
be a faulty gallon of Pyrolac in all the loads shipped. Chet shook his head,
quite baffled.
Marquette wasn't baffled.
Lifting the can of Pyrolac, the F.B.I. man held its tilted lid to the
light. Through the metal, Chet could see a pattern of very tiny holes.
"They've been spiked," affirmed Marquette. "Needled is another term for
it.
Needled lacquer, that's what. It reminds me of the way they doctored booze in
the prohibition days. Only this time it isn't done to make the stuff bring a
better price.
"This needle job was meant to ruin these Pyrolac shipments, and it did.
Whatever stuff was injected, it turned the lacquer into a lot of gummy goo.
Those holes were jabbed right through the can lids, then plugged with wax, a
simple smear job. That could have happened in your department, Conroy."
Chet met Marquette's impeachment with a distant stare. His voice, though,
was emphatic:
"It couldn't have -"
"And why not?"
"Because," began Chet, "I check all those containers personally when they
ride past on the belt."
"And then?"
"They go into the shipping room, where they're waxed and stacked, ready
for
removal to the loading platform -"
Chet halted suddenly. He'd stated the very fact that Marquette wanted;
namely that the inspection preceded the simple waxing process that solidly
affixed the labels and inspection stamps, along with making the Pyrolac cans
rustproof, should they encounter moisture during shipment. In simpler terms,
Chet had marked himself as the logical man behind the sabotage occurring in
the
Pyrolac factory!
Logic appealed to Chet Conroy. He decided that he could use it in his own
behalf.
"Those shipments travel in freight cars," reminded Chet. "It would be
easy
for people to get at the containers during transit. Plenty of time to jab them
with the neutralizer, apply another coat of wax -"
"Hold it, Conroy," interjected Marquette. "We bolt the doors of those box
cars and seal them. Our operatives ride the caboose of the main line freight
and
check the cars when they're picked up at the junction. We use thorough
methods,
Conroy."
Looking at the faces around him, Chet saw silent accusation. The pudgy
face
of Biggs was typical of the lot. The others seemed to be matching the
expression
shown by the president of Pyrolac, with one exception. In Chet's estimate,
that
exception counted more than the rule.
Humphrey Thorneau wasn't committing himself for or against Chet Conroy.
Rather, Thorneau was taking keen interest in the verbal duel between Chet and
Marquette. Thorneau reminded Chet of a judge on a bench, the way his deep-set
eyes took in the scene. Right now, he was looking at Chet, as though expecting
him to even the score.
There wasn't any smile on Thorneau's lips, but his expression was at
least
impartial, if not sympathetic. So Chet decided to prove himself worthy of
Thorneau's expectations.
"I'd like to analyze this stuff," declared Chet, gesturing to the muggy
glassload that had once passed as Pyrolac. "I want to find out just what's
wrong
with it."
"You've already told us." Marquette's voice carried the trace of a sneer.
"You spoke of some neutralizer."
"That was your idea," reminded Chet. "You said the stuff was needled, so
I
took your word for it. But that was before you told me that you kept tabs on
the
shipments during transit."
Again, Chet had scored. Even Marquette looked interested. But Chet was
more
concerned with winning Thorneau's approval, for he calculated that this big
man
could prove a real friend.
"Pyrolac goes through several processes," reminded Chet. "Anywhere along
the line, the introduction of adulterated chemicals could ruin the formula.
It's
my job to inspect from start to finish, but I have to allow for the integrity
of
the various departments."
Hiram Biggs started to say something, but Marquette waved for silence.
Bluntly the Fed asked:
"Then what about these plugged containers?"
"They might be a blind," returned Chet, promptly. "Maybe the caps are
punched and waxed before this factory receives them."
Again Biggs opened his mouth but shut it promptly when Marquette picked
up
the glass of muggy fluid. However, Marquette wasn't going to suggest that
Biggs
taste some of the faulty Pyrolac. Instead, the Fed handed the glass to Chet,
and
said:
"Analyze it, Conroy. We'll wait for your report."
Triumphantly, Chet bowed himself from the office, smiling at the dumb
stares of Biggs and the Pyrolac customers. For again, Chet saw a face that was
an exception. In the gaze of Humphrey Thorneau, Chet saw the approbation that
one keen thinker could give another.
Crime had pointed its finger at Chet Conroy, and he was ready to nullify
that accusation, confident that his proof of innocence would be accepted by
the
man whose opinion counted most: Humphrey Thorneau. But Chet's confidence would
not be enough to overcome the mass of evidence which would soon pile up
against
him.
CHAPTER II
THE FRAME THAT FAILED
WHEN Chet Conroy reached his little office, he placed the glass of muddy
liquid on his battered desk. Stepping outside the door, he examined some
gallon
cans of Pyrolac that were coming through on the belt. There wasn't a thing
wrong
with the lids that Chet could see. Still, the needle holes, if present,
wouldn't
show while the cans were sealed.
Soon the shipping crew would be back. But Chet doubted that any of them
could spike the containers during the waxing job. There were so many that
they'd
keep tally on each other and Chet knew the whole crowd personally. Honest
fellows, who couldn't possibly be harboring more than one crook among their
number, if any.
Back in the office, Chet looked from the window. The yard was dark,
except
around the loading platform. There, Marquette's men were flashing lights in
one
box car while others were bolting the door of another, applying the heavy
seals
that the Fed had mentioned. Chet had never watched that operation before. His
own work kept him too occupied.
Opening the desk drawer, Chet found a slip of paper that he wanted and
smiled, despite his worry. The slip carried the combination to the safe in the
corner of the office. It was an old safe for which Chet had no particular use,
since he kept nothing of great value in the office. In fact, Chet hadn't
opened
the safe for weeks.
He wouldn't be opening it now, except for the fact that the safe
contained
some laboratory equipment, Bunsen burner, test tubes and other common items.
Being one of the few men who knew what went into Pyrolac from start to finish,
Chet wouldn't need more than simple apparatus to probe the muddy emulsion in
the
glass on the desk.
As he squatted in front of the safe, Chet took another glance from the
window. Again, his eyes bothered him. Blackness, like a sheaf of life, flitted
away from the door of a box car as two men approached it. Odd, that illusion,
as
though some black-garbed ghost had been making an inspection of its own, to
certify the job that humans were about to do!
So quickly did the shape merge with shrouding darkness that Chet
immediately forgot it. He wasn't even bothered because the imaginary figure
had
seemingly glided toward the door that led from shipping room to loading
platform. Chet simply rubbed his eyes, looked at the combination slip, and
turned the dial of the safe.
When it came to friends or enemies, Chet wouldn't worry about ghosts or
optical illusions. He'd depend on Thorneau to see that he had a fair hearing,
when he argued this question with Marquette. To prepare for the renewal of
hostilities in the president's office, it was Chet's present task to find out
all he could about the glass of inferior Pyrolac.
Once Chet tested that stuff, Marquette could do the same with the
remainder, the contents of the gallon can that Biggs had on his desk. Whatever
Chet's analysis, they'd find out it was right. Such was Chet's thought when he
swung the safe door wide.
Therewith, Chet's thinking machinery quit cold.
IN the safe, crowding Chet's few belongings, was a squatly, solid
implement
that Chet had never seen before. It looked like one of the capping machines
used
in the Pyrolac factory, except that those were huge, whereas this was
portable.
Moreover, this device wasn't used for capping containers. If it had a
name,
it could be properly termed a "needler."
The thing had an arched base, with clamps that could affix it to the belt
line. There was a metal regulator forming a semicircle shaped to the
circumference of a gallon can. The device was just the right height, too, and
when Chet pressed a lever that he saw on top, two things happened.
Down from the thick flat top came an array of needle points, the spikers.
Up went the regulator, automatically. When Chet raised the lever, needles and
regulator reversed their direction. It was all so simple that Chet could
picture
the rest.
With this device planted on the belt, one man could use the lever as fast
as the gallon cans came through. The regulator would stop each can, the
needles
would spike it, and the container would be on the way without a stop, for Chet
saw that the regulator worked on an eccentric that would swing it forward with
every catch it made.
One man alone could use this device and get away with it, Chet Conroy
himself!
Of course it was Chet's job to slap approval stamps on the containers. He
usually began that after they accumulated, and then worked back along the
belt.
But Marquette wouldn't accept such an alibi. He'd say that Chet worked the
needler with one hand and laid the stamps on with the other.
Maybe the machine was rigged to feed the stamps, too. In that case, Chet
would be framed all the more efficiently!
That thought was buzzing amid Chet's flood of new impressions, all
stimulated by sight of this strange machine. Then Chet saw something that made
him forget the minor angles. The thing was a glass cylinder made to fit the
screw top of the machine. This was the jar to hold the neutralizer that the
needles jabbed into the Pyrolac!
Obviously, the needles would have to be hollow, like those on a
hypodermic
syringe. To check that fact, Chet lifted the portable machine and swung it
toward his desk. There, he stopped, his bewilderment passing one hundred
percent
for guilt.
In the doorway stood Marquette, with a leveled automatic. Behind the Fed,
Chet saw the faces of Biggs and the Pyrolac consumers. Like Marquette, they
looked convinced by the evidence before them.
"You fell for it, Conroy," gruffed Marquette. "We didn't tell you that
we'd
checked every department except yours. Letting you come back here was just
part
of the system. I knew you'd try to get rid of any evidence you had around, so
I
brought these witnesses to see what happened."
The witnesses were crowding into the little office, and with them Chet
saw
Humphrey Thorneau. No longer was Thorneau's face friendly, though it lacked
the
glare that others displayed. Rather it registered disappointment, as though
Thorneau considered this a sad sequel to Chet's earlier show of initiative.
Being caught with the goods was bad enough, in Chet's opinion. The fact
that the goods weren't his made it worse. Chet could stand the accusations,
because he expected them, but disdain from a man like Thorneau was too much.
They could brand Chet as a crook, but he wouldn't let himself be classed a
fool.
Marquette's gesture ordered Chet to place the needler on the desk. As
Chet
complied, the Fed relieved him of the glass container used for the
neutralizing
fluid. Sniffing the jar without result, Marquette nudged his gun toward the
glass of muggy liquid on the desk.
"Let's see that stuff again."
Chet let Marquette see it, at the closest range possible. The Fed took
the
gummy juice right in the face when Chet, on sudden impulse, dashed it at him.
The office reverberated when Marquette's gun began to blast, and the shots
were
echoed by a clatter of glass, the jar that the Fed dropped. As for Chet, he
wasn't anywhere near Marquette's gunfire. Chet was headed the other way, out
through the office door.
In that mad moment, Chet thought that his path was blocked. The door was
filled with blackness so solid that Chet couldn't see past it. Oddly, the
black
blockade evaporated as Chet arrived; indeed, it seemed momentarily transformed
into a life-sized shape that whipped away, like a figure in a cloak. Chet
hadn't
any time to bother about illusions, optical or otherwise.
HAVING started this bolt for freedom, Chet intended to see it through. He
jabbed an elbow into Biggs, when the Pyrolac executive made a grab at him.
Next
in line was Thorneau, bulkier and more formidable, but Chet bowled him aside
with a straight-arm shove. Out through the shipping room, Chet didn't stop to
look for the cloaked figure that had receded there. Instead, he sped straight
toward the exit to the loading platform.
There were shouts from the office, a scurry of pursuing feet, Marquette's
voice yelling for others to get out of the way. Clearing the belt line, Chet
turned and grabbed at cans of passing Pyrolac, to bowl them back at his
pursuers. Those gallon cylinders were a happy idea.
Not only did they stop the surge from the office; one container clipped
Marquette, who was mopping his face with a handkerchief, while aiming with his
other hand. The Fed took a spill like a tenpin, his automatic barking wide.
Marquette's sprawl halted Thorneau, who was close behind him.
The only man that Chet didn't see was Biggs. The reason was explained a
moment later, when a great clanging broke through the factory. Biggs had
yanked
the emergency alarm which was connected with every office. A few minutes more
and Chet's escape would be completely blocked.
That situation roused Chet's wits the more. Looking back, as he reached
the
exit, he saw that he was clear of all pursuers, unless he counted a streak of
sweeping blackness that couldn't be real, although it did appear grotesquely
human. This was no time to debate the subject of ghosts, or consider getting a
pair of glasses.
Straight ahead was a figure real enough, one of the regular factory
watchmen who recognized Chet and was amazed by his rapid flight. The watchman
held a gun, but he wasn't aiming it. Instead, he was expecting Chet to explain
what was happening in the shipping department. So Chet did, in his own terms.
Halting in his tracks, Chet pointed off into the darkened yard and
shouted:
"There he goes!"
Perhaps the watchman caught a glimpse of the same blackness that Chet
saw,
but it was too evasive to be a target. However, Chet took advantage of the
watchman's hesitation to grab the gun the fellow held. Jabbing a couple of
shots
in air, Chet sprang after the imaginary fugitive, to give the idea that
someone
other than himself was being hunted.
By then, Marquette was at the exit from the shipping room, bawling to the
men on the loading platform. There were Feds among that crew and they caught
the
idea promptly. Pulling their own guns, they swung to look for Chet. They saw
him
immediately.
Clanging alarms had given way to wailing sirens, sounding a general man
hunt. In turn, the sirens produced a flood of searchlights from the walls of
the
factory yard. Watchmen were springing from various directions, except from the
big gate, through which the railroad siding ran.
There, men were ready to clang the gate shut, waiting only for the
shifting
engine to haul the loaded box cars through. For the engineer of the shunter,
knowing that the gate would seal all egress for a while to come, was giving
his
boiler full steam for the portal. In the midst of all this, Chet Conroy was no
longer hunted; he was found.
Chet had ducked for the darkness beside the freight cars, only to be
spotted by the glare. And now the cars were being hauled away from him,
leaving
him helpless in the very center of the yard. Madly, Chet sprang across the
track
as the last car clacked past him; observing darkness on the other side, he
made
a quick dart in the direction that the short train was taking.
A futile thing, that brief dive for cover, with guns already barking at
the
spot where Chet had disappeared. At least it would have been quite futile, if
a
figure hadn't appeared to take the brunt that Chet deserved. Out of the
receding
darkness behind the final freight car whirled a cloaked fighter equipped with
a
pair of automatics, that started a sharp tattoo of their own!
The ghost come to life!
Chet didn't witness how this creature of his fancy had projected itself
into reality. Around beyond the box cars, he was racing alongside their bolted
doors, trying to stay in the moving shelter afforded against the searchlights
from the other side. So Chet didn't know that a cloaked fighter had kept pace
with him, to appear as if from nowhere at a timely moment that aided Chet's
flight.
Of the many who did see the black-clad arrival, only one man realized who
the being was. Vic Marquette, the investigating Fed, identified the mystery
figure as The Shadow.
Weird battler who waged all-out warfare against crime, The Shadow was a
logical factor in this fray. Undoubtedly he'd learned of sabotage at the
Pyrolac
factory and had come to take a part in its undoing. Unfortunately, the thing
was
working in reverse. The Shadow had become a scapegoat for Chet Conroy, the man
upon whom crime was so solidly pinned.
Shouting for his men to ignore the black-clad fighter and go after a
different fugitive, Vic Marquette couldn't make himself heard above the din of
sirens and the clatter of the short freight which by now was rattling rapidly
through the big gate. Even the sound of gunfire was muffled by those louder
sounds.
Wheeling across the yard, The Shadow looked completely trapped between
the
zealous Feds and watchmen who were firing full blast. The clang of the great
gate, slamming shut, seemed to seal the doom of this intrepid battler.
Until Vic Marquette, his throat gone hoarse, stopped yelling long enough
to
hear a strange tone that rose as a taunting challenge amid the huge hubbub.
The laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER III
RIDE OF DOOM
USUALLY, The Shadow reserved his taunting laugh for men of crime. Tonight
he was flinging the mockery at guardians of the law, purely that he might
escape
the dilemma into which he had so openly precipitated himself.
However clouded his original purpose, The Shadow's present intent was
more
than plain. He was drawing pursuers, taunting them into gunnery in order to
thoroughly elude them. Witnessing the process, Marquette marveled. He'd seen
The
Shadow in action before, but never on a scale so large as this, nor with such
handicaps.
True to form, The Shadow was jabbing with both guns, but he was pulling
those shots. Otherwise, his opponents would be dropping, instead of merely
dodging, when those big automatics coughed their way. Still, The Shadow's
marksmanship was flawless, for he was placing bullets very close to human
targets; close enough to keep men on the dodge.
As long as return shots were hasty, they couldn't find The Shadow, the
way
he weaved to all portions of the thoroughly illuminated yard. From wall to
wall,
he seemed to ricochet like the leaden slugs that were missing him. Watching
Feds
and watchmen go wide with their fire, Marquette saw and appreciated the chief
item of The Shadow's uncanny skill.
It was this: Whenever a gun talked toward The Shadow, he spotted it
instantly, or sooner. Whether by sight, hearing, or sheer instinct, the
cloaked
fighter was a human direction finder. It was weird enough, the way The Shadow
wheeled and picked out marksmen the moment they fired, purposely missing them
by
scant inches in return for shots a few feet wide.
But when Marquette saw The Shadow's jabs literally point the way to
aiming
sharpshooters before they fired, Vic was ready to believe the most fanciful
things that he had ever heard regarding this cloaked superfighter. Those shots
were most effective, since they put The Shadow's foemen entirely off stride.
Watching the scattered gunners scoot, Marquette kept thinking what it would be
like if they were crooks. Had The Shadow been seeking hits, the yard would be
a
shambles by this time.
How it would end was Marquette's worry. It really was Vic's worry when it
did end. Spinning suddenly from a corner of the yard, The Shadow left a batch
of
converging searchlight beams behind him. Sweeping after The Shadow, those big
lights picked the exit from the shipping room where Marquette was standing
with
a cluster of spectators including Biggs and Thorneau.
They saw blackness when they blinked, for it was right among them. A
swirl
of living blackness that scattered the men who grabbed for it. If any of that
group held the false impression that Chet Conroy had somehow became the
cloaked
figure, they were immediately disillusioned. The Shadow went through them like
摘要：

KINGOFTHEBLACKMARKETbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"October1943.Notjustthelifeordeathofoneindividualoronegroup,butthelifeordeathoftheentirecountrywasatstakeasTheShadowbattledthisevilgeniuswhosoughteverythingforhimself,regardlessofthedangertoacountryatwar!CHAPTERICRIMEPOINTST...

展开>> 收起<<
Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 272 - King of the Black Market.pdf

共81页,预览17页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：81 页 大小：200.14KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 动力学连接体 力的合成 配电装置 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 81
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注