Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 261 - The Museum Murders

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THE MUSEUM MURDERS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. MANHATTAN MENACE
? CHAPTER II. THRUSTS FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. BROKEN CRIME
? CHAPTER IV. THE WAYS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER V. THE MAN WHO COULD BE CROOKED
? CHAPTER VI. BRAIN JOINS BRAWN
? CHAPTER VII. LOST AND FOUND
? CHAPTER VIII. THE WRONG BLUFF
? CHAPTER IX. DEATH'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER X. BLASTED BLACKNESS
? CHAPTER XI. HARRY TRIES AGAIN
? CHAPTER XII. THE WAY OF A FRIEND
? CHAPTER XIII. SHOWDOWN AT MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XIV. CRIME'S CROOKED TWIST
? CHAPTER XV. CRIME'S BOMBSHELL
? CHAPTER XVI. CROOKS GO ASTRAY
? CHAPTER XVII. VANISHED FOEMEN
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME'S SECRET
? CHAPTER XIX. THE DOUBLE MOVE
? CHAPTER XX. CROOK VERSUS CROOK
? CHAPTER XXI. DEATH'S TREASURES
CHAPTER I. MANHATTAN MENACE
LIKE a crouched monster watching for its prey, the Argyle Museum squatted in its own gloom,
surrounded by darkness that was itself a relic of departed years. No location could have been better
suited to silence and seclusion than this spot in the very midst of Manhattan.
It was the vortex in the maelstrom of the metropolis, a calm center in a perpetual storm - this brownstone
edifice once the residence of Henry Argyle. Living and dying in the days of plutocrats, Argyle had left the
ornate mansion and its surrounding grounds as a museum, not only to bear his name but to contain the
many art treasures on which he had spent much of his vast fortune.
The status of the Argyle Museum had never been quite fully established. It was open to the public, but
only during brief periods of the day. This enabled it to go tax-free under the head of a public institution,
but its destinies were controlled by a board of private directors, as ordained by Henry Argyle.
Men of wealth, all these, who cherished the memory of Henry Argyle and kept close watch upon the
preserves over which they had been appointed guardians. In actuality, the museum was a fortress,
policed by well-trained hirelings, a stronghold that no men of crime had ever dared invade.
Yet this was to be moving night for the Argyle Museum!
The reason? War! Old Argyle, in all his elaborate precautions to protect his treasures for posterity, had
not foreseen the day when attacks would be possible from the air. His mansion had concrete foundations
that matched the thickness of its walls; the windows were triple-barred; but the roof, though sheathed
with a layer of metal and equipped with alarms, could never stand the strain of a high-explosive charge.
Should a lone air raider fly over Manhattan and drop a single demolition bomb in the blackened hollow
where the Argyle Museum was flanked by towering skyscrapers, there would be utter devastation among
the priceless antiquities that old Henry had accumulated.
Hence the directors were in session behind the drawn steel shutters of their conference room in the
museum itself. Not a preliminary meeting this, but a final one. Long since, Ewell Darden, chairman of the
directors, had ordained the transfer of irreplaceable treasures to somewhere outside the city.
Somewhere that even Darden did not know. The choice was to be made by lot. Various directors had
individually investigated suitable places, in accordance with the strict requirements set by the board. On
the table in front of them lay hollow wooden capsules - some directors had as many as four or five - in
which they had written the names of remote strongholds where the treasures could be safely housed for
the duration.
Ewell Darden was a gray-haired man, thin of features, but sharp of eye and strong of jaw. Himself an art
collector, he had become the chairman of directors through dint of long service. Compared to him, the
remaining directors, a dozen-odd, were a drab lot - with one notable exception.
The man who violated the rule was hawk-faced, his expression almost masklike. He looked younger than
the rest, by far, yet it was impossible to determine the exact age of that calm, immobile countenance.
Suffice it that he, too, was wealthy and appreciated art. His name was Lamont Cranston.
A name that symbolized The Shadow - to those allowed to know it!
As Cranston, The Shadow posed as a man of leisure, who hobnobbed with his friend the police
commissioner and sought the company of the wealthy. For in his other self, The Shadow, his business
was to crack down on crime. By knowing the moves of the law, by studying in advance the targets
against which criminals might shoot, The Shadow, along with cleaning up crime, did marvels in preventing
evil.
IF ever crime could wish an opportunity, it had one - the priceless possessions of the Argyle Museum!
Recognizing that fact, Ewell Darden was admitting it in no mincing terms. Crisply, he was reading the list
of items to be moved. There were jeweled crowns and other regalia from the palaces of rajahs; statuettes
of gold, similarly gem-encrusted; even suits of armor inlaid with precious metals.
There were priceless paintings that certain unscrupulous collectors would purchase, had they the
opportunity, even if they had to keep them hidden for years to come. There were rare porcelains,
fabulous tapestries, which might by clever alteration be changed to pass as other specimens that were
known to exist.
There was no hiding the value of the Argyle collection. Its rarities had been catalogued in a volume
replete with illustrations. Artists and craftsmen had been allowed to make replicas of certain treasures for
exhibit elsewhere, always with the edict that such imitations be later destroyed.
Yes, the whole world - and particularly its lower strata - knew what the brownstone museum contained,
though no item, not even the tiniest, had ever been stolen from these premises.
Those facts reviewed, Ewell Darden declared:
"Tonight, our most valued treasures are being packed. Within another hour, the armored vans will carry
the precious crates and boxes to a destination unknown."
There was a buzz of approval among the directors when Darden ordered them to drop their capsules in a
wooden collection box as it passed around the table. He stepped over to an ancient wooden wheel
mounted on a creaky frame, a double wheel with an inner trough. It was a device once used in Roman
lotteries, and from this a chosen capsule was to be taken.
"We shall deliver the selected lot to Carl Croom," declared Darden. "He alone will learn the destination
and guide the vans there. The longer our new treasure house is kept secret, the more time Croom will
have to add protective measures."
As he spoke, Darden looked to his right, where a stranger was seated. He was Clyde Burke, a
self-possessed newspaper reporter who had chanced into the conference. However, the precautions
were such that a member of the press was allowable, though none had been invited. Nevertheless, Burke
was smart enough to act as though indifferent when directors glanced his way.
A telephone rang on the table at Clyde's elbow and the reporter answered it. The call was for Cranston,
so Clyde handed it over. An interesting procedure, considering that Clyde Burke was secretly an agent of
The Shadow, here by his chief's design! For The Shadow had expected a call that might necessitate his
departure, and this happened to be it.
Most casually, Cranston strolled from the meeting. He had another appointment elsewhere, and since
even the result of the lottery was to be a secret, he had no reason to remain.
Cranston moved through the exhibit rooms of the museums, where workers were finishing the crating job
under direction of Carl Croom, the blunt, forceful man who had been selected to convey the treasures to
their new citadel, wherever it might be.
Only the irreplaceable items were to go, hence the museum was still well stocked with exhibits. Likewise,
Croom had personally selected the attendants who were to accompany him. The museum being
overstaffed with elderly guards who dated back to Argyle's day, Croom showed preference for younger
men, though some were newcomers. Those that he'd hand-picked were working with the stacks of
crates.
And Cranston, in passing, noted a clean-cut chap among that select group whose presence was an
excellent addition. The man in question was Harry Vincent, another of The Shadow's competent agents.
Yes, all were well within the museum, where The Shadow's aids were on duty. Cranston's impassive lips
registered a very faint smile as he walked between two standing rows of antique armor that was to stay in
the museum, since it was not of the inlaid-gold variety.
Then, through the outer door, Cranston passed two human sentinels in the form of private detectives. At
the gate, another pair of such watchdogs eyed him as he entered a waiting limousine.
And then the big car was rolling around the comer, its observers little knowing that Cranston was already
transforming himself into The Shadow, that cloaked fighter whose prowess could outmatch a horde!
MEANWHILE, Clyde Burke was watching the progress of the lottery, ancient Roman style. Trying not
to look too interested, he leaned his elbow on the table, plucked a rubber band from some that were
loose in the drawer and idly looped it over forefinger and thumb, to trigger it at a bronze bust beyond the
lottery wheel.
Darden was dropping his own capsules in the box with the others. He delegated one director to shake
the box and pour the wooden pellets into the groove of the antique lottery wheel, which another man was
directed to spin.
The wheel whirled and the capsules rattled around within its double rim, but none flew free. All that flew
anywhere was another rubber band with which Clyde bopped the bronze bust in the nose.
About to reload, Clyde heard indignant buzzes from the directors near him and realized that the heroic
bust represented old Henry Argyle, the presiding deity in these precincts. So Clyde guiltily tossed the
rubber band to the floor and watched the lottery finish.
As the wheel slackened, its pellets subsiding toward the bottom, Ewell Darden ran his hand against the
stream and plucked one with his fingers.
Clyde shifted for a closer look as Darden stepped forward. Again, directors gave him reproving glances,
so Clyde pretended he was picking up the rubber band - which he did, because he found it promptly. It
happened, however, that Darden wasn't going to open the capsule that he had picked at random.
Instead, he called for Croom, who arrived immediately. Darden gave Croom the capsule.
"As supervisor of the new museum," declared Darden, "it will be your duty to convoy the trucks there,
Croom. Out of two dozen possible places, the new museum has been chosen by lot. You will find your
destination named in the paper within this capsule. Do not open it until the armored procession is safely
under way."
Nodding, Croom shook the wooden capsule and heard the wadded paper rattle inside it. So he put the
closed pill in his pocket, while Darden was adding that everything was in Croom's hands. Once
established at the new goal, Croom was to inform the directors of his whereabouts, but not until he felt
that all was secure.
As Croom left, Clyde took advantage of his reporter's privilege, putting questions straight to Darden.
"Would I be right," inquired Clyde, "if I stated that you've placed everything in the hands of this one man
- Carl Croom?"
Directors broke in before Darden could reply. They had chosen Croom for this assignment by a majority
vote, on the basis of his capability and service. While he had charge of the expedition, other responsible
men would be with Croom, accountable for the welfare of the treasures quite as much as he.
"But this place where they're going" - Clyde spoke with a speculative note - "how can they move in on
such short notice?"
Darden explained that every country stronghold picked by the directors had been taken on option, such
being a necessary proviso. The options ran until the first of the month - which was a few days off - and
after that date, all options expired - except on the one place where Croom and his caravan happened to
arrive. Mere occupancy of the premises would automatically establish a five-year's lease.
While Darden stated this, the directors nodded to show they hadn't missed a trick. So Clyde put another
question.
"Wasn't it an oversight," he queried, "not notifying the police that this was moving night?"
Darden's reply was a confident smile.
"On the contrary," he replied, "it happens that we have notified the police. None are present because it
would have been poor policy to advertise the time at which the collection was to be removed. The trucks
will arrive, be loaded, and depart in due course very shortly, with no fanfare.
"But surrounding the nine city blocks, of which this is the center, will be police - chiefly plain-clothes men
- who will close in as soon as the armored caravan has passed. We can all assure you, Mr. Burke, that
no one will trail our vans to their destination."
Darden's stern smile intimated that reporters would be blocked off like any other trailers, a hint that
Clyde would be wasting his time if he tried to follow the caravan. Meanwhile, one of the directors,
peering from a shuttered window, turned to announce that the trucks had arrived.
Politely, Darden invited Clyde to come along and witness the loading, so the reporter did. On the way
past the crates, Clyde sidled a shrug to Harry Vincent, a gesture that his fellow-agent understood. There
wouldn't be any fireworks tonight; couldn't be, with all the precautions that Darden and the directors had
taken.
Clyde took it that The Shadow had simply received last-hour information that the police were to be
covering the shipment of rarities that totaled millions of dollars; hence, as Cranston, The Shadow had
probably left to congratulate his friend the police commissioner on a duty well performed. In reaching that
conclusion, Clyde didn't note the loophole in his own argument.
The situation at the Argyle Museum still offered a lure to crime. What seemed to be a double precaution
could better be termed a baited trap. Like the museum directors, like the police commissioner, Clyde
Burke was overlooking the prospect as men of crime might view it.
One person alone had seen the flaw: The Shadow.
Perhaps through ignorance, men of crime would not realize that the odds were heavily against them. But
that was not the issue; the real point was that crime was due to strike.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER II. THRUSTS FROM THE DARK
OUTSIDE the Argyle Museum, the armored vans had slithered smoothly to a stop in front of the great
stone gates. All was quiet on this secluded street - too quiet. This oasis in the midst of Manhattan's
turmoil was just the spot for a surprise attack from the surrounding darkness.
In from a neighboring corner glided a figure of blackness, the cloaked shape of The Shadow. The
nonchalant Mr. Cranston had not traveled more than a block before leaving his limousine in the guise of
black that marked him as The Shadow. Hence Cranston had not learned of the police provisions to
safeguard the vans that came from this vicinity. His call hadn't come from the commissioner.
It was a call from Burbank, The Shadow's contact man, notifying him that certain crooks were on the
move. Reports from agents in the underworld attributed the mobilization of crime's hordes to a notorious
malefactor named Wolf Lapine, whose ability at cracking into banks was equaled only by his skill at
covering such operations.
In brief, Wolf's criminal listing was "known" rather than "wanted," where the law was concerned. But
Wolf was wanted by The Shadow, who was quite as anxious to crack down on Mr. Lapine as the latter
was to crack down on banks - or the Argyle Museum.
There was something that The Shadow noticed even before he left the limousine. Cars were sliding into
this area to join a few others that were parked inconspicuously near the museum. Those cars were
already established before The Shadow saw the armored trucks arrive, to be greeted by the private
detectives outside of the museum.
Those private dicks were the giveaway!
They'd been here all day, easy for Wolf's spotters to observe and report that this was to be moving night.
The cordon the police were forming, unknown to The Shadow, was geared to the arrival of the armored
vans, no sooner. Hence it was too late for anyone to thwart the infiltration of Wolf's notorious criminal
band.
Already, huddly figures were stealing from those parked cars, the rangy, stoop-shouldered figure of Wolf
Lapine among them. On the outskirts, The Shadow paused by the last car that had rolled in place and
suddenly made himself known to its occupants, two in number. Usually, The Shadow's process was to
use his automatics as cudgels, thus silently chopping down the size of an invading mob.
This time, he gave a commanding whisper. The two men came about. One was brawny, blunt-faced; the
other, a small, wizened man with sharp, quick eyes. Cliff Marsland was the blunt-faced chap; he was a
strong-arm specialist who served The Shadow in the underworld. The wizened man was Hawkeye,
craftiest spotter in the badlands, also an aid of The Shadow.
They'd sent the tip-off to Burbank regarding the moves of Wolf Lapine. True followers of The Shadow,
Cliff and Hawkeye had trailed the motley crew, expecting contact with their chief - and they were getting
it now.
Posting Cliff on the fringe, where he was at present, The Shadow started Hawkeye on a sneak along the
street, to the opposite flank. Timing his own action to the wizened man's, The Shadow moved through
streaky blackness across the street toward the Argyle Museum, intending to work into the very midst of
Wolf's unsuspecting tribe. The crates were just beginning to come down the long front walk. Logically,
Wolf would wait until all were out.
And then - the unexpected!
The fault lay with the drivers of the armored vans. Instructed to make a quick pickup of their cargo, they
didn't wait for the crates to arrive. Like mechanical puppets pulled by a single string, four men popped
from the bulletproof cabs of their individual vans, bounded to the back and flung wide the loading doors.
This happened just before The Shadow could reach Wolf's lurking mob. A commanding snarl broke the
darkness: Wolf's word to go! He didn't have to specify the rest. As the truckers turned, startled, a dozen
hoodlums came lunging from the darkness, brandishing guns in the glow of the gate lights that fronted the
museum wall!
SHOTS didn't initiate the drive, otherwise The Shadow would have fired on his own. His restraint was
for the benefit of the flat-footed truckers. Wolf Lapine, hat pulled down low over his eyes, was snarling
for the trapped men to get away from the vans - a thing also ordered by the gestures of Wolf's followers.
What Wolf intended was to take over the vans, grab the treasure crates and make an armored getaway!
Not that Wolf knew about the police cordon; he simply wasn't leaving things to chance. Turning
implements against their owners was a Lapine specialty, something he'd staged often in his bank
robberies. And the men by the trucks, thinking they still might live if they obeyed, proved themselves
suckers for Wolf's trick.
Still doing their puppet act, the truckers fled with one accord for the gateway to the museum, only to
have Wolf's ugly snarl follow them. Having kidded these men into forgetting the security that their own
vans afforded, Wolf didn't intend to let them remain at large to figure in a counterthrust or help protect the
crates from the museum. His snarl was an order for his murderous followers to chop down the fleeing
men as they ran!
That was where The Shadow had his say - with guns! Slashing down the nearest marksman, he delivered
a fierce, challenging laugh that rose to a mighty, shivering crescendo, waking what seemed to be the
echoes of gathered years from the vast gloom surrounding the Argyle Museum!
The battle laugh of The Shadow!
Few crooks could ignore that defy. On this occasion, none could. For The Shadow, slugging opponents
from his path, not only wheeled to present gun muzzles in their direction; he was veering between them
and the nearest armored van, indicating his full intent to take over the mobile stronghold that they sought
as theirs!
They still had a way to stop him - with bullets that would more than match The Shadow's fire. Wolf's
command came, but it wasn't needed, for it was drowned amid the burst of guns, Wolf's men supplying
the fusillade of their own accord. And with that blast, The Shadow vanished!
Gunfire couldn't have eradicated him completely, nor would his laugh have mirthed a new taunt if any
shots had reached him. Yet laugh The Shadow did, from blackness that blotted him. He'd thrown his
foemen completely off their stride and aim!
A quick reverse spin was The Shadow's method. He'd abandoned his pretended drive to take over the
van. Crooks were welcome to occupy the vans and drive them away, so long as those vehicles were
empty. They hadn't guessed that while they fired, aiming ahead of The Shadow's well-faked drive, so as
to clip him as he came into line - which he didn't.
Gone the other direction, The Shadow had accomplished his real motive. The fleeing truckers, forgotten
by the men who would have massacred them, were safely through the gate and spreading to the inner
shelter of the great wall surrounding the brownstone museum!
And now The Shadow's guns began to jab. Like echoes came the talk of other automatics at longer
range, from both flanks. Cliff and Hawkeye were in the fray, herding Wolf's crowd into The Shadow's
jurisdiction. Crime was set for a mop-up in reverse - for The Shadow, elusive in the darkness of the
street, was the fighter who now controlled those gaping spaces that marked the ways of entry to the open
vans.
Given brief opportunity, The Shadow would have thinned Wolf's ranks by half, with Cliff and Hawkeye
chopping off all fugitives who tried to escape in flanking darkness. But Wolf, through accident rather than
design, offset The Shadow's strategy. There still was escape from this untimely battleground, and Wolf
took the route, howling for his crew to follow.
They dashed - except for a few who staggered - straight through the gate that led to the Argyle
Museum!
Inside the wall, they scattered as the truckers had. Without wasting a moment, The Shadow followed,
allowing his foemen no time to reorganize. Immediately, the old grounds of the Argyle mansion became
the scene of a fray so incongruous that it seemed impossible that such could have happened in
Manhattan.
OLD Henry Argyle hadn't been satisfied with collecting rarities solely for the interior of his mansion
museum. He'd made a curio grounds outside. Roughly, the place resembled an Italian garden, with
pillared bowers, marble benches, and small-sized bathing pools. To these he had added stone terraces,
topped by granite statuary, a few monoliths, and even a pair of Egyptian sphinxes that flanked the
entrance to a portico running along the house.
Amid this potpourri, van men and crooks dodged alike, while The Shadow in his turn picked a handy
shelter. So bullets were chipping statuary and ricocheting from pillars and benches, with no appreciable
effect. The occasional splashes that intervened indicated merely that some dodging fighter had tripped
into a pool and was climbing out again.
The men from the vans had guns and were using them, but to no more effect than any others. It was
battle hit or miss, practically all of the latter, but The Shadow preferred it that way. Wolf and his crew
were putting themselves more on the spot the longer they toyed around these premises.
The Shadow's main purpose was to control the gate, outside which Cliff and Hawkeye would meet the
crooks when they fled through and The Shadow would then lead others in a drive upon the pausing
mob.
All this while, Carl Croom was showing himself boldly in the doorway of the museum, where Clyde
Burke was cornered along with Ewell Darden and the other directors. Croom could afford to be bold,
for four private detectives were flanking him, taking pot shots at the mobsters they couldn't even see.
Meanwhile, Croom's workers, who included Harry Vincent, had rushed the crates back into the
museum.
Now matters reached a crux. Croom wanted the detectives to make a sortie. They refused flatly; their
guns were empty, for one thing. They'd be willing to defend the museum under Croom's command, but
only if the battle surged into its heart. So Croom bluntly ordered them indoors as a reserve and gestured
to Harry and the other picked attendants.
They had guns, too; unfired weapons that were ready. At Croom's urge, they sallied out through the wide
doorway. Wolf howled for his tribe to "give it," but the command was wasted. Before more than a few
scattered shots could respond, Harry and the other attendants were spread in the fancy garden. Half a
dozen in number, they had fresh guns sufficient to turn the tide.
Wolf and his ruffians broke for the gate in keeping with The Shadow's expectations. All was set for a
general roundup, when the sound of sirens formed a converging wail from opposite corners of the front
street. The police cordon was manifesting itself in response to the prolonged outburst of gunnery from the
Argyle's premises. The Shadow's trap was ruined.
Warned that police would block the desired outlet, Wolf Lapine again showed quick headwork. He'd
brought his mob through the Argyle gate, and being still intact, he thought the outfit could survive another
inward trip. Springing right to the center of the walk, he beckoned his cohorts into the brownstone
museum itself!
Harry and others came hurtling through the Pompeian scenery, not without some mishaps around the
swimming pools. Rather than risk having his allies block off his own fire, The Shadow launched on a
short-cut toward the mansion to cut off the crooks and throw them back to the reception committee of
the attendants, which included Harry.
In the doorway, The Shadow saw Croom taking a quick glance out. The blunt-faced man dodged swiftly
from sight, shouting for the reserves - those private dicks who, by The Shadow's calculations, would by
this time be crowding under tables, shoving out the directors already hiding there.
So The Shadow gave no further thought to the interior of the museum. Lunging from beside the
brownstone building wall, he wheeled to meet the rush of Wolf and his thugs, planning to outslug them
and then deliver bullets if sledging tactics didn't stop their surge.
He met them just below the steps and let them carry him upward with their drive, so that he could bash
down from a vantage point against the wild swings of their guns.
Then The Shadow was stopped, hard. Stopped with the halting of the crooks themselves. More, he was
flung downward along with those very foemen as they reeled back from a superior attack, a charge that
carried more weight than The Shadow's!
Fresh fighters were in this strife, battlers who were immune to harm, powerful through their sheer inertia.
Fighters launched by Croom, the dependable protector of the Argyle treasures. They came in a clanging
avalanche, sweeping The Shadow into the wave of crooks before him - a mass of battlers in full armor,
living relics of an ancient past!
CHAPTER III. BROKEN CRIME
IF The Shadow wanted advice on how to end a close-range struggle, he was getting it - a perfect
demonstration. In one swoop, Croom had poured a flood of human tanks into a slugfest to produce
immediate results. The armored men weren't knights of yore, they were the four private detectives acting
on Croom's orders - and the reluctance they'd shown earlier was gone.
These four weren't bringing guns. They didn't need such weapons, considering that they were wearing
mental gauntlets. They swung the mailed fists right and left, flailing heads that could not duck them. And
the results they gained almost included The Shadow, who to them was just another fighter in the crowd
that tried to block their way.
The Shadow had more than once conjectured on the fighting ability of such human ironclads and had
passed the idea by, which was logical enough, considering that a fighter weighted down with armor
would lose in mobility whatever he gained in strength. But Croom had saved the system for an ideal
situation wherein it could prove its worth.
He'd pitched his metallic squad into a human tangle that hadn't time to escape the surprise attack.
Furthermore, the term "pitched" was accurate. They came headlong because they couldn't help it,
stumbling down the steps with gathering momentum that made them all the more formidable. Only by
diving headlong and taking a swift sideward roll did The Shadow escape the battering power of these
improvised Galahads.
Wolf Lapine managed to dive the other way while the toppling knights were flattening a few of his
followers. Coming to hands and knees, The Shadow thought the drive was over, considering how the
armored men had misjudged their footwork. But there came an element on which The Shadow hadn't
calculated. One man in armor might have clattered helpless, but with four involved, there was a chance
for cooperation.
They clanked against each other, stopping their own falls, even to the point of helping one another up, the
weight of the mail adding the needed leverage. They were swinging those metal fists, with Croom goading
them to action, and it went badly with more thugs who couldn't elude their path. A few of Wolf's men,
who still had cartridges, tried some spasmodic shots from longer range, therewith proving something
else.
Armor wasn't bulletproof - not to a direct hit. But in dodging, marksmen couldn't shoot point-blank.
Their shots were glancing ones that ricocheted from the plates of armor. Finding their footing on the level
ground, and encouraged by their own prowess, Croom's crew of ironclads hurtled onward.
The Shadow gave them right of way.
Good policy, considering that they ruled the warpath, which happened to be the way to the gate. With
Harry and the attendants flanking that route, crooks couldn't get clear of the boiler-plate brigade except
by dashing out to the street, where police in uniform and plain clothes were coming through. Crime was
broken in a way that should have proven permanent for Wolf Lapine.
Then was manifested the flaw in Croom's strategy. As police locked with the hemmed-in crooks, the
armored troop came clanging down upon them, battering even harder than before. The visors of their
ill-fitting helmets were down across their eyes; in the semidarkness, they couldn't tell friend from foe.
They expected the former to keep out of their way; when the police failed to do so, they were promptly
classified under the heading of enemies.
The whole walk was a melee, with Harry and the other flankers leaping over benches to drag the
armored reserves from the necks of the police. Timely intervention, because a swarthy police inspector,
Joe Cardona by name, was just deciding that the ironclads were crooks clad in stolen armor. The
museum attendants managed to shove the imitation knights apart and sprawl them among the fringes of
the garden, like so many junk heaps. But in the confusion, a few crooks broke away.
Wolf Lapine was among them. They were through the gate, while The Shadow was flanking the piled
men along the walk. Outside, Cliff and Hawkeye ripped shots at the fugitives, but the range was long, for
The Shadow's aids had dropped across the street when the police arrived.
Then The Shadow was with them, but a chase was futile. An odd crook crouched at the wheel of a
waiting car had picked up Wolf, and the few thugs with him. They'd rounded the next corner before The
Shadow could open fire.
Ordering Cliff and Hawkeye to track the fugitives, The Shadow resumed his guise of Cranston and
returned to the museum premises. Challenged by officers at the gate, he identified himself as a director
and was admitted. Inspector Cardona was in full charge, quizzing captured crooks, the remnants of
Wolf's outfit. True to tradition, they wouldn't talk.
Croom was receiving congratulations for the victory that was rightfully The Shadow's. He took the praise
in prosaic style while he ordered the attendants to resume the removal of the crates. Crooks hadn't even
seen the Argyle treasures, hence had fallen far short of rifling the collection.
Some of the garden statuary was chipped; the suits of armor dented. But the trappings that the private
detectives were shedding proved nothing more than common armor that was to be left in the museum.
The finely inlaid specimens had all been packed beforehand.
Under police supervision, the vans were loaded, and Cardona assured Darden that the police would
convoy the caravan to Manhattan's limits. The directors were looking on and it wasn't out of line that they
should speak to the attendants.
Thus Lamont Cranston exchanged a few words with Harry Vincent and gave him an encouraging slap on
the shoulder, during which Harry was conscious that something reached his pocket. When the trip began,
Cranston did not follow. It wouldn't have been policy to walk out on the directors twice the same
摘要：

THEMUSEUMMURDERSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.MANHATTANMENACE?CHAPTERII.THRUSTSFROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.BROKENCRIME?CHAPTERIV.THEWAYSOFTHESHADOW?CHAPTERV.THEMANWHOCOULDBECROOKED?CHAPTERVI.BRAINJOINSBRAWN?CHAPTERVII.LOSTANDFOUND?CHAPTERVIII.THEWRONG...

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