Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 251 - Legacy of Death

VIP免费

2024-12-22 0 0 190.29KB 74 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

LEGACY OF DEATH

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 1, 1942.

With a killer at large, it was up to The Shadow to find out why the

Framingham fortune had become a Legacy of Death.

CHAPTER I

WEALTH TO COME

OLD Elmer Trope bowed profoundly and gestured his thin hand toward the

dining-room table. As dryly as though the occasion called for nothing more

than

mere formality, Trope inquired:

"Another glass of sherry, Mr. Haverdale?"

"I rather think I need one, Mr. Trope!"

Alan Haverdale meant it. Who wouldn't have meant it, after learning that

he was heir to half a million dollars! For such was the announcement that

Elmer

Trope had made on this, his first meeting with young Alan Haverdale.

The sherry was in a decanter on the table. As Alan reached for it, Trope

stopped him. Taking the glass stopper from an antique container, Trope lifted

the decanter and filled Alan's glass; then did the same with his own. Watching

the sherry pour across the thick decanter lip, Alan was impressed by the rich

color of the wine. Trope seemed to understand.

"This was Mr. Framingham's best," spoke the old man. "Often, I poured it

for him; but never did I taste it until after his death. Perhaps that is why

Mr. Framingham willed the full supply to me, with the ample pension that he

left me."

For a moment, Trope's eyes were lighted with recollection; then he

dwindled into his withered self. Though he raised his glass along with Alan,

the spark was gone. Even the rich, nut-flavored taste of the very special

sherry could not bring Trope out from his shell, once he had retired into it.

"I am a simple man," declared Trope, in an almost plaintive tone. "A very

simple man. I was a faithful servant to Landis Framingham, and I shall not

forget him, for I have lived among the benefits that he bestowed upon me."

There was sincerity in Trope's tone; too much of it to suit Alan. But he

didn't blame Trope for it. Rather, Alan felt a surge against the iron tyranny

of Landis Framingham, whose dominating will had humbled all who came beneath

his sway. If anyone wanted proof of that, they could see it in the attitude of

Trope, who for forty years had been Framingham's secretary.

The yoke had borne so heavy upon Trope, that its burden still existed.

And Trope, of all things, felt himself honored by the fact that his

master

had saddled him with the postmortem task of serving as executor of the

Framingham estate.

Those thoughts passed, however, as Alan felt the warming tingle of the

sherry. An exuberance swept the young man as he recalled Trope's recent words

with their promise of immediate wealth.

"It is a very simple matter," repeated Trope, "this distribution of the

fortune that Mr. Framingham left. It is to be divided equally among all

eligible heirs."

"Suppose there had been no heirs?" queried Alan idly. "What then, Mr.

Trope?"

"The whole estate would go to charities founded by Mr. Framingham," Trope

replied. "Such a possibility, however, is too remote to consider. For I expect

to have the fortune divided among the half a dozen heirs within the next

fortnight."

Alan's forehead raised furrows beneath the sleek black hair that topped

it. His broad, smooth features showed a trace of anxiety that Trope's keen

eyes

detected. The old man waited until Alan's dark eyes were turned his way. Alan

saw the steel-gray glint of Trope's responding gaze.

"I can answer your question," stated Trope, "You are wondering if, as Mr.

Framingham's stepson, you are entitled to a share of the estate. The answer is

positively yes, for it was so stated in the will. None of the other relatives

are near enough of kin to contest it."

TROPE'S lifting hand was the sign for Alan to rise. Finished with their

sherry, they laid the glasses on the table. Almost immediately, a soft-footed

servant entered from the kitchen to clear the table. Before he could do so the

doorbell rang. Trope made a gesture, said:

"Answer it, Tifton. Show any visitor into the front parlor."

Alan watched Tifton leave. The servant was a small edition of Trope

himself, even to his plain black suit, his wing-tipped collar, and the

shoestring necktie which adorned it. Long trained in the Framingham service,

old Trope had learned his lessons well. The obedience which Trope had shown

Framingham was being exacted from Tifton by Trope himself.

"You are finding New York interesting, no doubt," said Trope, in his dry,

polite way. "So I assume that you will remain here until the estate is

settled.

Meanwhile, should you require any funds -"

"None needed, thank you," interposed Alan, with a smile. "I'm well fixed

for the present, Mr. Trope. I'm going on a tour of the bright spots this

evening, particularly the famous Forty-one Club, where I hear they have the

town's best floor show."

Trope's eyebrows raised, as if in mild reproval. Those brows were

lowering, when the eyes went narrow, a thing which Alan couldn't quite fathom,

until he realized that Trope was looking beyond him, toward the hallway door.

Alan turned.

There in the doorway stood a girl whose expression, at first glance,

struck Alan as demure. She was a blonde with clear blue eyes that momentarily

sparked an apology for her intrusion. Old Trope bowed, spoke his dry

introduction:

"Allow me, Miss Framingham, to present Mr. Haverdale. He is another of

the

heirs."

Instantly, the girl's manner changed. She drew the collar of her mink

coat

close about her throat and eyed Alan with a cold hauteur that made him wince.

Quite rapidly, he formed his conclusions regarding the girl's manner.

She, at least, bore the Farmingham name and could snub claimants of

Alan's

sort. No matter how distant her relationship to Landis Framingham, she was an

aristocrat; Alan, a member of an upstart tribe. Drawing back as though she

could not tolerate such a meeting, the girl ignored Alan and spoke to Trope,

a tone that rang with snobbery:

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Trope. I did not know you had a guest." Even the

girl's apology was stiffly spoken, as was the request that followed: "Might I

use your telephone for an important call?"

"Certainly, Miss Framingham."

Trope finished with his most obsequious bow, and Alan watched the

all-important Miss Framingham turn proudly away while the old man fawned. Such

arrogance enraged Alan, but he managed to stifle his temper.

"If she's a genuine Framingham," said Alan bluntly, "I'm not anxious to

meet the rest of them."

"Miss Catherine Framingham," mused Trope. "She has the family name, but

she is really a very distant relative."

"She's very distant, all right," agreed Alan, "and the farther I keep

away

from such snobs, the better I like it!"

Trope gave him a very humble bow, as though his own opinion could matter

little, compared with Alan's. Then, with a new note of apology, Trope stated:

"I felt it good policy not to have the heirs meet until I talked with

them

separately. Of course, there are certain exceptions, in the cases of those who

have already met, and are friendly. But in this instance -"

"I understand," put in Alan. "I and this fur-bearing Framingham female

just wouldn't mix. No need to apologize, Mr. Trope."

There was another bow from Trope, as he gestured to the sideboard, where

he had replaced the decanter.

"Have another glass of sherry, Mr. Haverdale," suggested Trope, "while I

go to see what Miss Framingham wishes."

ALAN uncorked the decanter and poured himself another dash of the rare

wine. Pacing the modest dining room, he scowled, grumbled to himself,

particularly when he pictured old Trope kowtowing to the Framingham girl.

Recalling that his own interview was ended, Alan wished that Trope would

return, because he didn't want to walk out on the old gentleman without a

good-by.

At last, an opportunity for departure came. Tifton entered, bowed to Alan

and told him that Mr. Trope was still occupied and would be for some time. So

Alan told the servant to pay his respects to Mr. Trope; and added that he

could

be reached at his hotel the next day.

Tifton brought Alan's hat and coat. The young man strode out through the

front hall, glowering at the closed door of the parlor as he passed.

The fresh outside air wasn't soothing when Alan reached it. The warmth of

the sherry kept his anger high. Looking at the drab house and the decayed

neighborhood about it, Alan agreed that Elmer Trope was, indeed, a man of

simple wants. What a contrast to the Framingham relations, who were splitting

an estate into half a million dollars each!

Then, remembering that he was coming into just such a portion for

himself,

Alan shrugged, as though that ended it. Looking for a cab, he saw one near the

corner. He hoped that it had brought the Framingham girl, because in that

case,

he'd bribe the driver not to wait, thus making her go to the trouble of

calling

another cab.

So Alan gestured impatiently, and after a short hesitation, the cab came

over.

Alan was speaking to the driver as he stepped into the cab. All he said

was:

"Take me to the Forty-one Club."

But there were others in the cab, who said more. Two of them, both

sharp-mannered gentlemen with very pressing ways. One managed to squeeze into

the near corner of the cab, so that Alan stepped past him. Next thing, Alan

was

wedged between the pair staring from one muffled face to the other.

"Sit tight, fellow," grunted one. "Nothing's going to happen, if you

listen first and talk when we say so."

"We're going for a little ride," informed the other. "If you want a

return

ticket, it's up to you!"

Alan's eyes went downward, to view the pressure that the two were giving

him. That pressure came from guns, stubby revolvers that were flanking Alan's

ribs. So far, what these chaps said, they meant, and there was nothing to do

but hear what else they had to say.

Alan let his hands come up, while his head gave a slow nod. One of his

captors gruffed at the driver:

"Get going! You know where."

The cab started, and with its forward roll Alan felt an obliteration of

the past. Old Trope, his servant Tifton, the haughty Framingham girl, all

seemed like people belonging to another world. There was one thing, however,

that kept ringing through Alan's brain.

Half a million dollars!

That sum, in Alan's opinion, was the cause of his predicament. He'd come

into money and these ruffians had guessed it. They were but the vanguard,

these

ruffians, of a whole horde of leeches and vultures who would be seeking a

of Alan's wealth. Being wealthy, Alan would have to adjust himself to this

sort

of thing.

So Alan Haverdale settled back to face this odd adventure, little

guessing

the real causes behind it, and lacking all conception of the startling

consequences that his enforced journey would produce!

CHAPTER II

THE FRIEND FROM THE DARK

THOUGH they had promised to talk, the two men didn't; at least, not for

quite a while. Unless Alan could count their rather frequent admonitions to

"keep looking straight ahead" as something in the way of conversation.

Apparently, they didn't want him to get a close look at their faces, which

might have been possible from the passing street lamps.

At that, Alan's captors weren't taking much chance of recognition. The

cab

was threading itself through a maze of side streets, and speeding rapidly

whenever it was forced to cover a stretch along an avenue. And Alan, a

stranger

in New York, was completely lost, even wondering if they were still on

Manhattan

Island.

One solace: the cab driver wasn't in league with Alan's captors.

Occasional growls directed his way were proof that the fellow was acting under

enforced instructions. Should there be a chance to break from the cab, Alan

felt that he could depend, to some extent, upon the cabby's cooperation.

Then, issuing from a side street, the cab crossed an avenue and dipped

into a driveway that Alan first supposed must be the feed line into the East

River tunnel. It happened that the cab was going west, which Alan didn't know,

but at least he was soon disillusioned on the tunnel question.

The cab wasn't dipping under the river; it was simply entering Central

Park, and there, as it rolled along the winding drives, Alan's captors began

speak their piece.

"Come into a lot of dough, haven't you, bud?" began the man on Alan's

left. "Some of the cash that old man Framingham left. Am I right?"

"I'm coming into money, yes," replied Alan casually. "But I haven't

gotten

it yet."

"You mean that guy Trope won't hand it over?" demanded the fellow on the

right. "Holding out on you?"

It sounded as though the pair were suddenly taking Alan's side against an

injustice. But Alan was quick to see a deeper point. Remembering that his

captors had said they would talk first, he let them, and their speech proved

voluble.

"Figure that!" said one. "Here's a guy has cash owed him and he can't get

it!"

"Because he don't know how," put in the other. "Now, if he had fellows

like us with him, working on commission -"

"We'd make Trope come through!"

"And in a hurry, too!"

They silenced, as though putting it up to Alan, who spoke, quite coolly.

"If you want money," he said, "you're welcome to what I have on me. Quite

welcome, if it would terminate this ride, which is rather boring, considering

that I prefer to see Central Park by day, rather than by night.

"But if you are trying to dupe me into betraying my good friend Mr.

Trope,

you are wasting your efforts. I am quite sure that he will deliver my share of

the Framingham money, at the proper time. Meanwhile, I doubt that he is

foolish

enough to have any of those funds at his house. In turn, I am not so foolish

introduce strangers there, in an effort to find out."

"Particularly" - in the darkness, Alan let his eyes rove from side to

side

- "when those strangers are the sort who seem inclined to help themselves to

anything on which they can lay their bands!"

THOUGH he spoke boldly, Alan was relying on sheer bluff. These men were

armed, and held him helpless.

Therein, they held a most potent weapon in the matter of obtaining funds

from Trope. The weapon was Alan himself.

Technically, the pair had already kidnaped Alan, and if they were through

with it, they could certainly demand ransom money from the Framingham estate.

So Alan was hoping to keep their minds from that idea.

Silence followed, and with it, tension increased. The cab was digging

deeper into the park, and from the curves it took, Alan decided that the

driver

was under orders to keep circling indefinitely. Then, as if by mutual

understanding, Alan's captors pocketed their guns.

"Don't get us wrong, fellow," spoke one. "This isn't any snatch. We just

brought you along for your own protection."

"Yeah," added the other. "There was somebody watching the house. We

figured you'd need a couple of friends."

"Sort of bodyguards, see? This was just our way of selling you the idea."

"And we can give you references. From right guys, who will tell you that

our rates are reasonable."

Alan could see but one reason for the change of tune. These toughs

figured

that a holdup wouldn't prove worthwhile, since Alan hadn't brought a bundle of

inherited money with him.

As for going through with a kidnap, they either lacked the nerve, or

weren't equipped for such an enterprise. All they seemed to want was Alan's

assurance that he wouldn't prosecute them for their actions up to the present.

"All right, gentlemen," decided Alan. "Suppose you drop me at the

Forty-one Club. I'll pay the cab fare, and pay you each a deposit on your

services as bodyguards. You're right; I shall probably need your services

after

I actually become wealthy."

Immediately the pair began to haggle. They'd risked too much, they

argued,

to be put off so lightly. Dropping Alan so promptly, and at a place so

conspicuous as the Forty-one Club, wasn't to their liking. They'd paid the cab

fare already, and it was hired for another hour. So they preferred to keep

riding through Central Park, discussing terms.

Alan believed them.

There wasn't any reason to do otherwise. If they were really going to

abduct him, they'd be foolish to waste time. Perhaps their changed tune would

become more convincing if they rode a while longer.

But why another hour?

Alan could see but one answer. It would keep him from the Forty-one Club

just that long. Which, in turn, would make Alan miss the floor show that was

the big attraction at the Forty-one. While Alan was piecing those conclusions,

he heard further arguments coming from his captors.

"There was a cab tailed us from Trope's house," put in one. "We ought to

make sure we've shook it."

"That's right," chimed the other. "Take a gander from the back window for

yourself, boss. See if you can spot the guy that's tagging us."

Alan grinned as he turned around, particularly when the others did the

same, as if to press home their silly argument. The thing they saw by chance,

suddenly changed the whole situation.

The cab had just swung into a little-traveled drive. In back was a

curving

thoroughfare where traffic was heavier, and from it the sweep of passing

headlights threw flashing paths along the little byway. One of those sweeps

came at an ill-timed moment. It gave a kaleidoscopic glint of something just

behind the cab in which Alan rode.

Another cab, hot on the trail!

A cab without lights, guiding by the taillight twinkles of the vehicle in

which Alan was still a prisoner. A ghostly cab swallowed instantly in the

returning darkness. More lights swathed past, but they no longer revealed the

ghostly trailer, for Alan's cab and the ghostly thing behind it had rolled far

enough ahead to escape further glares.

IMMEDIATELY, Alan's captors took over, and not as prospective bodyguards

should. They were their old selves, vicious and threatening. One jabbed a gun

against Alan; the other reached through the front seat and wagged his revolver

at the cabby, ordering him to swing into a bridle path and park, when told.

Brakes screeched; the cab bumped hard as it struck the thick dirt of a

bridle path, the headlights lighting up a sign that said for horseback riders,

only. Thumping down a deep hill, the cabby cut the wheel hard to cross a small

wooden bridge that arched a brook in the middle of a tiny ravine.

It wasn't necessary to tell the cabby to stop. He did anyway, with his

front wheels nearly over the side of the bridge. But the men with the guns

were

quite satisfied. One tapped the cabby with his gun, slumping the fellow behind

the wheel. The other prodded Alan right out of the cab, hooking his arm before

he could jump away. The fellow who had knocked out the cab driver came

tumbling

out, too.

Beside the little bridge, both faced back along the bridle path, Alan

between them.

There wasn't a sign of the other cab. It wouldn't be coming down the

bridle path blind, for it no longer had taillights to guide by. If people had

alighted from it atop the little hill, they couldn't get here in a hurry

without the use of flashlights.

Maybe the ghostly cab was an imaginary figment, an illusion created by

sweeping lights. But the thugs weren't taking any chances on that question.

They had time in which to act, and they intended to use it, where Alan

was

concerned. Shoving him up beside their cab, one thug snarled to the other:

"A slug for this guy!"

They might have meant a bullet, but Alan took it that he was to receive a

gun butt on the head, the way the cabby had. Wanting neither, Alan tried to

avoid both, and therewith proved that his conjecture was correct.

Wrenching hard from his captors, Alan stumbled away, flinging an arm to

ward off a gun swing that came his way. Twisting, he was going right into the

arms of the other thug, whose gun was lifted to strike him down, when rescue

came.

It arrived with a blaze of head lights from straight ahead. The ghost cab

was on the scene again, but it hadn't come from the direction that crooks

expected. Instead, it had overrun the bridle path, found the other end of the

dirt road that zigzagged across the driveway, and it was arriving from the far

side of the bridge.

No longer relying on darkness, the cab was using its bright lights, and

they framed the whole scene on the bridge, where Alan was striving against the

attack of two muffled thugs who had him trapped between uplifted guns.

As the lights revealed them, the two crooks snarled, darted quick looks

across their shoulders into the brilliant lights. But they wouldn't have

desisted in their effort to sledge Alan, if it hadn't been for something else.

From behind the halting glare came the peal of a challenging laugh - a

tone of mirth so sinister, that Alan could feel its deadly chill. As for the

men who were about to slug him, it froze them utterly, for the mockery was

meant for them; whereas, for Alan, it signified a friend from the dark.

Who that friend was, Alan learned from the lips of the very ruffians who

were about to beat him senseless. In unison, they snarled the dread name that

Alan was to hear often again:

"The Shadow!"

CHAPTER III

PATHS BY NIGHT

HAD Alan Haverdale known of The Shadow's prowess, he would have aided his

new friend, not hindered him. But Alan wasn't acquainted with the facts

concerning a most amazing fighter, cloaked in black, who had long been the

champion of justice and the Nemesis of crimedom.

To Alan, the startling laugh was merely a respite, for he didn't know

that

it presaged titanic action. He thought that the two thugs would suddenly turn

his way again and slug him, as they planned. Alan's ignorance was somewhat

excusable, considering that the pair remained where they were.

It happened that they were rooted, so chilled by the echoes of The

Shadow's weird mirth that they were unable to do the thing they wanted;

namely,

to flee in the darkness. For they remembered that darkness was The Shadow's

habitat; that this fighter who might be everywhere, was likely to trap them.

Even if they'd had reserves behind them, Alan's captors would have

hesitated, hoping to locate The Shadow's position before hurling themselves

willy-nilly.

So Alan, expecting more trouble from the pair, acted upon his own, and

thereby broke The Shadow's spell.

Flinging himself upon one man, Alan tried to wrench the fellow's gun

away.

The thug swung with a frenzy, his blows hopelessly wild. The other gunner

sprang

over to join the melee, not to have a crack at Alan but to protect himself

from

The Shadow. He reached shelter just in time.

Again, The Shadow's laugh from darkness. With it, the burst of guns, the

whine of bullets that sizzled close to his two foemen. But for Alan's untimely

intervention, The Shadow would have clipped that pair. However, by the time he

fired, the group was too closely clustered for even The Shadow to risk a

telling shot that might have winged Alan instead.

And now, reeling Alan with them, the thugs were getting away from the

light-bathed bridge, toward darkness where The Shadow couldn't distinguish

them

from the prisoner who was becoming their human shield.

They were gripping Alan, but not slugging at him, for their guns were

busy

otherwise. They were aiming for the spots where they had viewed the flash of

The

Shadow's automatics, hoping to clip him by the very system that had made him

famous in battle against others!

How badly that pair guessed!

Whatever poison The Shadow delivered in the form of gunfire, he always

had

the antidote - for himself. He didn't stay flat-footed when he fired. He was

always on the move; his gun as it were the pivot by which he guided. Even the

recoil of an automatic could shunt The Shadow off in an unexpected direction,

so well poised was his balance.

Alan's kidnapers fired at blackness, nothing more, and received evasive

laughs in return. Having finally reached darkness, they flung their prisoner

aside and turned to take flight, not even willing to risk more shots that

might

betray them.

Again, Alan insisted on getting into the thing.

He grabbed one assailant with a fury that the fellow could not well

ignore. A gun swung savagely at Alan's head and landed a glancing stroke that

staggered him. With that blow, Alan saw blackness, hard upon a starburst, but

he lunged blindly and blundered upon his second antagonist as the first man

fled.

With a fury that only his scattered wits would allow, Alan wheeled this

foeman into the light, though he scarcely noticed it, the way his head was

swimming. A foolhardy thing, doubly to Alan's disadvantage. He was forcing his

foe to violence, and making himself a perfect target for the fellow's sledging

revolver.

Down came the glittering gun with an unsparing force. Whatever crooks had

hoped to do with Alan through treating him lightly, all thought of it was

gone.

The smash that came Alan's way was the sort that would have cracked the

thickest

of skulls, had it landed home. The fact it didn't wasn't due to Alan's

efforts.

Clutching his opponent below the arms, he wasn't doing a thing to ward off the

murderous crash.

What saved the staggered young man was a hand that swept in from the

dark,

a gloved hand, bearing a gun of its own. It gave a cross slash of tremendous

proportions, thanks to an arm that seemingly extended itself to twice its

cloaked-sleeved length.

Like a bolt from nowhere, a heavy automatic clashed the down-coming

revolver, inches above Alan's head, and sent the other weapon scaling from the

fist of the man who drove it.

With that, blackness really engulfed Alan Haverdale. Living blackness,

that laughed as another arm whirled him full away, so that even if the other

stroke had landed, it couldn't have rocked Alan into oblivion.

Alan's rescuer, The Shadow, was never content with half measures. He was

seeing this through to the full.

IN a way, The Shadow made it too complete.

Having snatched the victim from the verge of death, The Shadow carried

him

clear away, and thereby received thanks in reverse. Still dazed by the first

glancing stroke, Alan lacked the wits to use properly the strength that he

possessed. He was fighting blackness in order to get at enemies amid it, and

confused The Shadow with his former foemen.

Furiously, Alan clutched The Shadow and drove headfirst against him. The

ground here sloped down toward the brook, and The Shadow couldn't get the

needed footing to divert Alan's blinding thrust. So the cloaked fighter simply

let himself go along.

It was well that The Shadow did. He tumbled, carrying Alan with him, and

as they rolled, a revolver jabbed rapid shots from the darkness above. The

first of Alan's ex-captors had paused to fire, and the second man, snatching

his gun from the darkness where The Shadow's slash had sent it, added a few

more shots. Their aim, of course, was high, thanks to The Shadow's rolling

tactics. All that the bullets found was the woodwork of the little bridge.

Then, in response, came the stabs from the lower darkness, sizzling shots

that nearly nicked the heels of the panic-stricken thugs as they dashed off

madly. Despite Alan's persistent clawing at his gun, The Shadow managed to

dispatch those timely messages. Unfortunately, Alan disturbed the marksmanship

just enough to allow the escape of the unidentified pair.

Shrill sounds rose above the babble of the brook; sounds that even

drowned

the crackle of the underbrush through which two fugitives were madly seeking

safety from the vengeance of The Shadow. Those blasts marked the arrival of

the

Central Park police patrol, attracted by the bark of guns.

Dashing down the bridle path, the police were coming right to the focal

spot, the bridge beneath whose shelter The Shadow had carried Alan Haverdale.

The Shadow's amazing treatment of that situation was totally lost on

Alan's muddled mind. No longer concerned with the fugitives, The Shadow gave

full attention to Alan, making him a veritable prisoner in a style far more

efficient than Alan's previous captors had done.

With a sweep of his cloak, The Shadow half smothered Alan in its folds;

twisting the muffling garment about Alan's arms, this remarkable rescuer

shoved

his charge to his feet, thrust him through the shallow brook and up the

opposite

bank.

At the same time, bright headlights cut off. The Shadow's cab was back in

blackness, leaving only the dimmer glow from the light of the stalled cab that

was mired beside the bridge. Arriving police saw those lights alone and

hurried

to investigate them, which gave The Shadow just the time he needed.

Into his own cab, The Shadow shoved Alan, and hissed a quick command to

the driver. The cab shot into reverse, back up the path that it had descended.

A clever maneuver, performed by Moe Shrevnitz, who handled the wheel of The

Shadow's cab.

At clever feats of hack driving, Shrevvy was unequaled, and he proved it

by this stunt. He hadn't any lights to guide by. Instead, he used the very

tracks that his cab wheels had dug in the dirt when it came down the bridle

path. Those ruts, plus Moe's memory, proved enough.

By the time the police threw flashlights upon the receding cab, it was

actually atop the slope. Then, as police revolvers barked, the cab was

speeding

off along the solid driveway. Its lights flicked on among the trees, as

taunting

as the laugh that The Shadow flung back. Both were invitations for gunfire, if

the police were foolish enough to waste it.

These cops didn't.

As members of the park patrol, they knew about The Shadow, for he'd roved

this area before, trailing men of crime. Rookie cops in certain precincts

often

fired at The Shadow by mistake; but here it didn't happen. The Shadow's laugh,

given in the trailing fashion that betokened his departure, was an

unmistakable

identification, particularly after the police had found evidence of what

seemed

to be an unfinished holdup by the bridge.

SOON after The Shadow's laugh faded, Shrevvy's cab was sliding into the

traffic of a larger drive, losing itself along with other cabs. All that was

lost upon Alan, whose brain was still in a whirl. Clear of the enveloping

cloak

folds, Alan was slumped beside The Shadow, blinking at the lights that passed

and muttering feeble sentences.

Out of incoherent words, The Shadow picked what seemed to be Alan's

slogan, so he passed it along to Moe:

"The Forty-one Club."

Alan heard the words, and nodded as he rubbed his head, almost thinking

that he had uttered them to the cabby himself. Then, from beside Alan came a

low-toned, whispered laugh that struck him as a vague echo of something that

had heard before.

Alan stared, bewildered, but saw only blackness. He rubbed his eyes and

squinted, hoping that the glow from an approaching avenue would enable him to

see his fellow passenger.

Just then, the cab stopped because of a red traffic light. It was short

the avenue and therefore still in gloom. Moreover, it was near a neighborhood

that Alan might have recognized, but didn't: the district where Trope's old

house was located.

A door opened on the far side of the cab, so softly that Alan neither saw

nor heard it. Through the narrow space slid a dark form that was invisible

against the outside gloom; a figure that paused and gave a few added

instructions to the cab driver, in a whisper that didn't reach Alan's cars.

Then the cab was on its way again, crossing the avenue, with Alan staring

stupefied as the glowing thoroughfare showed only an empty seat beside him. To

the dazed young man, his imagination was more at work than ever. So much so,

that he didn't believe the sound that did come from somewhere in the darkened

street behind the crossing.

A whispery, trailing laugh, voiced by Alan's mysterious friend, The

Shadow, wishing the rescued man good luck on his journey to his chosen

destination!

CHAPTER IV

THE CLAN GATHERS

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

LEGACYOFDEATHbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"August1,1942.Withakilleratlarge,itwasuptoTheShadowtofindoutwhytheFraminghamfortunehadbecomeaLegacyofDeath.CHAPTERIWEALTHTOCOMEOLDElmerTropebowedprofoundlyandgesturedhisthinhandtowardthedining-roomtable.Asdrylyasthoughtheoccasionca...

展开>> 收起<<

Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 251 - Legacy of Death.pdf

共74页,预览15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！

Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 251 - Legacy of Death

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: