Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 227 - The Crimson Death

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THE CRIMSON DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 1, 1941.
Murder struck in a dizzy dance of death, that drew even The Shadow into
its arms!
CHAPTER I
DEATH IN THE RAIN
THE truck rolled ponderously along the highway, moving slowly in the
outside traffic lane. It was late afternoon. A foggy drizzle of rain was
bringing darkness earlier than usual. But the truck had not yet switched on
its
lights.
It looked like a tank truck, the sort that carried fuel oil or gasoline.
Actually, its purpose was quite different. A sign showed that the truck
belonged to an industrial cleaning company. There was a compression engine
back
of the driver's cab. Yards of flexible hose were coiled on a rack. The hose
was
used to suck dirt and soot from the chimney flues of manufacturing plants that
burned soft coal in their busy furnaces.
The truck's slow pace suggested that the driver and his helper had all
the
time in the world. But both men were tense. The pair of them were criminals!
The driver was beefy, with a moon face and sleepy eyes. He was a member
of
the big-time mob of Flash Rego. His underworld name was Porky.
His helper was thinner and more active looking. Police knew him as Chick.
He had an ugly skill with knives. Chick's skill had taken care of the
highjacking of the tank truck. That part had been easy. The dangerous part of
the conspiracy was yet to come.
Flash Rego had coached his thugs well. They knew they were on a job that
comes only once in a lifetime - a theft involving millions of dollars. Flash
had promised the pair ten grand apiece if the job was successful. Even to
mobsmen like Porky and Chick, ten grand wasn't hay. They kept their eyes
grimly
alert for a code signal.
Presently, Porky saw it.
A mark had been scrawled in white chalk on a telegraph pole. It looked
like a mathematical symbol scrawled by a surveyor.
The truck drove even more slowly. Both thugs watched the bushes along the
rain-swept highway. Presently, the tank truck halted. Porky and Chick got down
from the driver's cab. Porky lifted the hood of the motor and pretended to
check the engine. Chick drifted closer to the edge of the road where he was
screened by the bulk of the truck itself.
"O.K.!" a voice said.
A man in a black slicker was crouched in the wet underbrush. He seemed
like part of the darkness. A black cloth mask covered his face. His hands were
gloved.
He leaned toward the truck and flipped open two metal panels in the side
of the tank. A glance showed him that the truck's interior was divided into
two
compartments. One compartment was empty. The other was filled with a
strange-looking cargo.
It contained a few tons of pink powder.
The masked man closed the truck panels. He took something from beneath
his
black slicker. It was a sheet of paper that looked like an official form. The
form had been filled in and signed.
It was an authorization for the truck to enter the guarded inclosure of
the Copley Metal Plate Corp.
Chick took the paper. The masked man vanished behind the screen of wet
bushes that flanked the highway. Porky closed the hood of his engine and
climbed back on the truck. Chick handed him the signed pass. Porky's stupid
moon face made him the ideal man to handle that part of the job.
The truck picked up speed. Presently, it turned in toward the receiving
gate of the Copley Metal Plate Corp.
The plant was a huge one. It was inclosed by a high wire-meshed fence.
Sprawling buildings covered acres of ground. In ordinary times, this plant of
John Copley and his son manufactured steel plate for a variety of industrial
uses. Now its importance was tremendous. The defense program of the United
States had allotted it an armor contract. An even bigger one was in prospect.
A guard outside the fence inspected the pass that Porky sleepily handed
over. It authorized the tank truck to suck the accumulated soot and dirt from
the furnace flues of the Copley powerhouse. The guard accepted the pass and
the
truck lumbered through the opened gate. It headed through the rain toward the
power plant.
Then Porky and Chick got busy.
The flexible hose of the suction apparatus was lifted up to the roof of
the power plant. Its vacuum nozzle was inserted by Porky into the blackened
stub of the chimney. The compression engine on the truck began to pulse.
It was getting dark. A few workmen stopped to watch. But the rain was
cold
and clammy; nobody hung around long.
A small amount of soot was sucked into the empty compartment of the tank
truck. Then no more soot came through the hose. Porky had plugged the nozzle
end. The compression engine still hummed, but the whole thing was now a fake!
CHICK climbed a ladder to the roof, carrying a smaller hose. Unseen from
the ground, he made a quick connection with the one Porky had dragged to the
chimney flue.
Creeping quickly along the roof, Chick paid out the smaller hose as he
went. His goal was the roof of another building nearby. It was not hard to
reach. A long shop structure joined all the other buildings at a right angle.
The powerhouse and the one nearest to it stuck out from this main building
like
two teeth on a comb.
Chick pulled his small hose to the top of this second building by way of
the connecting roof. He worked with tense speed. The slender sucking nozzle
was
inserted into a queer flue. It looked like a ship's ventilator. It was covered
by a heavy wire mesh. But that didn't interfere with the sucking of the hose.
The contents of a bin below the air ventilator began to pass to the tank
truck through the clever hose splice the crooks had made. It didn't take long.
Then Chick waved his hand. Porky descended, and reversed the mechanism of the
compression engine.
This time, the hose was blowing instead of sucking. The strange pink
powder from the truck's compartment was replacing the material that the truck
had siphoned through the roof ventilator. The stolen material now filled the
previously empty compartment in the tank truck.
It was a quick, clever job of theft and substitution. The rain still
poured down. The yard below was deserted. No one had noticed a thing.
Porky chuckled as he scattered a black sifting of chimney soot on the
sodden grass where the truck had backed close to the powerhouse. It would look
as if soot had drifted there during the chimney-cleaning operation.
The truck departed as quietly as it had arrived. It headed down the
highway. Porky and Chick congratulated themselves.
They were unaware that a hidden figure had watched the whole operation.
The figure wore a black raincoat. He looked like the man who had handed
the crooks the paper that had made it easy to get into the plant area. But he
wore no mask. He made up for that by the low brim of his dripping hat and the
turned-up collar of his slicker.
He ran silently through the murky darkness toward an oval where several
cars were parked. In an instant he was behind the wheel of a sedan. He headed
toward a little-used exit at the rear of the plant.
The road the man took was not good one. It was poorly paved. The concrete
highway had replaced this route over a year ago. But the bumpy back road had
one supreme virtue. It was a short cut. It joined the paved highway at a point
several miles beyond the Copley plant.
The man in the black slicker drove with reckless speed. He had no
intention of missing the tank truck. When he came close to the intersection,
he
parked out of sight. He watched with trembling eagerness for the truck to
pass.
Presently, he growled with relief. The truck passed along the paved
highway, its headlights now blazing in the gathering darkness.
The man in the slicker lowered his head. From beneath the seat of his
sedan he produced a mask and slipped it on.
It wasn't the black cloth mask he had used before. This one was ugly and
grotesque. It had cuplike circles that fitted tightly over both the man's
ears.
There were goggles for his eyes and a band that came over the bridge of his
nose.
The cloth that covered the lower part of the man's face did not belong to
this queer contraption. He had added it himself, to make sure his identity
remained hidden.
He drove swiftly out on the highway and began to pursue the truck. Soon
he
saw its taillight. He slowed his speed. He didn't want to overtake the truck.
He
wanted to watch.
Suddenly, he chuckled.
The truck ahead had begun to behave peculiarly. It was weaving recklessly
in and out of the traffic lane in which it was traveling. It looked like a
dangerous thing to do on a rainy and slippery road.
CHICK thought so, too. On the cowled seat of the truck, he turned with an
oath of alarm toward Porky who was driving.
"What the hell's the idea? You trying to be funny?"
Then he saw Porky's face. Porky's eyes were wide and bulging. His fat
cheeks were deathly white. His hands clutched blindly at the wheel as the
truck
skidded dangerously from one side of the highway to the other.
Chick tried to grab the wheel. But he was feeling queer himself. The
strange headache he had noticed earlier had now changed to an agonized
pounding
inside his skull. He swayed with nausea. He could barely see.
The next instant, the truck left the road. It smashed into a shallow
ditch
beyond the dirt shoulder of the highway. The truck was too massive to be badly
damaged.
But neither Porky nor Chick thought about the crash. They fell dizzily
from the cowled seat to the ground. It was almost ludicrous to watch their
strange antics.
They looked like a pair of drunks. Every time they staggered to their
feet, they whirled dizzily and tumbled again. Soon, neither of them was able
to
rise at all.
They lay on the soaked earth, still twisting dizzily. Blood began to
trickle from their ears.
Suddenly, their twisting bodies stiffened. Then there was no more
movement. They lay rigidly, a few feet apart.
Both thugs were dead!
The masked man jumped from his sedan and ran to where the two victims
lay.
He wasted only a second on the corpses. With a bound, he turned toward
the
tank truck and flung open the two side panels. A hiss of pleasure showed that
he
was completely satisfied.
One compartment of the truck was still empty. The other was filled with a
few tons of soft pinkish powder. It looked exactly like the powder the truck
had originally contained. But the masked man knew that it wasn't the same
powder.
The forward compartment of the truck was now empty. The rear compartment,
that had been empty before the visit to the Copley plant, was now filled. The
pink powder in the tank truck was the stuff that had been sucked from the
ventilator on the roof of the building next to the power plant of the Copley
Corp.
The masked man took a small sample of the stolen stuff. He didn't seem
greedy. He took only about five pounds, scooping it out recklessly, although
he
knew it had killed both Porky and Chick. His strange mask with the ear
coverings
made the theft easy.
Into a box apparently made of glass, the masked man put the stolen
powder.
Its cover fitted tightly with a rubber gasket.
Again, the killer opened the panel in the truck that hid the stolen tons
of pinkish powder. The masked man was murderously aware of the next step he
had
to make. He didn't want the corpses of Chick and Porky attracting attention
and
cluttering up his plans.
He began to drag Chick's corpse toward the truck. Then, with an oath, he
dropped the body and whirled.
Far down the rain-shrouded road he had heard the hum of an engine. A
single glaring light blazed through the wet darkness. A motorcycle.
The masked man leaped backward from the road with the agility of an ape.
He flung himself flat and writhed behind a clump of tall weeds. He knew what
the one-eyed headlight meant. A highway cop on motorcycle patrol!
A MOMENT later, the policeman's machine skidded to a halt. The cop kicked
a metal support into place under his rear wheel and ran toward what looked
like
a bad highway accident.
He gave a grunt of horror as he bent over the two corpses. Their faces
were hideous. Their stiffened bodies were like iron. The cop began to wonder
about this peculiar accident The truck had not suffered much damage from the
dip of its front wheels into the ditch. The two men could not have been thrown
to earth with much violence.
Yet their bodies suggested that they had died in agony.
The cop noticed that one of the corpses had left a mark along the ground,
as if someone had started to drag it toward the truck. A metal panel in the
side of the truck was open. The cop peered in.
All he could see was a lot of pink powder.
That was his last conscious act on earth. A creeping figure rose from the
rainy blackness behind him. A terrific blow struck the back of the officer's
skull. He pitched forward on his face.
The masked murderer ran back to his sedan.
He drove it deliberately against the back of the stalled truck, leaping
to
safety just before the collision. The crash made both vehicles seem the result
of a highway collision on a wet and slippery road. The bodies were the only
flaw in the picture.
The masked man took care of that by stuffing the corpses of the two thugs
and the motorcycle cop into the truck. He wheeled the policeman's motorcycle a
good distance down the deserted road. Then he arranged a long cord that looked
like a ten-foot candlewick. It lead from the road to the truck compartment
where the bodies were hidden.
It was a fast-burning fuse.
Hastily igniting the end of the fuse, the masked murderer sprinted away
at
top speed. Suddenly, he threw himself flat. A moment later, the spark reached
the pink powder inside the truck.
There was no loud explosion. Not a sound was heard. But a white-hot glare
of tremendous brilliance bathed fields and sky. Terrific heat seared the air
above the truck. The rain drops seemed to sizzle and dissolve in that fierce
white glow.
Then the dazzle faded. The masked man sprang to his feet.
Where the truck and sedan had been locked together was now only a
shapeless mass of twisted steel! Rubber had been burned from the wheels. Glass
was melted, license plates fused. The masked man knew that within the tank
truck lay the blackened skeletons of three corpses that would be impossible to
identify.
He wasted no more time. He sprang into the leather saddle of the slain
policeman's motorcycle. With a banging roar, he raced away on the stolen
machine.
Presently, the crimson dot of the taillight faded into the rainy
blackness.
A perfect crime was under way. The first part had been completely
successful. Other parts would follow. The result would bring vast wealth into
the hands of a shrewd and brainy criminal.
Police would be powerless to understand this crime, much less prevent
further crimes. Only one person on earth was capable of matching wits with the
wily genius who had vanished into nothingness.
That person was The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
GIFT OF DOOM
PITCH darkness filled the room. And silence. It was a place of black
nothingness.
The Shadow was in his sanctum.
His invisible presence was revealed by a whisper of soft laughter. Then
suddenly a light glowed. It was a blue light, very small. It seemed to hang in
the darkness like a star.
The Shadow's laughter ceased. The light threw an oval pool on the
polished
surface of a desk. The hands of The Shadow were visible in that oval. Above it
gleamed the blur of his face. His powerful beaked nose betokened strength.
Deep-set eyes held a strange inner light of their own.
The Shadow was ready to examine three seemingly unconnected bits of
evidence.
His fingers moved beyond the oval of light on his desk. When they
returned
they held two newspaper clippings and a jagged chunk of oddly shaped, oddly
colored metal.
The Shadow examined the clippings. The first contained an account of a
tragic motor accident on Highway 90. A sedan had skidded on a rainy road and
had smashed into a tank truck. The crash had been followed by fire. The heat
of
that fire had been so intense that it had destroyed all chance of identifying
either vehicle. License plates had been fused, engine numbers melted. The
police took it for granted that the tank truck had been loaded with gasoline.
Three smoke-blackened skeletons had been found in the wreckage. It was
assumed that they were the corpses of two men aboard the gasoline truck and
the
driver of the car that had rammed the truck.
Police had had no luck, so far, in their preliminary investigation. No
gasoline truck was reported missing. No one had reported the disappearance of
a
sedan.
The Shadow laughed. He picked up the second newspaper clipping.
This one recounted the peculiar disappearance of a highway motorcycle
policeman. The cop, on routine duty, had failed to return to his station.
Hours
later, his motorcycle had been fished out of a stream miles away from Highway
90. The discovery of a smashed bridge railing had led to the finding of the
motorcycle in the river. But the policeman's body had not been found.
This was strange, because the river at that point was not very deep. Nor
was the current strong enough to carry a corpse very far away. Police,
however,
had begun a search of the river for a mile in each direction.
Examining the chunk of metal that accompanied the two newspaper
clippings,
The Shadow found it to be small and jagged. It looked as if it had been seared
by a tremendous heat. The color was peculiar - a mottled gray hue that was
almost blue.
The metal sample was a fragment taken from the highway wreckage. It had
been obtained on the spot by Clyde Burke, an ace reporter for the Daily
Classic. Clyde was also a secret agent of The Shadow. That was why the clue
was
now under a bright white light in The Shadow's sanctum.
This chunk of metal had been carefully analyzed and tested in The
Shadow's
laboratory. The Shadow had discovered an amazing property about it. His hand
vanished beneath his robe. When it emerged, it held a small object much like a
lopsided glass marble.
It was an uncut diamond.
The Shadow scraped the jagged bit of metal against the diamond. He was
not
surprised by what happened. But it was something truly amazing.
The steel had cut the diamond!
It was proof of what The Shadow had already learned in his laboratory.
The
chunk of metal in his hand was, without doubt, a sample of what must be the
hardest substance on earth!
THE SHADOW looked at a small map of the region where the motor "accident"
had occurred. He had drawn a triangle on the map, embracing three points. The
first was the scene of the crash and fire. The second was the river where the
cop's motorcycle had been found. The third was the location of the Copley
Metal
Plate Corp.
None of the three points were more than twenty-five miles apart.
The Shadow was ready to make his first move. But he had no intention of
visiting any of the three points marked on the map. The Shadow intended to
keep
an entirely different appointment. He was going to see a man named Thomas
Wilton.
The room suddenly lapsed into darkness. Silence followed. The Shadow was
no longer in his sanctum.
A short time later The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, crossed the sidewalk
toward a car parked at the curb. He was tall, well-dressed, obviously wealthy.
People in New York knew him as a sportsman and society idler. He was a friend
of many influential people, including Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Margo," Cranston said, as he took the wheel
of
the car.
The girl in the car was a slim, very lovely brunette. She moved in the
same social circles as Lamont Cranston. Her name was Margo Lane. She never
complained about the minor inconveniences she suffered - like this delay, for
instance - when she was traveling with Lamont Cranston. For Margo was aware of
the truth.
She knew that Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!
It was a subject never mentioned between them. The Shadow wished it that
way, and Margo was both loyal and intelligent.
She expressed no interest when The Shadow in the suave voice of Cranston
announced that they were going to the Cobalt Club to meet an inventor named
Thomas Wilton. Margo understood that this trip was no chance affair. The calm
voice of Lamont Cranston shielded some hidden purpose of The Shadow.
Thomas Wilton was a stout, pompous man with dark hair and a small
mustache. He shook hands with Cranston, but his eyes clouded as he looked at
Margo, when they arrived at the Cobalt Club.
"It's perfectly all right for Miss Lane to be here," Cranston said
smilingly. "She is aware of all my activities as a member of the Defense
Industry Board. I take her to all conferences, since my own memory for facts
is
so bad and hers so good."
Wilton looked relieved. They were seated in a private room at the club.
Wilton came at once to the point.
"As you know, the test of my new armor plate will be held today at the
navy proving grounds in Maryland. I'd like you to come, too, in my private
plane. I'm flying from LaGuardia Field."
"I'm not sure it will be convenient," The Shadow said in Cranston's
drawl.
He wanted to test Wilton's inner feelings. He got a prompt reaction.
"You've got to come! I'm worried!"
"Worried? About what?"
"Things. Queer things! A thug held me up two nights ago, and fled
empty-handed after a quick search of my clothing. A week earlier, my apartment
was entered and my safe blown open. I had some money and jewels in it, but
nothing was taken by the criminal. I think someone is after my secret formula
that goes into the making of Wiltonite."
He spoke the last word proudly. Wiltonite was the name of the new steel
alloy that was to be tested by navy officials at the proving grounds in
Maryland. The chemical process of preparing the rare earth ore by which
ordinary steel was toughened into Wiltonite, was known only to the inventor
himself.
The Shadow was aware of the importance of the test. If Wiltonite were
successful, it would provide armor that would make the United States navy the
most powerful fleet on earth. It would deflect torpedoes of the highest
caliber, make aerial bombs useless.
Wilton's armor sample had been manufactured at the Copley Metal Plate
Corp.
The Shadow knew most of the details of the progress of the invention, but
he encouraged Wilton to talk. He asked questions about the plant. Wilton
seemed
eager to talk.
HE didn't like conditions at the Copley plant, Wilton said. He had been
much happier when he had pursued his experiments at the plant of Howard
Brinker.
"Then why did you leave Brinker's employ?" Cranston asked.
"I couldn't afford not to. Copley offered me a tremendous salary. And his
chemical research department is the best in the East."
"Why do you dislike John Copley?"
"He's brusque and overbearing. Ruthless! I don't like either the man or
his business methods. The only person at the plant who's decent and
considerate
is his son Roy."
Cranston looked puzzled.
"I thought John Copley was a bachelor."
"That's correct. Roy is an adopted son. Copley adopted him a couple of
years ago, and made him his heir. That is," Wilton added, "he made Roy his
partial heir. The other heir is Copley's cousin, George Anthony."
Wilton looked sour as he mentioned Anthony, and Cranston said quietly, "I
take it you don't trust Anthony too much, either?"
"I like none of the Copley officials, except Roy. Anthony has only a
small
financial interest in the company, yet he's always prying and watching and
asking questions. As for Shane -"
The inventor growled with anger.
"Shane, in my opinion, is the worst of the lot. He's head of the chemical
division. He looks like a fox - and he is a fox! I don't know why John Copley
puts so much trust in him. He seems to be Copley's man Friday. I've heard
rumors that Shane handles all of Copley's financial affairs. Personally, I
wouldn't trust Shane with a nickel!"
To The Shadow, it seemed that Wilton was putting on a little too much
bluster. It was strange that he should continue to work with associates who
were so unpleasant. Cranston had an idea that this outburst by Wilton might be
purposeful.
The Shadow changed the subject. He noticed that Wilton had a book with
him, that seemed to draw a lot of his attention. He had laid it on a side
table. His glance strayed toward it every minute, as if he were afraid to have
it out of his sight. The book was a popular novel. Cranston smilingly asked
the
inventor if it were worth reading.
Wilton flushed. "I don't know. I bought it as a present for a friend of
mine. A friend at the airport."
The way Wilton said it made The Shadow suspect that the friend was a
woman.
Cranston moved lazily in his chair. The movement allowed his coat to
swing
open. It was done deliberately, to expose his watch chain to Wilton's gaze.
The inventor's flushed face paled. He uttered a quick gasp, then tried to
cover it up with a cough.
"What an odd watch charm," he said. "Where did you get it?"
"Oh, that?" Cranston yawned. "A knickknack I picked up on my travels. I
don't even remember where. It seemed so oddly shaped that I decided to make a
watch charm out of it."
The object that had excited Wilton's tense interest was the chunk of
mottled metal that The Shadow had tested in his sanctum. He didn't give Wilton
a chance to examine it. He buttoned his coat with the brisk air of a man who
has made up his mind.
"I believe I'll accept your invitation to fly with you to Maryland, Mr.
Wilton. It will be interesting to watch the first official test of Wiltonite
steel... Margo, would you like to see us off?"
"I'd love to," Margo said promptly.
Wilton didn't like the idea, but there was no polite way to exclude
Cranston's pretty brunette companion. He picked up his book and all three of
them left the Cobalt Club. A taxicab took them out to LaGuardia Field.
THERE was quite a crowd at the airport. Wilton made a glib excuse to
climb
to the spectators' promenade that overlooked the field. He suggested that
Margo
might enjoy watching the ships arriving and leaving. But his own interest was
in the crowd on the promenade level.
Presently, Wilton grinned. A pretty blonde was pushing through the crowd.
A cute fatigue cap was perched on her blond curls. Her blouse and skirt made a
trim uniform.
The girl had been an airline hostess. Her ability had earned her a
promotion. She had been transferred to special duty at the field.
Wilton introduced her to Cranston and Margo as Miss Hilda Drake. He gave
her the book.
"Just a little present. I remembered you once said you'd like to read
it."
Hilda Drake laughed, but her mirth seemed forced. She looked tired. Her
pretty face was thin and drawn.
"You shouldn't give me so many presents, Mr. Wilton," she said faintly.
Her hand strayed unconsciously toward a brooch that was pinned below the
throat of her uniform blouse. It looked like an expensive piece of jewelry.
Wilton saw that Cranston had noticed the brooch. He opened his mouth as if to
deny that he had given it to Hilda. But he apparently thought better of his
impulse, and said nothing.
Margo Lane began to chat with Cranston. She did this to conceal the fact
that the attention of The Shadow had been drawn elsewhere.
The Shadow was watching a man in a gray suit and a gray snap-brim hat.
The
man had halted in the crowd along the promenade, as if too lazy to proceed any
farther. But The Shadow had caught a strange gleam in the stranger's eyes.
The man in the gray suit was keeping a sharp watch on Hilda Drake. He was
staring at the book she had taken from Wilton, and at the brooch that was
pinned on her blouse.
A brief flick of The Shadow's head indicated the man in the crowd to
Margo. She understood his signal. Excusing herself, Margo moved away. A moment
later Hilda left, too.
Alone with Cranston, Wilton became impatient. He seemed in a sudden hurry
to get out on the field and board his private plane for the trip to Maryland.
But Cranston had no intention of departing yet. He murmured an excuse. Wilton
nodded, and hurried off to have his ship wheeled out from its hangar.
When The Shadow turned back from his brief talk with Wilton, he frowned.
He was unable to see either Hilda or the man who had stared at her.
Margo, too, was out of sight.
A moment later, The Shadow heard a sound that stiffened him into
attention. It was a shrill and piercing scream. The scream of a woman in
mortal
terror!
Heads turned. The crowd along the promenade parted momentarily. The
Shadow
caught a glimpse of the woman who had shrieked.
It was Hilda Drake!
Her face was deathly pale, her eyes contorted. With both hands clutching
at her throat, Hilda was swaying dizzily as if from an attack of vertigo. She
fell headlong. Her writhing continued as she lay on the ground.
The Shadow sprang forward. But the crowd, pushing and shoving, made it
difficult for him to advance. By the time he reached the spot where the
airport
hostess lay, a minute or two had elapsed.
Hilda Drake had stopped writhing. She lay in the center of a horrified
group, her body as rigid as iron. A thin trickle of blood, like a scarlet
thread, was visible at the lobe of one ear.
The brooch she had worn a few moments earlier was missing. Someone had
torn it away from the cloth where it had been pinned. The book which Thomas
Wilton had given to Hilda was gone, too.
There was no sign of Margo or the man in the gray suit.
A couple of men bent over the rigid figure of the airport hostess, lifted
her body.
"Get an ambulance!" somebody cried.
"Wait!" another voice shouted. "There's an emergency hospital here on the
grounds. Carry her to the airport hospital!"
The two men who had lifted the rigid girl started to carry her through
the
crowd. They were halted by a man in a dark goatee. He took a swift look at the
girl's eyes and his voice was stern.
"Just a moment! I'm a physician. Put this girl down! I think she may need
immediate attention."
He dropped to his knees and started a quick, competent examination. It
didn't take long. He rose to his feet a lot more slowly than he had dropped to
his knees. There was grimness in his voice, a knifelike edge of suspicion, as
he eyed the faces of the crowd nearest him.
"You had better send for the police," he said. "This is a case for the
medical examiner. The girl is dead!"
CHAPTER III
TOTAL MURDER
THE sudden tragedy sent a wave of fright through the crowd. People swayed
back, then surged forward as fresh arrivals added to the confusion.
Not allowing himself to be penned up in that mass of humanity, The Shadow
elbowed his way out.
As he pushed clear of the crowd, his eyes swept toward the staircases on
right and left that led to the waiting-room area below the promenade. Margo
appeared suddenly at the top of the left staircase. Her gloved hand beckoned
to
Lamont Cranston.
"He's got the book," she whispered. "The man in the gray suit! I saw
where
he went."
"Where?"
"Out on the field. He just hurried through the entrance, carrying the
摘要：

THECRIMSONDEATHbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"August1,1941.Murderstruckinadizzydanceofdeath,thatdrewevenTheShadowintoitsarms!CHAPTERIDEATHINTHERAINTHEtruckrolledponderouslyalongthehighway,movingslowlyintheoutsidetrafficlane.Itwaslateafternoon.Afoggydrizzleofrainwasbringingd...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：73 页 大小：182.58KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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