Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 222 - Master of Flame

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MASTER OF FLAME
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. MASTER CRIME
? CHAPTER II. THE CONQUERING FLAME
? CHAPTER III. A DANGEROUS DEVELOPMENT
? CHAPTER IV. GUNS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER V. A VANISHING BANKER
? CHAPTER VI. ENTER MR. FROST
? CHAPTER VII. FLAMING DEATH
? CHAPTER VIII. EXIT MR. FROST
? CHAPTER IX. MOTHER GOOSE
? CHAPTER X. HIDDEN CRIME
? CHAPTER XI. BLONDE'S TRAP
? CHAPTER XII. KILLER'S PAY
? CHAPTER XIII. THE THIRD STOOGE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE THREE LETTERS
? CHAPTER XV. THE WIDOW'S TRIUMPH
CHAPTER I. MASTER CRIME
CLIFFORD MASON glanced at his watch. With a start, he realized that the hour was later than he
thought. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late for dinner.
It was hard to realize the passage of time in the windowless laboratory where Mason sat. Electric lights
burned all day long. But Clifford Mason was used to this hermitlike place of work. It had been built
under his own supervision.
Mason was an inventor. In his younger days, he had worked for big industrial concerns and had
commanded a high salary. But he hated to work for others. As soon as he had money enough, he bought
a secluded home in northern Manhattan. He had erected this windowless laboratory on the grounds of his
small estate.
It was a circular room under a curved dome of massive concrete. Prom the outside it looked like an
igloo. Inside, it was packed with scientific equipment. Here, the mind of Clifford Mason probed into the
forces of mechanics, chemistry and electricity.
Tonight, he was positive he had made a magnificent discovery.
His work table was covered with sheets of mathematical and chemical calculations. He had checked his
findings to catch any possibility of error. There were none. Mason smiled triumphantly. Ahead of him
stretched a vista of fame and wealth. It was the culmination of his life's work.
Mason didn't think about wealth, however. All he could think about was his daughter. She would no
longer have to count pennies. Dorothy was young enough to enjoy wealth. She was only twenty-two.
Mason burned all his calculations to ashes in a zinc wastebasket. Then he unlocked his laboratory safe.
From the safe he took a square blue envelope. The envelope contained the chemical formula of Mason's
invention. He scanned the papers hungrily. Then he replaced the blue envelope in his fireproof safe.
Unlocking the steel door of his laboratory, he stepped out into the darkness.
His home was only fifty feet away. It was on the high northern tip of Manhattan, in the Inwood section.
The road that passed it was an isolated one. Behind the house and outdoor laboratory the ground sloped
gradually toward the dark sheen of the Hudson River.
Dinner was on the table when Mason entered his home. Dorothy was waiting excitedly. But her father
was too excited himself to notice the unusual garb of his daughter.
She was dressed in an evening gown, the only one she possessed. It molded her slim figure to perfection.
She had fixed her dark, curly hair in a new fashion. There was added color in her cheeks. She was like a
flame of beauty in the room.
But Clifford Mason remained unaware that Dorothy was staring smilingly at him, waiting for his gasp of
surprise. He, too, had a surprise.
"I've done it!" he said huskily. "A week ago, I was certain. Tonight, I am mathematically sure."
"An invention?"
"A chemical miracle!" Mason said. There was pride in his voice. "Something that will make my name
famous. Something that will bring you wealth. You will be able to move in the best of society."
Dorothy Mason laughed gently.
"Speaking of society - how do you like the way I look tonight? You haven't even noticed!"
MASON'S eyes widened as he took in her loveliness. Dorothy explained why she was wearing the
evening gown. She had been invited to the first-night performance of the biggest musical show of the
season. It would be thronged with celebrities of all kinds.
Dorothy had never attended a first-night performance. Her dark eyes sparkled at the prospect. She
showed her father the theater ticket. It was an excellent seat in the orchestra.
"It came in a sealed envelope by special messenger. There was no note - just the theater ticket. I'm
going, of course. Isn't it thrilling?"
"But who could have sent it?"
"I don't know. Evidently, it must be from someone who knows us. That's why only one ticket came, I
imagine. The sender realized that you are slightly deaf and don't care much for the theater for that reason.
Do you mind if I go out tonight?"
"Not at all," Mason murmured. "I'm quite tired. My eyes ache from checking facts and figures all day in
my laboratory. I think I'll go to bed early."
He sat down at the dinner table with a sigh. During the meal that followed, Dorothy tried to find out the
nature of the invention that had so elated her father. But he refused to discuss it.
"The formula is in a blue envelope in my laboratory safe. There's nothing crackpot about it, either. It's the
most practical discovery of my career."
The time after dinner passed quickly. Dorothy came down from her bedroom with a furred wrap over
her evening gown. She telephoned for a taxicab. When its horn honked outside, Dorothy hurriedly kissed
her father and left. He had never seen her more excited or more beautiful.
He sad down with a newspaper. But he was too tired to read. He began to think about the theater ticket
that had come so mysteriously to Dorothy. Who could have sent it? Dorothy had few boy friends.
Besides, what boy friend would send one ticket, and thus miss the pleasure of escorting Dorothy to the
theater?
Clifford Mason's head dropped while he thought about it. He dozed in his chair.
In the darkness outside the house, two men were also thinking about Mason's daughter. But not sleepily.
They were grimly alert. From a thick clump of shrubbery the two men watched the disappearing taillight
of Dorothy's taxi.
"She took the bait," one of them growled. "This job is gonna be a cinch, Slim."
Slim nodded. His chuckle sounded ugly.
"The show will keep her away about three hours. For guy's like us, that's time enough to rob the mint.
Come on, Toby. Let's pick up the old guy!"
They moved toward Mason's home, making no sound. They were old hands at crime, these two. There
was no mercy in Slim's hatchet face. Toby was tense with ugly anticipation.
A rear window afforded an easy entrance to Mason's home. The window was not locked. Like most
people, Mason was careless about routine things not connected with his work.
He was still dozing in his chair in the living room when Slim and Toby tiptoed in. They made no sound.
But a draft of air from the opened window in the rear blew against Mason's face. It wakened him.
He shouted with terror as he saw the faces of the two thugs scarcely six feet away. Leaping to his feet,
Mason tried to rush to the telephone to summon help.
Before the inventor could take two steps, Slim was on him. One hand twisted Mason's outflung arm
behind his back. The other choked off his cry. Toby leaped close and swung a heavy gun.
The butt of the weapon struck Mason on the skull. He fell unconscious to the floor.
Toby could easily have killed the inventor with that blow; but he was careful not to. Mason's scalp bled,
but there was no skull fracture. The orders of the Boss had been strict on that point.
This was to be a well-camouflaged kidnapping job. Death for Clifford Mason would come later.
SLIM took care of the camouflage, made sure nothing was out of place to attract the eyes of possible
police investigators. There was no blood on the rug. Slim smoothed the rumpled rug and replaced the
chair. He used gloves when he closed the unlocked rear window.
Slim and Toby carried away their unconscious prisoner.
Their parked car was concealed down the dark road. The inventor lay in a quiet huddle under a lap robe
in the rear of the car. Presently, the car cut across Dyckman Street. It headed for a house in sparsely
settled district to the east of upper Broadway.
Some of the thugs' elation disappeared as they approached an empty house. Its dark windows were
crusted with dirt. A sign outside said: "FOR SALE." But there was no broker's name or address on the
sign. Within it waited their unknown criminal employer, whom they referred to as the Boss.
Slim and Toby became uneasy every time they thought about the Boss. They had never seen his face.
They had no idea what his physical appearance was. But whoever he was, he knew plenty about his
hirelings.
He had gathered enough evidence about this pair to put both of them in the electric chair, if he so desired.
After telling them this, he had laughed gently, like a woman. He had offered Toby and Slim five grand
apiece to help him.
If they failed, he promised them - death!
The two thugs carried their unconscious prisoner into the dark house, entering through the rear. They
descended into the cellar. Light glimmered feebly through the cracks of the coal bin. The light could not
be seen outside the house. The bin was in a corner of a windowless cellar.
The Boss was waiting there.
He was hooded and robed. Only the flash of his eyes was visible through the slits in his hood. His hands
were gloved. He was a tall man, as tall as Slim. But he looked heavier and in better physical condition.
His slitted eyes were like flame, as he stared at his henchmen. But his voice was curiously soft, like a
woman's.
"Did you leave any traces behind you?"
"No," Toby said sullenly.
"Excellent! First, I'll want Mason's laboratory key. He's bound to have it on him. Inventors have a silly
habit of darting into their laboratories by day or night as ideas come to them. So it is reasonable to
assume that the key is in our guest's pocket."
It was. The masked man's womanish laughter shrilled.
"Revive him. I want to ask Mason a simple question."
Toby's methods were not gentle. In a minute or two, Mason groaned and opened his eyes. He quailed as
he saw the robed supercriminal staring at him. His terror increased as he heard the "simple question."
"What is the combination of your laboratory safe, Mr. Mason?"
"I'll never tell you!" he screamed. "You want to rob me of the climax of my life's works"
"Correct," the masked leader said. "I'm after a square blue envelope in your safe. I can't get it - without
leaving awkward traces of burglary - unless you tell me the combination. You'll be smart to talk. Pain is
seldom very pleasant."
"I'll die first!"
"Sorry. You've got things reversed, Mr. Mason. You'll die later! You'll be tortured first. All right, boys!"
Slim and Toby leaped at the struggling inventor. They used flame and they used steel to make him talk. A
gag on Mason's jaws stifled his screams of agony. In a few minutes, he was ready to talk.
The masked man recorded the complicated combination of the fireproof safe in Mason's laboratory.
"Thank you, Mr. Mason. Now that you realize that disobedience to my wishes is extremely painful, I'm
sure you'll co-operate in my second request. Read this paper, please. I want you to repeat these words
aloud."
MASON took the sheet of paper tremblingly. There were words written on it, strange words. Mason
glared at the crazy message.
"Silly, isn't it?" the robed man said. "But perhaps that's what I want. Repeat those sentences. And shout
as if you mean it."
He held a mouthpiece to Mason's lips. The mouthpiece was at the end of a flexible tube. The tube led to
the cylinder of what looked like a small portable phonograph. A blank record was on the machine.
Clifford Mason was too terrified to disobey. He repeated the words written on the paper.
"'Don't bother me, Dorothy'!" he cried. "'I'm busy! I'm working on the biggest invention of my career. I've
conquered flame! I know the secret of fire! I'm going to master the world with flame!'"
It sounded like crazy gibberish. Mason's pain-racked voice helped the illusion. But the masked man was
not satisfied. He made his victim repeat the phrases until he was satisfied they sounded right. Then he
turned off the machine.
"Thank you," the masked man said.
Then he leaped. It was like the spring of a wild beast. His gloved hands caught the inventor by the throat.
They squeezed remorselessly.
Slim and Toby were used to murder, but they quailed at the cold-blooded efficiency of the Boss. Their
masked employer seemed devoid of any human feelings as he slowly choked Clifford Mason to death.
He talked quietly as the squirming man in his grasp died.
"Strangulation, you observe, leaves no marks except on the flesh. It makes no change in the bony
structure of the skeleton. It's barely possible that some day Mason's body may be found. Accidents
sometimes occur. In that case, I want his skeleton to be found intact - for reasons of my own."
He let the dead man drop from his powerful grasp.
"Get busy! Bury him!"
There was a tarpaulin on the floor in a corner of the coal bin. When it was removed, a hole in the
concrete was disclosed. It was the same size as a grave.
Clifford Mason's corpse was lowered into the hole by the two thugs. The masked criminal poured acid
on the body from a receptacle which he handled with cringing care. The stuff smoked as it splashed on
the dead man. Its whitish haze made the two thugs cough.
They shoveled furiously when the masked leader signaled. On top of the filled grave they spread fresh
cement. They worked carefully to make a perfectly aligned patch with the rest of the concrete floor.
When they were finished, the masked criminal sifted a coating of dirty-grayish powder over the new
cement.
"When it dries," he said quietly, "there'll be no easy way of distinguishing this amusing little patch. And
now, you'll need a duplicate skeleton!"
His laughter sounded ghoulish. From an adjoining compartment in the cellar, he dragged a long, flat box.
Inside the box lay a skeleton. Where it had come from, was the masked man's secret.
It matched the height of the murdered inventor. In its grinning jaws were the evidence of considerable
dental work. The fillings, inlays and caps were a duplicate of the dental work in the mouth of the buried
Clifford Mason.
"Be sure you obey my instructions carefully," the masked man said
He produced from beneath his disguise a square, blue envelope. He gave the envelope to Slim, together
with the combination of the murdered inventor's safe. He also gave Slim a small metal sphere to which a
fuse was attached. It looked like a black duck egg.
Slim was reluctant to take the ugly sphere. The masked man chuckled.
"There's no danger. You'll have plenty of time to get away after you light the fuse. The explosion will be
delayed - and not a very strong one, either. As I've already explained, I don't want to harm the skeleton.
I merely want it to burn to a blackened crisp."
"When do we get our dough?" Toby muttered. "You promised us five grand apiece."
"You shall have it, after you mail me the blue envelope - the real one from Mason's safe. Now get busy! I
want everything in readiness by the time Mason's daughter returns from the theater."
The two thugs carried the flat box that contained the skeleton out the back door of the empty house.
They also took the portable phonograph with the record the murdered inventor himself had dictated.
Presently, the masked man left the house, too.
A master crime was under way - a crime so devilishly planned, that no police detective would ever
suspect it was a crime, much less solve it! There was only one brain in New York capable of ripping
away the mystery that shrouded the masked figure of the Boss and his criminal scheme.
That foeman was The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE CONQUERING FLAME
LAMONT CRANSTON was smoking a cigarette in the crowded foyer of the famous old Queen
Theater.
It was the final intermission of a successful musical comedy. From the buzz of talk all around Cranston, it
was apparent that the new show was a smash hit. This one would be the fourth on a chain of successes
backed by Leo Keller.
Cranston could see Leo Keller from where he stood. Keller was a tall man, heavily built. He was a shade
too muscular to appear to advantage in evening clothes. He was surrounded by a circle of Broadway
stooges of his.
Keller seemed contemptuous of the cheap flattery of his henchmen. He began to thread his way through
the crowded foyer in an effort to exchange a word or two with more desirable personages.
He didn't have very good luck. Most of the people Keller spoke to gave him scant courtesy. A few
snubbed him openly.
Lamont Cranston knew why. Ten years earlier, the name of Leo Keller stood for all that was notorious in
crime. He rose to underworld power in New York. But Keller had recognized the handwriting on the
wall when the F.B.I. began to scan the bank accounts of the big hoodlums. Keller paid his income tax
down to the last penny.
That kept his nose clean financially. He also escaped criminal prosecution by killing his key thugs. There
was no proof that they had been killed to shut their mouths. They conveniently disappeared.
With his pockets full of criminal profits, Keller had turned to the theater. Now he was a successful
producer of the most lavishly-expensive musical shows on earth. But he wanted more than that. He
wanted social recognition. Not the flashy Broadway kind, but the blue-blooded Park Avenue variety.
It didn't look as if Leo Keller was getting very far in that direction tonight.
A glint like flame came into the watchful eyes of Lamont Cranston as he saw Keller head toward him. It
was a gleam that transformed Cranston's face for an instant into something grimly different. There was
challenge in it, a hawklike gleam that matched the menace in Keller's gaze.
Cranston shielded the look by lifting his theater program in front of his face. It didn't suit him to have
Keller guess what no other crook knew.
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!
His face was calm by the time Keller strode close and held out a hand in greeting.
"Hello, Mr. Cranston! How do you like my new show?"
"Excellent!" Cranston said, and smiled.
He knew that other people were watching the bold attempt of an ex-racketeer to claim acquaintanceship
with him. These people expected Cranston to snub Keller. But The Shadow did nothing of the sort. His
sharp eyes had detected an inner nervousness in the man. It puzzled him.
Cranston shook hands deliberately. Keller's fingers were nervous and icy-cold. But his eyes seemed to
jeer at Cranston. Cranston was conscious of that jeer as Keller walked away.
A LIGHT touch on The Shadow's arm made him turn. This time, it was no social climber. George
Gregory was an important figure in industry and finance. He was chairman of the board of Federated
Woolens. He and Lamont Cranston were old friends. But tonight, Gregory was frowning.
"I don't think you ought to encourage a rat like Keller," he murmured.
"I thought that Keller had reformed."
"Crooks never reform," Gregory said. "They merely change their methods. You know why Keller is in
the theatrical business. He married a flashy chorus-girl who demanded that he star her. Do you know
why his shows are so successful?"
"I've heard rumors."
"Exactly! Money and threats! Keller spends money like water for the best talent on the stage to support
his actress wife and hide her shortcomings. No dramatic critic dares to tell the truth about her. A couple
of them tried - and ran into trouble. One was almost killed in a peculiar automobile accident. Another
was beaten badly in an alleged holdup.
"Since then, Keller's musical shows always get rave notices from every critic in town. He's transferred his
old gang tactics to the theatrical business!"
The Shadow pretended surprise, but he knew that Gregory spoke the truth.
A moment later, The Shadow's glance moved toward a beautiful girl in the crowded lobby. She smiled as
Cranston recognized her. It was Dorothy Mason.
Cranston was puzzled at Dorothy's presence. He knew her father well. They seldom had money to spend
on luxuries. Most of Clifford Mason's cash went into expensive equipment for his laboratory.
Dorothy explained about the free ticket that some unknown friend had sent her.
The Shadow agreed with her that it was a piece of good luck. But instantly he was suspicious. There was
no such thing as a free ticket to an opening night such as this. Whoever the unknown sender was, he must
have spent considerable to get hold of a choice orchestra seat such as Dorothy's stub showed. And why
had he gone to such trouble to keep his identity unknown?
The Shadow sensed intrigue.
When the brief intermission ended, he escorted Dorothy back to her seat. The lights were dimming. The
Shadow slipped from the darkened auditorium. He went back to the deserted lobby and chatted with the
man in the box office.
From that casual chat, The Shadow learned that Dorothy's ticket was one of a block that had been sent
to a big ticket broker to be resold at a high premium. The box-office man was not conscious that he had
been pumped. There was nothing about Lamont Cranston to suggest anything more than idle curiosity.
But The Shadow's eyes burned, as he hurried to the office of the ticket speculator.
Again, Lamont Cranston chatted aimlessly. But presently he found out what he wanted. The ticket which
had been sent to Dorothy Mason was not a free one. Quite the contrary! It was one of the last
pasteboards left and had commanded a fat price.
The clerk didn't know who had bought it. It had been reserved over the phone by a man who hadn't
given his name. He had sent a messenger who paid cash. All this queer secrecy might be innocent and
accidental - but The Shadow didn't believe it. He excused himself and went back to the theater.
The final act of the show was ending. The Shadow posted himself in the lobby. When Dorothy Mason
emerged, he pushed close to her side and made a courteous suggestion. He said he'd be delighted to
drive her home.
Dorothy accepted. To be escorted by so prominent a social light as Lamont Cranston was the final,
happy event of a delightful evening. Cranston's sleek limousine sped swiftly uptown, driven by Stanley,
The Shadow's chauffeur.
DOROTHY was surprised to see a light burning on the ground floor of her home. Her father had told her
he was going to bed early. She murmured a puzzled comment to Lamont Cranston.
But The Shadow wasn't listening. He had seen a parked car a few yards up the dark road. A man's face
peered, then the car moved swiftly away. But that swift glance had permitted The Shadow to recognize
the man. The fellow was a well-known crook!
His name was Toby Schwartz.
The Shadow didn't pursue Toby's car. To do so would be to betray the fact that the suave Lamont
Cranston was a foe of crime. Besides, there was a dangerous possibility that Clifford Mason might be in
peril inside that lonely house.
The Shadow entered with Dorothy. There was no sign of Mason in the lighted living room.
"He forgot to turn off the light when he went to bed," Dorothy said.
But Clifford Mason wasn't in his bedroom, either. Nor in any other room of the silent house. Dorothy
wasn't alarmed. She figured that her father had gone out to his concrete laboratory at the rear of the
house.
"He's probably working on that new invention of his. He said it was worth literally millions."
"Did he tell you the nature of it?" Cranston asked.
"No. It hasn't been patented yet. The formula is still in his laboratory safe. He never discusses an
invention until the idea has been patented."
The Shadow's eyes gleamed. The presence of Toby took on a more ugly significance. The Shadow led
the way quickly to the igloo-shaped laboratory at the rear of the house. He noted that the structure had
no windows. Its door was of stout metal.
The Shadow rapped with the ornamental knocker. Dorothy called impatiently:
"Dad! I'm home from the theater. Mr. Cranston was kind enough to bring me in his car. He'd like to say
hello to you before he leaves."
There was silence within. Then it was broken by a muffled shout from Clifford Mason:
"Don't bother me, Dorothy!" he cried. "I'm busy! I'm working on the biggest invention of my career. I've
conquered flame! I know the secret of fire! I'm going to master the world - with flame!"
It sounded crazy. The Shadow's eyes narrowed. Talk like that was not like Clifford Mason. There was
nothing crackpot about him. But the snarling voice from within was Mason's voice. Lamont Cranston had
heard it too often to be mistaken.
The Shadow patted Dorothy's arm. "Let me talk to him."
Within the sealed laboratory, a man with a sly, foxlike face heard the conversation outside the locked
door. It was Toby's thuggish partner, the lean, hatchet-faced Slim. Slim's hand had started the portable
phonograph whirling with the counterfeit voice of a man already dead.
On the floor near the phonograph lay a skeleton. Close by it was an oval-shaped bomb that looked like a
black duck egg. In Slim's pocket was a square blue envelope that contained the chemical formula for
Clifford Mason's biggest invention. A fake envelope of the same size and color had already taken the
place of the real one in the laboratory safe.
Slim rose catlike to his feet. He stopped the phonograph and picked it up. His other hand touched a
match to the slow-burning fuse of the bomb.
Carrying the phonograph, Slim descended through a trapdoor in the wooden floor of the laboratory. The
edges of the trapdoor showed that it had been freshly cut. Slim grinned, because he knew that ravages of
flame would destroy all trace of that newer exit.
The concrete laboratory was built close to the ground. But there was ample room under it for Slim to
crawl away. He vanished through black weeds toward the rear of Mason's property.
A car without lights was waiting on a back lane. Behind the wheel was the squat figure of Toby.
"O.K.?" Toby whispered.
"Let's go!" Slim answered.
FROM the distant laboratory came the sound of a muffled explosion. It wasn't a loud roar, but it was
loud enough to cover the departure of the car as it raced through the deserted darkness of Inwood,
toward Dyckman Street.
While Toby drove, Slim wrote an address on the blue envelope which he had stolen from Clifford
Mason's safe. He also affixed stamps enough to carry it through the mails.
The address was a classified-ad box in the uptown office of the New York Classic. It read as follows:
"X2291, Classic, Uptown." For months, a masked supercriminal had rented the box through a dummy
and had run fake ads for just such an emergency as this.
Toby and Slim speculated grimly about the identity of the Boss, after the blue envelope had been
dropped into a mailbox. They were smart crooks. If they played their cards right, there might be a juicy
opportunity for blackmail.
"We may be able to get a line on the Boss through that newspaper box," Toby growled.
"Yeah - and don't forget that empty house where Mason was buried," Slim rasped. "Five grand hell! If
we use our noodle, we'll both be millionaires!"
The car picked up speed. Slim and Toby headed for what they thought was their first payoff. They didn't
realize that they were heading for - death!
THE dulled explosion within the locked laboratory was the first warning of danger The Shadow received.
The blast wasn't a tremendous one. But it was followed by an ominous aftermath:
The fierce crackling of flames!
Dorothy Mason heard it, too. Her face paled. She laid a trembling hand on the locked metal door, then
pulled it away as heat seared her skin.
"Fire!" she screamed. "Dad! Unlock the door! Dad!"
There was no answer. In the dreadful silence, the roar of the flames within increased. The Shadow flung
himself vainly against the barrier. It was impossible to break down that door with flesh and blood.
Dorothy fainted. Leaping over her limp figure, The Shadow raced to the inventor's house, telephoned an
emergency call to fire headquarters. Then he darted back to the dome-shaped laboratory.
He carried the unconscious Dorothy away from the possible danger of a more deadly explosion. But no
more blasts occurred. The roar of the inclosed flames was all that could be heard.
摘要：

MASTEROFFLAMEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.MASTERCRIME?CHAPTERII.THECONQUERINGFLAME?CHAPTERIII.ADANGEROUSDEVELOPMENT?CHAPTERIV.GUNSOFTHESHADOW?CHAPTERV.AVANISHINGBANKER?CHAPTERVI.ENTERMR.FROST?CHAPTERVII.FLAMINGDEATH?CHAPTERVIII.EXITMR.FROST?CHAP...

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