Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 220 - The House on the Ledge

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THE HOUSE ON THE LEDGE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 15, 1941.
Money thrown to the winds - because it was counterfeit! And The Shadow,
last hope of the law against a shrewd criminal ring, finds this the hardest
battle of his career!
CHAPTER I
COUNTERFEIT CURRENCY
TED LINGLE stopped his rattletrap car in front of the brownstone house
and
glanced nervously along the darkened street. He was glad that the streetlamps
did not throw too much light upon his weather-beaten car which was occupying a
space usually reserved for limousines.
Sliding from the car, Ted ascended the brownstone steps and rang the bell
of the Kelwood mansion. He was trying to be nonchalant, but he could not shake
the impression that eyes were watching him from across the way.
In fact, eyes were.
Two pairs of eyes, representing lurking men with low, ugly voices.
"Sit tight, Bolo," one voice was saying. "It's only that guy Lingle. That
dope that comes to see the Parnal dame."
"Yeah?" queried the other. "Maybe you've got him wrong, Juke. He might be
going in to gab with old Kelwood."
"Not a chance, Bolo! He's daffy over the doll, that's all. Curt Hulber
says so."
There was a note of finality to the tone, as though anything Curt Hulber
said must be right. In this case, the opinion was correct. Ted Lingle was more
than daffy over Isabel Parnal. He was madly in love with her.
This wasn't Ted's first visit to the mansion where Isabel lived with her
guardian, Stephen Kelwood. But Ted, as he stood on the doorstep, found that he
was still nervous despite those previous visits. Being in New York, calling on
a wealthy girl who had promised to marry him, was something of an impossible
dream to Ted Lingle, despite the reality of the situation.
Ted himself was a small-towner. He'd met Isabel the summer before at the
farm where she was staying, and had supposed that she came from a small town,
too. Perhaps each should have recognized that the other was from a different
world, because of the very attraction that had drawn them together. But Ted
hadn't realized it, not even when he learned that Isabel came from New York.
His first visit here, to the home of Stephen Kelwood, the banker, had
awakened him, and since then Ted had been traveling in a wide-awake daze. He
knew that Isabel really loved him; but, considering his own limitations, he
had
begun to wonder why.
Here, on the threshold of another meeting, Ted was almost ready to turn
abruptly, dash down the steps, and drive off in his ancient car, when the door
of the mansion opened. Then, like a man in a trance, Ted was entering a large
reception hall, ushered there by a servant in livery.
The luxurious surroundings gripped Ted, as they had before. He heard the
servant say something, but didn't catch the words, nor think of them, until he
looked to find that the flunky had gone. Then, noticing a light from a
curtained room on the right, Ted walked slowly in that direction, remembering
that the room was the library in which Isabel had been waiting on his previous
visit.
At the doorway, Ted stopped. He saw two men seated in the library,
engaged
in serious conversation. One was Stephen Kelwood, a gray-haired man with long,
aristocratic features, rendered prominent by a high-bridged nose. The other
was
a swarthy man, whose bluff face had a dark mustache. Both were too concerned
with their own affairs to observe Ted's arrival in the doorway.
Nor did Ted stir farther, either to advance or retreat. His gaze was
transfixed by a sight of something that lay between Kelwood and the other man.
On a low table, Ted saw money spread all about - crisp, green dollar bills by
the hundreds. Even Kelwood's connection with the banking business did not seem
sufficient to explain such a strew of wealth.
"SO there you are, Marquette," Kelwood was saying in a serious tone.
"Though I am no longer active as a banker, I have continued my study of
currency and can pride myself on my ability to detect counterfeits. When I
chanced across these" - he plucked bills from the pile and flourished them -
"I
thought that it was time the government should know about them."
Marquette gave a nod. Shifting in his chair, he reached to take the bills
that Kelwood handled. Ted saw the glint of a badge as Marquette's coat slid
farther open, and suddenly realized that the swarthy man must be a government
investigator.
"I wouldn't have believed it," declared Marquette abruptly. "And frankly,
Mr. Kelwood, after I left here the other night I thought you were crazy. Even
under a microscope those bills stood up."
"Except for the serial numbers -"
"Except for the serial numbers," nodded Marquette. "Nine figures instead
of eight. A perfect job, except for that. I wonder how the counterfeiters
happened to muff it."
Kelwood stroked his long chin.
"I think the mistake was intentional," he declared. "It prevented any
duplication of numbers that are on existing bills. Not one person in a
thousand
would bother to count the figures on a dollar bill, or notice anything wrong
if
he did."
"Not one person in a million," returned Marquette grimly. "In fact, Mr.
Kelwood, you're the only person in the country who was smart enough to spot
it.
We've been missing it for a long time. A very tong time!"
"You mean that a great many of these bills are in circulation?"
"Too many! Look at all you've found out of this batch." Marquette
indicated the table with a sweep of his hand. "We can only hope that it's a
local proposition, around this territory."
"New York is pretty big territory."
Marquette arose, nodding solemnly. For the first time Ted recognized his
own position as an eavesdropper. Then, thinking it too late to retreat, he
started to step forward, hoping he could find proper words of apology. At that
moment Marquette turned to Kelwood.
"We've taken the first step," Marquette declared. "A ten-thousand-dollar
reward for a real lead to these counterfeiters. It's official, but we aren't
making it public just yet. We don't want to throw a scare into the whole
country."
"Quite right," agreed Kelwood. "If you had a lead to the counterfeiters
first -"
"We'd have public confidence with us," inserted Marquette, "and the
reward
could go for any further information. But we haven't much time to work. This
thing can't be kept hushed for more than another week -"
By then Ted had gone into a retreat. He was back from the curtains,
easing
out into the hall, and the curious thing was the sound that came from behind
him, as though his own footsteps were creaking their way across the floor.
Suddenly conscious that his footsteps couldn't be moving faster than he was,
Ted wheeled.
He found himself face to face with a sallow man whose eyes had an owlish
look behind their round-rimmed glasses. The man was baldish; his lips wore a
smug smile beneath a small, tufty mustache.
Ted had met the fellow once before; his name was Therman, and he was
Kelwood's secretary. Having disliked Therman at first sight, Ted wasn't at all
pleased to encounter him under the present circumstance.
Therman, however, looked pleased. His eyes narrowed as his lips
straightened. Therman wasn't overlooking the fact that he had caught Ted as an
eavesdropper; he was simply putting it away for future reference. Then, in an
oily tone, the secretary said:
"Good evening, Mr. Lingle. I believe that Miss Parnal is waiting for you
in the conservatory."
Half turning, Therman gestured across the great hall, and Ted went in
that
direction. He could hear voices behind him, and was conscious that Kelwood and
Marquette must have come from the library. Ted heard his own name muttered in
Therman's oily tone, knew that Kelwood must have asked the secretary who it
was
that had just gone across the hall.
TED was glad when he found the conservatory door. Then Isabel was
stepping
up to greet him, smiling at the embarrassed look Ted gave her. She had
observed
before that Ted was uncomfortable in these surroundings, but tonight Isabel
did
not know the full reason; nor did Ted enlighten her. Instead, he managed to
clear away his troubled expression by returning Isabel's smile.
They formed an attractive couple as they sat down together. Ted Lingle
wasn't just handsome; his wavy hair was more than matched by blue eyes that
showed frankness, a square jaw denoting determination.
As for Isabel Parnal, her charm lay in the depth of her brown-eyed gaze
and the gentle expression of her smile, as much as in the actual mold of her
delicate features.
Many men had admired Isabel as the perfect brunette type, but Ted's
thoughts went deeper. He was thinking of the girl's future happiness when he
spoke:
"I was wondering a little, Isabel, just how -"
"How soon we will be married?" queried Isabel sweetly. "As soon as you
think best, Ted."
"It wasn't that," Ted confessed. "I was wondering about the small town
where we will have to live. After all this" - he looked around - "you may not
like it."
"I liked the farm last summer," Isabel reminded him. "You must remember,
too, that this isn't my home. I'd rather have that little house you talked
about."
"I'll have to get it first," declared Ted, soberly, "and my business
isn't
the sort that brings in money fast. Putting cigarette machines in service
stations, lunchrooms, and whatnot means a lot of work. It will take a long
time
to save up a few thousand dollars."
"But I can wait, Ted."
Isabel's words seemed to come from far away. Ted's thoughts, like his
eyes, were fixed. He was staring at the darkness of the windowpanes in the
glass-walled conservatory and his mind was flashing back to something that he
had heard not long before.
Ten thousand dollars!
Such was the reward arranged for the unearthing of the counterfeiters who
were flooding the country with spurious dollar bills, distinguishable by an
extra figure in the serial numbers. By next week, thousands of people would be
seeking the source of that fraudulent currency - unless, as Marquette hoped,
results could be obtained before then.
Until this moment, Ted had thought only in terms of the Feds and the
results that they might obtain. It was striking home, very suddenly, that
someone like himself might provide the needed lead. A long shot, but
considering Ted's type of business, there were chances in his favor. Getting
around the way he did, he might stumble on something that others - even the
Feds - would miss.
Out of the distance came the sound of the closing front door, and Ted
knew
that Marquette had gone. For the moment, Ted was restless; then, realizing
that
his own quest could not begin until tomorrow, he turned to Isabel with a
confident smile.
"Perhaps we won't have long to wait," said Ted, in a tone of assurance.
"I
have an idea that may work out. But don't ask me what it is, Isabel, because
we'll both have to wait awhile before we know."
TED had forgotten the darkness that lay outside the conservatory windows.
It did not occur to him that the shrouding night was hiding the beginning of a
trail that lay much closer than he thought. Ted might have realized it had he
remembered the impression of spying eyes outside the Kelwood mansion.
Those eyes, belonging to Juke and Bolo, were at that moment observing
Marquette's departure. As the swarthy Fed walked past Ted's parked car and
gave
it a sharp survey, Juke plucked Bolo's arm and low-toned the words:
"Come on!"
By the time Marquette was halfway to the corner, the pair were upon his
trail, shiftily dodging from sight whenever they thought that the Fed was
about
to look back. It was easy enough, in their opinion, to follow a man ahead
without letting their quarry know it.
Easy for two to follow one, but easier for one to follow two. Such was
the
experience of another figure that emerged from darkness to take up the double
trail of Juke and Bolo. For, in so emerging, the new trailer never actually
left the sheltering folds of night. His was a shape so fleeting, so elusive,
that no one could have trailed him.
Cloaked in black, a slouch hat upon his head, this newcomer moved like
the
shadow that he was. Foe to crime, ever ready to aid those who served the law,
he
had somehow learned of Marquette's important mission and had trailed the Fed
to
Kelwood's, to learn if crooks would cross the path.
Whatever their link to crime, Juke and Bolo would soon provide the answer
to this master of night, The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
COVERED CRIME
BLOCK by block, The Shadow was finding the trail more and more to his
liking. It was becoming a game wherein the element of protection lessened in
necessity, thereby enabling The Shadow to keep well behind the men ahead. For
The Shadow, whenever he set out upon a trail, took full cognizance of all
others involved, and made due allowances.
The Shadow was well acquainted with the ability of Vic Marquette, the Fed
who had unwittingly picked up a pair of trailers. Though Marquette was
strolling along casually, he had left the darkness of side streets and had
reached a lighted avenue.
There was very little reason to worry for Vic's safety on a well-traveled
street. With shop windows to attract him, Vic Marquette had a way of pausing
to
glance at panes that served as improvised mirrors.
Whether habit or suspicion was responsible for Marquette's action, his
system brought results. The two men trailing him were forced to remain well
behind, even to the point of seeking lurking-spots in doorways for fear that
Vic would see them. Moreover, Marquette worried them so much that they became
easy for The Shadow.
At moments when the black-cloaked trailer closed-in upon the men ahead,
The Shadow was so close that Juke and Bolo were almost within touching
distance.
Had The Shadow chosen to throw consternation into the crooks, he could
have done so. But it happened that he was more anxious to learn the reason why
these denizens of crimeland had not only wandered far from their usual
terrain,
but were taking on the audacious task of tailing an operative of the Secret
Service.
Juke and Bolo provided the answer as they crouched in a doorway. Their
hoarse whispers reached The Shadow, who had paused in the darkness just
outside, so flattened against the wall that his cloaked form seemed a part of
it.
"The T-guy is wise," croaked Juke. "We gotta quit tailing him double."
"How about me sliding across the street?" suggested Bolo. "Then we can
take turns picking up, whichever way he goes."
"Not a chance," returned Juke. "The Feds were the guys that started using
that dodge. He'd get hep quick."
"But Curt Hulber said not to lose him," reminded Bolo. "How are you going
to answer that one?"
Juke answered it in preliminary fashion, with a quick hiss that meant to
sneak along to another doorway before Marquette could slip them entirely. The
two crooks made a quick shift and a rapid scramble, whereupon The Shadow
glided
past the doorway that they had left, up to the new one that they had chosen.
There he caught a resumption of the conversation.
"Maybe he ain't wise," remarked Juke. "Anyway, I'm the guy to find out,
one way or the other. You know the way I can slide into joints and out of
them."
The Shadow knew, even though the statement was not addressed to him. He
had recognized Juke as an underworld character and remembered the fellow's
specialty. As a snooper, Juke had a high reputation in low society. Alone,
Juke
could probably trail Marquette much better than when handicapped with Bolo as
a
running mate.
Bolo must have known it, too, and did not like the implication. His
undertone came in a growl.
"So you're going to trail him, huh?" queried. Bolo. "For what? Suppose
you
catch up with him, Juke. What'll you do then, without me and - this?"
By "this," Bolo referred to a knife that came gleaming from his hip. It
was a wide-bladed weapon, a savage contrivance. It was a Filipino bolo, which
could hack as well as carve. Preference for such a knife was the reason why
Bolo had gained his nickname.
Moreover, use of such a blade made Bolo more than dangerous. It rendered
him of special value to such employers as Curt Hulber, who was a racketeer of
considerable importance. When Bolo finished with victims, they might have been
hit with anything from a sledgehammer down, judging from appearances.
But it seemed that Juke wasn't interested in Bolo's skill as a killer; at
least not in the present case.
"Curt didn't say to start croaking Feds," argued Juke. "He sent you along
just in case I got in a jam. I'll find out where Marquette is going; that's
enough."
"Yeah? And what do I do?"
"Pipe a call to Curt," replied Juke. "Tell him we spotted Marquette at
Kelwood's again. I'll join up with Curt later on."
THE next door was that of a cigar store, which happened to be open.
Marquette was turning the corner, so Juke gestured Bolo into the cigar store,
then continued on the Fed's trail. Knowing that Marquette wouldn't be in any
danger from Juke alone, The Shadow waited for Bolo to reappear.
Coming from the cigar store, Bolo gave a glance along the street without
noticing The Shadow. Turning on his heel, the ugly-faced killer started across
the avenue and took to a side street. His stride was rapid, indicating that he
had considerable distance to walk, but because of his haste Bolo gave no
thought to anything behind him.
With a glide that matched smoothness with speed, The Shadow kept close
behind, blending with darkened house walls like a slice of night adrift. This
course promised The Shadow results that could prove prompt as well as
important.
Crime was in the air. The Shadow had known it ever since he learned that
Vic Marquette had arrived in Manhattan. Unfortunately, news of Vic's advent
hadn't reached The Shadow until after the Fed's first visit to Kelwood's
house.
Tonight The Shadow had trailed Marquette to the place where crooks were
already posted, which was how the trails had crossed.
The Shadow knew Stephen Kelwood by reputation. A man of long-standing in
banking circles, Kelwood made a specialty of handling estates and trust funds.
Such work did not overtax him, and Kelwood had therefore found time for heavy
research into the subject which so greatly interested him - the history of the
nation's currency.
Few men were better posted on the subject than Stephen Kelwood. His
collection of old currency issues was one of the largest in the United States.
Frequently Kelwood made headlines by discovering freak forms of bank notes, or
specimens of forgotten money.
But Marquette's interest in monetary issues was of a more timely sort.
His
specialty was looking into spurious types of currency as produced by
counterfeiters.
It was obvious to The Shadow that Marquette could only have visited
Kelwood because the latter had discovered something amiss with notes now in
circulation. This meant that a counterfeiting ring was probably operating in
high gear, and the presence of lookouts like Juke and Bolo pointed directly to
the fact.
As for Curt Hulber, the man that the two crooks had mentioned, he was
just
the sort who might be "shoving the queer," as crooks termed the passing of
counterfeit money.
Long absent from New York because of his unpopularity with the police,
Curt wouldn't have returned unless something big had brought him. From all
appearances, Curt was handling something very much bigger than anything that
he
had previously undertaken. All that The Shadow wanted was a lead to Curt
Hulber,
and Bolo, at present, was obligingly providing it.
The trail came to a sudden end on a side street near an avenue. Bolo
stopped in front of a door that bore the sign: "Travel Bureau." He rapped and
was admitted, although the place was dark.
Peering through the broad front window, The Shadow saw huge travel
posters, pictures of steamships, and racks of travel circulars. Off past a
counter, he spied huddly figures, Bolo among them, as they moved toward a rear
room.
Trying the door, The Shadow found it locked, but opening it was simple.
Sheltered in the darkness of the doorway, he used tiny picks and keys with
adept precision, and soon effected an entry of his own. His figure wasn't
noticeable in the main room, for he kept close to the walls, reaching the
inner
door by a circuitous route.
There at the end of a narrow passage, The Shadow found a door leading
into
a lighted office. The light showed because the door was ajar so that the men
inside could hear others knock as Bolo had. Probably they were waiting for
Juke, and since that thug was still trailing Marquette to the hotel where the
Fed was stopping, The Shadow had a safe interim, during which he could look
into the conference.
CLOSE to the inner door, The Shadow's cloaked figure seemed like the
blackness of the passage. The burn of his keen eyes was well-shielded by the
brim of his slouch hat. Viewing the office, he saw half a dozen men, most of
them of a type like Bolo.
Lacking enough chairs, some were seated on desks, while others had chosen
stacks of heavy-wrapped bundles as slouching places. Of the group, but one man
was important. He was seated in a chair behind the central desk.
The man was Curt Hulber.
He looked the part that he was playing as head of the travel bureau.
Heavy-set, steady of eye and square of jaw, Hulber had an air of confidence;
yet with it an affable manner. At intervals he stroked back his sleek black
hair and gave a pleasant smile, as though dealing with customers across the
counter instead of crooks in the back room. But behind that pose lay hardness
that did not escape The Shadow's observation. Curt was listening to Bolo's
description of the vigil outside Kelwood's, and the details - or lack of them
-
did not please him. However, Curt's smile was all the more noticeable when
Bolo
finished. It was when the big shot spoke that his true feelings first
impressed
themselves upon the gathered crooks.
"So you learned - nothing!" Curt addressed his sarcastic words to Bolo.
"I
suppose that you think I put you on the job with Juke for nothing."
"I didn't think so," returned Bolo. "I was only doing what Juke said."
"And he said - nothing?"
"Well, no. He said he'd follow Marquette himself. Back to the hotel, I
guess. Maybe he'll pick up something there, when Marquette talks to the other
T-guys."
"Very likely," sneered Curt, rising behind the desk. "They'll probably
invite Juke in to have a drink with them and then get chummy! No" - Curt shook
his head doubtfully - "I guess not. When you two were hiding in doorways, you
should have picked a hockshop. If you'd cracked the window you could have
swiped a couple of badges, so you'd be able to make friends with Marquette."
The sarcasm began to tell on Bolo. He winced at the grins of the others.
Glaring at his listeners, then at Curt Hulber, Bolo decided to get tough.
"What could we have done?" he demanded. "Try and crash the gate at
Kelwood's? Or bust some of the windows in that hothouse porch where the Parnal
dame was waiting for her boyfriend, Lingle?"
"You might have had a look-see into the place," returned Curt. "That's
why
I sent you along - to cover Juke if he had trouble with the flunkies. Still" -
Curt's tone was easier - "it doesn't matter. You've found out all I need to
know."
Bolo stared, puzzled, as did some of the rest. Curt gestured to the
packages on which mobsters were seated.
"Clear the stuff out," he said. "This racket is finished. We're through
shoving the queer for awhile."
Protests came from several throats. Curt silenced them with a hard glare.
"Old Kelwood has spotted the phony mazuma," Curt declared. "He wouldn't
be
sending for Marquette if he hadn't. That old crab knows money like he invented
it! New York is big territory, but not big enough for him and me. I should
have
known it."
BOLO reached for his wide-bladed knife, muttering something about going
back to Kelwood's and making the town big enough for Curt. But Curt simply
shook his head, then reached for the telephone.
Crooks sat silent while Curt dialed; their faces, Bolo's included, were
set dumbly. They regarded the dialing of a telephone as something unimportant.
Not so The Shadow.
He was listening to the return clicks from the dial, counting them
adeptly. As plainly as if he had watched Curt's finger, The Shadow was picking
up the important features of the phone number. He could even guess the name of
the exchange, which gave him an absolute clue to Curt's call.
"Hello, Gorvey." Curt's tone was low. "Yeah, it's Curt... Closing up the
joint. Tonight. Hang on to any mail orders that come in at your place... Yeah,
I'll call you and check on any that come in. Still filling them?... Sure, I'll
attend to that. With some personal service, just to make sure there'll be no
leaks."
Even before Curt had hung up the receiver his ears caught an outside
sound. The Shadow heard it, too, for he was closer than Curt. The sound came
from the street door of the travel bureau. Someone was entering quite
stealthily. The Shadow presumed that it was Juke, back from his useless
trailing of Vic Marquette.
There wasn't time to look. With a quick twist, The Shadow was out of the
little passage and behind the counter of the travel bureau proper. As he went,
he heard Curt's growl from the inner office:
"Juke's coming in. Slide out to meet him, Bolo. Make sure he isn't being
trailed. Sometimes the Feds get smart to things."
From behind the counter The Shadow could see Bolo sneaking from the
passage to meet the man who was creeping inward. A face came into view just
above the counter level. The Shadow saw it first, recognized the swarthy
countenance, and was rising suddenly in darkness when Bolo gave a snarl.
Then figures were lunging, the intruder swinging with a gun as Bolo, in
one quick sweep, produced his wide-bladed knife for a throw to a victim's
heart. It wasn't Juke who had entered; it was another man, recognized by Bolo
as a person he particularly wanted to meet.
The intruder from the street was Vic Marquette!
CHAPTER III
NOTHING FROM NOTHING
QUICK though Marquette was with his gun, he could not match Bolo's speed
with the knife. Ordinarily, perhaps, Vic would have had a chance; but these
circumstances were not ordinary. Bolo had spotted Marquette first, while Vic
hadn't even picked out the door from which his enemy lunged. The darkness in
the travel bureau was difficult for eyes less probing than The Shadow's.
Sound alone was guiding Vic Marquette; his own lunge was simply an
instinctive response. He was faced the wrong way when he started, which made
his gun swing a long one. His wheel toward Bolo was a mistake; it was carrying
him into danger, instead of away from it.
In all, Marquette was giving Bolo a half second to get in the first
thrust
- and such a thrust, at this close range, could be a final one.
It happened that The Shadow dealt in time splits much shorter than half
seconds. He proved it in a way as daring as it was uncanny.
A swish of blackness marked The Shadow's intervening drive, an amazing
whirl, in Bolo's direction first. The assassin's hand, finishing an overhand
knife throw, was met by an upswing of an automatic that The Shadow whisked
from
beneath his cloak. The blow caught blade as well as hand. The knife scaled
high
from Bolo's hand above Marquette's head.
Only a rapid reverse spin could have saved The Shadow after he disarmed
Bolo. The Shadow made it, continuing his gun swing in a full-around backhand
fashion that culminated in a powerful downstroke.
Again metal clashed metal. This time The Shadow's heavy automatic found
Marquette's aiming gun. The Shadow's weapon bashed Vic's downward just as the
Fed pulled the trigger. A bullet chewed the baseboard near the door.
It wasn't to save Bolo. The Shadow's stroke was for his own personal
benefit. He had no other choice. To save Marquette he had been forced to hurl
himself into Bolo's path - and therewith The Shadow had placed his own life in
jeopardy at the point of Marquette's gun. The only way to stay alive had been
to disarm Vic as well as Bolo.
Bolo's howl and the roaring blast of Marquette's gun produced reactions
from two directions. The front door of the travel bureau smashed open and
other
Feds lunged into the place with flashlights, dragging a prisoner with them in
the person of Juke. At the same time there were shouts from the rear room;
with
them, the office lights went off and men began an outward scramble.
The confusion was broken by another sound - the tone of a rising laugh.
Weird, challenging, it came from the lips of The Shadow, the mid-figure in the
scene. Rising in a fierce crescendo, the mockery spelled doom to men of crime.
It brought a momentary halt to the charge from the rear room. With that
strident mirth, The Shadow had thrown the balance to the law.
Despite that fitting result, The Shadow's laugh had another and more
important purpose.
As before, The Shadow recognized that he would be useful only if he
remained alive. His mirth was a declaration of his identity to Marquette's
reserves. They had trapped Juke and made him bring them here to find crooks.
They hadn't expected a meeting with The Shadow.
Sight of Marquette, reeling in the flood of flashlights and clinging to
his gunless hand, was enough to make the Feds suppose that all others were
enemies, even the blackish fighter who was sidesweeping from the path of
light.
But the taunt that The Shadow delivered was enough to stay all trigger
fingers. Feds knew that they had an ally when they heard that peal.
SHOTS ripped from the rear room. The fusillade riddled nothing except the
front window with its display of travel posters. No one was in line with the
doorway through which the fire came. The Shadow had wheeled from the danger
path, and the Feds had not reached it.
Then, as The Shadow turned and tried a shot, the Feds followed suit.
Edging for the door, they began to pepper the inner darkness.
It wasn't healthy for Curt Hulber and his mob, and they seemed to know
it.
They were in retreat, or about to be, and the Feds were straining, counting on
a
chance to surge after them. Bolo had already fled through the door to the
inner
office and had been lucky enough to reach his goal just before the shooting
began.
Now it was Juke's turn.
A lull in the firing caused Juke to look for The Shadow. He saw the
cloaked fighter, gliding toward the front door and understood the reason. The
Shadow intended to get out and around; to halt Curt Hulber and the rest while
they were making their departure by the rear.
With The Shadow actually gone, Juke discounted other dangers. Shots were
spasmodic, as though Feds and crooks were feeling each other out. Juke decided
that he could profit by the situation.
Wresting himself from between two gripping Feds, Juke made a frantic dash
for the connecting door and reached it ahead of the shots that his captors
fired to halt his mad flight.
Safely away, Juke was starting a laugh of his own, one of ridicule for
the
Feds behind him, when an interruption came. The roar of guns drowned Juke's
cackle; he jolted, pitched forward among the very men who had wilted him with
the barrage.
Curt Hulber and his crew had mistaken Juke's dash for a charge by the
Feds. From their darkened stronghold, they had blasted right through the
doorway, to meet Juke as he came.
Gun reclaimed, Vic Marquette crept close to the door edge. He could hear
Juke's dying coughs; the crook was gasping information to the pals who had
just
eliminated him from their number.
Vic couldn't make out what Juke was saying, nor did he guess it, for Vic
had not witnessed The Shadow's gliding departure. But the stir from the back
room told that mobsters had suddenly decided to abandon it, for there were
shuffling sounds moving in the opposite direction.
To the Feds clustered near him, Vic Marquette undertoned:
"Let's go!"
They went. The surge was sudden enough to take the crooks by surprise. In
the glare of their own flashlights the driving Feds spotted the men they
wanted. Urged by the harsh shouts of a leader who was already out through a
back door, the thugs were trying to get away with big, paper-wrapped bundles
which they used as shields while turning with their guns.
Hesitation might have been disastrous, so Vic and his squad did not wait.
They hurled themselves upon the clustered crooks, profiting by the clumsiness
that the packages caused. Before other guns could aim, the Feds were snatching
away the shielding bundles and slugging at the men who lost them.
Two thugs tried to grapple, and therewith took the brunt of the attack.
Their guns spurted wide, but those of the Feds delivered accurate shots. The
pair crumpled.
摘要：

THEHOUSEONTHELEDGEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"April15,1941.Moneythrowntothewinds-becauseitwascounterfeit!AndTheShadow,lasthopeofthelawagainstashrewdcriminalring,findsthisthehardestbattleofhiscareer!CHAPTERICOUNTERFEITCURRENCYTEDLINGLEstoppedhisrattletrapcarinfrontofthebr...

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