Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 208 - City of Fear

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CITY OF FEAR
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," October 15, 1940.
In this carnival of crime and mystery, it was The Shadow who played the
role of barker!
CHAPTER I
WORD TO THE SHADOW
THE man in the dark suit was nervous. He drove slowly through the main
business district of Western City. When he approached the block where the
Prairie Savings Bank was located, his tension increased.
It was night, but the Prairie Savings Bank was open for business. On
Tuesday nights the bank didn't close until 9 p.m., for the convenience of
depositors. People were streaming in and out.
The man in the dark suit lowered his face over the wheel. His appearance
made an odd contrast with his furtive behavior. He looked well-dressed and
prosperous. He had gray hair and a clipped gray mustache. He looked like a man
who occupied an important position in the affairs of Western City, a man who
would have plenty of friends and acquaintances.
Perhaps that was why he was so careful to screen his face as he drove
along through the lighted streets.
He parked, finally, a block away from the Prairie Savings Bank. He walked
back, carrying a leather suitcase which he had taken from the rear of his car.
The weight of the suitcase put no strain on his arm. Either it contained
something extremely light, or the bag was empty.
Suddenly, the man with the gray mustache halted. A man and a woman were
walking toward him. He ignored their smile of recognition. Turning abruptly,
he
vanished into a dark doorway that gave access to a cheap walk-up apartment.
The couple who had seen him were mystified.
"Wasn't that Martin Black?" the woman said.
"It certainly was," her husband replied. "What an odd way for him to
behave! It makes me a little angry. It was a direct snub!"
"I don't think so," his wife said. "He seemed frightened. I don't believe
he wanted us to see him. I wonder what he's up to?"
Her husband laughed. He forgot his momentary anger.
"Martin Black? Don't be silly, my dear. He's one of the town's leading
citizens! A pillar of the church!"
He continued in an amused tone as they walked onward.
"Probably he's hunting up more stamps for his collection. He's a nut on
the subject. Perhaps he's located somebody in town with a rare stamp - and
he's
afraid that everybody he passes will guess what he's up to and rush to outbid
him before he can buy the stamp for himself."
The couple forgot about the whole trivial episode.
But there was nothing trivial about the expression on Martin Black's
face,
as he emerged presently from the dark hallway where he had secreted himself.
His
eyes burned with a hard triumphant gleam. He walked toward the savings bank.
But he didn't go all the way. At the corner, he turned quickly up the
side
street. Carrying his light suitcase, he continued around the block, making
almost a complete circuit.
There was a side door to the savings bank, on the far street. It was a
dingy-looking door, with neither number nor name on it. But it was heavily
locked, and built of metal.
Martin Black knew exactly what lay behind that door. It gave entrance to
the private office of Howard Nixon, president of the Prairie Savings Bank.
Black rang the push-bell two or three times. It looked like a prearranged
signal. Nixon himself opened the door and admitted his visitor.
"Good evening, Martin. Come in! I've been expecting you."
The door closed and was locked. An inner door that connected with the
bank
proper was also locked. Nixon stared curiously at his caller.
They were old friends, and he could speak frankly.
"What in the world is the reason for all this silly secrecy, Martin? I've
been puzzled ever since you telephoned me. I'll be perfectly glad to protect
any valuables you may wish to leave in my personal vault, but, frankly, your
caution seems ridiculous."
He took the suitcase which Black handled him. Its lightness surprised
him.
"What the devil? The thing is empty!"
"Not empty," Black said. His smile was taut.
"What's in it?"
"Stamps."
Nixon swore. Black's zeal to protect a stamp collection annoyed him. He
was well aware of the investment broker's fanatic ideas on the subject. But
after all, stamps were only a hobby.
"People are after them," Black insisted harshly. "Crooks! You know what
collectors are. They'd be perfectly willing to hire thugs to -"
"You'll go crazy, Martin, if you're not careful," Nixon murmured. "All
right, I'll lock them in my private vault. No one will know they're here.
Let's
have a look at them."
Black gave him the key to the suitcase. Nixon laid the bag flat on his
desk. Black moved slightly backward. There was sweat on his forehead.
Nixon leaned forward, as he raised the suitcase lid. There were no stamps
in the case. There was nothing in it!
"Why, this thing is empty, Martin!"
THOSE were the last words that Nixon ever uttered. Martin Black had risen
to his toes, his hand lifted. He was gripping the thing he had slid slyly out
from beneath his coat. It was a short bar of steel.
He brought the bludgeon down with all his strength on the skull of his
victim.
It was a terrific blow. Nixon fell across the desk and slid inertly to
the
floor. The whole back of his skull had been crushed in.
The man who had slain the bank president stood still for nearly sixty
seconds, getting a grip on his nerves. Then Black chuckled. It was a harsh,
callous sound. He knelt quietly, and his gloved hands made a quick search of
Howard Nixon's pockets.
He found a bunch of keys, and selected what he thought was the right one.
Black placed it in a hole in a steel panel at the rear of the private office.
The panel swung open.
A vault door was disclosed. The combination dial made Black's smile
deepen
sardonically. From his own pocket, he took a slip of paper. In two minutes the
vault was opened by the murderer's gloved hands.
From the vault, Martin Black took a rich hoard of bonds. None of them
were
registered. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for police to trace
them.
Black packed them neatly in his bag.
Black tiptoed to the private door that gave access to the bank proper. It
was locked, as he well knew, but he wanted to make sure.
He had asked Nixon over the telephone to lock that door before he
arrived.
He also warned Nixon not to mention his name or his intended visit. Nixon was
the soul of honor. He could depend that the warning had been scrupulously
obeyed.
He stared sneeringly down at his dead victim.
"You poor fool!"
Then he let himself quietly out to the side street. No one saw him leave.
Hugging the shadows, Black made his way back around the block to the avenue
where he had parked his car. The suitcase was heavy, now. It strained at his
left shoulder. He kept his gloved right hand in his pocket.
There were two cars at the curb. The one Black had come in, and another
one not far away. Martin Black had ignition keys for each. Without anyone
noticing, he started the engines in both cars.
Obviously, he was not taking any chances. He got into his own car and
placed the bag of loot on the floor near his feet.
Then he hesitated. It was almost as if he had lost his nerve at the end
of
a perfect crime. Twice he started to drive into traffic; twice he changed his
mind.
Finally, he uttered a curt grunt and started his car. He picked a bad
time. A bus was rumbling along the street in the opposite direction. It was
traveling fast and hogging most of the street. Black swung too wide on his
turnout.
There was a shrill squeaking of brakes, a shout of alarm from pedestrians
on both sidewalks - then the two vehicles collided.
It was a sideswipe accident. The heavier bus threw the car slithering
across the street against the curb. A tire exploded with a bang. The car
toppled sideways. Black was thrown out the door, to the pavement. The leather
bag fell with him.
People ran to his aid. But before anyone could get within a dozen feet of
him, Black was on his feet, snarling. A gun leaped from his coat pocket.
"Keep away, damn you," he shouted, "or I'll shoot to kill!"
He was recognized. A voice cried out in shrill wonder.
"Mr. Black! What in the name of heaven -"
Black's gun flamed. A bullet whizzed over the man's head. There were
shouts of horror. The crowd retreated.
Black's free hand grabbed for his suitcase. The jar of the collision had
forced open the lid of the bag. Some of its contents had scattered on the
sidewalk.
People who were nearest saw the spilled bonds which Black was
convulsively
scooping back into his suitcase. They realized that something was badly wrong.
Black's face looked insane, as he backed toward the second car at the
curb, whose engine was softly purring. His face was twisted with rage.
"Don't try to stop me, or I swear I'll -"
His gun flamed. He fired over the heads of the crowd, driving them back
in
terror. Men yelled. Women fainted. It gave Black a chance to leap into his
second car and put the idling engine into gear.
The car shot away with a rasp of power. It whizzed past the stalled bus
and roared down the avenue. In a moment, it skidded around a corner and
vanished into darkness.
ON the sidewalk lay a couple of the bonds which the thief had dropped in
his mad flight.
The confusion was terrific. The halted bus blocked traffic. The crowd
surged into the street in a ferment of excitement. By the time a policeman
arrived, the thief had made a clean getaway.
A dozen voices shouted at the cop, as he fought his way to a telephone.
"It was Martin Black!"
"He's gone insane!"
"He must have held up the Prairie Savings Bank!"
"He just made a getaway!"
The cop looked as if he were going crazy himself, but he grabbed the
phone
and sent in his amazing report to Western City police headquarters. Presently,
the din of police and ambulance bells filled the street.
A police inspector raced down the block. He darted into the savings bank,
with a squad of bluecoats at his heels. He found plenty of confusion - and
more
mystery. The people in the bank denied that there had been any holdup!
"Mr. Black wasn't in here at all tonight," the grizzled special officer
said. "If he had come in, I'd have recognized him. Besides, there's been no
theft."
"Where's Mr. Nixon?"
"In his private office."
"Get him. I want a check-up. Those bonds came from somewhere!"
There was a rush of feet, then a scared employee returned.
"Mr. Nixon's private office is locked. He doesn't answer."
"Break down his door, men!" the inspector snarled at his squad.
It was easier said than done. But finally the door fell inward and the
police boiled into the room.
They recoiled in horror from the bleeding corpse. A quick glance showed
that Nixon's private vault had been opened and that over a million dollars'
worth of negotiable bonds had been stolen.
A pall of horror settled on everyone in the bank. It was inconceivable;
mad! Martin Black had brutally murdered one of his best friends and committed
a
gigantic robbery.
A police net was promptly thrown around Western City, to head off the
fugitive. There were only half a dozen roads that Black could take.
All of them were blocked by swiftly-moving police cars. The net result
was
zero. Martin Black had vanished into thin air!
Neither of the two cars he had used belonged to him. A check-up of the
license numbers showed that both had been rented. Two dealers from different
parts of town identified Martin Black's photograph as the renter.
As a last resort, the police went to Black's home to search it. The door
was opened by - Martin Black!
BLACK was calm, smiling, self-possessed. He denied any knowledge of the
murder of Nixon and the theft of the bonds. He said he had just returned from
a
trip into the country, on private business of his own. He refused to discuss
where he had gone or what he had done.
He was promptly arrested and jailed. From the jail, Black telephoned his
personal attorney, Henry Stuart.
Stuart was not at home. But he was located presently, at a town about
three hundred miles away, where he had gone to inspect some mining property
for
a client. He expressed unbelieving horror over the phone. He agreed to catch
the
first train back.
Stuart arrived shortly before midnight, and went at once to the jail. He
had a long, private interview with the prisoner. When they emerged from the
conference, Henry Stuart looked alarmed. But he kept his uneasiness from his
client.
They were more than merely client and lawyer. They belonged to a circle
of
friends in which men like Roger Dodd and Peter Corcoran and the dead Howard
Nixon were prominent.
Dodd was Western City's wealthiest contractor. Corcoran was its most
influential politician. Stuart himself was wealthy, and a close friend of
Black's. It seemed inconceivable that a man from that station in life could
commit so callous a crime.
But Martin Black's private explanation to his lawyer was fantastic. He
declared that he had gone to visit a man at a farmhouse. He described the man
and the farmhouse.
Police hurried out in fast cars to check the alibi. They didn't find the
man. They didn't even find the farmhouse. The spot where Martin Black said he
had gone was an open field!
"I think I'd better have Dr. Altman examine him," Stuart told the police
chief, in a worried tone.
Dr. Altman's examination made matters even more confused. He reported
that
Black was laboring under extreme excitement. But there was no indication of
insanity.
The prisoner was indicted by the grand jury. He merely sealed his lips
tighter. The car in which he had fled from the bank was found abandoned near
the outskirts of Western City. No trace of the stolen bonds could be found.
Alice Gunther, the pretty niece of the prisoner, was no more successful
than Stuart in making her uncle talk. He just sneered at her. She spoke wildly
to a newspaper friend of hers about her belief in her uncle's innocence.
"If only The Shadow were here," she moaned. "The Shadow is the only
person
on earth who can clear my uncle! I'm going to try to send word to The Shadow.
I'm going to beg him to help!"
The reporter printed the story in his paper. Wild rumors began to grow.
CHAPTER II
THE GOLD HAND
LAMONT CRANSTON sat in the cocktail lounge of the Cobalt Club. He had a
late-afternoon copy of the Daily Classic in his hand. A highball stood
conveniently at his elbow.
There was news in the Daily Classic that interested Cranston. The paper
contained a complete account of the sensational bank theft and murder that had
rocked Western City to its foundations.
The story had been telegraphed to the Classic by its ace correspondent,
Clyde Burke. Burke had been sent by plane to Western City to cover the
developments of the case.
Cranston's interest, however, was not in the story of the crime, which
had
taken place a couple of days earlier. He had turned to another page. A smaller
headline chronicled news of an entirely different character. The headline
read:
ARRIVAL OF THE SHADOW
RUMORED
_______
Unknown Foe of Crime Reported in
Western City to Investigate Bank
Murder and Clear Black
Behind Cranston's spread newspaper sibilant laughter sounded faintly. His
eyes glowed briefly with a piercing flame. Lamont Cranston was well aware that
The Shadow was at this precise moment seated in the Cobalt Club in New York,
sipping a highball.
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!
Nobody realized Cranston's dangerous secret. Least of all Inspector Joe
Cardona, of the New York police, who had promised to drop in at the club for a
sociable chat with Cranston on his way downtown to headquarters.
Joe Cardona would have chuckled, had anyone suggested that this
millionaire clubman, friend of the police commissioner, was in reality the
black-robed avenger of crime, who had on so many occasions helped Joe to nab
supercriminals too smart to be caught by ordinary police methods.
The Shadow absolved Clyde Burke from any part in that queer newspaper
rumor. Clyde Burke was not a man who printed false facts. Besides, there was
another reason why Burke would never disclose news of this sort.
Clyde Burke was one of The Shadow's agents.
Cranston finished his drink and rose quietly. He left the cocktail lounge
and rode in the elevator to his suite upstairs.
Having bolted his door and drawn the shades, Cranston picked up his
telephone. He called a number that was not listed in any directory. A crisp
voice replied.
"Burbank speaking."
Burbank was The Shadow's contact man. He was always on duty, day or
night.
The voice that spoke to Burbank bore no resemblance to Cranston's.
"Orders for Clyde Burke at Western City!"
The Shadow's voice issued the orders. There was a pause, then:
"Orders for Harry Vincent!"
When The Shadow had finished, Burbank said: "Orders acknowledged."
"Repeat!"
Burbank obeyed. There would be no mistake. The words The Shadow had just
uttered would be transmitted to Clyde Burke at the Palace Hotel in Western
City, and to Harry Vincent at the Hotel Metrolite in New York. Vincent was
another of The Shadow's agents, the oldest of them all in point of service.
LAMONT CRANSTON returned to the cocktail lounge. He found Inspector
Cardona waiting impatiently for him. It was unusual for Joe to be excited. But
his manner was grim, as he drew Cranston into a quiet corner.
"You'll probably laugh, Mr. Cranston, but something very queer happened a
little while ago. A guy called me up, just before I left the Harlem precinct
station to meet you. He told me he had a tip that would clear up a big New
York
murder."
"What's so queer about that?"
"He said he was The Shadow."
Cranston stiffened, but he managed to keep his composure.
"Nonsense, Joe! I don't believe there is any such person. It's probably a
gag."
"Well, I can tell you there is. The Shadow's helped me too many times.
But
that's not the point. Whoever it was, this guy was lying. It wasn't The Shadow
at all."
"Are you sure?"
"Certainly! This guy talked too much. The real Shadow never wastes a
word.
I put a tracer on the wire and sent a squad car racing to the drugstore where
he
phoned from - but the car got there too late. The clerk couldn't remember who
had used the booth."
Cardona relaxed, after getting the thing off his chest.
"Like you say, Mr. Cranston, it's probably a gag. I didn't consider it
important enough to interrupt our cocktail date."
Cranston's chuckle sounded natural and amused.
"Why not look into it, Joe? By jove, I'll go with you! I've been so
bored,
I didn't know what to do. Wait here. My hat and coat are in my room."
Alone in the privacy of his suite, the amiable smile wiped away from
Lamont Cranston's lips. He opened a wall panel near his desk and took out a
bulky brief case. After a swift examination, he closed the case. A sibilant
laugh escaped his lips.
When he left his suite, he carried two automatics, though the bulge of
the
weapons was not perceptible under the loose drape of his topcoat. He also took
the brief case.
Cranston had his own car brought around from a nearby garage. The two
friends drove downtown to the address which had been given Cardona over the
phone. Cranston continued to make light of the entire affair.
"The guy's final directions sounded silly," Cardona admitted.
"What did he say?"
"He said: 'Don't look for the hand of The Shadow. Look for the shadow of
the hand'!"
Cranston made no comment. But presently, he changed his tactics with Joe.
Instead of making light of the affair, he began subtly to sell Cardona on the
idea that the appointment might be dangerous. He pretended to be frightened.
He
did this with a particular plan in mind.
The address was a cheap tenement in a dingy West Side neighborhood.
Cranston drove slowly past it.
Suddenly Cardona uttered a low cry.
"Look! The hand! Do you see it?"
He was pointing to a dentist's sign over the doorway of a brick building
next to the tenement. The sign was a gilded hand. It pointed toward the
entrance of a dentist's suite in the brick building.
But Cardona wasn't excited by the sign. Its shadow was what had made him
gasp. A brilliant light above the sign threw a shadow on the sidewalk. It was
the shadow of the hand!
The extended finger of the projected shadow pointed toward the cellar
stairs of the tenement!
"Don't stop!" Cardona whispered. "Keep driving!"
His face was lowered, so that no one who might be watching could identify
him. At the corner, he ordered Cranston to drive around the block. They halted
outside a tenement in the rear of the suspected place.
Cardona ordered Cranston to remain in the car. But Cranston demurred. He
insisted on accompanying Joe. His excuse was the brief case which he had
brought with him. He said it contained valuable legal papers. He was afraid to
remain alone in the car in such a tough neighborhood.
Grudgingly, Cardona agreed.
They hurried through a cellar, to the rear. They climbed a back fence in
the darkness and approached the other tenement. Cardona entered first.
Standing in a far corner of the cellar was a motionless figure that drew
a
gasp from Cardona.
"The Shadow!"
THEY could see the glimmer of a white face that seemed to swim in the
air.
Above the face was a black slouch hat. Below it was the inky shape of a black
cloak. The figure neither moved nor uttered a sound as Cardona advanced
slowly,
his police gun steady.
Suddenly, Cardona cursed.
"A stupid gag!" he growled. "A joke!"
The thing was a dummy! What had seemed to be a glimmering face was a
blank
circle of cardboard, propped cleverly between the slouch hat and the suspended
cloak.
A murderous voice cut savagely through the darkness.
"Get 'em up! Drop that gat!"
There were two thugs behind Cranston and Cardona. Both thugs were masked.
Both had guns ready to spit flame. The thug who had snarled the warning spoke
again.
"All right, Limpy!"
There was a shuffling step from the front of the cellar. Another masked
thug moved into view, cutting off any escape to the front sidewalk.
"Back into that corner, both of you! We're going to hand you a dose of
lead - and leave a gun propped near the sleeve of that dummy shadow! Nice,
huh?
Give the boys from homicide something to puzzle about when they find the
bodies!"
Lamont Cranston began to plead for mercy in a terrified voice. But
Cardona
had no intention of submitting. He had heard the thug in front called Limpy.
He
had listened to his awkward shuffling step. That was the guy to take a chance
on!
Joe whirled suddenly. His gun and Limpy's exploded at almost the same
instant. But Limpy's bad foot threw him off balance. The bullet from Joe's gun
thudded into his body and wrecked his aim. A slug whistled past Cardona's
ducking head.
With a yell to Cranston, Joe flung himself flat. The cellar echoed with
vicious gunfire. Cardona had his hands full with the other two thugs. He had
to
keep constantly on the move, to avoid a deadly reply to the telltale flame of
his muzzle. He crawled zigzag fashion, trying to retreat.
Lamont Cranston wasn't any help. When Limpy fell, with a police bullet in
his stomach, Cranston uttered a high-pitched scream. He raced past the fallen
gunman. He crashed into a barrel in the darkness of the front-cellar
compartment. There was a thud from his falling body; then silence.
Cardona had to fight it out alone now. He was in a suicidal spot. One of
the masked men had succeeded in outflanking the desperately crawling Cardona.
The other thug kept the rear exit closed off.
Joe was under a vicious crossfire. A bullet sliced pain across his hip.
Another, from the opposite direction, nicked the lobe of his ear. Joe didn't
return the fire.
There was a harmless click from his hot gun. He had emptied the weapon in
his frenzied effort to protect the escape of Lamont Cranston!
There was a forward rush of feet. Joe tried to swing his clubbed gun. But
something struck him on the temple and toppled him, dazed, to the concrete
floor. A masked face leaned close above him. A hot muzzle pressed itself
against the flesh behind Cardona's ear.
There was a crash of gunfire.
But the bullet behind that crash didn't bore into the brain of Joe
Cardona. It struck the bent figure of the crouched murderer. It came from a
.45. It tunneled downward through the thug's chest and ripped out near the
base
of the spine. It left a hole the size of a man's palm.
A sibilant laugh made an eerie whisper in the darkness. The laughter came
from black nothingness. The laughter of The Shadow! It was a mocking sound, as
it whispered from a bewildering succession of spots in the darkness.
The single remaining thug was unable to flee. Every time he darted toward
an exit, a slug drove him back.
"Surrender - or die!" a stern voice cried.
The thug made the wrong choice. He staked all on a frontal attack. He
rushed forward behind stuttering streaks of flame.
The Shadow had intended to take him alive, but the battle was now life or
death. The Shadow had no choice. He killed his man barely in time to escape
death himself.
Cardona staggered dizzily to his feet. He snatched up the thug's fallen
gun. He turned toward The Shadow - and found nothing. The Shadow had vanished!
CARDONA backed into a corner. The silence was profound. Finally, Joe's
flashlight glowed. It disclosed nothing but the three dead men. Cardona hunted
for the missing Cranston. He found him in a limp huddle on the floor, where he
had run into an ash barrel in the dark.
Lamont Cranston was trembling when Cardona revived him.
"I must have been knocked out when I fell over the barrel," he murmured.
"Are you all right?"
Cardona nodded grimly in the light of his torch. He told of the
miraculous
appearance of The Shadow - the real Shadow. Cranston fumbled around the floor
and found his brief case.
"Thank heaven, they didn't steal my legal papers," he said.
There was a dim smile on his lips, that faded quickly. Cardona examined
the bodies of the three thugs. When the masks were removed, he uttered a cry.
"Hey! What do you know? These guys are out-of-town hoods! I don't know
Limpy, but these other two have records. They come from west of the
Mississippi. The last report we had on them said they had run to cover in a
place called Western City!"
Lamont Cranston didn't reply. He was silent, too, when the police
arrived.
He answered a few routine questions. Then he went back to his car and drove
uptown to the Cobalt Club.
In the quiet of his soundproof suite, Lamont Cranston reached grimly for
his telephone. The voice of Burbank replied.
"Orders for Rutledge Mann," the voice of The Shadow intoned.
Rutledge Mann was The Shadow's financial agent. He posed as an investment
broker. But his office was merely a front for his real job - the service of
The
Shadow.
Tersely The Shadow ordered Rutledge Mann to check all the big New York
hotels for any recent arrivals from Western City. The death of the three thugs
had ended a promising lead. But obviously those thugs had a criminal boss.
The Shadow was still not sure whether the cellar attack was directed
against Joe Cardona or himself. Cardona's date with Cranston at the Cobalt
Club
might or might not have been known. More investigation was necessary.
Presently, the phone rang. Burbank forwarded the report of Rutledge Mann.
The only recent arrival from Western City was a man named Roger Dodd. Dodd was
a wealthy contractor. He was staying at the Gilton Hotel. His business was
apparently legitimate. He was in New York to raise funds for a new skyscraper
he was erecting in Western City.
But The Shadow's laughter was ominous as he hung up the phone. He knew
that this Roger Dodd was a friend of the Martin Black who had been arrested
for
an atrocious murder. Was the attack on Cranston a direct outcome of the rumor
that The Shadow had interested himself in the Western City crime?
The Shadow decided to call on Mr. Dodd. His visit would be in the amiable
role of Lamont Cranston.
CHAPTER III
MR. ROGER DODD
ROGER DODD proved to be a polite, well-dressed gentleman, and a genial
host.
He welcomed Lamont Cranston to his suite at the Hotel Gilton with a warm
handclasp and a flattering greeting. Dodd seemed to be alone in the suite. At
any rate, there was no sign of a servant.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cranston. I have often
wanted to meet you. We have something in common, you and I."
"Really?" Cranston smiled at him.
"Yes. Hunting."
Cranston's interest quickened, but he concealed it. Dodd had emphasized
the word "hunting" slightly.
"It must be quite a thrill to squeeze a trigger and bring down something
you've trailed a long time," Dodd continued suavely. "I refer, of course, to
your African exploits."
"Oh, yes. I've done quite a bit of that. And you?"
"Just in a small way. Nothing to match your skill. As a matter of fact, I
sometimes fail and the er... animal gets away."
There was a slight hint of a rasp in his voice. But Cranston ignored it.
Roger Dodd didn't look much like a contractor, he had pale-blue eyes in a
rather pallid face. He wore a closely-clipped brown beard and mustache. Had
Cranston not known his occupation in advance, he might have guessed Dodd to be
a prosperous society dentist, or perhaps a physician.
The backs of the man's hands were not sunburned. Evidently when Dodd
erected skyscrapers, he supervised the job from the interior of a comfortable
office. He looked more like a student than a man of active affairs.
"I'd enjoy talking hunting with you indefinitely," Cranston murmured.
"But, actually, I've come to talk business."
"I don't understand."
"Money, Mr. Dodd."
"I still don't understand."
"Your arrival in New York was reported to me by my financial agent. I
understand that you're erecting a skyscraper in Western City, and that the
work
has been held up temporarily by lack of funds. You have a worth-while project
and an excellent business rating. I have plenty of idle funds. Hence my visit
to you tonight."
"I see." Roger Dodd toyed with a pencil. His pale, well-kept hands looked
strong and muscular. "You mean you're interested in making a realty
investment?"
"Precisely. As you know, safe investments are not exactly plentiful these
days. I have confidence in you and in your integrity. I'd be willing to back
your building project with a well-secured loan."
"Thank you," Dodd murmured. "I appreciate your confidence in me. But,
unfortunately -"
His hand stopped toying with the pencil. Unconsciously, it tightened into
a fist.
"My financial difficulty has already been taken care of. I've been down
to
Wall Street. I have made a very satisfactory arrangement."
摘要：

CITYOFFEARbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"October15,1940.Inthiscarnivalofcrimeandmystery,itwasTheShadowwhoplayedtheroleofbarker!CHAPTERIWORDTOTHESHADOWTHEmaninthedarksuitwasnervous.HedroveslowlythroughthemainbusinessdistrictofWesternCity.WhenheapproachedtheblockwherethePrair...

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