Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 186 - City of Ghosts

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CITY OF GHOSTS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE CITY THAT DIED
? CHAPTER II. GHOSTS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER III. BROKEN BATTLE
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW STAYS
? CHAPTER V. THE BURIED GHOST
? CHAPTER VI. TWO MEN HOPE
? CHAPTER VII. DEATH BY THE BRINK
? CHAPTER VIII. THE BROKEN JINX
? CHAPTER IX. AT THE MANSION
? CHAPTER X. CRIME'S MISSION
? CHAPTER XI. DEATH BELOW
? CHAPTER XII. AGAIN, THE GHOST
? CHAPTER XIII. COMING CRIME
? CHAPTER XIV. THE NIGHT PATROL
? CHAPTER XV. THE TRAPPED GHOST
? CHAPTER XVI. INTO THE PAST
? CHAPTER XVII. BEFORE MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XVIII. HOUR OF BATTLE
? CHAPTER XIX. THE DOUBLE FIGHT
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S LAST STAND
CHAPTER I. THE CITY THAT DIED
THE passengers aboard the Silver Bullet stared from the windows in surprise, when the sleek streamliner
glided to a stop at Pomelo Junction. Except for a dilapidated station, there was no sign of human
habitation.
As for the branch line that connected there, its track was nothing but a double streak of rust curving off to
nowhere through the Florida pine woods.
Its pause no more than momentary, the Silver Bullet was moving south again. Persons at the observation
window glimpsed the tall passenger who had alighted, standing with his bags beside him. Then he, like the
station, was gone from sight, as the streamliner whirled past a main-line bend.
Back on the weather-beaten platform, Lamont Cranston smiled as a rattly touring car jounced up to the
station. Its driver, beefy-faced and shirt-sleeved, clambered out to meet the arrival. He took a look at the
bags and the hawk-faced gentleman who owned them, then queried:
"You're Mr. Cranston?"
Cranston's reply was a quiet acknowledgment.
The beefy-faced man introduced himself as Seth Woodley, and gestured toward his rattletrap car.
Cranston saw the word "Taxi" on a printed label that was stuck to the windshield.
"I'm from Leesville, the county seat," vouchsafed Woodley. "That's where they sent your telegram. They
said you were fixing to get off at Pomelo Junction and would need a taxi."
"Quite right," returned Cranston. Then, as Woodley was putting the bags in the car: "How long will it take
you to drive me to Pomelo City?"
A satchel dropped from Woodley's hand as the fellow turned about. His eyes squinted in the late
afternoon sun. The same glow brought a glisten from the gold fillings in his back teeth, so wide was his
gape.
"You're fixing to go to Pomelo City?"
"I am, if you can take me there," replied Cranston, calmly. "Since the branch line has been
abandoned"—he was looking toward the rusted track—"I presume that the highway is the only route to
Pomelo City."
Woodley's jaw clicked shut. Grimly, he gestured Cranston into the car; then took the wheel. They rattled
off along a well-paved highway, with Woodley driving in silence.
CRANSTON'S eyes were taking in the scenery. The ground differed somewhat from other areas of
Florida, for this was a "hammock" region, the term derived from small ridges, or hammocks. The slopes
were well wooded with pine, while gullies showed clusters of cypress, indicating swampland.
In fact, as the scene progressed, it improved. The car rolled past fenced-off orange groves, with
sprinklings of other citrus trees. Fertile slopes showed rows of young tuna trees, promising future profits
to their owners.
It was not until Woodley slowed his car to take a side road, that the reason for the fellow's grimness
became apparent.
Then Cranston saw a battered sign pointing to Pomelo City, the name scarcely legible. He observed the
road ahead—a single lane highway of red brick. The road, itself, was proof that something was wrong
with Pomelo City.
Brick highways dated years back. Built in single lanes, they forced passing cars to turn out along the sand
shoulders. When traffic warranted, they were widened, by concrete strips on either side.
This road had not rated such improvement. On the contrary, it had been allowed to deteriorate. Grass
was sprouting up among the bricks; in some cases, there were gaps in the wabbly, irregular surface.
Woodley took those bumps as a matter of course, even though they shook the chassis of his ancient car.
There were times, though, when he yanked the wheel frantically, to avoid an actual catastrophe. Those
were the times when he spied bricks that were upended in the paving.
Along the fringes of that grass-sprouting road, Cranston soon spied scenes of true desolation. One slope
showed a pitiful array of withered stalks that had once been promising tuna trees. A level field displayed
sawed-off stumps that represented a former citrus grove.
"The Medfly got those trees," spoke Woodley, gloomily. "They had to chop 'em down. A funny thing, the
Medfly. No more trouble from it anywhere in Florida, except around Pomelo City."
They were approaching a bend where the tilted, broken roof of a farmhouse poked up from the ground
level. Woodley nudged his thumb in the direction of the new exhibit.
"A sinkhole," he said. "Lots of 'em start around here, but the ground don't usually cave right underneath a
house, like it did there. That only happens near Pomelo City."
Cranston's gaze was fixed toward the ruin, as if he wanted to observe the sinkhole itself. Woodley gave a
chuckle, slowed the car as they completed the curve.
"Here's a real sinkhole for you, Mr. Cranston!" he said. "Plumb in the middle of the road. That's one
reason why nobody drives over here any more."
He was taking a sandy detour that skirted the sinkhole. Cranston saw the hollow from the brink. The
sinkhole looked like the shallow crater of an extinct volcano. Measuring a hundred feet across, it showed
ground that had sunk twenty feet.
The cavity was lined with sand, except where gaunt stretches of broken limestone showed a miniature
cliff formation. Mixed with the sand at the bottom of the sinkhole were trunks of small trees and chunks
of paving.
"When the rainy season comes," announced Woodley, as he swung from the detour, back to the brick
road, "that sinkhole will fill up. Right now, we're having a drought, and it's been harder on Pomelo City
than anywhere else. See that grapefruit grove?"
Cranston saw the grove, but needed Woodley's statement to recognize that the trees had ever borne
grapefruit. The grove was barren; like the fruit, all leaves were gone. The trees, themselves, seemed
wilted.
"They tried to save it," said Woodley, glumly, "by pumping water from the lake. Only, the lake went dry.
Yes, sir, the bottom dropped plumb out of it, like it has with Pomelo City!"
THE lake came into sight. It was nothing but a pitiful expanse of caked clay, that gave off the odor of
rotted fish. Cracks in the clay denoted limestone cavities, that had opened when the water level sank.
Those gaps had sucked the lake dry.
Beyond a thinned woods appeared Florida's symbol of a town: a large water tank set on three tall legs.
That tower, with its conical roof, was Cranston's first view of Pomelo City.
At a distant view, it was quite the same as many other man-made reservoirs that Cranston had seen while
a passenger upon the streamliner. It was different though, when the car came closer.
Then, the rust of the supporting tripod was visible. The scarred tank showed its lack of paint. Gaps could
be seen in the cone that topped it. Odd blackish splotches showed near the uppermost point. Woodley
pressed in the clutch pedal, raced the old motor to a roar.
Immediately, the blotches took to wing. They were buzzards. Frightened by the noise of the approaching
car, the huge birds circled away from the water tank. Their actions showed that they intended to return to
their roost when the car had passed.
"You can't fool a buzzard," declared Woodley. "They know when anything has died. They know that
Pomelo City is dead, even though people are staying there because they won't believe it! You'll see for
yourself, Mr. Cranston."
The car struck the short main street. It jolted over broken layers of concrete, which were matched by the
remnants of shattered cement sidewalk that lined the ruined thoroughfare. On either side were crumpling
buildings that had once been stores.
Some had boarded-up fronts, as weather-beaten as the station platform at the junction. Others simply
displayed gaps, instead of show windows. Between the sidewalks and the crumbled curbs were frowsy
brown-leaved palm trees that looked on the verge of collapse.
Passing a ruin that had once been a theater, Woodley drew up in front of a stucco-walled building that
looked like a three-story blockhouse. Above the entrance was a sign proclaiming the place to be the
Pomelo Hotel.
Alighting, Woodley carried the bags into a lobby that was furnished with tumble-down wicker chairs.
While the taxi driver was shouting for the proprietor, Cranston eyed the hotel register.
It bore the proprietor's name, Martin Welf, at the top; otherwise, the page was blank, indicating that the
hotel had no guests.
Welf arrived at Woodley's shouts. The proprietor was a portly, baldish man, who stuttered in bewildered
fashion when he learned that Lamont Cranston intended to become a guest.
When Cranston had registered, Welf picked up the bags and started toward the stairway. He was
obviously a one-man staff: clerk and bellboy, as well as hotel owner.
Woodley grunted thanks, when Cranston handed him a ten-dollar bill as taxi fare and said that change
would not be necessary. Plucking his passenger's sleeve, Woodley confided:
"Maybe you won't like it here, Mr. Cranston. I'll tell you what I'm fixing to do. Sheriff Harley has allowed
that he ought to come over here some night on account of talk he's heard, about some folks starting
trouble. I'll offer to make the trip this evening."
Welf was calling wheezily from the second floor: "Right this way, Mr. Cranston!"
"So if it ain't to your liking," added Woodley, quickly, "you can go back to Leesville with me, later
tonight, Mr. Cranston."
Nodding his thanks, Cranston turned toward the stairway, wearing a smile that Woodley did not see. At
the top of the stairs, Welf was waiting at the open door of a front room. He announced, apologetically,
that the hotel chef had left, but that he could supply sandwiches and coffee if Cranston wanted dinner.
"I dined on the train," Cranston told him. "I hope, however, that the cook will soon return. I intend to stay
in Pomelo City a long while, Mr. Welf."
HIS eyes wide with amazement, Welf backed from the room. Cranston locked the door and strolled to
the front window. He saw Woodley's old car go bouncing away, watched it take the winding road from
town.
Buzzards flapped up from the water tower as the car went past. Circling against the darkening sky, they
returned to their roost. By then, Woodley's car had dwindled into the dusk. Cranston's last contact with
the outer world was gone.
As Cranston watched the street below, feeble street lights flickered into being. They were pitifully dim,
those lights, as they glowed through the dried clumps of leaves that hung from the drooping branches of
the dead palm trees. They looked weak enough for a puff of wind to extinguish them.
Turning from the window, Cranston stepped to a chair, where Welf had placed a satchel. Opening the
bag, he drew out a black cloak and slid it over his shoulders.
With that action, Lamont Cranston seemed to disappear, except for his hawkish face, which remained,
like a floating mask, above the chair.
Next came a slouch hat. When he had clamped it on his head, Cranston's face was also gone. His hands
merged with the gloom, like the rest of him, for he was encasing them in thin black gloves. Blended with
the semidarkness, Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow.
A strange being that belonged to blackness, The Shadow had begun the mission that had brought him to
Pomelo City. He had become a living ghost in a city that had died!
CHAPTER II. GHOSTS IN THE NIGHT
A TINY flashlight glimmered in the darkness. Its rays fell upon a batch of newspaper clippings spread
upon a bureau so shaky that it wabbled at the slightest touch. In the increasing darkness of his hotel
room, The Shadow was reviewing the facts that accounted for his visit to Pomelo City.
News of the town's plight had filtered to the outside world, but in such small and occasional dribbles that
no one, other than The Shadow, had sensed the full import of what had happened to the place.
Singly, the clippings meant very little. They mentioned things that The Shadow had seen first-hand, today:
the scourge of the Mediterranean fruit fly; the appearance of some sinkholes; the drying up of a lake.
Besides these were accounts of cattle epidemic, which had fortunately faded out; a reappearance of the
supposedly extinct black wolf, which had once roamed wild in Florida; finally, reports of accidents that
constituted a common sort—hunters shot by mistake, and automobiles wrecked through chance
collisions.
Added up, these facts produced a definite total. Hundreds of people had found absolute reason to move
from the vicinity of Pomelo City. Citrus growers, farmers, even the native "crackers" of the backwoods,
had met with circumstances that deprived them of livelihood and security.
Their exodus had caused townspeople to depart. Dependent upon the trade of the surrounding territory,
Pomelo City had no longer been a prosperous place. The abandonment of the branch railroad, the
collapse of the highway that linked the town to the world, were added occurrences dooming Pomelo City
to oblivion.
Threaded through that change of circumstances lay a more insidious factor: that of tragedy. Over a year
or more, the toll of life had been heavy. Curiously, the toll had been on the increase, as the total
population dwindled. Hunting accidents, automobile crashes, had occurred in recent months.
Beneath all this, The Shadow saw the operation of an evil hand, one not content to let Pomelo City linger
toward its finish. Harder, and repeated strokes had been delivered. Because of them, Pomelo City could
aptly be termed dead.
The tiny flashlight went black. Stepping to the window, The Shadow gazed upon the street below, where
night had fully encroached upon scrawny palms, until the feeble lights were merely flickery twinkles in the
midst of thick darkness.
With death, the town had become a city of ghosts. That term applied to The Shadow, the only stranger
present. It also fitted Pomelo City's few remaining inhabitants.
Martin Welf, the hotel proprietor, was one. In the face of adversity, he was carrying on with a business
that was little short of hopeless.
Whether it had guests or not, the Pomelo Hotel actually required a fair-sized personnel, merely to keep
up appearances. Alone, Welf was handling a dozen jobs, in the place of employees who had deserted
him.
ACROSS the street, The Shadow saw two building fronts that flanked an abandoned arcade. Both
places had lighted windows. One was a real estate office, that bore the name of "Chester Tilyon,
Realtor."
At a desk visible through the window sat a haggard man with gray-streaked hair, who kept looking
toward the street, as if dreaming of long-past days when people actually bought houses and rented
property in Pomelo City.
The other building was a department store. What stock it still had, mostly cheap clothes and farming
implements, was confined to the show windows on the ground floor. Inside, a few lights showed barren
counters.
Standing in the doorway was the man whose name appeared above: "Louis Bayne." His clothes were no
advertisement for the wares he sold, for his attire was shabby, and too large for him. From the drawn
appearance of Bayne's face, The Shadow decided that the man was half starved.
In hope of selling the new clothes that he still had in stock, Bayne was wearing his old ones. Worry, as
well as poverty, had caused him to shrink from a man of bulk to a creature that could pass as a living
skeleton. Two cars were on the street. Both were of expensive makes, but very old. Tilyon's car, parked
near the real-estate office, appeared to be in fair condition; but Bayne's antiquated sedan was scarcely
more than a wreck. One fender was gone; the radiator shell was badly bashed. Moreover, the car bore
added scars, such as a dented door, that denoted a recent accident.
The sheer shabbiness of the desolate scene made it seem that nothing could stir up action. Remembering
the buzzards on the water tower, The Shadow could picture the huge birds watching Tilyon and Bayne,
hoping that one or the other would soon die on his feet. Both men seemed to be waiting for something
that could never happen, either in their favor, or against it.
Then a motor's rumble announced the unexpected. An old touring car rambled into sight along the main
street, scraped against a leaning palm tree, and disgorged four rough-dressed men. Visitors had come to
Pomelo City.
They were men from the backwoods, the sort who came to town on Saturday night. Two of them
approached Bayne's store and began to look at the show windows, while the proprietor eyed them
anxiously. These men weren't customers; that became apparent when they turned their attention to
Bayne's car.
The Shadow saw Tilyon get up from the desk in the real-estate office, to see what was going on. A
moment later, Welf appeared at the front of the hotel.
There was a challenge in the air: something that indicated ill feeling between the local business men and
the crackers who had come to town. Each group seemed completely concerned with the other; perhaps
with special design.
For The Shadow, watching from the window higher up, saw something that the men below did not
notice; a thing, perhaps, which one faction might have chosen that the others should not observe.
A car had pulled into the rear street beyond the abandoned arcade. The Shadow caught the glimmer of
its lights, just before they were extinguished. The very fact that the unheralded arrivals had chosen to
come by a deserted back street, aroused The Shadow's immediate interest.
LEAVING his room, The Shadow moved rapidly toward the red light that denoted exit onto a fire
escape. Descending, he arrived in a little courtyard at the side of the hotel, next to the old theater. Gliding
through a narrow archway, he reached the front sidewalk.
Crossing the street was no problem to The Shadow. The dry-leaved palm trees threw shrouding
darkness that offset the flickering street lights. It was simply a case of choosing the swiftest route to the
desired destination.
Taking a wide route to circle the buildings opposite, The Shadow was a living ghost, blanketed in
darkness. He rapidly reached the street in back of the arcade.
Darkness was thick, but by zigzagging along the narrow rear street, The Shadow expected to find the car
that had pulled up behind the arcade. Instead, he reached a corner beyond Bayne's store without
encountering anything. The fact meant that the car must have crept ahead without lights.
Feeling for the building wall, The Shadow retraced his steps, using his flashlight guardedly.
He came upon evidence at the back of Bayne's store: a door with a broken padlock. Though cheap, the
padlock was a new one; it had probably been smashed within the past few minutes. Whoever had done
the deed had entered the store, and should certainly still be inside.
Easing the door inward, The Shadow entered. He did not have to worry about the opening door
betraying him. His flashlight was extinguished, and he had a background of perfect darkness. But the men
who had already entered were less fortunately placed.
By the dim light from the front of the store, The Shadow could see them; three in number. They were
crouched figures, creeping about among the unused counters, sprinkling something on the floor. The odor
of kerosene was only too evident. Incendiaries were at work here, while Bayne, the storekeeper, was
occupied out front.
Using creeping tactics of his own, The Shadow reached beneath his cloak and plucked an automatic
from a holster that he had worn even before reaching Pomelo City. Whatever dirty work this tribe was
up to, they were due for a surprise before they finished it.
As they were skirting back toward the rear door, The Shadow came into their very midst. The unknown
men had him surrounded without knowing it, which was exactly what The Shadow wanted.
With counters forming an excellent shelter, The Shadow set finger upon the button of his flashlight. He
was ready to press it, to throw a sweeping ray of thin, sharp light about the group. His lips prepared to
voice a sinister laugh, The Shadow intended to take these antagonists unawares.
If they wanted battle, he was in the right position to return it; to their sorrow, not his own. The Shadow
was entrenched among the counters, and he had a clear path of fire toward the rear door, should the
marauders seek it when they fled.
A sound made The Shadow pause. It was a creak of that very door; the one that he, too, had entered.
None of the prowling men could have reached it; evidently, a fourth man had arrived.
Whispers sounded in the darkness, but they were wordless. The newcomer had simply passed a signal
for the others to join him.
At that moment, it seemed policy to wait, since the actions of the prowlers were deliberate. The
whispered signal had sounded like a mere preliminary to something more to come. So it was; but the
coming action was the climax.
An object swished through the darkness, straight for The Shadow's head. Chucked blindly from the
doorway, it almost found a target that the thrower did not know existed. With an action as rapid as it was
instinctive, The Shadow flattened among the counters to escape the unseen missile.
The thing struck the floor beside a counter which, fortunately, sheltered The Shadow. As it landed, the
object exploded with a forceful puff that shook the floor of Bayne's dilapidated store and made the
counters quiver.
Though the blast was not heavy, the consequences were. The bursting bomb spurted liquid fire in every
direction. The flames encountered pools of kerosene, licked up the inflammable liquid in one mighty gulp.
In a single instant, the whole rear of the store was lighted like a furious inferno, a mass that was rising
ceiling high, with The Shadow trapped in its very midst!
CHAPTER III. BROKEN BATTLE
THE same instinct which had saved The Shadow from the bomb, was the factor that preserved him from
the flames. Had he risen at the moment when the furious hell broke loose, he would have been ignited like
a human torch.
Instead, he sprawled on the floor, his cloak sleeve drawn across his eyes. The lash of the roaring flame
whipped above him, finding other tinder instead. The intervening counters took the blaze, leaving an air
pocket in between them.
Though the seconds were few, they seemed interminable. During those moments, The Shadow could
actually see the flame through his closed eyelids. He held his breath, for he could feel the scorch of the
blistering fire that swept above him. Then, as his ears detected a louder crackle, he knew that his brief
opportunity had come.
Liquid flame had spent itself. The counters and other woodwork were taking fire. Coming to his feet, The
Shadow saw licking tongues of red; but the circle was incomplete. There were gaps between the counter
ends, that offered temporary paths clear to the rear doorway.
Lurching, The Shadow started an amazing, twisty course. The flames had found new fuel, but they were
too late to stop him. Their glare revealed the cloaked figure that was escaping them; but otherwise, they
did not harm The Shadow as he zigzagged toward the rear door. Yet, in disclosing The Shadow's
presence, the flames did damage enough.
Bayne, faced toward the rear of the store, saw The Shadow. So did the astonished crackers who stood
out front. They yelled to their companions, who came running with shotguns, just as Bayne whipped out a
revolver, to aim in The Shadow's direction.
Beyond the flames, The Shadow was lost from Bayne's sight before the shrunken storekeeper could fire.
But the men at the rear door were quick enough to recognize The Shadow as a foe. Themselves fleeing
from the renewed blaze, they considered it a good place for The Shadow to stay. Fortunately, the shots
that they fired were too hasty to score a hit.
Then The Shadow's drawn gun was busy, and the men at the rear were in new flight. Responding to their
leader's yell, they dashed along the back street, diving for their car. Guns across their shoulders, they
blasted at The Shadow as he lurched out through the exit.
As guns barked, The Shadow took a long sprawl. Landing shoulder first, he rolled across the street,
beyond the area of light that came from the opened door. His foeman thought they had dropped him.
Their guess was wrong.
The Shadow's dive was calculated. He wanted a spot where blackness would protect him from the shots
that he knew would come. The next token that disclosed The Shadow's presence was a spurt from his
own automatic. On hands and knees, he was answering the gunfire in swift, effective style.
A howl told that one foeman had fallen. Quick-witted pals yanked the fellow around the building corner.
Another must have been clipped during the process, for there was every indication of delay while The
Shadow was coming to his feet. Making for the corner, the cloaked fighter flattened against the wall,
poked his gun past the building edge.
The wall was hot. Flames were roaring through the roof of Bayne's doomed store. The rising light was
sufficient for The Shadow to pick out human targets, had there been any. But despite their delay with
wounded comrades, his foemen had reached their car.
All that The Shadow had to shoot at was a taillight, as it whisked between two buildings on the other side
of the narrow cross street. Speeding to the space in question, The Shadow caught another fleeting flash
of the fleeing car as it whipped around a turn.
Pursuit of the firebrands was useless, but battle still offered. Shots were sounding from the front street.
Speeding beside the outer wall of Bayne's burning store, The Shadow arrived at the front corner just in
time to witness a sad tragedy.
Bayne, an emptied revolver in his hand, was wavering on the sidewalk in front of his blazing building. The
men with the shotguns were spread among the palm trees; their shots had found the shrunken
storekeeper.
IT was the hope of saving Bayne that caused The Shadow to swing into sight. One of the armed men
spotted him and shouted. Instantly, all were driving for The Shadow, firing the few shells that they still had
left.
Wheeling for cover, The Shadow escaped the hasty shots, but he knew that his heroic effort had not
succeeded.
As he swung back around the corner, The Shadow caught a last glimpse of Bayne, diving forward to the
sidewalk. The shotguns had finished him.
Circumstances still called for the unexpected, and The Shadow provided it. As his new assailants
rounded the corner, they were startled by the sudden attack that the black-cloaked fighter provided.
Hurling himself into the midst of them, The Shadow began cross slashes with his automatic, using his free
arm to ward off the clubbing blows of shotguns.
Fully supposing that The Shadow would be in flight, the crackers were taken totally off guard. Their
shotguns were bashed from their hands; stooping, The Shadow snatched up one of the lost weapons,
used it to swing wide, sweeping blows that covered a wide range.
Welf and Tilyon, stooped above Bayne's body, were amazed when they saw four men come staggering
around the corner, warding off imaginary blows. Neither Welf nor Tilyon spied The Shadow. His
opponents in flight, the cloaked fighter was taking off to darkness, carrying a bundle of shotguns with him.
Two cars were rolling in along the main street. The driver of one saw the men who staggered from the
corner; he drove ahead, intending to find what lay beyond. The men in the second car piled out to see
what could be done about the blazing building.
By that time, The Shadow was gone. Picking a roundabout route, he crossed the street a half block from
the burning store. The men who were looking for him had gone in the opposite direction; a quick path
back to the hotel seemed a simple matter, and would have been, if another carload of backwoods
residents had not bowled in from a side street.
Caught between the background of the conflagration and a pair of flickering headlights, The Shadow was
again human game for another batch of misguided natives who carried shotguns; but this time, the
weapons were fully loaded. As before, his only course was close range action, and he took it.
Wheeling aside before the car could run him down, The Shadow flattened and rolled beneath the car
step. He came up, seemingly from nowhere, as men were piling out to look for him.
This time, shotguns talked, but they did nothing but split the air. The Shadow was slashing at his
adversaries with a heavy automatic and plucking away the shotguns that he warded off.
Even more astonishing was the way in which he disarmed these newcomers. There were only three of
them, and they weren't as ready as the previous crowd. They were relying, too, on gunshots instead of
clubbing tactics. Tilting up those unwieldy barrels was mere routine for The Shadow.
Three dazed men were fumbling about, wondering where their guns had gone. The Shadow was around
in back of the car, strewing the shotguns as he went. Vanished from the midst of his blundering
opponents, he left them with the final impression that they had battled with other than a human foe.
They found their guns, when they looked for them; but discovered no trace of The Shadow. He had
vanished, so they thought, through the blank side wall of an old garage. Their curious belief was inspired
by the fact that the shotguns lay near that wall.
They didn't realize that The Shadow had reversed his course during their bewilderment. Across the
street, he was fading into blackness behind the Pomelo Hotel.
REACHING his room, The Shadow discarded his black garb, while he watched the finish of the
structures opposite. The flames had gutted Bayne's store; gobbling the wooden arcade, the fire was
taking hold of the adjacent building where Tilyon's real-estate office was located.
Men were busy getting papers and furniture out of Tilyon's place. Among them, The Shadow saw
Woodley, the Leesville taxi driver. Woodley's car and another had come from Leesville, and the second
automobile evidently belonged to Sheriff Harley, for the man who stood beside it could have been no one
else.
Tall, lanky, and long-jawed, the sheriff was shouting for men to forget the fire; good advice, since there
was no way to stop the blaze. Not a breeze was stirring, and there was no chance that the flames could
spread beyond the two buildings that they were consuming. The sooner it burned itself out, the better.
Carrying Tilyon's office equipment, men were crossing the street toward the hotel. Rapidly, The Shadow
stepped out into the hallway, locking the door behind him. Descending to the lobby, he was waiting there
when the carriers entered. With the group came Welf, followed by the sheriff.
Stopping short, Welf blinked. The hotel proprietor had forgotten that he housed a guest. Then, assuming
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CITYOFGHOSTSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THECITYTHATDIED?CHAPTERII.GHOSTSINTHENIGHT?CHAPTERIII.BROKENBATTLE?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWSTAYS?CHAPTERV.THEBURIEDGHOST?CHAPTERVI.TWOMENHOPE?CHAPTERVII.DEATHBYTHEBRINK?CHAPTERVIII.THEBROKENJINX?CHAPTERIX.ATTH...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 186 - City of Ghosts.pdf

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