Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 183 - Castle of Crime

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CASTLE OF CRIME
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH ON DISPLAY
? CHAPTER II. THE CLOSED TRAIL
? CHAPTER III. THRUSTS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER IV. THE SECOND TRAIL
? CHAPTER V. BLONDE MEETS BLONDE
? CHAPTER VI. THE MASTER SPY
? CHAPTER VII. THE BROKEN SNARE
? CHAPTER VIII. NEW LINKS AND OLD
? CHAPTER IX. THE NEW GOAL
? CHAPTER X. OFF CAPE SABLE
? CHAPTER XI. PIRATES LAIR
? CHAPTER XII. HANDS IN CRIME
? CHAPTER XIII. DANGER FAR BELOW
? CHAPTER XIV. NORTHWARD BOUND
? CHAPTER XV. RIVALS MOVE
? CHAPTER XVI. DOOM RIDES ANEW
? CHAPTER XVII. DEATH FOLLOWS DAWN
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME'S MASTER
? CHAPTER XIX. THE LAST FIGHT
CHAPTER I. DEATH ON DISPLAY
THE hotel clerk smiled as he handed Bob Osden a letter, along with the room key; and Bob gave a grin
in return. The grin, incidentally, wiped away a very solemn look that had been on Bob's face. He had
been expecting that letter, and needing it very badly.
It wasn't good policy, however, to show too much eagerness in opening it. Nonchalantly, Bob thrust the
letter into his pocket and went to an elevator. Reaching his room, he closed the door, sat down at the
writing desk and chuckled softly, as he calmly tore the end from the envelope.
Bob was shaking the letter, when he drew it into sight, but nothing fell from it. He blew open the end of
the envelope, peered in, expecting to see a bank check. Instead, the envelope was empty. Yanking the
letter open, Bob scanned its brief lines, then slumped deep in his chair.
There wasn't any check, and there would not be any for a long while to come. The letter, from Bob's
father, made that fact very plain.
During the next few minutes, Bob Osden acted in a mechanical fashion. With one hand, he crumpled the
letter, while his other hand kept running through his shocky black hair. The mirror above the writing desk,
had Bob noticed it, would have given him a remarkable picture of his own facial expressions.
He was running the gamut of emotions, that bordered on complete desperation. With an effort, he
recovered himself, stepped to a bureau and angrily uncorked a bottle. About to pour himself a drink, he
noticed his face at last; this time, it was reflected from the bureau mirror.
Bob Osden took a good look at himself.
He was supposed to be handsome. Maybe he had been once, but he was losing all fights to the claim.
His dark eyes were listless. His lips had a twitch that drew lines down along his face. He realized that he
had been keeping up appearances along with his spirits, until his surface was almost threadbare.
The bad news had ended his mask. He looked haggard, and he felt that way. The only thing that could
pull him out of his present state was some sort of lift—and not the kind that came from a bottle. He had
counted too much upon those "lifts" during the past few months.
Pushing bottle and glass aside, Bob kept staring at the mirror. His fists were tight; he was taking deep
breaths. At intervals, his lips were muttering, but he was simply telling himself to "snap out of it"; and the
formula seemed to work. Bob looked better, felt better, when he finally stepped across the room and
opened the telephone book.
He found the name of Carl Sigmar, jotted down both address and telephone number. Laying the phone
book aside, Bob steeled himself for the next ordeal. He gave Sigmar's number to the hotel operator and
awaited an answer to his call.
There was no response. Learning that the number did not answer, Bob gave a relieved sigh. Moving
about the room, he packed his suitcases, counted the twenty-odd dollars that he had in his pockets, and
phoned for a porter to come up and get the bags.
ABOUT a half-hour later, Bob Osden stepped from a taxicab in front of a building that looked like an
old residence turned into a small restaurant. He entered the place, left his hat and coat with a check-room
girl, who gave him a smile of recognition.
Bob went upstairs to the second-floor dining room, but did not stop there. A head waiter, recognizing
him, gave a nod, indicating that he could continue to the third floor.
On that floor, the young man was admitted to a room where groups were seated at round tables playing
stud poker. One of the dealers recognized Bob and pointed to a chair. Bob shook his head; after a
relieved glance around the tables, he asked:
"Where is Fitz Jarnow?"
"In the office," replied the dealer. "Tell Fitz I told you it would be all right."
Entering the office at the rear of the gaming room, Bob found Fitz Jarnow seated behind a desk. He was
met by sharp eyes that stared from a long, sallow face, but the smile on Fitz's lips was friendly.
Recognizing Bob, Fitz removed a coat and hat from a chair and motioned for him to sit down.
Fitz's hair was sleek, and his voice seemed to carry the same glossy smoothness, as he asked:
"What's the trouble, Osden?"
Bob managed a grin. He had tried to put on a front, but Fitz was one chap who couldn't be bluffed. In a
way, that was all the better. It brought Bob straight to the point.
"I need cash, Fitz."
Fitz took the statement as a matter of course. He put another question:
"How much?"
"Fifteen hundred dollars," returned Bob. "Right away, and at once."
"Why?"
Fitz's question was as unperturbed as ever. Bob gestured out to the poker room.
"I've been playing beyond my limit," he said ruefully, "so I borrowed from a fellow who was winning a lot.
I hoped I'd make it up, but I only went deeper."
"Whom did you borrow from?"
"Carl Sigmar. He comes around here every now and then. Thickset chap, with light hair and a sort of
reddish mustache. You know him, don't you, Fitz?"
Fitz thought for a few moments, as if trying to picture one face out of many, then gave a slow nod.
"I think I know the fellow you mean," he said, "but that isn't as important as the matter of the dough. How
come you need it in such a hurry?"
Bob explained. He began with facts that Fitz already knew. Bob's father, a wealthy merchant in the
Midwest, had let him come to New York, with the promise of funds whenever needed, until Bob found a
good job.
Having plenty of time, with money always available, Bob had squandered both. He had borrowed from
Sigmar rather than write his father for more money only a week after receiving a check. Bob had decided
to bide his time for a month, then write for more cash. But the system hadn't worked.
"I gave Carl a note for thirty days," explained Bob. "The time is up tonight. My dad's letter didn't arrive
until this evening. It didn't bring a check."
Bob pulled the crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it to Fitz, who read it, wearing a sympathetic
expression. Then:
"What about this Sigmar guy?" asked Fitz. "Do you think he's going to crack down on you?"
"I know he is," returned Bob. "I phoned him tonight, but he wasn't in. So I checked out of the hotel, left
my bags at Pennsy Station and came over here."
"Expecting to find Sigmar?"
"Hoping I wouldn't find him, until I had a chance to talk with you."
"Where do you expect to go from here?"
"Home. To take a job in dad's store, as he always wanted me to. He never favored this New York
expedition."
FITZ'S sharp eyes took on a reflective look. He pulled two cigars from his pocket, handed one to Bob,
and started to chew the end of the other. Then, with a sweep of his hand, he reached to the desk drawer
and found a pad of promissory notes.
"Make one out to me," he told Bob, "for fifteen hundred. Make it for ninety days. If you can't clear it by
that time, I'll let you renew it."
Eagerly, Bob began to make out the note, urged by further sight of Fitz Jarnow reaching to a small safe
and taking out a cash box filled with bills. While Fitz was counting out the money, he told Bob:
"Look up Sigmar and pay him off. Then head for home and get to work, so you can pay me off. Never
mind the thanks; this is just a business proposition. My place here is legal enough. I've got it chartered as
a club, and the fellows who gamble here are all listed as members.
"So I expect to keep going for a long while. Long after you'll be on your feet and making more trips to
New York. You're a good customer"—Fitz thwacked Bob's shoulder with one hand, thrust him the
money with the other—"so I wouldn't want to lose you. Besides, there are other people that you'll
probably recommend me to."
With fifteen hundred dollars in his inside pocket, Bob left the gambling club and hailed a taxi. He gave the
driver Sigmar's address, and reviewed the situation as he rode along. He had fared well, Bob had,
through that interview with Fitz Jarnow.
Actually, Bob only owed twelve hundred dollars to Carl Sigmar. The balance of Fitz's fifteen hundred
would finance Bob's trip home and land him there with enough money to impress his father, who
probably believed that Bob was entirely broke.
The local job would be a grind, but Bob conceded that it was time for him to make amends. He wasn't at
all proud of his misspent months in New York.
A curious contrast, thought Bob, how Sigmar, who had seemed a good fellow, had later called him up to
make pointed threats of legal action if the money was not paid on time; while Fitz, formerly a racketeer,
and now the manager of a gambling club, had been willing to help a chap who was really in a jam.
BOB was still thinking that over and promising himself that he would pay back Fitz, with interest, when
the cab stopped in front of the small apartment house where Sigmar lived.
In the entry Bob found a button, with a card bearing the name "Carl Sigmar" just beneath it. While he
rang the bell, Bob glanced out to the street.
He noticed that it was very dark; that occasional passers who shambled by appeared to be thuggish
characters. It wasn't a particularly good neighborhood for anyone to stroll about carrying fifteen hundred
dollars on his person.
Hence, when Sigmar did not answer the bell, Bob tried the inner door of the entry. Finding it unlocked,
he went through and started up to Sigmar's third-floor apartment. Arriving at a door marked "3B," Bob
knocked. When there was no response, he decided to wait.
Then, remembering that the lower door had been unlocked, he tried the door of the apartment. It
opened; he stepped across the threshold. The living room was dimly lighted from a floor lamp in the
corner. Bob closed the door and started toward a chair. Halfway there, he stopped.
The new angle had given Bob Osden a view beyond a gate-leg table, within the range of the lamplight.
There, a crumpled shape lay on the floor; beside the whiteness of an upturned face, Bob spied the
glimmer of a revolver, only a few inches away from a clawlike hand.
Bob's eyes went to the face again, met eyes that glittered like the gun, yet did not return his stare. Those
eyes were glassy, bulging like oval beads. So horrible was their sightless gaze, that Bob Osden would
never have recognized them as eyes that he had seen in life.
It was the rest of the face that told the identity of the corpse upon the floor. Hair light in color, lips that
were topped by a reddish mustache. Bob recognized that squarish face as the very one that he had so
recently described to Fitz Jarnow.
The dead man was Carl Sigmar. Slain in his own apartment, Sigmar was no longer interested in a visit
from Bob Osden, the man who owed him money.
Some other debtor, it seemed, had already paid Carl Sigmar, in coin of a different sort!
CHAPTER II. THE CLOSED TRAIL
SUICIDE—or murder?
The question kept popping back and forth through Bob Osden's thoughts, as he eyed the body of Carl
Sigmar. From the evidence, as Bob viewed it, the chances were about equal.
Sigmar had been shot through the head; the death gun was close beside his hand. He might have fired the
shot himself, or someone could have slain him and simply left the gun there. Bob found himself thinking
about fingerprints, wondering if they would solve the riddle.
It occurred to him that a smart murderer could easily have clamped Sigmar's hand on the gun, to leave
the dead man's own prints. Hence, if marks tallied with Sigmar's, murder might still be the answer.
Oddly, Bob found himself taking the whole scene very coolly. All was quiet in the apartment; the place
seemed completely isolated from the rush of the city. Since Bob had walked in unmolested, he decided
that he could go out the same way. But he felt an urge to know more about Sigmar's death before leaving
the place.
Bob was stooping beside the body, when he suddenly realized that it would not be good to leave traces
of his own visit; fingerprints, for instance. That thought produced a link so important, that Bob was more
than ever determined to remain and investigate. He was remembering the promissory note that he had
given to Sigmar!
If that slip of paper should be found on the dead man, Bob's hopes would be nullified. His anxiety to
obtain a loan from Fitz Jarnow had been inspired chiefly by his wish to keep the news of his financial
difficulties from reaching his home town. Even his chance to work for his father would be lost, if the facts
came out.
More than that, if the police found the unpaid note, they would regard Bob as a suspect! Plenty of
murders had been done for sums less than twelve hundred dollars. True, Bob could argue that if he had
killed Sigmar, he would also have taken the note; but the thought of that "if" did not please him.
In their turn, the police would argue that Bob had become confused, and fled without taking the note.
Murderers had a habit of doing such things. Certainly, one argument would nullify the other; the only
evidence that would stand was the fact that Bob Osden owed Carl Sigmar twelve hundred dollars and
had not paid it.
PULLING a handkerchief from his pocket, Bob wrapped it about his hand and began an inspection of
Sigmar's pockets. He found nothing of importance, until he drew the dead man's wallet from an inside
pocket. Carrying it to the table, Bob kept using the handkerchief while he spread the contents of the
wallet.
He found money there, a few hundred dollars, mostly in twenty-dollar bills. Next, a steamship ticket to
Europe on a liner which was to leave within a few days. Perhaps that was why Sigmar had been so set
on collecting the twelve hundred dollars that Bob owed him. He probably wanted the money for his
voyage.
But Sigmar had said nothing about going abroad; rather curious, considering the several phone calls that
he had made to Bob's hotel during the past week. Not so curious, though, when Bob studied other
exhibits that came from the wallet.
One item was a claim check for an expensive type of imported camera that was undergoing repairs.
Another article was a folded sheet of thin onionskin paper, which Bob spread to find an array of code
words, listed in three languages besides English. A third item was a Pullman stub from Norfolk, Virginia,
a city that Bob immediately associated with a navy yard.
Carl Sigmar, this evidence indicated, was an international spy who had not confined his gambling to the
card table during his stay in America. The fact that he was ready to return abroad indicated that he had
run large risks, with success.
Then Bob was unfolding a paper with frayed edges, that he recognized as the promissory note which he
had given Sigmar. As he spread the paper, a calling card slipped from its folds. Picking the card from the
table, Bob read the name engraved there: MISS GWENDOLYN MARCY, and beneath the name, in
the lower right corner, was the address: HOTEL ROSEMONT, N. Y.
Sigmar's death began to look like murder, and Gwendolyn Marcy, whoever she might be, as in
something of the same boat as Bob Osden. Unless she had been associated with Sigmar's own game,
which was plausible enough; but at that, Bob doubted that she would have been responsible for Sigmar's
murder. Knowing that she had given the card to Sigmar, Gwendolyn Marcy would have wanted it back,
just as Bob Osden was anxious to regain his promissory note.
Folding the note, Bob tucked it into his vest pocket. He wasn't repudiating his debt to Sigmar; that had
nothing to do with the fellow's activities as a spy. But Bob preferred to wait until he learned if Sigmar had
heirs; then he could send them the cash.
That matter was easily decided; the only question was what to do with the other articles from Sigmar's
wallet, particularly the calling card.
Bob pondered. Somehow, the stillness of the apartment became nerve-racking. Listening, he wondered if
he heard sounds—such as remote whispers, the soft creep of footsteps. He thought that he could catch
the distant murmur of traffic from some avenue, and as he strained his ears he fancied that the vague noise
swelled.
It wasn't an illusion. There was reason for that faint wave of sound—one that Bob did not see. He was
facing toward the door, watching it intently. He did not know that the window behind him was rising at a
slow but steady speed.
Beyond that window, all was blackness that seemed to edge in from the opening. With it came the
increased murmur that Bob Osden heard. Fumbling with the articles on the table, Bob found his nerve
leaving him.
A slight chill struck his neck, sent a quiver down his spine. Realizing that a draft had reached him, Bob
thought of the window and guessed the cause of the outside murmur.
With a quick spring, Bob was away from the table, grabbing for the revolver that lay beside Sigmar's
hand. Plucking up the weapon, he wheeled about, to stop with a terrified gasp. Frozen where he stood,
Bob Osden was facing a being who had entered with the silence of creeping night.
THE arrival was cloaked in black. On his head he wore a slouch hat, with downturned brim. Like the
collar of his cloak, the hat brim hid the strange personage's face, except for a pair of eyes that burned like
living fire. Beneath those eyes was the aimed muzzle of an automatic that already held Bob covered.
Then, before the startled young man could fire a useless shot, a gloved hand sped forward from the cloak
and plucked the revolver from Bob's grasp. A whispered voice uttered a firm command.
Mechanically, Bob Osden stumbled backward and sank into an armchair. Totally unnerved, he could
only chide himself for his own stupidity. He was trapped, to every appearance a murderer, and he had
added to his plight by snatching up the gun.
Now in the possession of the blackclad invader, that weapon held the telltale marks of Bob's own
fingerprints. Bob Osden felt that he bore the brand of an outright criminal.
It happened that Bob did not know the identity of the cloaked invader. He was faced by The Shadow,
archenemy of crime, whose methods of deduction went beyond mere summaries of circumstantial
evidence. One of The Shadow's favorite pastimes was that of trapping crooks on scenes of their
misdeeds. His keen eyes, quick in their analysis, saw that Bob Osden lacked the manner of a criminal.
Furthermore, The Shadow had witnessed Bob's recent actions. As he laid the revolver upon the table,
The Shadow spoke again, requesting the paper that Bob had placed in his pocket.
Amazed, Bob handed over the promissory note. Then, at The Shadow's urging, he began to pour out his
story in a tense whisper of his own.
Bob omitted no details. He showed the money that he had borrowed from Fitz Jarnow in order to pay
Carl Sigmar. By the time that Bob had finished his story, The Shadow had put away the automatic and
was picking up the revolver. Calmly, he wiped Bob's smudges from the death gun and replaced it beside
Sigmar's hand.
While Bob gazed, his wonderment mingled with relief, The Shadow settled the matter of the wallet. He
put back all the articles, except the calling card, which he kept; and Bob regarded that as only fair. Bob's
own position was a false one, thanks to the note that happened to be in Sigmar's wallet; perhaps the
same applied to Gwendolyn Marcy.
It occurred to Bob, too, that if the girl in question had actually aided Sigmar's spy work, the one person
best qualified to quiz her would be The Shadow. Silent in his chair, Bob realized how fully he had talked,
prompted only by The Shadow's presence and few words uttered in a weird, commanding whisper.
The Shadow replaced the wallet in Sigmar's pocket. He took long, sweeping strides about the room,
searching for evidence elsewhere. At moments, he seemed to blend with the gloom of the walls, away
from the lamplight; then he was back again, close to the table, where his gloved hand polished away a
mark that Bob's hand had made when it rested there.
Confidence gripped Bob Osden. He was prepared to remain here as long as The Shadow so
commanded, sure that no new difficulties would be encountered while the being in black was present.
Then, into the stillness that was broken only by the faint swish of The Shadow's cloak, came a sharp,
discordant sound that jarred Bob's nerves and brought him to his feet.
It was the telephone bell, ringing lustily. The jangle loosed all of Bob's suppressed fears. Instinctively, he
started for the door, had his hand almost on the knob, when a gloved fist intervened. The Shadow had
intercepted Bob's flight, was clamping another hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Listen!"
ALMOST as The Shadow spoke, the telephone bell ceased. From the hallway, Bob heard sounds that
The Shadow had already detected. They were actual footsteps, those sounds, creeping close along the
hallway. Accompanying them, Bob heard whispers that were real. He felt The Shadow turn him about;
then a calm tone spoke close to his ear:
"Out through the window. Drop to the roof one floor below. Cross the roof; go through the trapdoor,
down the stairs to the back street. Turn east, past the next corner, signal three fingers to the cab you see
there."
Bob was nodding. The Shadow tapped the handkerchief that the young man had picked up from the
table.
"Use it," he said, "when you drop from the window ledge."
Bob hurried across the room. Crouching on the ledge, he spread the handkerchief. Gripping the
woodwork through the cloth, he dangled outside, ready to loose his hold and take the handkerchief with
him when he dropped.
He caught an approving glint from The Shadow's eyes, saw his black-cloaked friend turn the doorknob
with one hand and draw an automatic with the other. Then, at The Shadow's nod, Bob let go. A moment
later, he had landed on the roof.
Whatever was to come, in that apartment above, would be The Shadow's choice. However The Shadow
might fare, he had closed the trail leading to Bob Osden, the man who had played no part in crime.
CHAPTER III. THRUSTS IN THE DARK
QUICK action began at the doorway of Sigmar's apartment immediately after Bob Osden had dropped
from sight. The Shadow started it by yanking the door inward the moment that he felt pressure from the
outside. So quick was The Shadow's jerk that a man came lunging through, to sprawl across the floor,
halfway to Sigmar's body.
The rolling man was in uniform, a police officer. He held a drawn gun, and managed to retain it as he fell.
Twisting about, he heard a sinister taunt, a laugh as evasive as it was weird. But he saw no one; nothing
but the blackness of the doorway.
That blackness cleared, the cop began to shoot. By that time, The Shadow was gone, wheeling out into
the hallway, choosing the proper direction with his usual precision. The Shadow went to the left, and that
was important.
Down the hallway to the right was another officer, testing the door that led into the back of Sigmar's
apartment. The rear door was locked, but the second patrolman had decided to cover it, and from his
footsteps, The Shadow had guessed the plan. Thus, by the time the man at the rear door had swung
about, The Shadow was diving for the gloom of the front stairs.
Revolver shots ripped the sloping ceiling above The Shadow's head. Dropping to the steps, the cloaked
invader returned the fire, purposely aiming high. The cop in the hallway dived into the open door of
Sigmar's living room, blocking off his comrade, who had by that time found his feet. The Shadow was
away.
Like a bolt of blackness he had sped, unrecognized, past both officers. He was giving them a trail—his
own, instead of Bob's—but one that they would never have time to follow. The Shadow was at the first
floor by the time the policemen were starting from the third down to the second.
There was trouble, though, when The Shadow reached the ground-floor entry. A whistle shrilled the
moment that he yanked the door open. Other officers bobbed into sight; some in uniform, others in plain
clothes.
The Shadow could have whipped back, out of sight, and chosen a route through the apartment house.
Instead, he took a long dive across the sidewalk, ending between the bumpers of two parked
automobiles. All that betrayed his presence was blackness, which the officers overlooked, with the
exception of one.
That individual was a patrolman at the corner. His glimpse of The Shadow was only a fleeting one, but he
noticed that no figure reappeared on the street side of the parked cars. The lone officer aimed, intending
to spray the space with bullets.
Fortunately, The Shadow did not have to budge. A police car had pulled up at the corner. From it sprang
a stocky-built man in plain clothes, who made a leap for the aiming patrolman. The shots, when they
barked, went wide. From darkness came the brief tone of a weird laugh, tinged with appreciation.
The man who had intervened in The Shadow's behalf was Inspector Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan
force. Summoned to the scene where a murder had been reported, Cardona had caught a glimpse of The
Shadow's daring flight.
One formula was always positive with Inspector Cardona: he knew from long experience that The
Shadow, no matter how the circumstances might appear, never had any connection with crime, except to
fight against it.
CARDONA'S rule reaped a prompt reward. There was a reason why The Shadow had chosen the
danger of the street. That reason was a slow-moving automobile, swinging up toward the front of the
apartment house. Guns were sprouting from the window of that car, and The Shadow had spied them.
The guns began to talk. They were aimed for the outspread police. The first shots sent the officers to
cover, and gunners aimed to clip them as they dived. That was when The Shadow supplied his own
intervention. His automatic, thrust from between the parked cars, spouted flame toward the traveling
marksmen.
Zinging bullets dropped the gunners back into the car. Its driver jabbed the accelerator pedal and sped
away in flight. Wheeling out to the center of the street, The Shadow supplied more bullets, intending to
halt the departing car. Then shouts from the opposite sidewalk caused him to turn toward new
opponents.
The street was suddenly alive with foemen—fighters, apparently, who had no connection with those in
the car, for they had not supplied a barrage during that first onslaught. These new battlers were lurkers of
the sort that Bob Osden had noticed when he arrived at the apartment house; but they were no longer
few, they were many.
Their shouts told that they had spotted The Shadow. Thugs by profession, they had dropped their
passive part and were hoping to down crimeland's greatest foe.
Overzeal brought disaster to the crooks. Yells preceded gunfire; The Shadow was away before the latter
came. Piling into sight, the thugs became targets for the police, who by that time had found safe spots
from which to shoot.
Joe Cardona led the rush that caught the mobsters flat-footed in the middle of the street. After a wild,
frantic spasm of fire, hoodlums fled, some sprawling as the others ran. A few turned around to fire from
the shelter of parked cars, but their aim did no damage.
The Shadow, ensconced in a convenient doorway on the far side of the street, had drawn a second
automatic. His keen eye ferreted out each would-be sniper; his perfect aim was accompanied by stabs of
flame that arrowed toward the ambushed thugs and dropped a pair of them, in turn.
Joining the rest in flight, the last of the crooks dashed around the corner and scrambled into cars that they
had parked there. Inspector Cardona pointed his men to the chase, then turned toward the apartment
house, to talk to the two officers who had come from there.
Those three who remained upon the scene heard the aftermath of battle, a peal of triumphant laughter,
that sounded eerily along the street where the echoes of gunfire had died. The mirth of The Shadow was
more than a token of victory over men of crime. It heralded his own vindication.
The officers who were telling Cardona of The Shadow's dash from the third-floor apartment were
realizing what the ace inspector already knew: that The Shadow's presence there had been produced by
a desire to thwart crime, not to aid it.
Either Carl Sigmar had been slain before The Shadow's arrival, or the man was a crook who had
challenged the fighter in black. The exact case was something that Cardona intended to determine, with
the knowledge that, in either event, The Shadow stood justified.
FOR the moment Cardona, like the officers beside him, was gawking at the spot from which The
Shadow's mockery seemed to come. All that they saw was the blackness of an alleyway across the
street. There was not a stir amid that darkness, yet the trailing effect of the strange laugh told that The
Shadow had taken that route to leave the battleground.
It never occurred to Joe Cardona that The Shadow had arranged the safe departure for another person,
besides himself. The only one who knew that fact was the man in question, Bob Osden, and he was duly
grateful.
In the street behind the apartment house, Bob had heard the sounds of the gunfray and its sudden finish.
He knew that his own path was clear.
The stairs that Bob had used from the low roof had brought him out the side door of a two-story garage.
From a passage that led to the front street, he could hear stumbly footsteps that slackened, then ended.
One of the wounded crooks had tried to come through that route, but had faltered on the way.
Reason enough, however, for Bob to hurry away before pursuing police reached the rear street. Turning
toward the corner that The Shadow had mentioned, Bob set out at a jogging pace that gave speed
without too much noise. Nearing the corner, he paused to look for the taxi that he was supposed to
signal.
The sound of sirens told that police cars were in the vicinity. Traffic had stalled, to let the patrol cars
pass. Drawing back from sight, Bob looked for the cab, but saw none, which was not surprising, for the
corner limited his view along the curb of the avenue.
Glancing anxiously back along the rear street, he decided that his best step would be to stroll boldly
along the avenue, relying on The Shadow's assurance that the cab would be at hand.
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：71 页 大小：458.93KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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