Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 176 - City of Shadows

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CITY OF SHADOWS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," June 15, 1939.
Through these tangled shades of crime, crept an avenging shadow: The
Shadow!
CHAPTER I
THE FUGITIVE
"Wa-a-augh - wa-a-augh -"
The strident tone of those distant shrieks startled Jack Denwood. Pausing
among the barren trees, he tightened his grip upon his loaded shotgun.
Again the sirens wailed. This time, Jack located their general direction
and had the explanation. He snapped sharp words at Queenie, his
black-and-white
English setter. The dog's growls silenced.
"It's all right, Queenie," assured Jack. "Some poor devils have tried to
make a break from Lancaster, that's all."
Jack was rather pleased when the sirens finally quieted. Even though it
was still mid-afternoon, the sound had given him the shivers. Despite himself,
he felt a sympathy for the "poor devils" that he had mentioned, whoever they
might be. Escaping from a State prison would probably be a huge ordeal in
itself; to hear the sirens would make a man think that all the world was after
him.
Maybe penitentiaries were necessary, but Jack Denwood wasn't entirely
sure. At any rate, he was convinced that they were overstocked with persons
who
had turned to crime as a last resort against poverty.
Jack began to wonder just what he and Queenie would do if they suddenly
found themselves surrounded by a horde of convicts. Certainly a
double-barreled
shotgun, loaded for quail, wouldn't be sufficient to stave off a mass attack.
All of which formed another side to the existing situation.
Lancaster Prison, as Jack remembered it, was about seven miles over the
hills from his little hunting lodge. He and Queenie had covered about half the
distance, which put them in what might be termed a danger zone. But that
didn't
particularly bother Jack, he still decided to look for quail, hoping that the
bellows of the sirens had not scared all the birds from the neighborhood.
After a half-hour's tramp, Jack suddenly halted, snapping his fingers for
the dog to crouch at his feet. He could hear the crackle of the brush and knew
that men were moving into a clearing that lay just ahead. As he waited, Jack
saw the men come into view.
They weren't convicts. One looked like a guard; the rest, four in number,
were an assorted lot. The guard and one other man had rifles; the rest carried
shotguns.
Spying Jack, they approached. While the guard waited with the rank and
file, the other man with a rifle flashed a sheriff's badge.
"Seen any strangers hereabouts?" he gruffed.
Jack shook his head.
"I heard the sirens," he returned, coolly. "It strikes me that you
fellows
covered a lot of ground, getting over here so soon from Lancaster."
"That's new trouble," announced the sheriff. "We're looking for somebody
that escaped this morning. The cons have found out about it, and I guess
they're restless."
"Who's the man you're looking for?"
The sheriff tilted his head when he heard Jack's question. Studying the
young man's expensive hunting outfit, he became somewhat impressed.
"We're looking for a woman," said the sheriff. "Her name is Betty Jevers.
Ever hear of her?"
JACK nodded slowly. A surge of recollections were coming to his mind.
First, he remembered that Lancaster was divided into two sections, one of
which
was a woman's prison. As for Betty Jevers, she was the notorious red-haired
gun
moll who had been sentenced there a year ago.
As Jack recalled it, Betty's crime had consisted in holding off a handful
of State police while a band of wanted bank robbers had made a flight, without
their swag. The crew had cleared the country, and one of them was Betty's
brother. According to the girl's lawyer, that had been her only connection
with
the crooks.
The argument had not convinced the jury. The law, needing some human
trophy, along with the recovered funds, had demanded a conviction of the gun
moll, which had been granted, to the tune of twenty years. The term had struck
Jack as an overlong one, considering that Betty's battle had produced no
casualties.
"How come you hadn't heard about the escape?" demanded the sheriff. "The
news went out over the air along about noon. Don't you listen to the radio?"
"Not when I've got something else to do," retorted Jack. "Right now, I'm
out hunting. Here's my gun, there's my dog. Any other questions?"
The sheriff grunted an apology; then, in a more polite tone, he asked:
"Where do you come from?"
"Middledale," replied Jack. "I left there early this morning. I have a
hunting shack over on Round Pond. That's where I'm heading right now, since it
looks like my chances of finding any quail have been ended."
"What's your name?"
"Jack Denwood."
The sheriff's face took a sudden change. He had heard that name before;
so
had everyone else in the surrounding counties. He knew that Jack's father,
Henry
Denwood, was the wealthiest man in the prosperous city of Middledale. The
sheriff's next question came as a polite request.
"If you're going over toward the pond, Mr. Denwood," he said, "would you
keep a lookout for this convict - this women we're trying to find?"
"Of course," replied Jack. Then, nudging his shotgun: "I might even
mistake her for a quail. How would that be?"
"It would suit us. We're supposed to bring her in, dead or alive. Maybe I
ought to swear you in as a deputy first."
"Don't worry. I'll take the consequence!"
Turning on his heel, Jack started in the direction of Round Pond,
muttering to Queenie as he went along. His sarcasm had evidently been lost on
the sheriff. Looking back, Jack saw that the posse had headed in the other
direction.
Evidently, the sheriff felt quite satisfied that Jack would take care of
the area near Round Pond.
As he stalked along, Jack decided to ignore completely any sounds that he
might hear from the brush. He covered the few miles to the pond, followed its
shore, until he neared a small summer cabin. There, Jack made a grimace at
some
"No Hunting" signs posted on those premises.
Jack had seen the old maid who lived in that cabin. Every year, she saw
to
it that her place was posted. So Jack always gave the cabin a wide berth; just
in case some snooper happened to be there watching for anyone who crossed the
premises carrying a gun.
A hundred yards farther on, Jack came to his own lodge. The door was
ajar,
as he had left it. He never locked it while hunting, for all he kept there was
a
few odd clothes, some bedding, and a small amount of food. Prowlers never
bothered small hunting lodges in the daytime. That, at least, was Jack's
opinion, until he pushed the door open.
Right then, he stopped with one foot on the threshold, halted by the
sound
of a quick, almost furtive gasp.
BEFORE Jack's eyes stood a girl, motionless as a statue. She was close to
a chair upon which lay khaki clothes that Jack recognized as old garments of
his own, which she had taken from the closet where they belonged.
The girl was dressed in a drab gray outfit that had the look of a
uniform.
Her blunt shoes and cotton stockings were black, but her skirt and blouse
predominated, giving her an entirely gray appearance as far as her shoulders.
More correctly, one shoulder; for she had drawn the sleeve from the
other.
The sunlight showed the bare shoulder to be a very attractive one; but that
was
to be expected, considering the girl's face. Viewing that lovely countenance,
Jack felt a new sympathy toward Betty Jevers.
This girl didn't belong in the prison uniform that she wore. Her rounded
face had rose-petal lips that showed a real tremble. Above a perfect nose were
pleading eyes, so large that their blue hue was very apparent. Her hair, half
down her shoulders, caught the sunlight from the windows, to form a burnished
background to a portrait which Jack Denwood regarded as beautiful at first
sight.
The girl's eyes were fixed on the shotgun that rested in the crook of
Jack's elbow. The slight motion of his forearm jogged the barrels upward. The
girl's lips went firm. She brought her arms upward, shaking one hand from its
loosened sleeve.
She spoke. Her tone was low, but it lacked bitterness.
"You've caught me," she said. "I'll come along quietly. Take me to the
prison. The sooner, the better."
"Wait a moment," suggested Jack, letting the shotgun barrels tilt toward
the floor, "You're Betty Jevers -"
"If I told you I was someone else" - the girl's interruption showed her
first tinge of bitterness - "you wouldn't believe me. So why waste time?"
"Because I'd like to complete the introduction," returned Jack, calmly.
"My name is Jack Denwood. What we are, is another matter. Why you are here
happens to be apparent. It seems that you would prefer some of my clothes to
your own. You are quite welcome to them."
The girl stood speechless, but her eyes went wide open, expressing her
astonishment.
"I might find something better," continued Jack. "There's a cabin near
here belonging to a fussy old maid, who might have left some clothes there.
I'll go look; meanwhile, you might as well put on those other things, in case
I
don't have luck."
Setting his gun in the corner, Jack snapped his fingers and gestured
Queenie out through the door. He was smiling as he filled his pipe with
tobacco. About to close the door as he departed, Jack remarked:
"I'm taking the dog, but I won't need the shotgun. Be careful with it,
because it's loaded."
Outside the lodge, Jack Denwood turned deliberately about. Puffing his
pipe, and with Queenie at his heels, he strolled in the direction of the
cabin,
calmly confident that he had nothing to fear from the notorious Betty Jevers.
CHAPTER II
CITY OF CRIME
FOR half a minute after Jack's departure, the gray-garbed girl stood
motionless. Then, almost mechanically, she approached a window beside the door
and stared toward the shore of the pond. Autumn had stripped the leaves from
the trees; she could see Jack plainly as he sauntered toward the cabin.
His red-backed hunting jacket offered a perfect target, although by this
time he was out of gunshot range. To the girl, however, the weapon that Jack
had left was merely another token of his friendship. Her whole expression was
one of admiration for the man who so completely trusted her.
Then, again conscious of the fact that she still wore prison gray, the
girl resolved to rid herself of that undesirable attire before Jack returned.
She undressed rapidly, flinging the detested garments into a corner. Having
shed the evidence that linked her to Lancaster Prison, the girl hastily put on
the clothes that she had previously brought from the closet.
The prison outfit had been too large for her. Jack's spare clothes were
also oversized, but they felt better and looked better. Socks and sneakers
weren't too large to attract attention; she rolled up the cuffs of the khaki
trousers and made them look reasonably neat.
The large size of the flannel shirt wasn't noticeable when the girl slid
a
sweater over it.
Bundling her hair, the girl finally captured it quite cleverly within the
confines of a hunting cap. She was studying the effect in a mirror over the
fireplace, when she heard a knock at the door of the lodge, then Jack's voice:
"May I come in?"
The girl went over and opened the door. Empty-handed, Jack started to
explain ruefully that he had found no clothing at the neighboring cabin, then
gave a surprised exclamation:
"Say! You look swell! We won't have any trouble getting back to town.
Wait
- step outside a moment. I want to look at you in the sunlight."
The girl obliged. Jack nodded approvingly.
"Your hair looks brown, the way you've fixed it," he said. "We won't have
to worry. Where did you put those clothes you took off?"
The girl pointed into the corner of the main room. Jack handed her a ring
of keys.
"The garage is over there," he said, pointing beyond the lodge. "Unlock
the door and back the car out; the little key is for the ignition switch. Take
the shotgun with you" - he reached for the weapon, unloaded it - "and put it
in
back of the seat."
"But - but where are you going?"
"Out in a rowboat, to sink your old clothes in the pond. There's a big
stone down on the shore, that will be just the thing to keep them on the
bottom."
FIFTEEN minutes later, Jack Denwood was piloting his expensive coupe
along
a road that led to a main highway. Beside him sat a very happy girl. On the
space behind the top of the seat was Queenie; the dog's nose rested on the
girl's sweatered shoulder.
Jack had always regarded Queenie to be a good judge of human character,
and the dog had taken to the girl immediately.
Smiling, Jack broke the silence.
"I think that we ought to consider the future," he said. "Don't you
agree,
Miss -"
He hesitated, as if he couldn't remember the girl's name. She gave a
carefree laugh.
"I've been thinking about my name myself," she declared. "I really think
I
ought to have one, don't you?"
"You should; and it shouldn't be -"
She laid a finger on Jack's lips before he could mention the name "Betty
Jevers."
"My name," said the girl, simply, "is Ruth Geldon. Do you like it?"
Jack nodded.
"It's my real name, too," insisted Ruth. "The other name - well, it never
was my name at all."
A prompt explanation struck Jack, though he did not express it. Ruth's
brother must have keen using the alias of Jevers. Knowing it, the girl had
claimed the same name, to protect her own. Such foresight was more than
commendable; it decided Jack upon a plan which he had been about to offer.
"I live in Middledale," he told the girl. "Why don't you stay there,
Ruth,
and take a job? Nobody would ever link you with the past."
"You're sure of that?"
"Positive! I'll tell you why."
During the next five minutes, Jack sketched his own personal history. His
father, Henry Denwood, was the wealthiest man in Middledale - owner of the
largest department store, the principal industrial plant, and much of the
local
real estate, which included several apartment houses.
Jack, himself, had ideals rather than ambitions. He tried to stress them
lightly, but in so doing made them the more evident. Already, the factory was
on a co-operative basis, and Ruth could easily guess that Jack's suggestion
had
been responsible.
"In a few years the employees will have the store, too," said Jack,
warmly. "Dad has decided to leave that for me to handle. He intends to retire
in a few years, and after that -"
He hesitated. Watching him, Ruth smiled. Jack Denwood was a handsome
chap,
with his fine profile, his square jaw, and dark, keen eyes almost the color of
his blackish hair. But the girl was not thinking of his looks. His enthusiasm
would have made her regard him as handsome, if his features had been actually
ugly.
"I understand," spoke Ruth, softly. "You intend to use your fortune to
benefit Middledale."
"Which is only right," asserted Jack. "The Denwoods didn't make
Middledale. The town made us! My father profited by coming there, and I intend
to return the favor. Of course, I'm going to keep a sizable fortune for
myself,
but it will be only a small portion of our entire wealth."
THEY were on the main highway, speeding into the dusk. Jack turned on the
lights, then said quietly:
"All this, of course, is confidential. It belongs to the future, and I
don't want to spoil it by too early an announcement. Let's talk about the
present, and the matter of your job."
Ruth was quite agreeable.
"At present," Jack said, "Middledale has a city government which is
termed
a reform administration. It is supported by my father and another wealthy man,
named Martin Albot. The mayor, Timothy Kesselbrock, is an old fogy, but honest
enough in his way.
"We are all anxious to put through a new boulevard, which will develop a
section called Western Heights into an excellent suburb. The vote on the
proposition comes up within a few weeks."
From Jack's tone, Ruth could guess that some opposition was expected.
Jack
came promptly to the subject.
"A lot of tin-horn politicians want to hold it off. If they can win the
next election, they will swing the boulevard through a dumping ground that we
call 'The Neck,' and include a bill to improve that section without cost to
the
owners."
"Who happen to be the politicians?"
"Exactly! The city will spend millions, and they will clean up fortunes.
The fact that my father owns land along the proper route is being used to
discredit his real motives. Albot, too, has come in for criticism."
The car had come to a ridge; ahead lay a valley carpeted with lights. As
they rolled slowly down the slope, Jack pointed out the important sections of
Middledale.
"Not long ago," he chuckled, "Mayor Kesselbrock delivered one of his
pompous speeches from Station MBX in our store. He was much impressed by Miss
Robinson, the hostess at the radio station. He decided that his office needed
a
hostess to greet visitors, many of whom are women's committees."
"Did he want Miss Robinson?" asked Ruth.
"He did," replied Jack, "but she wouldn't take the job. To soothe his
honor, I promised to obtain a hostess from some station outside of Middledale.
I have been thinking that if tomorrow Miss Ruth Geldon called on Mayor
Kesselbrock, with my recommendation, she would get the job."
"Not if she called in these clothes."
"She won't." They had swung into the town and were pulling up beside a
small, but modern, apartment house. "To begin with, Ruth, this is where you
live."
"But how -"
"We own the apartment house. I'll see the superintendent and get a key to
a furnished apartment. You can stay there while I drive over to the store."
"Is it open in the evening?"
"For me, it is." Jack's tone was brisk. "We have a late call delivery,
and
in an hour you'll have a flock of clothes to choose from. Phone me later, and
we'll have dinner together."
Two hours later, Jack Denwood was escorting a very gorgeous young lady
into Middledale's best restaurant. Ruth Geldon, gowned in the best that the
Denwood store could supply, was probably the last girl that anyone could have
mistaken for the fugitive Betty Jevers.
Ruth was vivacious, a girl of rare charm. Her taste in dress was
excellent, as Jack could tell by the choice that she had made from the many
clothes sent to her apartment. He noted, too, that her hair, as she had
finally
arranged it, still showed a tendency toward brown.
Jack's greatest reward, however, came when they had driven back to the
apartment house. There, at the front door, the girl whispered:
"Thanks a lot, Jack, for everything! But I'll only need a few of those
clothes. I'll send the rest back in the morning."
"But you may need more -"
"Not until I can afford them. If the job pays as well as you claim it
will, I'll take care of the bill by the first of the month. Besides, there's
the apartment rent."
"Don't worry about that!"
"I won't worry about it," assured Ruth, firmly. "I'll pay it! Good night,
Jack."
As Jack departed, tears came to Ruth's eyes. She felt that she owed a
debt
to Jack Denwood that mere money could not repay. Somehow, Ruth was sure that
if
she remained awhile in Middledale, she could prove her gratitude to the kindly
young man who had helped her from a serious dilemma at risk of his own good
standing.
Had Ruth Geldon known the full state of affairs in Middledale, she would
have realized that she had a double opportunity. The town that looked so
placid
from her window was a city of hidden crime.
However checkered Ruth's past, her future was to surpass it. In the evil
schemes that stirred Middledale, Ruth was to hold a key position that would
swing the balance between law and crime.
Such knowledge would have troubled Jack Denwood. He could reasonably have
wondered whether a girl who had suffered from the law's devices would choose
to
uphold justice, rather than side with criminals in whose class she had been
placed.
When the time came, however, Middledale would have a visitor whose keen
observation would recognize whichever choice Ruth made.
That coming visitor was a being called The Shadow!
CHAPTER III
CRIME UNDER COVER
DURING the next week, Middledale had many things to think about other
than
the fact that the mayor had hired a very attractive brunette to give his
sumptuous office the charm that only a hostess could supply.
Three accidents had marred a rather pleasant week. One was the plunge of
an elevator in the Denwood Store; the other two had been bus accidents,
involving vehicles of the Middledale Transportation Co., owned principally by
Henry Denwood and Martin Albot.
Fortunately, none of those occurrences could be termed disasters. The
elevator had fallen a few floors on its first morning trip, with only the
operator on board, and he had not been severely injured.
In one bus smash, all the damage, as well as the blame, had been placed
upon the truck with which the bus collided. In the other, the driver had
pulled
the bus out of a wild, downhill skid, bringing a batch of scared passengers to
safety, shaken but unhurt.
True, the accidents had caused much stir and comment, even to the effect
that they had been planned. But the citizens of Middledale forgot that very
quickly. They were more interested in the big parade and general celebration
that was due on Saturday night.
The event was in honor of Middledale's founders, and it was no secret
that
the principal speakers would boost the matter of the new boulevard through
Western Heights. All Middledale, except the disgruntled politicians and their
adherents, wanted that boulevard. Saturday's demonstration would be a
suggestion that members of the city council vote in favor of it.
Highlight of the evening was to be the test of a superpowered bus
acquired
by the Middledale Transportation Co. The bus, it was claimed, could pick up to
a
sixty-mile speed over a surprisingly short range of ground, and it was going
to
show its merits on the main street before huge, roped-off crowds.
The transportation company wanted the franchise to operate such busses
over the new boulevard, and guaranteed that it would handle traffic at no
increase in fares. Even chronic malcontents were keeping their mouths shut,
when people argued that the company would be giving better service without
extra profit. The busses, if they came up to claims, would speak for
themselves.
Long before that Saturday evening, natives of Middledale had forgotten
all
about an escaped inmate of Lancaster Women's Prison named Betty Jevers. It had
been a bothersome week for redheads whose hair happened to be really
conspicuous, but all that had ended with reports that Betty Jevers had been
seen in Buffalo, Miami and San Diego, all on the same date.
Whether she had escaped to Canada, Cuba, or Mexico, did not particularly
matter. One of the three girls in flaming tresses had probably been Betty, so
she couldn't be in Middledale.
TONIGHT, Saturday, bands were blaring, fireworks were sparkling, and
everyone was making merry; except, perhaps, two men who stood in a gloomy
fourth-floor room of the Middledale Hotel, looking from a window that fronted
on the main street. Even they could not have been classed as unhappy. In fact,
they seemed rather pleased with the scene outdoors.
One was a sallow, cold-eyed man, with sleek black hair and short, pointed
mustache. His lips were so tight that they scarcely seemed to open when he
spoke, or poked a cigarette between them. He was well known in Middledale, but
he didn't live in the hotel. His room here was held under another name than
his
own, which happened to be Monte Flade.
A gambler by profession, Monte wasn't working at his trade. He owned the
Orange Grove, the well-managed night club that was Middledale's real bright
spot.
For months, Monte had been operating at a loss, but hadn't advertised the
fact. He didn't care to have people wondering where his money came from; and
whatever his present losses, Monte expected to write them off in the future.
The other man was rangy, with a large, coarse face distinguished chiefly
by a permanent grin, which he couldn't control because he had abbreviated
lips.
His teeth were good but very large, especially the two uppers at the front of
his mouth. Those adornments accounted for his nickname: Elk Wenner.
Monte's contemptuous grin began to fade as the glossy-haired man stared
from the window. Turning to Elk, Monte delivered a tight-lipped warning.
"If things go sour tonight -"
"They won't, Monte," insisted Elk. "All we needed to know was how long
that bus was going to be in the garage, and we found out."
"So what?" retorted Monte. "You bungled the other jobs, didn't you?"
"We put too much grease on those elevator cables," admitted Elk. "We
hadn't figured that they'd slip until after a lot of customers were in the
store. That was a tough thing to figure out, though, Monte."
"Yeah? It wasn't tough to rig that bus accident."
"You mean the first one, huh? We framed it as well as we could. The bus
driver was smarter than the guy we had in the truck, that's all."
Monte didn't continue the argument; he simply stared from the window.
Considering that a bad omen, Elk made a further protest.
"The other bus was lucky," he insisted. "We greased the hill as much as
we
could, without giving the whole thing away. The bus took a tail-spin when it
hit
the grease. That's the way it was supposed to happen. We couldn't handle the
rest of it."
Cars were rolling slowly along the bedecked main street, greeted by the
roar of the crowds. Monte gave an ugly snort.
"Look at old chin whiskers," he sneered, "bowing, and waving that plug
hat
of his. The town's prize nincompoop, otherwise known at His Honor the Mayor!
That thing rolled in his pocket is a speech. In half an hour, Kesselbrock will
be spouting worse than the fireworks!"
"Who's the dame with him?" queried Elk. "Say! She's real class, ain't
she?"
"She works in his office," returned Monte. "I saw her there the other
day.
She's the hostess who handles the old ladies who come there howling that I
oughtn't to be running a night club."
"That makes her all right then," approved Elk. "What's her name?"
"Ruth Geldon," replied Monte. Then, slowly, he added: "Yes, she is all
right! I hear old goat-face is paying her fifty per and thinks it's a lot. But
it isn't enough for a dame that has brains along with looks. I'm thinking -"
WHATEVER his thoughts regarding Ruth, Monte postponed them to observe
another car. He identified its occupants.
"Henry Denwood," he growled, referring to a dignified, gray-haired man,
"and that soft-brained son of his! That's Martin Albot with them."
Elk nodded. He knew Albot by sight. Somewhat portly, Albot had a rather
jolly face; but at present, he was preserving a stern demeanor. Monte supplied
another sneer.
"Just Santa Claus without whiskers," he commented. "That's Albot for you!
He's nicey-nice, like the Denwoods. All right, you reform guys" - Monte
grimaced at the window - "you'll have plenty to be howling about before
tonight
is over!"
Elk's big-toothed grin showed agreement.
"That gadget we fixed on the speed bus," he confided, "it can't go
haywire. It's planted under the right front wheel, geared to the speedometer.
It's set to shoot the works when the bus reaches the grandstand. They'll
think"
- he pointed along the street to where cars were stopping at a decorated
grandstand - "that a tire blew out."
"All of them won't think that," corrected Monte, with a malicious
chuckle.
"The bunch that go to the hospital, or the morgue, won't even know what
happened. At sixty per, that bus is going to plow a tunnel right through the
bottom of the grandstand!"
Watching the outside scene, the conspirators saw that the mayor and his
party were already at the spot of honor, high in the center of the grandstand.
Kesselbrock's chin whiskers were wagging, as he poured his speech into the
microphone provided by Station MBX.
Monte Flade growled impatiently. He was looking forward to the carnage
that was to follow the mayor's harangue.
"It's pretty near time for the bus test," Monte told Elk. "You'd better
call that guy down at the garage. What's his name?"
"Cokey." Elk reached for the telephone. "I'll get him."
At the other end of Elk's call, a long-faced man with twitchy lips gave
chuckles at the question that came across the wire. Cokey wore the
grease-stained overalls of a garage mechanic; he was speaking over a telephone
in a small stone-walled room.
"Yeah, it's set, all right," undertoned Cokey. "Did I check it? That's
what I'm here for, ain't it?... No, nobody could have spotted us. There's only
a couple of guys here that don't belong to the mob... Yeah, we saw to it that
they weren't around right then...
"She's all set to go out, the bus is." Cokey stretched his neck to peer
through the crack of a door. "The driver's in that booth of his. They're
opening the garage doors. The company mechanic is waiting outside, to get on
board... No, he don't know from nothing. Nobody's wise..."
Cokey clanked the receiver, stepped toward the door into the garage,
chuckling to himself his final words:
"Nobody's wise -"
Vaguely, those words echoed, as if the walls had whispered them back.
Cokey halted, his wizened face alarmed. He heard the whisper again; this time,
it phrased no words. Its mockery seemed a shivering laugh, more than a mere
echo. Cokey's voice couldn't have produced it; in fact, the one was a sort
that
could scarcely have come from any human throat.
Twitchy lips were frozen, as Cokey wheeled to stare at the rear door of
the tiny room. He couldn't see the door; it was obscured by blackness: gloom
that was alive, in the shape of a cloaked figure. The dim light showed the
outline of a slouch hat; beneath its brim were eyes that held an unearthly
glow. Below was the muzzle of an automatic, held in a black-gloved hand.
Sight of that figure and the looming .45 was enough for twitchy-lipped
Cokey. He knew what they represented: a being that he had never expected to
see
in Middledale; an avenger whose very name brought terror to skulking
evildoers.
As the whispered laugh faded from the hidden lips that uttered it, Cokey
gulped the name of the dread intruder:
"The Shadow!"
CHAPTER IV
DEATH BOUND
TIME was short, but The Shadow intended to learn much from the few
moments
that he could spare with Cokey. Attracted to Middledale by news of mysterious
accidents, the master crime-hunter had suspected trouble with the coming bus
test. Because of the secrecy concerning the garage where the bus was kept, he
had not reached the place he wanted until just before crime's zero hour.
Quailing as The Shadow advanced, Cokey sagged against the door, the gun
muzzle nearly pressing squarely between his eyes. He began to gulp words, so
frantically that they were incoherent.
The Shadow's faculty for making rats squeal was working too well. His
voice, sinister and sibilant, interrupted Cokey's jargon. A few seconds more,
the crook would have been blurting his story in a manner that could be
understood. But those seconds were denied.
Somebody yanked the door from the other side; with the tug came an
excited
voice:
"Hey, Cokey, she's startin' out -"
Cokey was tumbling with the opening door. Doubling like a rubber ball,
摘要：

CITYOFSHADOWSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"June15,1939.Throughthesetangledshadesofcrime,creptanavengingshadow:TheShadow!CHAPTERITHEFUGITIVE"Wa-a-augh-wa-a-augh-"ThestridenttoneofthosedistantshrieksstartledJackDenwood.Pausingamongthebarrentrees,hetightenedhisgripuponhisload...

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