Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 161 - The Voice

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THE VOICE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," November 1, 1938.
The Voice spoke and murder was done - but when the final fray was over,
it
was the taunting, triumph laugh of The Shadow that was heard above all!
CHAPTER I
CRIME AFTER DUSK
EARLY darkness gripped the street that fronted the old Glenmore Building.
The increasing gloom had an unnatural touch that worried late workers coming
from their offices.
Not yet six o'clock - yet the street had an encroaching pall that
belonged
with midnight!
People didn't pause to reason that the days were short at this season of
the year; that heavy clouds had smothered the sunset, bringing this premature
twilight to Manhattan. Instead, they shuffled hastily toward the distant
lights
of an avenue where a subway station welcomed homeward voyagers.
The Glenmore Building was a grimy old structure, isolated in an
almost-forgotten section of New York City; but the building boasted a
uniformed
doorman, who peered from the dimly lighted lobby.
That doorman didn't like the early dusk, for he found it difficult to
keep
watch on a row of pretentious automobiles that were parked beside the curb.
Just why the directors of the Allied Airways Corporation had chosen this
hour, and this particular evening, for a meeting, the doorman couldn't say.
Perhaps, if he had reasoned further, he would have wondered why Allied Airways
still maintained its offices in the antiquated Glenmore Building.
Those questions were simply answered.
To-night's meeting was a special one. It had been set after office hours
to convenience directors who had daily business elsewhere. As for the location
of the offices, it happened that the Allied Airways Corporation owned the
Glenmore Building. Space there was difficult to rent, so the company had
solved
that difficulty by occupying the third floor itself.
What concerned the doorman most was a space in the line of parked cars.
He
was anxious to keep it open, for another car was expected. While the doorman
watched, an automobile began to shove into that gap.
It wasn't the limousine that he expected; the car was a long, low-built
touring car, old and ugly. It looked like some rakish pirate craft poking its
nose among the shiny, aristocratic cars that belonged to the directors of
Allied Airways.
Angrily, the doorman strode out to shake his fist at the interlopers.
Raucous jeers answered him. This guy in fancy uniform wasn't going to stop
these fellows from parking where they wanted! But when the doorman waved his
arm toward a cop on the next corner, the crew of the touring car changed their
minds.
They were quite close to a fire-plug; near enough for a cop to support
the
doorman's argument. It was apparent, too, that these rowdies didn't want to
talk
to a policeman.
The touring car jolted backward, whammed the front bumper of a big sedan.
It yanked from the space beside the curb, hooking the rear fender of a car
ahead. Chauffeurs sprang to the sidewalk to shout angrily at the doorman. The
corner cop arrived to investigate the trouble.
By that time, the tail-lights of the touring car were twinkling in the
distance. The parked cars were not badly damaged. The whole affair was
regarded
as a mere incident. Later, it was to loom as an important episode.
THE directors of Allied Airways were seated in a long, old-fashioned room
at the rear of the third floor. There were two doors to that room; one at the
front, the other, blocked by a hat rack, at the rear corner of the room, on
the
left.
Facing the front door was Daniel Clume, president of Allied Airways. He
was seated at the head of a long table; his squarish bulldog face and grizzled
hair gave him the appearance of a dominating power at this meeting.
That wasn't the exact case. The surrounding directors controlled the
affairs of Allied Airways. Some were elderly, dryish-faced and wizened.
Others,
younger, were obviously men whose wealth had been handed down to them. It was
plain, however, that they valued Clume as a man whose economy in business
management was bringing steady dividends to stockholders.
"The vote is unanimous!" announced Clume, in forceful basso tone. "We
hold
an option on Green Star Lines. With its important mail contracts, Green Star
is
a bargain at five million dollars. It is agreed that I make the purchase,
within the four days that remain."
There were nods of agreement. Clume circled his heavy-jawed face about
the
group, as if expecting questions. One came.
"Regarding Green Star," asked a director. "Is the company solvent?"
Clume expanded in an indulgent smile. "Our five million," he stated,
"will
be divided among the creditors of Green Star. They will be glad to receive
that
money. Whether or not it will pay one hundred cents on the dollar, is not our
concern."
"How soon will you exercise the option?" inquired another director, whose
anxious tone showed that he was eager to see the bargain made. "Remember, Mr.
Clume - no time should be lost!"
"Tomorrow," declared Clume, "Carter Dunwold, president of Green Star,
arrives from Europe aboard the Borealic. I shall be the first person to meet
him at the pier."
The directors exchanged pleased looks. One, a canny individual whose face
was owlish, put another question:
"Is Theodore Trenchell behind that syndicate that would like to buy Green
Star?"
"He is," replied Clume, "and he would pay ten million for it. Our option,
fortunately, prevents him. Trenchell has been calling me frequently by
telephone. Probably I shall hear from him before I leave here tonight. This
time" - Clume's jaw gave a triumphant shove - "I shall tell him that his cause
is hopeless!"
THE directors filed from the front door of the room, into a large outer
office. There, Clume shook hands around; the directors picked their way among
desks where some late clerks were still at work.
Clume opened a door on the right, stepped into an anteroom where a
dark-haired girl was busy at a typewriter. Her desk bore a name plate which
stated: "MISS BORION", and her location in the anteroom told that she was
Clume's private secretary.
The girl heard Clume enter. She stopped her typing; her dark eyes flashed
a question that brought a smile from Clume.
"It is settled," he declared. "The directors voted to exercise the
option.
File this, Irene."
Clume handed his secretary the document that bore the order. Irene
scanned
the signatures, then asked:
"Wasn't Mr. Cranston present?"
"No," replied Clume. "Lamont Cranston was flying in from Chicago, and his
plane was delayed. When he arrives, ask him to add his signature. A mere
formality, of course, since all the other directors voted in favor of the
purchase.
"It will not be necessary for me to see Cranston. I shall be busy for the
next hour, going over those western reports that I was forced to lay aside. I
do not wish to be disturbed, Irene, unless" - Clume chuckled - "unless
Trenchell telephones. If he does, switch the call to my office."
Clume's office was directly in back of the anteroom. He opened a door
marked private, went through and closed it behind him. Irene Borion returned
to
her typing.
The big clock in the outer office showed six.
That hour was marking the start of sinister episodes, beneath external
calm. Events, some seemingly unimportant, were shaping a strange future; a
whirligig wherein crime would ride rampant.
SOON after six o'clock, Lamont Cranston arrived in the outer office. A
clerk promptly recognized him, although the fellow had seen Cranston but once
before.
Lamont Cranston had an appearance that was unforgettable.
The belated director was tall, almost rangy. His build indicated latent
strength; but that impression was offset by his leisurely style of manner. His
face was calm; immobile of expression.
Those features, however, had a hawkish look; a masklike touch that
rendered them impassive. Seeing Cranston, one wondered what his thoughts were,
but never guessed.
Since neither Clume nor Irene had mentioned that Cranston was expected,
the clerk ushered him into the directors' room and left the door open. Pausing
at the closed door of the anteroom, the clerk decided that either Clume or the
secretary would soon appear. That was why the clerk went back to his desk.
A quarter hour passed. Cranston sat placidly beside the long table,
smoking a thin cigar. He had just finished his smoke when he saw Irene come
from the anteroom.
The secretary went to a large filing cabinet in the outer office. She was
busy filing papers for about five minutes; then she had only one sheet left -
the document that Cranston was to sign.
Irene was turning away when the busy clerk noticed her. He remarked that
Mr. Cranston had arrived. Irene came promptly to the directors' room. Her
apologies were sincere. Forgetting her usual business manner, Irene's voice
and
manner were more lovely than she imagined.
"I did not know that you had arrived, Mr. Cranston," she said. "But that
is no excuse. I should have left word with the clerks that you were expected."
"Quite all right, Miss Borion," assured Cranston. "I see" - he noted the
paper that the girl extended - "that the directors have voted to buy the Green
Star Lines. I shall be glad to add my signature."
There was no pen in the directors' room. Irene invited Cranston to the
anteroom. He was signing the document when the telephone bell rang. Irene
answered.
"Hello..." Irene's tone was brisk. "I'm not sure that Mr. Clume is
here...
You say that he told you to call at half past six?... Mr. Trenchell! Of
course!
I remember that he expected to hear from you..."
Irene connected the call with Clume's office. There was no response.
Watching, Cranston noticed that the girl's face became bewildered. She started
to lay aside the telephone; then, in worried fashion, she spoke across the
wire, telling Trenchell that she would have Mr. Clume call him back.
Hanging up the telephone, Irene sprang to the door of Clume's private
office. She knocked, then tried to open the door. It wouldn't budge. The girl
turned, to see Cranston standing beside her. His calmness curbed her alarm.
"Mr. Clume is in there." Irene managed the words steadily. "But he
doesn't
answer. Something must have happened to him. I know it, because" - she blurted
the final phrase - "because the door has no lock!"
Lamont Cranston's lithe body stiffened. Before Irene realized what he was
about, Cranston settled the mystery of the barred door. He struck it shoulder
first, with a drive that packed tremendous power. There was a splintering
sound
from beyond the barrier as the door burst inward.
Cranston's lunge had shattered a stout chair that had been wedged beneath
the doorknob. But that broken barricade was not the only piece of furniture
that lay demolished.
Across the room was an overturned table one leg broken, the marble table
top flat on the floor. A heavy chromium-plated ash stand lay in two pieces.
The
swivel chair behind the big mahogany desk was tilted back with a broken
spring;
one arm was gone from it.
At the left corner of the room, near the inner wall, a door stood open,
hanging from one hinge - mute evidence that indicated a smashing invasion from
an obscure corridor beyond.
The whole room reeked with the odor of chloroform, which seemed to be the
final mark of a swift but hard-fought struggle. Who the invaders had been, no
witness remained to tell.
Daniel Clume was gone!
CHAPTER II
THE THWARTED TRAIL
AT seven o'clock, a swarthy man of stocky build arrived at the offices of
Allied Airways. He was Joe Cardona, ace of Manhattan's police inspectors, and
he began a prompt investigation of Clume's disappearance.
By seven-thirty, Cardona was completing his summary of the scene, with
Cranston and Irene among his audience.
"This Green Star deal is back of it," assured Cardona. "The option was
made out to Daniel Clume, as president of Allied Airways. That makes him worth
five million bucks, because the sale requires has signature.
"Some big-shot racketeer was smart enough to grab Clume. Whoever he is,
he'll be after ransom money within the next four days. It's an odd case, but
that's the way I size it." Cardona turned to Cranston, to add: "What do you
think, Mr. Cranston?"
Cranston did not answer. His eyes, however, had a far-away look that
inspired Cardona to further speculations.
"Unless" - the inspector rubbed his chin - "unless the idea is to block
the deal. In that case, Clume may show up five days from now, when there'll be
no need of holding him any longer.
"That angle may have a lot to it." Cardona seemed pleased by his own
analysis. "If it has, there's one fellow who can tell us plenty, although it
may be tough to make him talk. That fellow is Theodore Trenchell, the
big-money
guy who'd like to buy the Green Star Lines himself!"
Cranston offered no objections to Cardona's two-fold theory. Satisfied
with his summary of the possible motives for Clume's abduction, Cardona began
to reconstruct the crime itself.
"We'll start with six o'clock," declared the police ace. "That's when the
doorman saw a suspicious-looking car out front. From his description, I'd say
that buggy had the crew that came after Clume later. Only, they saw the front
was a bad bet. So they took the back."
Cardona was standing in the anteroom where Irene's desk was located. He
turned to the girl.
"At six o'clock," reconstructed Joe, "you saw Clume go into his office.
You heard nothing suspicious, Miss Borion?"
"Nothing," replied Irene. "Of course, the door was shut; so slight sounds
might have escaped my attention. But I would have heard all the smashing that
did occur."
"Right!" agreed Cardona. "But at six-twenty, you came to the big office.
You closed the anteroom door behind you - or it closed itself, because it has
a
spring. Anyway, you were out of the anteroom at least five minutes."
"At least. More nearly ten minutes. I stopped to talk with Mr. Cranston."
THAT suited Cardona. He made a notation that the abduction had taken
place
between six-twenty and half past, the time of Trenchell's phone call. That
done,
Cardona led the witnesses into Clume's office. He pointed to the corridor door
near the left rear corner.
"That door has a bolt," declared Cardona, "which you say is usually
closed
because the door is merely an emergency entrance. The wood around the bolt
isn't
broken, so the door tells its own story."
Cardona's next picture was well-put. Someone had knocked at that door.
Clume, suspecting nothing, had drawn the bolt. Seeing tough faces in the
corridor, he had tried to slam the door shut. The invaders had driven him
inward with the door, ripping one hinge loose.
"Then this." Cardona pointed to the chaos. "Clume must have put up a real
battle. They knocked over the ash stand, and that table with the marble top.
Both articles were smashed. Clume must have gotten to his desk, hoping to grab
the telephone.
"That's when they trapped him in the swivel chair. Look how the spring
broke when he was thrown back. The arm, too - it's clear under the desk. And
Clume grabbed one of the mob before they finally clapped that chloroform rag
on
him."
As proof, Cardona produced two objects that he had found on the floor.
One
was a cheap necktie which had been forcibly ripped from its wearer's neck; not
the stylish type of cravat that Irene said Clume had worn. The other was the
chloroform rag itself - a frayed chunk of white cloth, still bearing traces of
the sweetish liquid.
There was one point more.
"They made plenty of racket," affirmed Cardona. "So much, that they
figured somebody might break in before they could haul Clume out. That's why
they shoved the chair under the door to the anteroom.
"There was another door, too" - Cardona pointed to the inner corner, at
the right, where a filing cabinet blocked a doorway - "but it's shut off, so
they didn't have to bother with it. Nobody could have come through from there.
"That finishes this part of the picture. We'll go over the rest of the
route - the way they took Clume out of here."
Cardona didn't notice the slight smile that had formed upon Cranston's
thin lips. Had he observed it, Joe might have decided that he hadn't finished
all the necessary details in Clume's office.
The inspector, though, was too anxious to go elsewhere. Confident that he
had covered everything, the ace didn't glance toward Cranston.
Nor did Cranston speak. For reasons of his own, he was anxious to see the
rest of the trail.
Out through the rear doorway at the left, the group followed the corridor
to its only exit: a metal stairway that led downward through a fire tower.
They
came to the ground floor; there, they found a doorway that led to a gloomy
alley.
There wasn't a clue along the way; but the route itself was obvious. On
the sidewalk, Cardona announced grimly:
"That crew had their car parked here. It's too bad it was as late as six
o'clock. Otherwise" - Joe thumbed along the alleyway - "some people using the
rear door of the building might have spotted the car."
THE rear door that Cardona mentioned was some thirty feet from the fire
exit. As they approached it, Cardona stopped beside a little newsstand that
was
squeezed into an irregular corner of the building wall.
The stand consisted of a small counter, with a booth behind it. The front
windows were closed, and faced by a rusty grille that bore a padlock. A little
door at the end of the stand was also padlocked for the night.
"This stand," remarked Cardona, abruptly. "Who runs it?"
"An old man they call Tim," replied Irene. "I never heard his last name."
"How late does he stay open?"
"Until six o'clock. Sometimes a little later."
That information pleased Cardona. It was possible that old Tim had
observed the entering crooks. His stand was at a spot where it would scarcely
be noticed, particularly if the mobsters had come from the other direction.
Lamont Cranston was standing beside the stand, with his elbow on the
ledge
that formed the front extension of the counter. His eyes had taken on a keen
flash that Cardona did not notice; for Joe was thinking of other persons than
Cranston.
Those sharp eyes saw something through the glass just past the grille. An
envelope was lying on the inside of the counter, its written surface downward.
The envelope projected beneath the window that old Tim had shut for the
night. Probably Tim hadn't noticed it when he lowered the sash. On his own
side, however, Cranston could see the projecting corner of the envelope.
A deft hand gripped the sliver of paper between thumb and fingernail.
Unnoticed, Cranston pulled the envelope beneath the sash. Holding it close to
his body, he turned the written surface upward; at the same time, he shifted
toward a dingy street lamp.
On the envelope, he read the name and address:
Timothy Tiffan,
63 Bursey St.
New York.
That envelope slid back beneath the lowered window as easily as it had
come. When only an inch remained on the outer ledge, Cranston's finger gave a
flip that shot the envelope inward. It slid clear across the counter and
dropped to the floor of Tiffan's tiny booth.
Cranston turned, caught Cardona's attention with the query:
"Do you need me any longer, inspector?"
Cardona decided in the negative. The ground had been covered. He knew
where to reach Cranston, if later testimony should be needed.
They walked through to the front of the Glenmore Building, where Cranston
entered a limousine that was parked there. While Cardona was politely closing
the door, he heard Cranston address the chauffeur through the speaking tube:
"Cobalt Club, Stanley."
ONE block away, that order was changed. Though Lamont Cranston supposedly
moved in the aristocratic sections of Manhattan, he had a surprising knowledge
of less seemly districts. Though Bursey Street was an almost forgotten
thoroughfare, that even a smart cab driver couldn't have located, Cranston
knew
exactly where it was. He gave Stanley an address in that vicinity.
A drawer slid open beneath the rear seat of the limousine. From that
concealed compartment, Cranston produced black garments - a cloak and slouch
hat. He donned that attire; packed a brace of automatics beneath the cloak. He
shoved the drawer back in place beneath the seat.
Reaching to another hidden compartment, behind a folding seat, the
transformed Cranston produced a compact short-wave radio. He spoke in a
strange, sibilant tone. A voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report!"
Again, that whispered word identified its author. This being who posed as
Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow!
Master who battled crime, The Shadow had chanced upon strange events
tonight. He was giving certain details to Burbank, the contact man who
communicated with The Shadow's active agents.
Reports showed that none were busy, for there had been a lull in recent
crime, thanks to The Shadow's vigilance. The Shadow gave instructions for the
agents to be ready. Soon, he could foresee, they might be needed.
Settling back in the limousine, The Shadow became a silent shape of
blackness. Ten minutes more would bring him to the address where Timothy
Tiffan
lived. There, The Shadow hoped to acquire certain evidence that might enable
him
to find the missing Daniel Clume.
There were times when chance tricked The Shadow. This was one of those
occasions.
Back at the Glenmore Building, Joe Cardona had happened upon the doorman.
On a sudden hunch, the ace police inspector had propounded a question. He had
asked if the doorman knew the full name of old Tim.
The uniformed car starter had supplied the full name of Timothy Tiffan,
with the man's address. Cardona had gained the very information that The
Shadow
had so smoothly acquired without the inspector's knowledge!
However, the path that The Shadow had chosen was to prove a thwarted
trail, thanks to the sudden activity of Joe Cardona.
One element, alone, could thwart The Shadow; and it awaited at the
journey's end.
That element was death!
CHAPTER III
THE MISSING MURDERER
WHILE The Shadow was still on his way to Bursey Street, all was quiet at
the address where Timothy Tiffan lived. The place was a boarding house; its
ground floor boasted a small parlor, where the boarders gathered after dinner.
Half a dozen men were present, some reading newspapers, others listening
to a crackly radio. They were brawny fellows who had the grimy hands of
mechanics, the muscular arms of truck drivers - with one exception.
That was Timothy Tiffan.
It was easy to tell why Tiffan was nicknamed "Old Tim". He was frail,
stoop-shouldered. His face was drawn; its dryish cheeks were hollow. Though
his
eyes were constantly on the move, they never saw anything that gave him reason
to smile.
That peering way of Tim's was merely a habit that he had acquired through
long hours at his little newsstand, where he was constantly on the lookout for
customers.
A telephone bell rang, muffled, from the depths of a rear hallway. The
shirt-sleeved boarders scarcely noticed the jangle; they seldom received phone
calls. Two minutes later, the landlady looked into the parlor.
"A call for you, Mr. Tiffan," she announced, testily. "If you were
expecting it, why didn't you answer and save me the bother?"
Old Tim was too bewildered to mutter an apology. The news completely
floored him. In all the ten years that he had lived at the boarding house, he
had never before been summoned to the telephone.
Some of the boarders started to kid Tim when he went slowly toward the
hallway. Others gestured for silence. Maybe this wouldn't prove a joking
matter. A phone call, coming to old Tim, might mean tragedy; perhaps a death
in
his family. Someone turned down the radio; the others strained to listen.
They were right about the tragedy - but it belonged to the future, not to
the past. These listeners were to be imperfect witnesses to what occurred.
Old Tim faltered past the stairway, reached the rear hall where the
telephone was located. The phone was a pay-box set in the wall below the
stairs. Old Tim picked up the dangling receiver as if he didn't understand
what
it was for. He looked up toward the stairs, saw the landlady peering over the
rail.
She thought Old Tim was annoyed because she had waited, so she went
upstairs. Thus the scene was deprived of the one person who could have seen
what happened.
Old Tim finally pressed the receiver to his ear; he croaked huskily into
the mouthpiece:
"Hello... Who is it?"
Cardona's voice came across the wire, gruff and to the point. It brought
disconnected responses from old Tim.
"Yes, this is Timothy Tiffan..." Old Tim's bewilderment increased. "You
say you're a police inspector? But I've done nothing!
"What's that?... What did I see, this afternoon?"
Tim was shaking his head; he couldn't make sense out of Cardona's quiz.
It
had him so baffled that he didn't notice a sound close by him.
That noise was a creak. It came from a door at the rear of the back
hallway. An eye was peering through the crack, watching Tim from darkness.
Cardona's statements became more direct. They electrified old Tim. He
repeated them, horrified.
"Daniel Clume!" ejaculated Tim. "You say that he has been kidnapped...
And
the crooks came from the back alley. Did I see them? No. Not that I remember.
"Wait, though, inspector!" Old Tim's eyes had lighted; his croaky voice
became suddenly breathless. "I can tell you what I did see, just after six
o'clock! I saw -"
A SHINY revolver muzzle had poked through the door crack, just beneath
the
watching eye. Its muzzle spouted the interruption that finished Tiffan's
statement.
Came a roar, a tongue of flame. With them, a bullet that stabbed Tim's
side. If the old newsie added other words, no one ever heard them. They were
drowned by that murderous blast.
His lips still muttering, Tim let the receiver fall. His hands clapped to
his breast; slipped away as he slid toward the floor. His body was turning
toward the rear door; the gun blasted another close-range shot. Then as Tim
hit
the floor, the killer yanked the door five inches wider. Venomously, he fired
a
third shot, into Tim's brain.
Those shots came in close-timed succession, so sharply and unexpectedly
that the last was fired before startled shouts were heard from the front
parlor. The murderer shifted back into darkness, his hand on the doorknob. He
was ready to slam the barrier to make his getaway, when he was chilled to
numbness.
There was a sound from the front of the hall. The front door hurled
inward. Springing across the threshold came a cloaked figure, driving inward
with vengeful stride.
The halted killer saw burning eyes beneath a slouch hat brim; below those
eyes, the muzzle of an aiming automatic. The big .45 was aimed for the exact
spot where the murderer stood. Half voiceless, the killer gulped a name:
"The Shadow!"
From a shrouded investigator seeking a chat with Tim Tiffan, The Shadow
had become a being of vengeance. Too late to frustrate murder, he had heard
the
shots that meant Tim's doom. Driving through the front door, The Shadow had
sized up the situation on the instant.
THE SHADOW glimpsed the murderer's face, pale despite its hardness. More
important, he saw the killer's gun muzzle lowered in the position from which
it
had fired the third shot. Driving in to take the murderer alive, The Shadow
was
guided by that muzzle. Had the revolver budged a half inch upward, The Shadow
would have dropped the killer where he stood.
But the trapped rogue didn't move a muscle. He couldn't. By his
involuntary lack of action, he gained an unexpected intervention that proved
to
his immediate advantage.
The husky boarders had reached the parlor door. They saw The Shadow as he
drove past, the automatic clutched in his fist. With one accord, they launched
upon the figure in black. Coming from the flank, they were upon The Shadow
before he could speed clear.
Instantly, the scene changed. Men were sprawling to the floor just short
of Tim's body, and The Shadow was among them. More were piling from the parlor
to aid in the capture of the supposed murderer, while the real killer gaped,
unnoticed, from beyond the door at the hallway's rear.
Sight of The Shadow sprawling beneath a strong-arm attack, was all that
the killer needed to forget his inertia. Dropping farther back, he trained his
gun for the rolling group, intending to drill the black-cloaked shape that
formed the center of the whirl.
The Shadow hadn't forgotten the murderer. Despite his predicament, he
beat
the fellow to the shot. Out from the chaos thrust a black-gloved fist. A quick
finger triggered bullets for the door.
Those shots were wide of their mark; made so by the husky fighters who
were grabbing for The Shadow's gun. But the big .45 did enough. Its slugs
splintered chunks from the door where the murderer stood; they zipped too
close
for his comfort.
The ratty killer couldn't chance shots of his own. Men were recoiling,
startled by The Shadow's fire. Floundering with them, The Shadow was no
certain
target. Flight was the killer's only bet, particularly because his own shots
would betray him and bring pursuers in his direction.
Not waiting to shove the door shut, the gunman dived along a rear
passage,
through another door, and out into an alley.
Another shot tongued from The Shadow's gun, two seconds after the killer
had gone. It took a chunk from the door edge, showed vacancy beyond. The
Shadow
knew that his quarry had fled. Pursuit was The Shadow's next course.
TWISTING from hands that gripped him, The Shadow rolled backward beside
Tim's body. Propped on one elbow, he made a threatening gesture with his gun.
Two men were lunging for him; one stopped. The other received an upward shove
of The Shadow's feet.
There was power to the hoist that The Shadow gave his doubled legs when
he
extended them. The impact lifted the brawny recipient clear of the floor,
propelled him backward into the arms of two men just behind him.
While they floundered, The Shadow rolled over to his knees. Headed toward
the rear door, he came to his feet with a long spring. Only one man was after
him as he drove along the murderer's trail.
That one man caused trouble. Slowed by the intervening door, The Shadow
was overtaken in the rear passage. He and his adversary were grappling hard
when the others arrived. In the darkness, they fell upon the strugglers, only
to find they had but one man in their clutch.
The Shadow had turned the last battler over to the other boarders. A slam
of the outer door told that The Shadow had reached the alley.
Outside, The Shadow heard new sounds - the wail of police sirens, the
shrill of whistles - from the alley entrance. Joe Cardona could think of
everything, particularly when it was unneeded. While calling Tim Tiffan by
telephone, Cardona had also ordered police to Bursey Street.
Like The Shadow, the law was too late to trap the murderer, thanks to the
fellow's brief head start. But the police were closing in soon enough to
discommode The Shadow. Not only had he lost the murderer's trail; his own
departure was blocked.
Blackness was thick, deeper in the alley. Where it led, The Shadow didn't
care. He chose it because it offered immediate refuge. Springing into gloom,
he
came squarely against a brick wall.
Shouts were coming from the rear of the boarding house. The boarders were
in the alley, howling their story to the incoming officers. There had been
murder, they assured, and the killer was somewhere hereabouts.
摘要：

THEVOICEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"November1,1938.TheVoicespokeandmurderwasdone-butwhenthefinalfraywasover,itwasthetaunting,triumphlaughofTheShadowthatwasheardaboveall!CHAPTERICRIMEAFTERDUSKEARLYdarknessgrippedthestreetthatfrontedtheoldGlenmoreBuilding.Theincreasinggloo...

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