Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 158 - Crime Over Boston

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CRIME OVER BOSTON
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF NIGHT
? CHAPTER II. THE WIZARD OF FINANCE
? CHAPTER III. BLADE OF DEATH
? CHAPTER IV. FLIGHT PREARRANGED
? CHAPTER V. DEPTHS OF DEATH
? CHAPTER VI. THE LOST CHASE
? CHAPTER VII. IN SOUTH STATION
? CHAPTER VIII. THREE MEN GATHER
? CHAPTER IX. THE BLIND TRAP
? CHAPTER X. THE CLUE FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER XI. FOGGED FIGHT
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S APPOINTMENT
? CHAPTER XIII. THE WAY OUT
? CHAPTER XIV. STEEL-WALLED DEATH
? CHAPTER XV. DEATH'S PROMISE
? CHAPTER XVI. THE VANISHED MILLION
? CHAPTER XVII. THE THIRD THRUST
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME'S COUNTERSTROKE
? CHAPTER XIX. MEN FROM THE SEA
? CHAPTER XX. PROOF OF CRIME
CHAPTER I. SHADOWS OF NIGHT
THE black coupe was creeping along the road that fringed the edge of the darkened bay.
Lost beneath the boughs of overhanging trees, it was following an invisible path through
cloud-blackened night, for the car was traveling without headlights. A glow from the coupe's
dashboard was confined to the interior of the car, as muffled as the low purr of the smooth
motor beneath the heavy hood.
Nevertheless, that dashlight was important. By its glow a driver, swathed in the darkness
above it, was watching a remarkable road map. Set in a square, glass-topped frame, the
map was shifting, like the coupe. Geared to the speedometer, the chart showed each road
sector that the car approached.
With that guide, the driver kept to the road, using the wheel to hold the charged line along an
arrow point. Not once did the tires jolt to the stony shoulder of the road.
A cross mark showed on the chart. As it reached the arrow, the driver applied the brakes
with smooth, easy motion. Turning the wheel, he slid the car into reverse, backed it some
twenty feet into the darkness.
The road had widened at that spot. So had the map by which the driver guided.
A breeze swept through the opened windows. Halted, the coupe's rear wheels were against
a stone abutment, beyond which lay a sheer drop to the bay. Moonlight was struggling
through the clouds, but its spotty beams were confined to the waters. The glow that did
reveal the coupe was momentary. It came from the sweeping beam of an old lighthouse,
situated on a rocky islet half a mile out in the bay.
That circling glare brightened the trees, showed the black coupe below them. It flashed upon
the face of a young man seated by the window on the right; but in its passage, that glare did
not disclose the car's driver.
He was cloaked in garments of black that made him as shapeless as a splotch of light itself.
The coupe purred forward, nosed back along the road to stop beneath the trees. The next
sweep of the light showed vacancy beneath the cliff trees. This portion of the Rhode Island
coast appeared devoid of human presence.
There was a whisper from the cloaked driver of the coupe. He was giving instructions to the
man beside him. Gloved fingers adjusted the changing road map for the return trip. The
being in black was turning over the car to his companion.
That done, The Shadow opened the door on his side of the coupe and stepped into the
outer darkness of the night.
Whatever his reason for this journey to Rhode Island, The Shadow had so far carried his
plans to perfection. He had driven miles along a road that was watched at many intervals. In
completing that trip, he had assured himself that the return journey could be accomplished
by his companion.
TO Harry Vincent, his long-trusted agent, The Shadow was delegating the task of removing
the coupe from this vicinity. With the car's departure, all evidence of The Shadow's arrival
would be vanished.
Sliding in behind the wheel, Harry passed a brief case through the window. Gloved hands
received it. Harry was ready with the gear shift when a hissed tone ordered him to remain.
There was something sinister in that sibilant utterance; it was chilling, even to a listener who
knew The Shadow for a friend. That whisper betokened ill to men who deserved The
Shadow's wrath. Harry sensed instantly that The Shadow had caught some evidence of evil,
present in the darkness.
Below an arch of tree boughs, Harry could see a stretch of bay, vague in the straggly
moonlight. This was the direction that The Shadow watched. As Harry stared, he, too, was
conscious of motion in the water.
A low, long sweep of blackness hulked through the moon-splotched water. It was gliding, like
some monster from the deep that had come to seek the surface. A faint swash had caught
The Shadow's attention; he had looked straight to the spot a few hundred yards off the
shore.
Then, with a blanketing of the moonlight, the rakish apparition was gone. The beam from the
lighthouse swept by, but it was above the level of the spot where the thing had been.
Whatever the object was, it had vanished.
Moments passed. Another light swept from the night. It was a searchlight, beaming directly
on the bay. Harry knew its source: a Coast Guard cutter was patrolling these channels, on
the lookout for stray craft.
The searchlight revealed nothing. Harry decided that he and his chief had actually glimpsed
some sea creature that had later dived beneath the surface. Porpoises—even small
whales—were common in these waters.
Apparently the cutter was satisfied, for its searchlight swept to a remote direction. The
Shadow, though, was waiting in hope of a new flicker of moonlight. That glow was coming
due at almost any moment— when another factor intervened.
The gleam of a flashlight sparkled from the trees on the land side of the road. With it, Harry
heard the growl of a voice. Men were coming to cover this turn-out in the road.
The Shadow toned a single word in Harry's ear:
"Start."
The coupe eased away. Harry had started it in silent second gear, but the thrum of the motor
was audible. Brushwood crackled; the man with the flashlight was dashing to the road. He
turned his light in the proper direction, but he was too late to glimpse the car before he
reached the road itself.
There was something else the arrival did not see—a figure that angled toward him with
silent sweep, avoiding the flashlight's beam. That shape dropped low, met the man at the
road edge. The flashlight took a long clatter as its bearer performed a headlong sprawl.
A second man arrived, blinking his flashlight on the fallen fellow. The first man was coming to
his feet; a deputy's badge shone from beneath his outspread coat. The two turned their
flashlights along the road, but the coupe was out of sight.
"SOUNDED like a car, all right," grunted the first arrival. "Guess I imagined it, though. What I
didn't imagine was that bank I tripped over."
"What bank?" The second deputy was studying the road edge. "You must have fallen over
your own feet."
From somewhere among the trees came a vague whisper; almost unreal, it seemed a taunt
from some ghostly listener. The deputies forgot the vanished car. They were concerned with
a different quest. That laugh, despite its whispery creep, was too timely to be mere
coincidence.
The flashlights swept through the trees. One man shouted as he saw a streak of blackness
shift away. Yanking a revolver, he fired two shots as he dashed forward. He stumbled past a
tree, stopped in front of a bush that had received his bullets.
The other man blasted shots in another direction, with no result. Echoes brought a curious
repetition of the whispered mockery, as though the gunfire had produced them. The
deputies stared dumbly, then raised a shout.
More lights flashed, distant among the trees. The woods showed half a dozen men
converging upon this sector. Hearing the news, they halted to aim, but did not fire. Wavery
blotches were deceptive in those woods. It was useless to fire at shadows.
Spreading, the group formed a semicircle, moving inward from the road. They came to a
clearing where a huge house bulked beyond the high picket fence that surrounded its
grounds. A watcher came from the end of the fence, where it stopped at a cliff above the
bay. He had seen no one come in that direction.
Close against the fence itself, The Shadow was working at strands of barbed wire. Oddly,
those wires were fitted to the outside of the pickets, indicating that the deputies had placed
them there. The Shadow tightened the wires as he probed the positions of the barbs. A
flashlight was approaching, but he coolly continued his task.
Just as the ray focused upon him, The Shadow dwindled. There was a surprised shout as an
observer saw solid blackness melt groundward. The man sprang, spied nothing but the turf.
The Shadow was lunging inward, coming up beneath the beam.
There was a jolt as figures met. The deputy's arms went wide. The flashlight scaled like a
flare in the blackness. Somersaulted, the deputy flattened on the ground, too dazed to offer
fight. The Shadow shoved the brief case through the pickets. Using the tightened wires as
ladder rungs, he climbed the fence.
Hands gripping the posts, his shoes alone encountering the wires, The Shadow had no
trouble with the barbs. Dropping beyond the top spikes, he scooped up the brief case. He
was gone, past a series of hedges when an electric lantern glared through the picket posts.
Patrolling deputies were certain that they had encountered an intruder, but they could not
vision his quick, vaulting climb over the barbed-wire pickets. They spread to search their
own terrain; were astonished to find their quarry gone.
Other amazement was due elsewhere.
DEEP within the fenced grounds, the isolated mansion stood dark and formidable, except
for a few dimly lighted windows. The house jutted almost to the cliff edge, but the spot that
The Shadow chose was a massive front door at the center of the building.
There, he pressed a bell button. A clang sounded from deep within the house. Half a minute
passed before bolts grated. The door opened and The Shadow stepped into a huge, dim
hall, to face a stolid servant who stood with unbelieving eyes.
It was not the visitor's appearance that startled the servant, for The Shadow was no longer
clad in black. Instead, he was attired in an ordinary business suit, wearing a dark-gray,
flexible hat. In the light, his face showed as a thin, hawkish profile, bronzed of complexion,
masklike in expression. What bewildered the servant, was the fact that such a stranger
could have passed the surrounding cordon.
Though quiet in gaze, The Shadow's eyes saw much. Beyond the servant's shoulder, he
spied the doorway of a room to the left of the big hall. There, a girl's pale face was visible.
She was attractive, with light hair that showed plainly against the darkness of the doorway.
Despite the strain that deepened her expression, she displayed a curiosity when she saw
the visitor.
Another servant was arriving from the back of the hall. The girl darted from sight. The
Shadow, still holding his brief case, indulged in a quiet smile as the servants ranged beside
him. Coolly, The Shadow announced:
"'My name is Kent Allard. I have come to interview Ferdinand Relf. He will know who I am."
The calm tone was impressive. One servant received the calling card that the visitor drew
from his pocket. The other ushered Allard into a small reception room on the right. The door
closed, leaving the visitor alone.
Placing his brief case on a chair, The Shadow strolled about the room. He paused to note a
framed photograph upon the mantel; it was plain, in the light that came from a nearby floor
lamp. The picture portrayed the girl whom The Shadow had seen across the hallway.
The lips of Kent Allard remained motionless, but through The Shadow's mind flashed the
name of the girl herself: Ruth Bryand. There was reason for a smile, although The Shadow
did not show one. The fact that Ruth Bryand was in this house was something that The
Shadow had suspected. One purpose of this visit had been to convince himself upon that
question.
That marked a good beginning to The Shadow's quest within the walls of this strange Rhode
Island mansion. It was but the first episode, however, of many that were due before The
Shadow left this house.
Other developments would come when Kent Allard met the owner of this house —the man
named Ferdinand Relf.
CHAPTER II. THE WIZARD OF FINANCE
IT was musty, tomblike in that reception room where Kent Allard waited. Thick walls hushed
the place; no sounds of outside activity could penetrate. Seating himself in a huge antique
chair, The Shadow found himself surrounded by massive chunks of furniture that loomed like
monsters in the dimness.
There was some reason for the delay that continued. Alert despite his impassive
expression, The Shadow sensed that he was under observation. His gaze drifted
imperceptibly toward the door. Although the eyes of Allard appeared to be looking
elsewhere, they noted the ancient carving of the portal.
A carved fleur-de-lis showed a glisten. That decoration was a peephole. Someone had slid
it aside and an eye was peering through. For five seconds The Shadow noted that
phenomenon, then it was ended.
The door opened. A smallish, drab-faced man stepped into the reception room. His eyelids
were heavy; lowered, they showed a whiteness like his face and lips. There was a sparkle,
though, from the slits below those lids.
This was the man who had viewed Kent Allard through peephole.
"Good evening. Mr. Allard." The voice from those drab lips was polite, in whiny fashion. "My
name is Shervel. I am Mr. Relf's secretary. He is ready to see you."
Allard followed Shervel out through the large hall. The secretary walked briskly, but in a
stooped fashion, keeping his hands clasped in front of his chest. His back was toward the
visitor, but The Shadow could tell from Shervel's head motions that the fellow was darting
glances in various directions.
Shervel was making sure that Ruth Bryand was out of sight. He was also nodding
instructions to servants that he met along the way. Though Allard seemed interested only in
the brief case that he carried beneath his arm, he was actually noting the number of Relf's
retainers.
They passed half a dozen of those chunky servitors in the time they had ascended the great
staircase in order to reach a remote corner room.
Shervel bowed the visitor through a small anteroom and into a lighted study. There, Kent
Allard came face to face with Ferdinand Relf.
STEADY eyes met. In Allard, Relf saw the man that he had expected, a personage whose
face was stolid as that of a stone Mayan idol. In Relf, Allard observed a man whose features
had the dominating set of a Napoleon. Of the two, Relf looked the sort who would issue
orders, expecting them to be obeyed; but Allard was one person who would not yield to such
stubborn will.
Relf recognized it. His lips set tightly; his black eyes glistened as he stroked his hand slowly
along his glossy, blackish hair. With a gesture, he indicated a chair in a deep alcove at the
back of the room.
"Seat yourself there," spoke Relf in choppy tones. "It is most comfortable. We shall have
cigars"—Relf turned toward a big desk— "while we discuss the purpose of your visit."
Seated, The Shadow saw Shervel still standing at the doorway from the anteroom. The
secretary showed an expectancy that Relf had not displayed. Shervel's eyes had opened
slightly; they gleamed with hope of some insidious command from Relf. The Shadow
foresaw that Shervel was to be disappointed. Opening the cigar box, Relf looked toward the
secretary, to snap the command.
"You may leave, Shervel."
It was plain that Relf had sized Allard as a man who had a message. When they had lighted
their cigars, Relf stood with his hands behind him.
"Your visit pleases me," he stated. Then, without change of tone: "How much do you know
regarding me and my present circumstances?"
"They call you the wizard of finance," spoke Allard steadily, "because of your ability at
raising vast sums through methods that should be outlawed."
Relf smiled. The analysis pleased him.
"Your latest operations were begun in Boston," resumed Allard. "You were prepared to
acquire new millions, when you made the mistake of buying this Rhode Island residence."
Relf shook his head.
"That was no mistake," he snapped. "I could not foresee the motor accident that occurred
near Providence. Bah! It could have happened anywhere."
"But in Rhode Island," reminded Allard, "the laws are such that, once arrested, you would be
sentenced to a year in prison."
Relf grumbled an admission that the statement was correct. Suddenly, he snapped the
impatient query:
"Well, why don't they arrest me?"
"Because they know that you prefer this residence to jail," returned Allard. "The government
wants you out of circulation, Mr. Relf. The local sheriff has obligingly postponed your arrest.
No warrant will be served unless you force it by trying to leave these premises."
"And if I should run the cordon successfully -"
"You would be confronted by the added task of leaving the State of Rhode Island. A real
difficulty, Mr. Relf, as I can testify. I have seen the preparations that await you."
ALLARD'S straight talk brought a response from Relf. Wearing his glower, the dark-haired
man paced the study, muttering his own opinions of the matter.
"I have millions," he declared. "This place is ample. I could make it into a palace, spend the
rest of my life here. The threat of arrest? Bah! It would never worry me. They know what
would come after my year in jail.
"I could have my revenge through new schemes that would sweep this continent. No legal
measures could obstruct me. I could drag the public into a wave of investment that would
burst like the famous Mississippi Bubble.
"But why such measures?" Relf's eyes fixed upon Allard. "It would be simpler to return to
circulation, as you term it. Anywhere except in Rhode Island, the law can not touch me."
Stepping into the alcove, Relf pointed to the brief case that lay beside Allard's chair.
"Come, Mr. Allard!" Relf was impatient. "You have a plan for my escape. Let me see the
details."
He conducted the visitor to the desk; there, Allard opened the brief case. It was divided into
two sections, with a partition between. From one side, Allard produced photographs of
airplanes. Relf shook his head.
"Impossible," he declared. "No plane could land on these premises. Wait, I correct
myself"—he was looking at the photo of all autogiro - "this could land here. But the take-off
would be a giveaway.
"The coast guards are active, Allard. They have planes as well as cutters. On a pretext that
they are after smugglers, they would overtake a slow ship like all autogiro and force it to land
in Rhode Island.
"You are a famous aviator, Allard. I know your reputation. But if I had believed that I could
escape from here by air, I would have arranged it before the telephone service was cut off."
Relf started to turn away, but Allard had not finished with the photographs. He was bringing
others from the second section of the brief case. Relf's eyes showed sudden interest. On the
desk, Allard placed a picture of a baby blimp.
"This craft!" exclaimed Relf. "Do you own it?"
"I can acquire it," returned Allard. "On a cloudy night, with the proper wind, the blimp can
come and leave without the need of its motor. It would be unseen, a ghost of the air."
"But the ground crew?"
"Three men could handle it. You have more than that number here."
Relf's eyes gleamed with eagerness. His head kept nodding as Allard supplied more
details.
"Signals from below the lighthouse, answers from here"—the calm tone continued—"no
need for codes that could be deciphered. Those flashes would simply set the hour, with your
assurance that you would be ready."
"The plan pleases me," accorded Relf. He was standing with eyes set, fists clenched. Then
he grated grimly: "But there are others who will not be pleased— later."
RELF missed the momentary scrutiny that Allard gave him. The visitor's eyes had the gleam
of The Shadow's. Relf had betrayed a point that The Shadow had sought to learn.
Vengeance lay behind the financial wizard's hope for departure.
"How did you come in here?" demanded Relf suddenly. "You say the cordon is a strong one,
yet you ran it, Allard."
"Because its purpose was to prevent your exit," reminded Allard coolly. "I managed to
approach before I was discovered."
"But leaving here will be more difficult."
"I shall leave tomorrow; openly. I can admit that I was the person who entered. Once I identify
myself, I shall be allowed to pass. The warrant applies to you, Relf, but to no one else."
Relf smiled. Allard was right. Though visitors were not allowed to pass the cordon, once
someone had accomplished it, the sheriff and the deputies would rather have him leave than
stay.
Relf reached to press a button on the desk. Allard stopped him with a new remark.
"Regarding this house," said the visitor. "It was formerly owned by a girl named Ruth
Bryand."
"It was," admitted Relf. His eyes showed momentary suspicion. "I knew her father, and often
visited here. That is why I bought the house after it was willed to Ruth."
"And Miss Bryand," added Allard, "is supposed to be in Europe?"
Relf's dominating gaze remained focused upon Allard's immobile countenance. Then:
"Ruth is here," declared Relf. "She stayed to manage the house. That was prior to the
trouble that forced my self-imprisonment. Ruth's friends suppose that she has gone to
Europe. She has found no opportunity to correct that wrong rumor."
Relf pressed the button. Shervel entered from the hall. He saw Allard packing photos in the
brief case, but did not observe what the pictures were. There was a slight raise of the
secretary's heavy eyelids as he glanced toward Relf. The master of the house ignored
Shovel's quizzical expression.
"Mr. Allard is staying over night," informed Relf. "You will see that everything is comfortable
for him, Shervel."
"In the Oak Room?" asked Shervel.
"No." Relf's tone was emphatic; his eyes sidelonged a sharp glance at Allard. "In the Walnut
Room."
Shervel conducted the visitor into the hallway; once there, the secretary closed the door to
the study. They were in the middle of a long corridor that ran like a balcony along the second
floor. To the left was a wing of the house that stretched toward the bay edge. Allard was
turning in that direction, when Shervel beckoned him to the right.
They went to the depths of a wing on the land side of the house, an oddity, in The Shadow's
opinion, since the best guest room would logically be located with an outlook on the bay. It
didn't quite fit with Relf's orders to give Allard every comfort.
Shervel stopped in front of a huge paneled door; unlocking it, he entered a large room with a
huge four-poster bed and other bulky furniture. There was a floor lamp in one corner. Shervel
drew it out toward the center of the room, before he turned on the light. That done, the
secretary bowed himself out, closing the door behind him.
Promptly, Kent Allard strode to the corner where the lamp had been. Shervel had so fixed it
that the beams barely reached the gloom of the dark-stained, paneled wall. A flashlight
glimmered from Allard's hand; its bright circle was concentrated upon the stained
woodwork.
That panel was not walnut. It was oak. Relf's correction of Shervel's suggestion had brought
a directly opposite result. Kent Allard had been shown to the Oak Room.
Firm lips whispered the faint echo of a laugh that was lost in the deep recesses of that
dark-walled room.
The Shadow foresaw immediate peril within this mansion of gloom.
CHAPTER III. BLADE OF DEATH
STEPPING to the big door, The Shadow tried the knob. As he expected, it was tightly
latched. Shervel had attended to that from the outside. As a preliminary to the next events,
Kent Allard had been made a prisoner.
That pleased The Shadow. It offered a chance to make his adversaries show their hand,
with Allard as the focal point. As he moved away from the door, The Shadow removed his
coat and vest. Choosing a writing table at the end wall of the room, he laid the garments
there.
Next, the brief case.
Opening that flat bag, The Shadow revealed a fact that would have amazed Ferdinand Relf,
had he viewed it. The brief case was actually constructed in three sections; but the center
one was secret.
Tapering upward from the bottom of the brief case, it looked like a simple partition of thick
leather, particularly since there was a permanent binding at the top. But when The Shadow
turned the brief case upside down, to loose a strip of leather along the bottom, the secret
cavity was disclosed.
From that space The Shadow removed his black cloak and slouch hat. There was still space
for a brace of automatics, but they were not in the brief case. The guns were already
holstered above The Shadow's waist. They showed there, strapped against his shirt.
Cloaking himself in the black garb, The Shadow began another process. He brought a
pillow from the bed, placed it upon a chair in front of the writing desk. He fitted his coat upon
it, the corners of the pillow poking into the shoulders.
Something was needed to form a head. The Shadow sought a suitable object in the room.
He rejected a vase, also a roundish clock, the latter being too heavy. He finally chose the
parchment shade of a small table lamp.
Propped upon the pillow, the shade did not look like a head until The Shadow added
another decoration. He brought a flat make-up box from the secret section of the brief case.
In that box, wadded into the compass of a few square inches, was a finely made wig.
The smooth hair, fitted to a thin, silk base, was a lighter hue than Allard's, which explained
why The Shadow carried the wig. A valuable item in quick disguise, it was to serve the
opposite purpose for which it was intended. Fitted over the lamp shade, the wig had to pass
as the back of Allard's head.
A slight shift of the floor lamp served in the deception. The Shadow fixed it so that the head
barely showed. The shape was right; the hair was visible, but its color vague.
That was not all. The Shadow had discarded the pillow slip when he propped the coat in
place, he used that slip to stuff the right arm of the coat. He laid the fattened sleeve so that it
rested on the edge of the writing table.
In the light, The Shadow placed photographs and papers from the brief case. He had
formed the excellent illusion of a man seated at the table, studying the photographs; the one
fault was the empty cuff of the sleeve. A stuffed glove would not do for a hand, but it was
possible to create a substitute effect.
Finding a large ash tray, The Shadow placed it just to the right of the sleeve cuff. The ash
tray was not quite high enough, so he set it upon a hook. The combination hid the spot
where the imaginary hand was supposed to be. All that was needed was a reason for the
ash tray.
The Shadow supplied that by lighting a cigarette. After a few puffs, he put the cigarette on
the edge of the tray, right where the supposed hand could logically reach it.
The Shadow surveyed his work from two angles. First, from beside the floor; next, from the
opposite side of the room. He made a few adjustments, edged the floor lamp a few inches
in another direction.
THE final illusion was a good one.
In that light, any one would be apt to mistake the figure for Allard. If a shrewd observer
suspected it to be a dummy, the only way he could assure himself would be by close
approach. Such a step would doubtless be preceded by a scrutiny of the room to learn if the
real Allard lay hidden there.
Curiously, despite its gloom, the room lacked hiding places. The four-poster bed was built
almost from the floor, with a scant four inches beneath it. The room had no closets; its big
chairs were planked close against the walls, with little space behind them.
One portion of the wall was gloomy enough to offer a concealing background. That space
was near a rear corner of the room, where another floor light stood. The Shadow pulled the
cord of that large lamp, thus providing a glow that ended all doubt.
The status of the dummy figure was established through the fact that Kent Allard could not
be hidden in the room. But the limitations that restricted Allard did not apply to The Shadow.
He picked a hiding place of the most unexpected sort—an octagonal table that stood near
the rear wall.
That table had eight thin legs, set in pairs. It looked flimsy, almost spidery. Its top cut off the
lamp glow, blurred the space beneath the table. That was sufficient for The Shadow. He
crouched beneath the table, his legs on each side of a cross-brace near the floor.
A glance at the octagonal table would be sufficient for any suspicious eye. After that,
摘要：

CRIMEOVERBOSTONMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.SHADOWSOFNIGHT?CHAPTERII.THEWIZARDOFFINANCE?CHAPTERIII.BLADEOFDEATH?CHAPTERIV.FLIGHTPREARRANGED?CHAPTERV.DEPTHSOFDEATH?CHAPTERVI.THELOSTCHASE?CHAPTERVII.INSOUTHSTATION?CHAPTERVIII.THREEMENGATHER?CHAPTE...

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