Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 151 - Voodoo Trail

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VOODOO TRAIL
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," June 1, 1938.
Twice has the evil Doctor Mocquino, the Voodoo Master, matched his vile
wits against The Shadow; now he comes back again, to risk all in one bold
stroke!
CHAPTER I
THE MASTER SPEAKS
THE two men by the fireplace were speaking in low tones, the subdued roll
of their voices tuned to the crackle of the flames. They were alone in the
living room of a sumptuous apartment, where heavy draperies muffled the night
roar of Manhattan's streets.
They had the look of conspirators, this pair; a fact that would not have
surprised certain police officials, for both men were notorious in criminal
affairs.
One man, with high, bald forehead and shrewd, pointed nose, was James
Quinrick, an attorney who specialized in defending crooks. He was a
"mouthpiece"
well liked in the underworld, and his courtroom activities had proven
lucrative,
as this apartment testified.
The place was Quinrick's home. The furnishings of the living room, alone,
had cost fifty thousand dollars.
Quinrick was clever, when it came to muddling the law. His visitor,
"Beak"
Hyler, was equally cute at evading it. Beak's nickname came from the hooked
nose
that poked from the middle of his face; but the moniker was hardly sufficient.
It didn't include other features that were equally prominent: those
gimlet
eyes, the blunt chin that looked rugged enough to take a heavyweight's punch
without damage.
Meeting here was a safe bet, presumably, for both Quinrick and Hyler.
This
apartment was as immune from intrusion as the lawyer's office. Quinrick was
Hyler's lawyer.
The fact that Beak was the big-shot who controlled a ring of racketeers,
was another matter. It was something that the law had not yet proven. It
chanced, though, that Beak was not here seeking legal advice.
Quinrick spoke, in response to a question.
"Yes, I read the letter," he asserted, "and I destroyed it, as you
requested. I wouldn't have wanted other persons to see it. They would have
doubted your sanity."
"It sounded screwy, huh?" quizzed Beak. "All right, counselor. If you
don't
want to go through with the deal I suggested -"
"On the contrary, I do," interposed Quinrick, "provided that you can
prove
the statements that you made."
Quinrick's smooth tone brought a flash to Beak's gimlet eyes.
Triumphantly,
Beak brought a thin sheaf of folded papers from his pocket. He drew one loose
and handed it to Quinrick. The lawyer's face became avid, when he read a list
of
names.
"These people!" he exclaimed. "You mean that they have actually
disappeared? That the heirs who received their wealth are nonexistent, like
the
supposed institutions to which some of them donated huge sums?"
Beak nodded. Quinrick had another query.
"You are sure," he asked, sharply, "that one man - one alone - has
profited
from all this -"
"That's right," growled Beak. " Alongside of him, all the big-shots you
ever heard of look like a troupe of midgets! I ought to know. I've met the
guy."
QUINRICK'S lips pursed, as if he intended to whistle. He paused, when
Beak
handed him another sheet of paper.
"I supplied the guy with some mobbies," Beak told Quinrick. "They don't
know much, but it's enough to count. So I typed out what they learned, and
made
each gorilla stick his John Hancock at the bottom. There they are, counselor."
The proof impressed Quinrick. He eyed the other papers that Beak held;
but
the racketeer retained them.
"This guy's a brain," declared Beak. "He's snapped up millions, in real
dough, from the boobs that fell for his racket! Some of them are supposed to
be
dead; others have just gone away. But he's got them stowed away, helpless.
"And he isn't through with the racket. He's still gathering the coin.
D'you
know why? Because he thinks he's going to be an emperor of crime, with every
crook in New York working for him. He's got plenty on his pay roll already;
and
when he wants the rest, they'll join up - or else!"
Quinrick sat with folded hands, weighing all that he had heard. Then:
"What do you propose?"
"To put the skids under him," confided Beak. "So's we can stage a
clean-up
of our own. You're the mouthpiece, see? You go to friends of these people; to
their own counselors, if they've got them. Offer them the whole dope, but ask
for plenty. They'll fork it over."
"What about witnesses?" inquired Quinrick. He crinkled the paper that
bore
the signatures of mobsmen. "These won't do."
"What about these, then?"
Beak passed over the final paper. On it, Quinrick read the names of more
persons who were both socially prominent and wealthy. He caught the gist of
it.
"More dupes?" he asked. "The ones that the 'brain' hasn't brought
completely under his control?"
"That's it," replied Beak. "But we've got to get busy before he puts the
clamps on tight."
"Suppose these people are already under his influence, to such degree
that
they will not testify against him?"
"That won't matter. You can drag them into court. If they won't talk, it
will show that something's phony. If the 'brain' tries to crack down, he'll
give
himself away."
Beak's logic brought a shrewd smile to Quinrick's lips. The lawyer saw
double profit from this deal. Not only did it promise huge sums from grateful
relatives of the dupes; it also would mark Quinrick as a public benefactor.
Lately, Quinrick had been on the ragged edge. His use of perjured
witnesses
had placed him under threat of disbarment. More than any other man in New
York,
he was willing to participate in Beak's double-crossing scheme.
QUINRICK thrust his hand toward Beak, to signify that the deal was made.
At
that instant, a crackling sound occurred. It wasn't from the fireplace; it was
more sustained than the snap of the burning wood.
Beak sprang about in alarm. He saw the source of the noise. It came from
a
radio cabinet against the opposite wall.
"Turn that thing off," gulped Beak. "It gives me the jitters!"
Quinrick stepped across the room; he snapped a switch one direction, then
the other. He looked puzzled; gave a shrug.
"Something's wrong with the switch," he remarked. " The radio must have
started accidentally, and it won't turn off. Forget it, Beak" - Quinrick drew
close - "and tell me the name of this 'brain' you speak about."
Beak licked his thick lips. His stabbing eyes still gazing suspiciously
at
the radio. At last, gruffly:
"Maybe it isn't his right moniker," said Beak, "but he calls himself -"
Beak's whole face went rigid. From the mysterious crackle of the radio,
emerged a voice - musical, yet with the metallic twang of a stringed
instrument.
Its words came as a bitter melody.
"Hear me, Beak Hyler!" spoke that voice. "You have meddled with my plans.
You know the reward for traitors!"
"It's him!" panted Beak. "He's listened in - the 'brain' - he's wise -"
Quinrick was at the radio again, snarling something about the phony
hook-up. He yanked a cord from the wall; the action didn't stop the voice. But
its tone was a discordant jangle, more insidious than before.
"And you, James Quinrick" - the accusation riveted the lawyer - "have
willingly agreed to conspire against me. You will share the fate of Beak
Hyler!"
THE voice chopped off. A few seconds later, the crackle faded. Quinrick
had
recoiled to the fireplace, his face as blanched as Beak's. Only the ruddy glow
from the flames gave semblance of color to those frozen countenances.
Beak tried to rally. He was on his feet, looking from one curtained
doorway
to another, unable to decide which way to go. He felt the trembling grip of
Quinrick's hand upon his arm. Papers crinkled, as the lawyer said hoarsely :
"Chuck them! We can't get caught with those!"
Beak snatched the documents in terror, flung them into the fireplace.
Flames consumed the papers. The flare brought temporary courage to Beak.
He
had gotten rid of evidence, at least. Quinrick, too, was looking toward the
fireplace, hoping that something had been gained.
The dying flame wavered, then writhed, as though puffed by an intruding
breeze. The conspirators stared frantically about the room. They were too late
to see the stir of heavy draperies that hid the window.
There, in a cramped space, a black-cloaked figure had blocked the draft
that came with his silent opening of the window. From behind those curtains,
he
watched through a narrow slit, with eyes that peered intently from beneath the
brim of a slouch hat.
Neither Beak Hyler nor James Quinrick suspected that they were under the
observation of a being called The Shadow.
Though The Shadow opposed all ways of crime, those two conspirators
should
have welcomed his arrival, for he alone, could oppose, with any possibility of
success, the evil master who threatened them.
At this moment, The Shadow could not analyze the terror that the
firelight
showed on the faces of Beak and Quinrick. He had expected to find them as they
were a short while before, when they hatched their crafty scheme.
That was why The Shadow had scaled the outside wall: to look in upon the
conference, for he had learned of Beak's visit to Quinrick.
Too late to hear either the conversation or the voice that had spoken
from
the tricked radio, The Shadow had uncovered a scene that promised strange
unheralded developments. From the fears of the two men who stood before him,
he
divined that a climax would soon be due.
The Shadow's surmise was correct. He was to witness the incredible before
he left this place. Like threatened men, who trembled as they waited, The
Shadow
was to meet with opposition that carried inhuman power.
From that ordeal would come a trail of madness and destruction. If The
Shadow lived to follow it!
CHAPTER II
THE DEAD WHO LIVED
WITH ears strained, the hunted men caught a sound that was inaudible to
The
Shadow, behind the muffling curtains. Whatever that sound, the terror that it
brought was transferred to their faces. Beak Hyler pointed toward a curtained
doorway across the room.
"It's from there!" he panted. "They're coming!"
"From the kitchen entrance," voiced Quinrick, his tone hollow. "We can't
go
out through there. This way, Beak!"
Quinrick pointed to a corner doorway in the same wall as the fireplace.
He
started in that direction, only to halt, with a staggery about-face.
"The same sound," he croaked. "Coming from the front. Like the tramp of
feet - slow-marching feet -"
The Shadow could now hear it. Dull, clumpy, monotonous, those beats were
coming from both directions. They carried the thought of impending doom,
arriving in slow-motion fashion. The effect resembled a nightmare; and its
very
slowness betokened power.
"What is it -"
Quinrick gasped the question frantically; but Beak couldn't reply.
Mechanically, the racketeer was fumbling for a gun in his hip pocket. That
clumsy move roused Quinrick to action.
With a bound, the lawyer crossed the room; he yanked open the drawer of a
sideboard. From it, he produced a revolver and flourished it wildly. Beak's
glimmering gun came into sight at the same moment; but his hand was shaky.
"There's no use!" Beak couldn't stand the terror of those slow-marching
footsteps, louder than before. "We've got to get out of here, Quinrick! That
door" - Beak pointed to the end wall - "where does it take us?"
"It's a closet," returned Quinrick. Then, nudging suddenly toward a deep
alcove: "There's a way out! An emergency exit to the fire tower! Once we're
through it, we're safe!"
Both men stirred their fear-frozen legs. The Shadow saw them dash into
the
alcove. He could hear the slide of a bolt, as Quinrick drew it.
All the while, from those other passages came the dull tramp-tramp -
louder, closer!
The Shadow's gloved hands moved behind the curtain. His fists produced a
brace of automatics. Alone, he intended to await the terror that had driven
the
conspirators berserk. They could make their exit. It would give The Shadow
opportunity to be sole witness to this strange invasion of an uncanny horde.
Then, from elsewhere, The Shadow heard added foot-beats, that clumped
upward. There were gasping shouts from the alcove. Quinrick came staggering
back
into the living room, Beak close after him.
The new sound was from beyond the emergency door that Quinrick had
opened.
Added invaders were entering by the fire tower!
SIDE by side, the conspirators waited in the center of the living room.
Slow marchers were so close that their thumping approach drowned the crackle
of
the fire.
That thumping sound must have had a controlling effect upon the men who
made it; for it took on a constant rhythm from all directions. Then, as if by
signal, the closet door flung open.
There, stowed away, awaiting the sound that awakened them, were two
members
of the invading band. They emerged like mechanical figures loosed from a box.
They were haggard-faced; their clothes were scarcely more than rags. One
had a long, aristocratic face above the remnants of a tuxedo tie and collar.
The
other was square-jawed, unshaven, with ill-kempt hair. He wore a hunting
jacket
that hung in shreds.
Both were alike in expression, chiefly because of their bulging eyes.
Those
optics, whitened like the eyes of opium addicts, stared with forceful
penetration.
Seemingly, they looked right through the shivering forms of James
Quinrick
and Beak Hyler. That X-ray vision even gave The Shadow the impression that the
curtain had melted in front of him, until he realized that the bulgy eyes were
almost sightless.
Beak backed toward The Shadow's curtain. Quinrick, left alone, made a
sudden scramble to join the racketeer. They didn't want to be too close,
though,
for in the hands of the ragged invaders were pointing guns, that had come up
with precise mechanical aim. Beak and Quinrick elbowed way from each other.
A shudder seemed to grip the room. The effect was created by the stir of
doorway curtains, moving simultaneously. In from three directions tramped more
of the unearthly invaders, coming in single file. Three from the front of the
apartment; three from the kitchen route; four from the fire tower!
All had guns, pointed. Against that opposition, the terrified men were
helpless. The Shadow could see sagging shoulders in front of him. Beak and
Quinrick were groveling toward the floor, gulping pleas to the unhearing crew
that dominated them.
Whether that band of corpse-faced humans saw the pleading men or not,
they
were certainly aware of their presence; for the aiming guns formed a ring of
metal, every muzzle trained in the right direction. The group had spread to
form
a semicircle, that was flanking inward.
Noting that, Quinrick motioned Beak forward. They crawled toward the
center
of the room, dragging their guns along the carpet. It was Quinrick who gasped:
"You've got to talk to them, Beak! Reason with them - tell them we're all
right!"
"I can't!" Beak's whine was hopeless. "They aren't human. They're dead
men
- living dead men - sent here" - Beak's concluding words came with effort -
"sent here by - by him!"
INVADERS were motionless. They were standing in a human circle nearly
three
quarters completed. They were like clockwork figures, their mechanism stopped.
That made it all the more fearful for the two men who stared at the bulge-eyed
faces.
Something had put those dooming creatures into motion. At any moment a
new
command might come, to make them resume concerted action. Beak's frantic eyes
went toward the radio, as if he feared the signal from there. Quinrick saw the
direction of Beak's gaze.
"We must do something!" he whispered. "We have guns. We can shoot our way
through. Which way will we take?"
"It won't do no good," returned Beak. "You can't croak dead men. That's
what these guys are - dead! I didn't believe it when he - when he told me; but
that was before they came here!"
Quinrick raised his revolver. There wasn't a move from the entire circle.
But Quinrick's hand was too shaky for his finger to pull the trigger. His gun
wabbled so badly that it went from one fish-eyed sentinel to another.
But he had shown some sign of nerve. It brought a gritted snarl from
Beak.
If Quinrick was going to make a break, Beak would do the same. He could tell
from the general direction of the lawyer's wabbly aim that Quinrick had picked
the fire tower as the route for escape.
Slowly, Beak began to raise his gun hand from the floor. His fingers were
tight; they meant business.
That action gave The Shadow sudden understanding. He knew the signal that
the circle of corpse-like men awaited. It wouldn't be a voice from the radio.
It
was something else; so subtle, that it showed the keenness of the brain that
controlled these gruesome invaders.
The brain had calculated that Quinrick and Beak would try to crash the
circle; that in such an effort, their first move would be to open fire. A
gunshot, therefore, would be the signal for the encircling horde. It didn't
matter which doomed man fired first. Once a shot was given, both would become
instant victims!
No pity did The Shadow hold for either of the cringing crooks. Beak Hyler
was a man who had often indulged in secret murder; James Quinrick knew that
fact
and defended it. Their deaths would benefit the public; but they would be more
useful if they remained alive.
Uncovered by The Shadow, those two could supply important facts if they
were rescued. They would talk, too, it they learned that The Shadow was
powerful
enough to snatch them from their present dilemma. That was why The Shadow
moved
to instant action.
His arms spread the window curtains. With long, sweeping stride. He
launched across the room, passing between Beak and Quinrick. He was driving
toward the alcove, to open the path that the doomed men wanted
NOT a surrounding figure stirred at sight of that avalanche in black; but
The Shadow's path was blocked when he came upon the sentinel nearest the
alcove.
At that close range, something must have told the mechanized man that an
attacker was upon him. As if reflecting The Shadow's own action, the living
dead
man raised his gun arm for a swing.
The Shadow's stroke came first. The bulge-eyed man collapsed when a heavy
automatic glanced his skull, thereby belying Beaks claim that the ragged
invaders could not be harmed.
With the swing, The Shadow elbowed the next man in the circle. That
sentinel turned, drove his gun for The Shadow's head.
Warding off the blow, The Shadow wheeled. The clash of steel was stirring
the entire circle. The Shadow had swung toward the amazed men in the center of
the room. With fierce commanding tone, he ordered them to flight.
"This way!" voiced The Shadow. "Through to the fire tower, before they
close in!"
Quinrick was coming to his feet, anxious to obey. It was Beak who made
the
error. To the racketeer, signs of The Shadow made him forget everything except
the grudge that the underworld bore that black-cloaked battler. Beak's lips
snarled his recognition:
"The Shadow!"
With the cry, Beak aimed. The Shadow faded as the racketeer tugged the
trigger. The bullet whined wide; it pinged the alcove wall. It was the last
shot
that Beak ever fired.
At his shot, action stirred the clock-like brains of the men who formed
the
closing circle. Leveled guns swung as if magnetized to their human targets.
Muzzles spouted a terrific volley toward the center of the floor.
Two figures jolted; wallowing under that merciless hail, they flattened.
Instant death had found the intended victims: Beak Hyler and James Quinrick.
The Shadow, witness to that double murder, was alone with the roused
horde
that had committed it!
CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW'S CAPTIVE
BEAK HYLER hadn't been far wrong when he termed these invaders "living
dead
men." In action, in appearance, they were reanimated corpses. The Shadow had
met
such foemen before; he knew of one master who had controlled them, and had
termed them "zombi."
The Shadow had seen that evil master go to a fiery death. Perhaps he had
risen from his ashes. Possibly these zombie were left-overs from his rule.
Those
possibilities, however, were of little moment, for the present.
Zombis had turned toward The Shadow. Forced to the alcove by Quinrick's
choice of exit, The Shadow was in the very path that the ill-assorted squad
intended to follow. Bulging eyes seemed sightless no longer. They carried the
glint of blood-lust.
Guns swung toward The Shadow. Fortunately, they came with that mechanized
motion that was slow, despite its merciless precision. As flanking zombis
aimed,
The Shadow drove for the center of the room, straight into a massed group.
Fingers tugged, as mechanical as the triggers that they pulled. Those
shots
whined through the vacancy that The Shadow had left. He was milling with
others
who tried to aim. He saw faces all about him - sensitive, likable faces,
despite
their ugly staring eyes.
These men weren't killers by nature; but necessity forced The Shadow to
battle them. Gripped by an evil control, they were murder-mad.
Under certain circumstances, The Shadow would have been compelled to
deliver bullets. Recent experience kept him from that course. He didn't intend
to repeat the unwise signal that Beak had given, to produce his own
destruction.
Grimly, The Shadow kept to the midst of his opponents, hoping, by his own
example, to bring them into grappling tactics. It worked - partly through The
Shadow's policy, partly because the zombis - stirred by recollection of their
master's order - were constrained from firing upon their own kind.
Slugging as he grappled, The Shadow kept ragged-clad bodies between
himself
and those zombi who were aiming guns. Guttural voices croaked, wordlessly.
Shooting ended as the whole tribe gathered, pressing The Shadow back with
their
movement.
Downing these fighters wasn't easy. The Shadow must have picked a soft
one
in his first encounter; for there were hard heads in this crowd, that took the
gun strokes with impunity. Both arms flaying, The Shadow spent half his effort
beating off the blows that came in his direction.
He was back against the window, pressing the curtains with him, when he
finally saw success ahead. He had whittled his antagonists down to three. The
rest were either slumped to, or slowly rising from, the floor where he had
pitched them.
The zombie didn't reel when jolted. They either paid no heed or simply
folded; but those who collapsed had a faculty of rising, to come back for
more.
The Shadow was ready to whip away from the three who struggled with him.
He
saw a clear route across the room, and was prepared to take it.
Just then, from the alcove, The Shadow heard a curious, high-pitched
call.
ZOMBIS stiffened in The Shadow's grasp. In turn, he became rigid. He saw
the rising fighters halt mechanically, to stare in the direction of the cry.
A squatly dark-faced man stepped from the alcove, a greasy leer upon his
lips. The Shadow had never seen that face before, but it was one that he could
remember. From the left end of the fellow's mouth was a jagged scar that ran
toward his ear.
The newcomer saw the bodies of James Quinrick and Beak Hyler. The sight
pleased him; but he was puzzled when he observed the sagged zombie. He
couldn't
figure how the victims had managed to down so many of the mechanized fighters.
As chance had it, The Shadow was almost obscured against the curtains,
behind the figures of the three zombie who clustered with him.
The dark-faced man drew a gun. Other faces thrust into sight behind him.
The Shadow recognized them as ordinary thugs, who looked awed by what they
saw.
"I'll march them out!" spat the dark-faced man, in a thick accent. "You
carry the ones that can't move alone. Bring all of them" - as he spoke, he
circled the gun about the room - "except this one!"
His gun stopped with a quick jerk, centered upon a stoop-shouldered zombi
whose hollow cheeks contrasted with the wide bulge of his forehead. That one
invader was better attired than the others. His clothes, though plain and
shabby, were by no means ragged.
Before The Shadow could make an effort to prevent it, the swarthy-faced
man
did the unexpected. He snapped his gun trigger; a burst of flame scorched
straight for the zombi's heart. The stooped man stiffened; came straight
upright. He held that position, staring straight ahead.
Gradually, the marked zombi swayed; losing balance, he crashed face
forward
to the floor.
Amid that occurrence, guttural tones came from the other zombie. They
started for the dark-faced man, raising their revolvers. They weren't inspired
by desire to avenge their fallen comrade. They were simply responding to the
old
urge: to use their guns when they heard the signal.
The swarthy-faced man didn't budge. He simply repeated the high-pitched
cry
that the zombis knew. They halted all about him. Slowly, their half-raised
hands
came downward.
It was then that the man with the dark face saw The Shadow. The cluster
of
zombis had turned away from him. Before the dark leader could issue an order,
thugs shouted their recognition:
"The Shadow!"
THIS was the time for gunfire. The Shadow gave it, as the mobbies dived
back into the alcove. The darkish man sprang in the opposite direction,
rolling
behind a chair. The Shadow would have clipped him; but the blocking figure of
a
zombi ruined his aim.
Those quick shots were not only wasted; they brought chaos that
threatened
disaster for The Shadow.
Again, the zombis answered the gunshot signal, taking its source as their
focal point. They aimed for The Shadow; and their dark-faced overseer didn't
stop them. Instead, he snarled encouragement; useless to the zombis, but
inspiring to the thugs.
For once, crooks were willing to battle The Shadow in the open. With
living
dead men as shock troops, the thugs had no fear.
The Shadow had grabbed the nearest zombi as a shield. He realized
instantly
that the move couldn't help. The mobbies had seen the overseer shoot down one
zombi. They would fire at The Shadow, even if the zombis didn't.
In this dilemma, there was only one route. It was the window, with a
straight drop to a projecting roof, two floors below. Even in desperation,
Quinrick hadn't thought of pointing out that route to Beak. But The Shadow
took
the exit that the dead men had neglected.
There wasn't time to shake off the lone zombi, who had made a mechanical
clutch for The Shadow's throat. Wheeling, carrying the zombi with him, The
Shadow launched straight for the window, hooking the curtains as he went.
The thick drapes ripped from the double weight. Wrapped in them, The
Shadow
and his struggling adversary pitched headlong into space, leaving a gaping
void
where the open window showed the twinkle of city lights.
Guns roared again. Thugs and zombis were shooting for the place where no
one was. The high cry of the overseer stopped that useless fire. Zombis fell
into file; began their tramp out through the fire tower.
This time, their march was steadier; almost rapid. Behind them came the
thugs, shoving along a few zombis who hadn't regained full ability of
locomotion.
The scarred overseer remained long enough to poke his dark face from the
window and stare into blackness below. His eyes were sharp; but they could not
discern shape or motion on the lower roof. He was satisfied that The Shadow
and
one zombi had gone to death; for the darkness made the space seem deeper than
it
was.
Little time remained to the ugly leader. He could hear the whine of
police
sirens: proof that the roar of guns had been reported. Turning, he studied the
three figures on the floor.
He spat contemptuous words in a foreign tongue at the bodies of Quinrick,
Beak Hyler and the hollow-cheeked zombi. With that, the dark-faced man made
his
own exit.
ON the roof below, The Shadow rose slowly, dizzily. The two-story fall
had
jarred him; but he had shoved the zombi ahead of him, to take the brunt of it.
A
tiny flashlight glimmered on the zombi's face from The Shadow's hand.
Bereft of murderous madness, the zombi's countenance seemed changed. The
man was young; discounting the matty beard that streaked his cheeks and chin,
his face was well-formed. The Shadow pulled away a clump of drapery, to reveal
the fellow's crop of shaggy hair.
The zombi stirred; his lips gave a vague mutter. He was alive, thanks to
the wadded mass of curtain that had made a cushion for his skull. Those
drapes,
too, had slowed the drop, like an improvised parachute. The Shadow remembered
that, from the fall.
There was a rumble from an alleyway below. The Shadow felt about for a
gun.
By the time he found one, to grip it with numbed fingers, it was too late to
use
it.
A big van had swung the corner, carrying away its load of zombis, back to
their master's unknown headquarters.
Rising, The Shadow hauled his captive with him. He reached a ladder at
the
roof edge, descended it with his human burden. As he drew the zombi through a
摘要：

VOODOOTRAILbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"June1,1938.TwicehastheevilDoctorMocquino,theVoodooMaster,matchedhisvilewitsagainstTheShadow;nowhecomesbackagain,toriskallinoneboldstroke!CHAPTERITHEMASTERSPEAKSTHEtwomenbythefireplacewerespeakinginlowtones,thesubduedrolloftheirvoice...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 151 - Voodoo Trail.pdf

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：73 页 大小：177.61KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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