Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 150 - The Hand

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THE HAND
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 15, 1938.
From out of darkness comes The Hand to confront The Shadow - and only he
could read completely the terrible message it held!
CHAPTER I
CRIME FORETOLD
THE man on the corner looked like a Bowery bum. He was bent-shouldered,
droopy-faced, with a bleary gaze that seemed to have two purposes. The first
was to find prosperous-looking passersby who could be touched for a drink; the
other, to avoid any patrolman who might come along.
The panhandler had chosen a place frequented by those of his ilk. He was
beneath the high-built elevated structure at Chatham Square, near the
outskirts
of New York's Chinatown. Many visitors who scorned the Chinatown busses came
to
the Oriental quarter by the elevated. It was easy to halt them and make the
old
plea for a cup of coffee.
The one trouble was that too many other bums had the same idea. There was
a horde of them about - furtive, vulture-eyed, all hoping to gain their quota
of small change.
A squatty hard-faced man came down the steps from the elevated. He gave a
contemptuous glance that took in the array of panhandlers. Most of them
shifted
away. This guy wasn't the sort who would fall for the old flimflam. But the
bent-shouldered man thought differently.
He shambled toward the squatty arrival. Plucking a cigarette stump from
the pocket of his ragged coat, he raised it toward his pasty lips, while he
whined the query:
"Got a match, bud?"
"On your way, bum," growled the squatty man. "Here comes a harness bull.
Want me to turn you over?"
"All I asked for was a match!"
"Yeah! The old build-up! That stall don't work around here. I got you
labeled; you're one of them mission stiffs that tries to find a few dimes
before crawling in to beg for an overnight bunk!"
The squatty man turned away, only to twist angrily when he felt the
panhandler's fingers pluck his sleeve. Again, the whine: "Honest, bud - all
I'm
lookin' for is some guy to give me a hand."
There was a hard look in the squatty man's eyes. He saw a slow grin on
the
pasty lips of that face above bent shoulders. In a lower tone, the panhandler
reminded:
"And all I asked for was a match."
From his vest pocket, the squatty man drew a pack of paper matches,
thrust
them into the bum's fist.
"There's some matches," he guffawed, "You wanted 'em, so keep 'em!"
He strode away, while watching bums grinned at the sour look displayed by
the stoopy panhandler. Evidently, that episode was enough to settle the
unsuccessful fellow.
HUNCHING his bent shoulders, the droopy-faced man shambled toward Doyers
Street, taking the route to the old Bowery Mission, where bunks awaited those
of his breed.
Out of sight along the curving street, the shambling bum didn't stop at
that logical destination. Instead, he shuffled onward, through Chinatown and
out again, to the gloom of a street where many cars were parked. Some of those
automobiles were pretentious, for they were owned by persons visiting
Chinatown.
The bum picked the best car in the line - a huge, imported limousine, in
which a uniformed chauffeur sat drowsing at the wheel. Opening the rear door
softly, the stogy bum shifted inside. As soon as he had closed the door, he
lifted a speaking tube. His voice awoke the chauffeur.
"Very well, Stanley." An even tone had replaced the whine. "Drive
up-town."
The big car started. Crouched in the rear seat, the ex-bum flicked a tiny
flashlight. Its gleam showed the match pack that the squatty man had given
him.
That pack was open; on the inside flap, keen eyes saw markings made with a
rubber stamp.
One token was a clock dial, with an indicator pointing to the hour of
nine. Beneath it was another stamped design that served as signature. It was
crudely shaped, badly stamped, but easily recognized.
That emblem represented a human hand; fingers and thumb were close
together, but extended.
A whispered laugh filled the confines of the soundproof limousine. That
mirth, too, was a token.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
MASTER investigator who battled men of crime, The Shadow had gotten
information that he wanted. One hour's pose as a Bowery bum had proven highly
profitable. His next step was to link his findings with those of workers who
served The Shadow and his agents. Earphones came from a hidden space in front
of the limousine's folding seats. A buzzing announced short-wave contact. The
Shadow heard a voice from the ether:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report!"
The Shadow's whisper was all that Burbank needed. The contact man gave
news from The Shadow's agents. When the reports were finished, The Shadow
spoke
instructions.
Replacing the earphones, The Shadow gave Stanley a new destination, using
the quiet, even tone that suited Lamont Cranston, the wealthy owner of this
limousine and the man whose identity, at times, The Shadow adopted. As the big
car wheeled into a side street, The Shadow drew a hidden drawer from beneath
the rear seat.
In the next few minutes, the guise of the bum was obliterated. The Shadow
didn't bother to alter his facial make-up; he merely smothered it. A black
cloak slid over his shoulders, its upturned collar hiding The Shadow's
disguised lips. Long hands clamped a slouch hat on the head above; the hat
brim
obscured The Shadow's upper features.
When the limousine halted beside a darkened curb, a shrouded figure
glided
from the door. Patiently, Stanley sat at the wheel, supposing that his master
was still within the car.
The Shadow had chosen a hidden pathway through the night.
SOON, a bluish light flooded the corner of a black-walled room. The
Shadow
was in his sanctum - secret abode in the heart of New York City. Long-fingered
hands moved above the surface of a polished table. Into view came newspaper
clippings, mostly from tabloid journals. All told the same story.
After months of comparative quiet, following the smashing of Manhattan's
racket rings, crime had again reared itself. It was crime with a sensational
touch, although it hadn't brought big monetary results. The main feature was
the chief criminal involved. He, at least, was picturesque; although his ways
were foolhardy.
The newspapers called him the "Masked Playboy."
Heading a small band of marauders, their faces covered like his own, the
Masked Playboy entered night clubs and small hotels. In every case, he had
forced someone to open the safe and hand over its contents.
Staring through a slitted bandanna handkerchief, holding a .38 revolver
in
his fist, the Masked Playboy had meant business. When he dropped his Harvard
accent to suggest that victims "fork over," they invariably forked.
The Playboy's constant mistake had been his picking of the wrong places.
True, he had chosen spots where the police were not around; but real money had
been as absent as the law. In four of these surprise raids, the Masked Playboy
had netted a total that scarcely exceeded a thousand dollars.
That made it seem a sure conclusion that he and his crew would soon be on
the move again. The law wanted to know when and where. So did The Shadow. He,
himself, had found out "when" - from the message that he had picked up in
Chatham Square.
Through reports from agents, The Shadow hoped to find out where the
Masked
Playboy intended to appear.
WEEDING through the typewritten information, The Shadow added further
data, obtained verbally from Burbank. His whispered laugh toned the darkness
beyond the sphere of the shaded lamp. This present run of crime had become the
talk of the underworld. As a result, many tips had leaked out.
By the weeding process, The Shadow found the tip that looked best. The
clock on his table showed twenty-two minutes past eight. There was time,
plenty
of it, for The Shadow to be on hand at the place where he expected the Masked
Playboy to arrive at nine o'clock.
The bluish light went out. From then, The Shadow's paths were covered
until eighteen minutes before nine o'clock, when a tiny flashlight flickered
along a low roof that wedged between two squatty, old-fashioned office
buildings near Twenty-third Street.
The Shadow reached the window of a darkened office. He forced it,
silently; crept through the office to a corner door. Opening that barrier, he
stepped into another office, where he gleamed the flashlight on the front of
an
old safe.
The strong-box bore the, lettering, in faded gilt: "NU-WAY LOAN COMPANY."
The safe was as antiquated as the office. Five minutes was all that The
Shadow required to handle the tumblers, taking his time in the process. When
he
opened the safe door, The Shadow whispered another laugh.
There was nothing of value in the safe. All that it contained were stacks
of old papers: bundles of closed accounts that had been stowed here in case of
fire. That explained why the offices of the Nu-Way Loan Company lacked
protection in the way of burglar alarms.
The Shadow closed the safe door, gave the dial a twist. He retired to the
adjoining office, but went no farther. He was waiting on the hunch that he had
found the right place: that the Masked Playboy, always a poor picker, would be
running true to form.
There was another reason why The Shadow lingered. Behind this chain of
profitless crime, he could discern a hidden purpose. So far, The Shadow had no
clue to the underlying reason, but in assuming that one existed, he was far
ahead of the law.
Tonight, The Shadow intended to learn the real motive that concerned the
Masked Playboy. This would be the ideal spot to gain the required facts. The
Shadow would be looking over crime from the inside.
Such measures, with The Shadow, usually brought complete success, unless
an unexpected element entered.
This night was to provide the unexpected.
CHAPTER II
TOOL OF CRIME
NINE o'clock proved that The Shadow's surmise was correct. Promptly with
that hour came sounds from the outer corridor that fronted the office of the
Nu-Way Loan Company.
Crooks were arriving by the route that The Shadow expected them to use,
the straight road to their goal. Since they were coming in through the front
door, The Shadow's post in the adjoining office seemed well-chosen.
There was no reason for criminals to suspect trouble on these premises.
Once they cracked the ancient safe, they would logically depart by the route
which they had used to enter.
Logic, however, was due for a severe blow.
Scraping sounds ended at the front door. Flashlights gleamed as the door
came open. Those rays were flicked along the floor; but against the outlines
of
the windows, The Shadow could see a cluster of entering invaders.
More than that, he noted the appearance of the man who entered first,
with
two others at his elbows. The leader's face was masked with a bandanna
handkerchief; below his chin was the whiteness of a shirt front, with a black
splotch that indicated a bow tie.
He was the Masked Playboy, attired in tuxedo.
The Playboy reached the safe, still accompanied by his two pals. Those
three weren't all that composed the band; there were others, in the
background,
making about six in all. But evidently, the Masked Playboy depended chiefly
upon
the two who were at his elbows, for they stayed with him, engaging in
whispers.
Audible words reached The Shadow.
"Go ahead - open it!" The whispered tone was rough; it didn't suit the
description of the Playboy's accent. "You got gloves on, ain't you? Two to the
right, four to the left - that's it."
The two men moved away, leaving the Masked Playboy alone. Against the
window, The Shadow saw the glimmer of a revolver; but it wasn't in the
Playboy's fist. One of the other men gripped the gun, keeping it as a threat.
Instantly, The Shadow saw the set-up of the game.
The Masked Playboy wasn't the real leader of the outfit. The man who
handled matters was the fellow with the gun. He was forcing the Playboy to go
through with the job of opening the safe!
JUST why had the tuxedoed dupe become a tool of crime?
The Shadow answered his own question almost as soon as he had mentally
asked it. He was watching the Playboy's laborious work with the dial. Although
he had been told the combination, the dupe was finding the job difficult.
His unsteadiness proved that he was either drunk or doped; probably the
latter.
The man with the gun had ceased to bother about the Playboy. He was at
the
telephone, dialing a number. This time, The Shadow heard no more than snatches
of his words.
"Yeah, he's at it..." The tone became a mutter. "Sure. We're counting on
the stoolies... It don't look like the grapevine worked too soon..."
The rest was lost. The phone conversation ended. Intruders waited until
the Masked Playboy had finished with the combination. He was wavery clinging
to
the dial with one hand. That was when one crook shifted to a spot between The
Shadow and the safe.
The shifter was carrying a squarish object. The Shadow learned its
purpose
when a gruff voice told the Playboy to look to the right. He swung slowly in
obedience; there was a sudden flash of light that filled the whole room like a
lightning streak.
In that moment, The Shadow saw the squarish object. It was a camera,
trained on the masked features of the Playboy. The light was the illumination
from a photographer's flashlight bulb.
There was nothing in that quick glimpse by which to identify the Masked
Playboy, except his tuxedo. The bandanna covered his face; crouched as he was,
his height was difficult to estimate. The crooks themselves recognized those
facts. Their next move showed it.
Swinging the Masked Playboy about, they faced him toward the windows at
the left. The man with the camera stepped between them. Rough hands snatched
the Playboy's mask, tugged it down to the dupe's neck. Again, a flash bulb
puffed.
This time, they caught a more than candid shot of the Masked Playboy, in
his same attire, in front of the very safe shown in the first photo.
But this time, the Playboy was unmasked!
Chance had worked against The Shadow. The thugs had turned their tool
away
from his direction, to take that all-important picture of the fellow's face.
They had begun to work in a hurry, for the camera job was finished. Again, the
Masked Playboy had the bandanna across his face, for crooks had lifted it
there.
The real leader of the crew had yanked the safe open. Inside went a box;
The Shadow heard the sizzle of a fuse. The safe door clanged shut.
BEFORE The Shadow could ease forward to surprise the crooks with sudden
challenge, a different sound intervened. It was the shrill of a police whistle
from somewhere beyond the windows.
A crook pressed the light switch; others shoved the Masked Playboy to the
nearest window.
A shout from below. Police had seen the masked face, the tuxedo shirt
below it. Hands yanked the Playboy from the danger spot, just as police
revolvers began to crackle. A mobster doused the light.
The whole frame-up had been perfectly timed, even to the arrival of the
police. That was what the man at the telephone had talked about, when he
mentioned stoolies. The Shadow had learned facts on his own, through leaks in
the underworld; but afterward, the crooks themselves had let the same word be
broadcast.
They wanted the law to know that the Masked Playboy had been concerned in
this crime, so that the photographs would prove a recognized episode. But in
their cleverness, the crooks had taken on a problem.
They had to be out of the loan company's office in a hurry, not only
before the safe was blown, but before the police reached the place.
There was only one route that offered them security. That path was
through
the adjoining office from which The Shadow watched.
Promptly, The Shadow stepped back into darkness. Bold, sudden attack was
unneeded. Not that he preferred to supply lurking tactics; on the contrary, he
would rather have driven in upon the crooks.
Worried by the thought of their own time fuse; trapped between The Shadow
and the law, they would have shown themselves as frantic rats, quite as
helpless as others that The Shadow had adeptly handled in the past.
The Shadow's reason for sudden retirement concerned the Masked Playboy.
The Shadow knew that he could not depend upon the dupe's cooperation; not even
to the point where the groggy man would scramble for safety. He couldn't risk
the chance of that victim's death. It was obvious that the crooks wanted to
keep the Playboy alive, and get him out of danger. The Shadow decided to let
them accomplish that.
Close beside the window that led to the low roof, The Shadow heard the
clatter of the connecting door. Mobsters were coming through, dragging the
Masked Playboy with them. They didn't need their flashlights; they could make
out the shape of the window. Thanks to the darkness of the office, they
couldn't see The Shadow.
As The Shadow expected, three of the thugs went though the window first.
The others started to shove the groggy playboy to the men outside. Some seemed
jittery, but the growl of their leader steadied them. He was telling them that
there was another minute for the fuse; that the blast couldn't reach this
room,
anyway.
As for the cops, they were still trying to break into the building, as
muffled crashes proved.
THE Masked Playboy lay half across the sill when The Shadow acted. His
move was a swoop from blackness, as powerful as it was unexpected. His hand
thrust in unseen, to arrest the shoves that the crooks gave. His fingers
clamped the dark cloth of the Playboy's attire.
The Shadow's other hand held an automatic. He didn't release the gun. He
simply hooked his arm beneath the Playboy's body. Coming up from his crouch,
The Shadow voiced a taunting shivery laugh squarely in the ears of the men
that
flanked him.
With that burst of startling mirth, he whipped the Playboy from the rigid
hands of the mobbies. With a hard back-fling, he launched his burden toward
the
corner behind him. That shove was the sort that could have damaged the human
who
took it, if it hadn't been for the retarding grip of The Shadow's free hand.
Crooks didn't see that part of it. One man - their leader - jabbed a
flashlight. It showed only The Shadow, one hand behind him, the other fist
thrusting forward. That leading hand was gloved, and it gripped a big-muzzled
gun.
Thugs surged. A blast mouthed from the .45, dropping the first attacker
to
reach The Shadow. From the recoil, The Shadow made a cross-slash that thwacked
the flashlight from the fist of the man who held it.
In darkness, he was among his foemen, slugging for their heads, while the
crooks outside the window huddled helpless, unable to pick The Shadow in the
darkness.
With enemies sprawled about him, The Shadow swung for the window, his
mocking laugh telling the outer trio that their turn was next. Shakily, they
arose to flee; then, as one, they took a head-long sprawl.
The blast that produced that result was not from The Shadow's gun. It
came
from the next office - a titanic burst when the safe blew open. That charge
was
more powerful than intended. It shattered windows; shook the building.
Amid the rattle of loosened brick and spattered chunks of walls and
ceilings, all fighters were flattened, The Shadow among them!
CHAPTER III
TRIPLE BATTLE
THE outside mobbies were the first to recuperate from the explosion's
shock. Regaining their footing, they stared at the window, where a ghostlike
wraith was creeping forth.
The shape wasn't The Shadow. It was white. As the crooks eyed the
phenomenon, they saw that it was smoke trailing from a cloud of fumes that had
poured through from the next office.
Partly startled by the sight, the thugs remembered The Shadow's weird
laugh. They decided upon a parley before they invaded the battleground. That
delay was fortunate. If crooks had attacked at that moment, it would have gone
badly with The Shadow.
The cloaked fighter was rising from the floor, too jolted to recognize
fully his surroundings. A portion of the window frame had broken; in its fall,
the chunk of wood had found The Shadow's head. He was as groggy as the thugs
that he had slugged.
Right then, he couldn't have combated invaders; but despite the smoke, he
was gaining some return of his ability. The half minute that the crooks
allowed
him was enough. When they suddenly poked guns and flashlights in from the
window, The Shadow sensed the menace.
He still had his gun, but didn't wait to raise it. He wheeled for a
corner, using the smoke as cover. Instinctively, he reversed his course amid
the fumes. Guns stabbed wide when his foemen sought to follow his course with
bullets.
Through The Shadow's returning senses thrummed thoughts of the Masked
Playboy.
He remembered that he had flung the dupe to safety, but couldn't recall
the direction, except that it was toward a corner. He wanted to get to that
spot and make sure that the man was safe, then spring a surprise thrust on the
crooks.
Ordinarily, that would have been easy for The Shadow. In his present
condition, the task went awry.
The corner that The Shadow reached was the one leading into the wrecked
office. Perhaps it was the thickness of the smoke that invited him in that
direction; for he was depending chiefly upon the instinct to take cover.
Whatever the cause, the result came when The Shadow reached the wall and
took a roundabout swing to brace himself there.
He fired as he went backward; the gun's recoil sent him off balance.
There
wasn't a wall to stop him. He went sprawling through the blasted doorway, to
land amid the wreckage near the ruined safe.
THE SHADOW'S one wide shot proved that he wasn't in form. It not only
missed the crooks at the window; the spurt also betrayed where The Shadow was.
Again, guns began to tongue through the smoke. First shots were high; but
latter ones scored the floor at the doorway.
The Shadow wasn't present to receive the final barrage. He was crawling
clear of the doorway, blindly seeking new cover along the wall within the loan
office. Tortured by the smoke, he was forced to rest with his face muffled in
the folds of his cloak sleeve.
Two figures arose in the thinner smoke of the next office. One was the
leader of the invading crooks. He had received a hard blow from The Shadow's
gun; so had the thug who arose with him. The two stooped above a third: the
hoodlum who had taken The Shadow's bullet.
That pal wasn't worth carrying away. Mobsters at the window reached
through to help the rising pair. The leader snarled, gave a look about. He saw
a figure crawling toward him on hands and knees. Shaking free from his
helpers,
he pounced upon the Masked Playboy.
Again, crime's tool was in the hands of his persecutors; and with their
prisoner, crooks were carrying away the battered camera that contained their
precious photographs.
Sounds of the scramble through the window roused The Shadow. Though in
the
next office, he was aware what had occurred. He still had time to overtake the
mobsters and their dupe. On his feet, he started for the connecting door.
Three men swept in from the hallway. They roared for surrender as they
fell upon The Shadow. In the smoky darkness, they thought they had bagged the
Masked Playboy. These new invaders were the first members of the police
headquarters squad that had come here on advice from stool pigeons.
In the next dozen seconds, The Shadow added to the false reputation that
the Masked Playboy had acquired.
Three against one, the detectives were overconfident, each anxious to
claim credit for the capture of a badly wanted criminal. Their lack of
concerted action gave The Shadow a split-second opportunity to handle them.
He flung the first attacker aside; tripping over the unhinged safe door,
the dick took a long tumble. The second man made a grapple and The Shadow
closed with him, for it enabled him to sidestep the third.
A moment later, two bodies were lunging, bowling the third man ahead of
them. When the pair spilled, they floored the free detective beneath them,
letting him take the full weight of the fall. The Shadow broke the hold of his
grappling opponent, landed a hard punch that sent him rolling.
Neither of the other two detectives were on their feet when The Shadow
dashed away to take the route across the roof.
THOUGH he hadn't much time to spare, The Shadow detoured when he reached
the roof. He sprang to the back edge, where he hissed a quick call to the
alleyway below. Men heard it; they were agents of The Shadow. In a trice, they
understood.
Dashing to the rear of the next building, they were there when mobsters
came out bringing The Masked Playboy. Though The Shadow's agents didn't know
the innocent part that the Playboy had acted, they recognized that he was the
man The Shadow wanted.
Falling upon the startled crooks, they wrested the tuxedoed man from them
and lurched him toward a waiting cab.
It was timely work, aided by the fact that the crooks were still
disorganized. Before guns could bark, the taxi was starting for the corner,
while The Shadow's agents dived for cover, from which to wage combat.
Wild shots didn't halt the cab. It was gone, with its passenger slumped
upon the floor where he had been none too gently placed.
Maddened crooks hoped to massacre The Shadow's two agents. Guns were
speaking from doorways and alleys, with the odds much in favor of the criminal
crew. But The Shadow's agents held their ground, knowing that aid was due.
It came. The Shadow had come down through the building. His big guns
began
to boom; crooks recognized the marksman. They scattered, their flight spurred
by
the tone of a gibing laugh that seemed to echo from every wall about them.
The Shadow headed for the corner, to see how the cab had made out. There
was a chance that the police might have blocked its flight.
Such was actually the case. Around another corner, the cab was halted,
while its driver argued with a pair of officers. He had just about convinced
them that the cab was empty, when a stir occurred within the taxi itself.
A cop yanked open the door, to see the Masked Playboy rising from the
floor. His bandanna handkerchief was still across his eyes; sensing that he
was
wanted, he was keeping it there. But numbed wits hadn't calculated further.
Blindly, he was shoving himself into the hands of the law.
The taxi driver was one of The Shadow's agents. He recognized his
passenger's plight; knew that he could handle the groggy fellow later. He
decided to make a spurt, but by the time he pressed the accelerator the
Playboy
was rolling to the sidewalk, wrestling with the policemen.
THE cab was away without its passenger. Shots suddenly began to whistle
about the driver's head. Where they came from, he couldn't guess; but it was
his cue to keep on going and come back around the block.
The officers heard the shots, and saw their origin. Guns were spurting
from a passage between two old houses; with the cab in flight, the crooks
aimed
for the police.
Forgetting their prisoner, the officers dived for cover of their own. By
the time they had reached it, crooks were piling the Masked Playboy into an
old
sedan.
As luck had it, the taxi episode had taken place within fifty feet of the
spot where mobsters had left their car parked for the get-away.
This time, the officers supplied the shots that followed a fleeing
vehicle; but they opened fire from cover, and their aim was bad. From back at
the next corner came the only intervention that could have halted the sedan's
escape. The Shadow had arrived there; he was beginning long-range fire for the
sedan's gas tank.
The officers saw the new marksman vaguely. Deciding that he was an enemy,
they returned his fire. This time, the cops were close. The Shadow was forced
to wheel for cover, his chance to halt the sedan ended.
The end of The Shadow's fire brought an exultant shout from the
policemen.
They dashed toward the corner, expecting to find a sprawled victim. As they
came, they saw the same taxi that had eluded them a short while before.
Blackness detached itself from a wall. A living shape, it reached the
slowing cab, to spring aboard. Stopping their run, the officers fired; but
their bullets peppered nothing but the corner of the building. The taxi was
away again, this time with a different passenger.
Riding from the scene, The Shadow delivered a grim mirthless laugh. In
triple battle, the issue could only have been decided by luck; and the breaks
had gone against him. Crooks had won the point they wanted: escape, with the
Masked Playboy still in their clutches.
The dupe was safe, however, for he was useful to their game. It was the
game itself that concerned The Shadow, more than the helpless man who had
participated in it.
Some hand of crime lay hidden behind tonight's events. That schemer was
the master-foe whose plans The Shadow intended to learn, and, later,
frustrate!
CHAPTER IV
CROOKS TALK TERMS
THE next morning, two men entered a huge office building near Wall
Street.
They rode to the fifty-fifth floor, which was entirely occupied by the offices
of Eastern Refineries, Incorporated. When they stopped at the anteroom desk,
one of the men inquired for Mr. Martin Meriden.
The girl at the desk looked doubtful. As treasurer of Eastern Refineries,
Martin Meriden seldom had visitors that the girl had never seen. Eastern
Refinery, it happened, was one of several subsidiary concerns all controlled
by
World Oil interests.
These men certainly weren't from World Oil. Nor did their appearance
assure the girl that Mr. Meriden would want to see them.
One man was short and barely the average weight for his height. He looked
wiry, though, and pugnacious. His face was sallow, his lower lip, had a thrust
that the girl didn't like. His eyes, too, were ugly; they had a way of fixing
themselves, then opening wider, in a glare.
The other man was tall, almost lanky; his long face had a wise,
close-mouthed expression. His eyes didn't glare; they just set themselves half
shut and stayed that way, as though hiding what lay behind them.
It was the short man who asked for Meriden; to the query the girl
inquired
if he had a card. He gave her one which seemed important enough to take in to
Mr. Meriden. The card read:
J. B. CORSTON
Manager
Interstate Service Stations
When the girl had left the desk, the short man's lower lip formed a grin,
while his upper lip raised, displaying stained, misshapen teeth. He turned to
the tall man beside him.
"I'm J. B. Corston," he undertoned. "Got it? Just forget that I'm Pinkey
Findlen. And forget that you're Slick Thurley."
"Easy enough, J. B.," replied Thurley, "I'm Bill Quaine, from
headquarters. I've sprung that gag often enough."
Martin Meriden didn't like the looks of his visitors any more than the
girl had. From behind his desk, the portly, baldish treasurer of Eastern
Refineries was prompt to express his opinions regarding the visit of J. B.
Corston.
"This is our first interview, Mr. Corston," spoke Meriden, testily. "You
can take it for granted that it will be our last."
"That's sure enough," returned Pinkey, in a raspy tone. "After you've
bought the Interstate Service Stations I won't have to see you anymore."
"But I don't intend to buy!" Meriden pounded the desk with his pudgy
fist.
"I told you that in my letter. Your chain of service stations exists only on
paper. It is worth nothing to us!"
Pinkey leaned back in his chair; he tucked his thumbs in the arm holes of
his vest, as he turned his head toward Slick, with the comment.
"You talk to him, Quaine."
SLICK produced an envelope from his pocket. He drew out some clippings,
slid them across to Meriden. They were old newspaper accounts relating the
摘要：

THEHANDbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"May15,1938.FromoutofdarknesscomesTheHandtoconfrontTheShadow-andonlyhecouldreadcompletelytheterriblemessageitheld!CHAPTERICRIMEFORETOLDTHEmanonthecornerlookedlikeaBowerybum.Hewasbent-shouldered,droopy-faced,withablearygazethatseemedtohav...

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