Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 149 - Cards Of Death

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CARDS OF DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 1, 1938.
One by one, these little paste-boards turn up, dealt by a fiendish
murderer. Will The Shadow be able to hold the winning hand in the Cards of
Death?
CHAPTER I
DEATH STALKS
THERE were half a dozen passengers aboard the South-bound plane, as it
waited for the take-off. Outside the windows lay the broad stretch of Newark
Airport, dull, barren except for the hangars that squatted against the muggy
sky.
Afternoon was well advanced, and dusk was due early, because of the
overcast sky. Flight, however, would not be difficult at low altitude.
Passengers felt apprehensive; as they watched the lines of automobiles
streaming along the Skyway with headlamps already lighted; but the pilot did
not share their worry.
Propellers were spinning; there was a call of "All aboard!" That cry came
like a cue to a messenger in uniform, who stood near the ship. Hurriedly, he
advanced to the closing door, extended an envelope.
"For Mr. Balcray," the messenger told the stewardess. "Elwood Balcray.
He's aboard."
The stewardess looked annoyed. She had seen the messenger standing there
gawking at the plane. She wondered why he had waited, and the messenger knew
it. He muttered something about orders to hold the message until the last
minute.
The stewardess summoned Elwood Balcray. He appeared at the door - a
stoop-shouldered, long-faced man, with sharply nervous eyes. The messenger
handed him the envelope, with the question:
"Any answer, sir?"
Balcray opened the yellow envelope, amid the increasing whir of
propellers. Impatiently, the plane dispatcher stood ready to signal the
plane's
departure. He wasn't noting Balcray closely; nor was the stewardess.
The one person who saw the horror that swept Balcray's face was the
messenger. Moreover, he spied the cause.
The object that Balcray had drawn from the envelope was a card. It looked
like a playing card; but it was longer, narrower than those in most packs.
Furthermore, it differed from any such card that the messenger had ever seen.
Instead of spots, the card had long rods, six of them, in diagonal rows
of
three each. Those crossed rods formed an elongated letter X within the borders
of the card.
"Any answer, Mr. Balcray?"
The messenger's question brought a response from Balcray's lips. The
action seemed mechanical; the man's voice was a hoarse whisper.
"No answer" - Balcray was forcing the words, as his eyes stared glassily
-
"there can be no answer - to this!"
The messenger turned away. The door went shut; the dispatcher gave his
signal. It was then that Balcray's horror took a frantic swing. He realized
that he was cut off from the world; isolated aboard the plane. Still clutching
the curious card, he pounced toward the stewardess.
"I've got to leave this ship!" Balcray's shout was wild. "Let me off!
Open
that door - I've got to get out!"
The whir of the propellers had become a roar. The plane was rolling along
the runway. Balcray's grapple for the door was a dangerous move; by the time
he
succeeded, it would be suicidal.
Valiantly, the stewardess fought him away from the door; other passengers
rallied to help her.
Though Balcray was battling like a madman, they overcame him. Gripped by
half a dozen hands, he was shoved along the aisle, clear to the front of the
plane, where the rescue squad plopped him into a seat.
Balcray subsided with a groan, the cardboard card crumpled in his
tight-clutched hand. He was at the most distant spot from the door he wanted;
and the route was blocked. With frenzy useless, Balcray had changed in an
instant to a pitiful, hopeless figure.
NONE of the ground crew saw that short-lived struggle. Door and windows
had moved beyond their view. They were watching the plane as it gathered speed
along the runway. Swift ships of this type, though speedy in the air, required
a long take-off. A half-second more and the plane would be rising in the air.
At that instant, the swerve came.
The plane gave a telltale wabble to the right, as the wheel on that side
crumpled. There was a lurchy swoop, as though wings sought to clutch the air.
A
slue to the right; the ship was off the runway. The tip of the right wing
clipped the ground.
The crack-up was immediate.
Propellers chewed the turf, as the plane's nose hit. Sleek, silvery metal
crackled into junk. Flames spurted; the rising blaze licked the twisting
fuselage. Sirens wailed the alarm; running men followed the fire apparatus
that
sped to the spot of the catastrophe.
Prompt work extinguished the blaze. From the debris, men dragged the
stewardess, scarcely injured. Then came passengers, four of them, to be placed
in an arriving ambulance. After that, two more, who needed no aid.
Like the pilots, those passengers were dead. They had been at the front
of
the cabin, where the shock was worst. Life had been crushed from them.
One of the dead passengers was Elwood Balcray. His fist, jammed,
clawlike,
hard against his chest, still gripped the curious card with its design of six
crossed rods.
Elwood Balcray had recognized the threat of that strange card. It had
proven his warrant of doom.
Two hours passed. Deep dusk had gripped Manhattan, when a short, pompous
man strode into the lobby of the Sheffield Apartments. It wasn't a pretentious
place, the Sheffield, but it was exclusive; therefore, it suited this pompous
resident.
He stopped at the desk for mail. The clerk handed him an envelope
addressed to Sylvester Lysand. The pompous man opened it; he halted,
stock-still.
"Is anything the matter, Mr. Lysand?"
The clerk's question was a logical one. He had seen Lysand's face. It
carried the same expression of horror that Elwood Balcray had shown, two hours
before.
Lysand gave no answer.
The clerk looked downward, saw the object that projected from a frozen
hand. Like the messenger at the airport, the clerk was astonished.
Lysand was holding what seemed to be a playing card, except that its
design was unusual. Set in its ornamental design were six spots shaped like
ancient goblets. Lysand's eyes were riveted on those printed cups.
The clerk repeated his anxious question. Lysand did not hear it. He
turned, as though lost in a trance, and walked toward the elevators.
There were two of those cars; only one was in use. The operator was
jerking at a lever; as Lysand arrived, he called to the clerk:
"Jammed again. Better send Joe up with the other car."
The clerk beckoned to an attendant who was seated near the desk. The
fellow opened the door of the little-used elevator; Lysand and two other
passengers went aboard. Joe's elevator had scarcely started, before the man
who
had suggested it left his own car and walked out through a side door of the
lobby.
New bewilderment gripped the clerk. The man who had just left wasn't the
regular operator. Who he was; how he happened to be here, were riddles.
Unfortunately, too, the clerk did not get a good look at the stranger's face;
something that he was to regret greatly, later.
For the present, the clerk had less than half a minute to think it over.
A
rumbling sound quivered the building. It came from the shaft where Joe's
elevator had gone up. The clerk stared in that direction. The dial above the
elevator door showed that the car was at the fifth floor; but it was quivering
at that mark.
As the clerk gaped, horrified, he saw the dial take a long-sweep toward
the bottom. With it came the rumble, louder than before, accompanied by a
terrific clatter.
The door shook as the plunging elevator whizzed past the ground floor.
There was a terrific crash from the basement; with it, shrieks that faded.
The palsied clerk suddenly gained control of his muscles; leaping out
from
the desk, he dashed to the street, where he shouted the ill tidings to the
first
policeman that he saw.
TEN minutes later, a cluster of firemen had reached the basement of the
Sheffield Apartments. They were hacking through the elevator door, where few
groans answered them. The barrier gave; they dragged out Joe, the operator,
limp but alive.
The passengers were extricated from the wreckage. One still lived; he
went
to the hospital along with Joe. But the other two were dead; and one of them
was
Sylvester Lysand. Like Elwood Balcray, he had been crushed to death.
Lysand's hands had a dying clutch. The object the rescuers pried from
those stilled fingers was the six-spotted card that had come in the envelope.
Again, doom had been predicted; and death had stalked along its trail.
Both events had seemed like accidents, but the link of those fatal cards
proved them otherwise. Some master hand had arranged those thrusts, to strike
down the victims that he wanted. Ruthless, that invisible murderer had
sacrificed others along with Balcray and Lysand, the chosen victims.
Was death's toll finished?
Only the murderer, himself, could give the answer. His reply might be
another stroke: the massacre of other innocent persons, along with a third
victim. How long the chain would last, no one could tell.
Yet, with all its suddenness, death would not come without its warning.
Like a venomous rattlesnake, the hidden killer gave his signals before he
struck.
Cards of doom were the tokens that told each victim that death was due!
CHAPTER II
THE THIRD CARD
SOON after the elevator crash at the Sheffield, a man checked out of a
pretentious New York hotel. He was a jolly, broad-faced individual, who looked
brawny despite his stout build. When he asked for his bill, he stated his
name.
It was Hastings Keever.
Although Keever had been a guest at the hotel for only a few days, the
bill ran close to two hundred dollars. Keever paid it from a fat bank roll
that
his pudgy fist could scarcely circle. Going out through the lobby, he peeled
more notes from the roll, to tip bell boys, porter and doorman.
It was the doorman who politely closed the door of Keever's cab,
expressing the hope that the departing guest would soon return. That brought a
smile from Keever.
They knew him well at that hotel; and Keever was glad of it. It was an
asset to be established there. For Hastings Keever was a man who made money by
spending money. He was a promoter who could talk wealthy men into big deals.
Precarious though his business was, Keever had done well with it. Luck
and
good judgment traveled with him. Enough of Keever's deals came through to give
him a good reputation. Satisfied clients produced more. Whenever Keever
fluked,
he always had an explanation.
Keever had told the cab driver to take him to the Pennsylvania Station.
He
altered that order, as the cab rolled southward on Seventh Avenue. The new
address that Keever gave was twenty blocks farther south, near the heart of
Greenwich Village.
The cab reached a gloomy street; stopped before an old-fashioned building
that had once been a private residence. Paying off the driver, Keever
alighted,
suitcase in one hand, an evening newspaper in the other.
He entered the old house; its lighted lobby showed that it had been
converted into an apartment. A box marked "3 E" carried the name of Hastings
Keever.
Few of the promoter's clients knew that he maintained this small
apartment
in the Village. It served Keever as a residence only during those intervals
between his big promotion deals.
There was no elevator in the place. Keever went up two flights of narrow
stairs, puffing as he reached the third floor. The stairs brought him to the
center of a lengthwise hall; his apartment was a dozen feet toward the front.
Unlocking the door, Keever turned on the lights. He placed his bag in a
corner of the little living room; stretched himself in a comfortable chair.
AS his puffy breaths subsided, Keever spread the newspaper. His eyes
centered on the most conspicuous headline: a report of a plane crash at Newark
Airport. Keever seldom traveled by air; the news scarcely interested him,
until
he saw the names of the victims.
That list brought the pudgy man bolt upright. His pointing finger jabbed
the line that carried the name of Elwood Balcray, wealthy real estate
operator.
Again Keever's breaths were long drawn; this time through a tautness of
his nerves. The genial smile went from his lips, to be replaced by an anxious
twitch. His beady eyes showed a trace of terror.
Gripping the chair arms, Keever regained composure. He forced a smile, as
he muttered:
"Maybe it was an accident. Yes, just an accident - like the newspaper
says
it was -"
Keever's eyes showed lingering doubt, despite his words. Those eyes also
glimmered with an idea. Turning the pages of the newspaper, Keever found the
radio programs. He noted that news reports were almost due from Station WNX.
There was a radio set in the corner. Keever thumbed the dial; paced his
little living room while he listened to the finish of a musical program. There
was a lull, then the announcer for the news reports. Keever was intent,
expecting further details regarding the plane crash. Instead:
"Flash!" The announcer's voice was brisk. "Two persons were killed, two
others injured, in a fall of an elevator at the Sheffield Apartments -"
"The Sheffield!" Keever's tone was gaspy again. "That's where -"
He was about to mention a man's name. It proved unnecessary. The news
broadcaster was stating that very name across the air. The brisk tone drilled
through Keever's ears:
"Sylvester Lysand, killed in the fall, was a director of the Triton
National Bank. Well-known in financial circles, Mr. Lysand -"
Keever snapped off the radio without changing the dial. His beady eyes
were hunted.
"Balcray - Lysand, both of them!" he muttered. "It couldn't be
coincidence. It's his work! Legrec is back of it!"
Keever shot a wild look toward the door; he took a few steps in that
direction. Pausing, he shook his head; mopped his forehead with a crumpled
handkerchief. He wanted safety; he figured he might find it, if he remained in
this isolated apartment.
There was a telephone on a table in the corner. Keever pounded to it;
crouched as he lifted the receiver and dialed a number. His pudgy fingers
succeeding in that task, he calmed as he lifted the telephone from the table.
An instant later, Keever was riveted, too terrified to quiver.
On the spot where the telephone had rested lay a narrow card that spoke
its promise of doom!
THAT card resembled those that Balcray and Lysand had received, even to
the fact that it was a six spot. But instead of rods or cups, it had rounded
spots, resembling coins. One at the top; beneath it a pair, side by side;
below, another pair, with a last spot at the bottom.
Keever counted them, all six. His hands relaxed; the telephone dropped
from his grasp, to hit the carpet with a dull thump.
"Six" - Keever's tone was the barest whisper. "Six of money -"
His awed tone faded. There was a clicking sound from the telephone
receiver; a voice questioning across the wire. Keever did not hear it. His
beady eyes were shut; his lips were twitching, voiceless, as his body swayed.
There was another sound that Keever did not hear: the slight scrape of a
key in the lock of the apartment door.
While the voice repeated from the telephone receiver, the door opened. A
man was standing there, watching Keever; but the angle of the door cut off all
light from the watcher's face.
Keever became conscious of the repeating voice from the telephone
receiver. He stooped to pick up the telephone. The man at the door stepped
quickly into the living room. With back turned, he closed the door, loud
enough
for Keever to hear it.
Hands dropping the telephone, Keever sprang about. He saw the man inside
the doorway; recognized him as he turned around. An instant later, before
Keever could make a move, the man was driving for him.
Shoving his thick hands upward to ward off the attack, Keever found his
voice, to half shout the name that he had uttered before:
"Legrec!"
If Keever intended more words, they never came. His voice produced a
rattly gargle, as fingers clutched his throat. Though he outbulked his
opponent, Keever was helpless. Iron fingers whipped his body back and forth
like a mongoose lashing a huge snake.
The only expression that came over Keever's face was the bulge of his
eyes
as they fixed on his enemy's face. There was sight in that stare; but it soon
faded. Keever's eyes glazed as his efforts ended. Choking fingers relaxed;
Keever collapsed to the floor.
Again death had followed the delivery of a dooming card. This time, the
sender of the token had supplied murder in person.
AS coolly as he had slain Keever, the man called Legrec completed other
tasks. He had an intuitive skill at keeping his face from the light; for he
had
revealed it only during those moments of Keever's recognition.
While choking Keever, Legrec had kept his shoulders hunched, turning so
that they partially obscured his face. His features were darkish as he stooped
beside the telephone, to replace the receiver upon the hook.
That done, Legrec put the telephone on its table, setting it slightly to
one side, so that a portion of the death card projected from beneath it. Hand
half across his chin, Legrec moved to the corner and hovered over Keever's
suitcase.
Finding nothing in the bag that interested him, Legrec sidled along the
wall. He reached for the light switch, pressed it, to plunge the room in
darkness.
Seconds passed; softly, the murderer opened the door. The fresh air from
the hallway was a contrast to the stuffiness of Keever's living room; but that
was not why Legrec waited.
He was a calculator, this killer. Death delivered, he chose to linger, to
make sure that no sounds of the struggle had been heard. The hallway, like the
apartment, was pitch-black; for Legrec had extinguished its lights preparatory
to his invasion of Keever's abode.
That was another reason why the murderer waited. If any one had observed
the dousing of the lights; Legrec would soon learn it. He had measures, too,
for any one who might approach this scene too early.
At that moment, Legrec doubted that his precautions would prove
necessary.
He was to change that opinion within the next few minutes.
Legrec, the master killer, was due for a foray in the dark, against a
being whose ways of vengeance were as skillful as Legrec's own modes of
murder.
CHAPTER III
DEEDS IN THE DARK
EYES were looking upward from the street in front of the old house. They
were weird eyes, like living beings in themselves; for their owner was
invisible. He was a shape in the darkness where he stood; and the thick gloom
beneath a building wall completely shrouded him.
Only one human watcher could have blended with darkness in that supernal
fashion.
The unseen observer was The Shadow.
Master investigator who hunted men of crime, The Shadow frequently looked
into the affairs of persons who passed muster with the law. For some reason,
he
had decided to have an interview with Hastings Keever; and had chosen the
Village apartment as the place for it.
Agents of The Shadow had witnessed Keever's return to that abode, and had
notified their chief. During the brief interim, however, no one had spotted
the
arrival of Legrec.
From his vantage point, The Shadow held an angled view of Keever's
apartment, situated at the side of the house. He had seen the lights go out,
but doubted that it signified Keever's departure.
The promoter had not come to his apartment within the last few days.
Chances were that his visit there would not be a short one.
There were various reasons why those lights could have gone out; and on
this occasion, The Shadow rejected the correct one. The Shadow had labeled
Keever as a gilt-edged crook, whose tricky promotion methods were unsuspected
by the law. It followed that Keever would avoid alliances with criminals of a
dangerous sort.
Therefore, the extinguishing of the lights seemed to be Keever's own
action. The sudden darkness merely spurred The Shadow's plan to pay the man a
visit.
Blackness moved from blackness. The trickling glow of a street lamp
showed
the outline of a cloaked form, with slouch hat above shrouded shoulders. That
fleeting trace was gone; the lights of the little lobby showed it next.
Even there, The Shadow was too obscured to be identified. Only a gliding
streak of blackness silhouetted against the wall; then the sight had vanished.
The inside stairway furnished the sort of gloom that The Shadow liked. He
was a spectral figure as he neared the third floor. A turn of the stairs
produced a flicker from a tiny flashlight; but that blink was not repeated.
The Shadow had discovered that the third floor hall was as dark as
Keever's apartment.
That was something that he had not noted from the street; for the
hallway's only window was at the back of the building, opening above the roof
of a garage, one floor below.
Having discovered the third floor darkness, The Shadow adopted new
tactics. He approached through utter darkness, actually picking his way by
touch alone.
SOMETHING creaked in the hallway. The Shadow located the sound, some six
feet distant. He knew at once that some one was present; whether Keever or
another, the sound did not tell. One fact, though, was certain. That mover in
the darkness had spotted the blink that The Shadow had given his flashlight,
while still on the stairs.
Instantly, The Shadow scented that the person was moving away from
Keever's apartment. Lurking, he would wait for proof that The Shadow was bound
there. That was why The Shadow chose the very destination that the foe
suspected. But in his shift toward the apartment, The Shadow did not make the
sounds that Legrec expected.
Absolute silence marked The Shadow's course. When he reached the door, he
sensed that no one was close. Moreover, The Shadow's probing hand found
something much to his choice.
Legrec, seeking a silent course of his own, had left the door of the
apartment open.
It was obvious to The Shadow that he had passed the lurking man; that his
adversary, whoever he might be, was somewhere near the stairs, still in
listening attitude. Once inside the living room, The Shadow rose silently;
found that there was no transom above the door.
With consummate skill, The Shadow closed that door; not the slightest
sound betrayed the fact that he had shut it.
The Shadow had scored one on Legrec. In the hallway, the killer still
awaited The Shadow's passage. He would be there, later, after The Shadow had
finished a quick survey of Keever's apartment.
The tiny flashlight blinked guardedly from the folds of the cloak. The
Shadow found Keever's body. He saw the telephone; the card that edged from
beneath it. That identified Keever's killer.
The Shadow had heard of these tokens of Legrec.
The newspaper lay beside the radio. There, The Shadow saw a chart that
listed stations according to Keever's dial. Legrec had left the radio as
Keever
had tuned it. The Shadow knew that the dead man had listened to WNX.
That gave The Shadow a partial sequence of Keever's own thoughts. The
promoter had been interested in the affairs of some one who had died when the
plane crashed.
While coming here by taxi, The Shadow had been listening to the radio
news. He had heard the flash from WNX. He recognized the possible link between
two previous deaths. There was a chance - a strong one - that both concerned
Keever.
That happened to be something for future study. Right now, The Shadow was
thinking of a murderer.
Gautier Legrec!
Such was the name of a celebrated international crook, almost unknown in
annals of American crime, but whose death tokens were famed in foreign lands.
A
killer extraordinary, who used hidden methods of assassination but who could
supply quick strokes, in person, when occasion called.
He was canny, Legrec. When he staged crime, it broke suddenly, leaving
the
police at loss. While they still hunted for Legrec, and guessed where he might
be, Legrec was gone.
Such swift vanishes explained why The Shadow had never before crossed
Legrec's actual trail. Though The Shadow moved everywhere to strike down
crime,
he had never been in any foreign capitals at the times when Legrec had bobbed
up
in those cities.
There was much, therefore, that The Shadow had to learn about Legrec; but
circumstances had suddenly reversed the situation. For once, The Shadow was
where Legrec happened to be.
The supercrook, lurking outside Keever's apartment, was within The
Shadow's immediate reach!
THERE were no more blinks from The Shadow's flashlight. A gloved hand
gripped the doorknob; silently, the barrier opened.
A few seconds later, The Shadow was creeping through the dark hall,
moving
foot by foot toward the stairway where Legrec still lurked.
A creak answered The Shadow's advance. Grimly, The Shadow analyzed its
cause. It did not mean that Legrec had heard a sound denoting The Shadow's
presence. Legrec had simply guessed that the black-cloaked hunter had arrived.
To a smart crook like Legrec, absence of telltale sounds meant The Shadow.
The stairs offered a sure outlet; but Legrec wasn't using them. The
Shadow
heard the creaks continue, back along the hall. There was the scrape of a
rising
window; but the darkness was sufficient to hide the man himself.
Timing his actions, The Shadow made sure of the moment when Legrec
dropped
to the roof below. With a sweeping stride, The Shadow reached the window
itself.
Below lay darkness; beyond that stretch, the city's lights showed an
expanse of the garage roof. In choosing that outlet, Legrec had trapped
himself. He was safe, so long as he remained in the darkened fringe. He could
not risk a trip beyond it.
To any hunter but The Shadow, that would have brought elation. From this
window, he held absolute control. Mere vigil would bring success, even if it
meant a wait until daybreak. No window lay below for Legrec to enter. Every
portion of the roof edge was light enough to betray a man who moved there.
It was that very situation that made The Shadow understand why Legrec had
chosen the window as an outlet.
The crook wanted The Shadow to stay at that hallway window. Why?
There was only one answer. Something, apart from either The Shadow or
Legrec, would reverse the situation. It was The Shadow - not Legrec - who
would
meet disaster before this game of hide-and-seek had ended, provided that The
Shadow kept up the vigil, as Legrec hoped.
Through The Shadow's mind flashed recollections of those previous
murders;
one camouflaged as an airplane crash, the other as an elevator fall.
Some similar catastrophe was planned to cover the fact that Legrec had
strangled Keever!
THE SHADOW moved back from the window. He didn't have to stay there, to
deceive Legrec. Lurking in the shelter of the house wall, the criminal was
taking it for granted that The Shadow was watching from above.
Reaching the door of 3 C, The Shadow listened. That was the apartment
just
in back of Keever's, the nearest trouble spot to where the dead man lay.
Hearing
nothing, The Shadow used a tiny picklike instrument to probe the door's lock.
The pointed metal encountered a plug of wadded paper.
With a plierlike instrument, The Shadow pulled the wadding loose. Through
the keyhole he caught the flicker of faint light, like a wavering flame. The
sound of a faint hiss came from the empty apartment; with it, the odor of gas.
Legrec had prepared for Keever's return. He had turned on the gas in the
next apartment, and had left the pilot light aglow. At this very moment, the
lurking crook was huddled in safety, waiting for results.
There might be time for The Shadow to use a scant few minutes, to circle
around and invade Legrec's hiding place from an unexpected direction. That
prospect, however, was not the reason why The Shadow made a swift dive for the
stairway. He was considering the chance that perhaps those few minutes did not
remain to him.
The Shadow's speed was wise. He reached the stairs, took them with a
downward stride, caring nothing for the sounds he made. Before he reached the
second floor, the clatter of his descent was drowned by noise above.
There was a choking roar; a mammoth sigh, as though the whole third floor
had drawn in a mighty breath. Prompt upon that titanic cough came a terrific
blast that shook the whole building.
Walls buckled against the strain; then crashed inward. Partitions
shattered; there was a smashing roar as the roof collapsed. Keever's
apartment,
like the whole third floor, was buried under tons of debris.
Fissures opened in the second floor ceiling, as The Shadow sped beneath
it. He was on the first floor when chunks of masonry clattered through.
Reaching the sidewalk, The Shadow pressed against the front wall, while stones
from the cornice pounded near him.
Crashes ended. Faces appeared at windows of the lower floors. Apartment
dwellers saw that they could descend in safety; but they did not spy The
Shadow. He was gone, through a space below the battered windows along the side
of the apartment, picking his way along a stone-strewn path, to reach Legrec.
Scaling a corner of the garage in the rear, The Shadow looked across the
edge. Flames from the third floor of the apartment house threw a glare upon
the
space where Legrec had lurked. Only wreckage lay there - too far from the
house
wall to have buried the killer beneath it.
The murderer had fled quickly to safety before The Shadow could reach
him,
leaving no trace of his course. Nevertheless, a sinister laugh throbbed from
the
cloaked pursuer.
The Shadow still knew a way whereby he might find Legrec, before this
night was ended.
CHAPTER IV
LINKED TRAILS
"LEGREC!"
The name came in a whisper from a girl's strained lips. It seemed
mysterious, that name, as Eleanor Margale uttered it. Her voice was like an
echo, in that alcove beside the hallway stairs.
The echo of a dying man's cry!
Eleanor stared about her. The scene was somber, yet very real. She was in
her uncle's home; there, beside her, was the telephone that she had answered
only a short while ago.
In response to her queries across the wire had come nothing but that one
word: "Legrec!"
Who had called; and why?
Eleanor could not answer either question. The receiver had clicked
shortly
after she had heard the voice. Since then, she had been standing here gripped
by
one horrible impression.
Whoever had screamed that lone name, had been face to face with doom.
Only
total despair could have produced the tone that Eleanor had heard.
More than temporary strain was shown on Eleanor's face. She was a girl of
marked beauty; her well-formed features and dark eyes were exquisite, outlined
against her brunette hair. But even the soft light of the hallway betrayed the
thinness of her cheeks; the lines that wrinkled her otherwise attractive
forehead.
Some long-nourished worry was responsible. The girl's nerves were ready
for a break.
Eleanor realized that fact, herself, when she stared at the big
grandfather's clock. She couldn't believe, at first, that she had been
standing
here for twenty minutes. For a moment, she felt terrified; then her wits
returned.
This was the time when something must be done. That voice over the wire
was proof, at last, that matters were wrong in this household. Steadily,
Eleanor reviewed events that had come before to-night.
HER uncle, Thomas Margale, had always been eccentric; but in a harmless
摘要：

CARDSOFDEATHbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"May1,1938.Onebyone,theselittlepaste-boardsturnup,dealtbyafiendishmurderer.WillTheShadowbeabletoholdthewinninghandintheCardsofDeath?CHAPTERIDEATHSTALKSTHEREwerehalfadozenpassengersaboardtheSouth-boundplane,asitwaitedforthetake-off.O...

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