Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 135 - The Pooltex Tangle

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THE POOLTEX TANGLE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," October 1, 1937.
An amazing tale of crime that runs from railroads to ships, from factory
to penthouse, from small town to the capitals of the world!
CHAPTER I
CREATURES OF THE MIST
THE late afternoon fog curled sluggishly across salt marshes that skirted
the unseen waters of Long Island Sound. Between the marshes and the low-lying
flats beyond ran a double line of ghostly railroad tracks. The scene was one
of
utter emptiness.
Occasionally the fog swirled and thinned for an instant. In those
fleeting
moments the glimmering curve of other steel rails was visible. There were two
freight sidings at this point. Both spurs joined the main line by switches
some
thirty feet apart.
On one of these sidings two sealed box cars, coupled, waited motionless.
The car farthest from the main line was there for a legitimate purpose. A
train
was due along presently, from Boston, to pick up that car and haul it onward
across the Connecticut line into New York. Its waybills were in order, its
consignment lawful.
The box car nearest the main line was a different proposition. It had
been
rolled there by experienced criminals, working under a blanket of fog for an
unlawful purpose. Its doors were properly sealed. A placard pasted against one
of its steel panels bore the printed inscription: "THIS CAR CONTAINS POOLTEX."
Everything about this second car was normal - except its contents. It did
not contain "Pooltex." It was loaded with sodden bales of hay, whose weight
was
calculated to the last pound. The purpose of the invisible thieves was to
substitute this cunningly camouflaged car for a similar one on the expected
freight train.
A master-criminal had laid his plans with infinite patience. He was ready
now for the swift climax - one that would necessarily involve a cold-blooded
murder.
His figure appeared suddenly through the tendrils of fog. He moved
cautiously from beside the fake box car. He crossed over to where the
legitimate car was waiting to be picked up. The sound of his faint chuckle was
metallic.
After a quick inspection, he stepped across dripping rails to the barely
visible tracks of the main line.
He was dressed in a long black raincoat and pulled-down hat. The face of
the man was completely covered by a black mask. His eyes were mere ruthless
pin
points, glaring watchfully through narrow slits in the mask.
He took a small flashlight from his pocket and stood calmly waiting on
the
shadowy ties. His shrouded head bent grimly forward in order to hear the first
distant warning of the approaching train.
THE masked man's ears were sharp. He heard the faint sing of the ghostly
rails long before he heard the train itself. Instantly his flashlight glowed
once and became dark again. His signal was answered similarly from the gloom
of
the siding where the hay-filled box car waited.
The laboring puffs of a distant locomotive became audible. The beam of a
headlight grew like a fuzzy white star in the thick mist.
The masked figure glanced swiftly at his watch. The time was 4:00 p.m. He
ran with agile speed toward the wet blur of near-by bushes. He was now as
invisible as the four henchmen to whom he had just signaled.
He had uttered no word, issued no commands. None was needed.
The long freight train halted with a tortured squeal of steel-flanged
wheels. There were more than thirty cars in the string. On the roof of one of
the center cars, a brakeman stood wide-legged on the flat catwalk. A lantern
dangled from his wet fingers.
He was a young man, hardly more than a kid. As the long train ground to a
wheezing halt, he swung himself down a vertical side ladder and leaped to the
ground. The side of the box car which he had just quitted was pasted with a
printed placard: "THIS CAR CONTAINS POOLTEX."
Watching the kid brakie from behind his covert of bushes, the masked
leader of the crooks knew that his scheme was working out accurately. The
Pooltex car on that motionless train was consigned to New York. All the cars
behind it were consigned either to Philadelphia or Washington.
The train would have to be broken behind this particular shipment,
because
the legitimate car waiting on the siding was also consigned to New York. It
would have to be coupled on in front of those rear ones that were grouped for
Washington and Philadelphia.
Warily the masked observer stole forward from his hiding place. The young
brakie had already parted the coupling between the Pooltex car and the rear of
the train. He turned in the fog, lifted his lantern to signal the engineer of
the far-off locomotive.
Before the dangling light could wave, the masked man leaped behind his
victim. He swung the butt of a heavy gun.
There was an ugly crack as the weapon smashed against the unsuspecting
brakie's skull. The victim pitched forward without a groan. Blood poured from
his broken head. His lantern fell to the ground.
The killer sprang away. He vanished between the Pooltex car and the one
in
front of it. He broke the coupling mechanism with swift efficiency. The whole
thing took less than a minute. When he darted back to the fallen body of the
brakeman, the box car which the thieves intended to steal was now a complete
unit in itself, broken front and rear from the two halves of the long train.
The brakeman's lantern still lay where it had fallen. The masked man
snatched it up and swung it in the manner of an experienced trainman.
In the dimness far ahead the whistle of the locomotive tooted a reply.
The
forward part of the train drew ahead in the mist, leaving behind it the rear
section and the uncoupled Pooltex car. It halted, waiting for the signal to
back.
THE master-criminal ran like a dark streak to the empty siding that
paralleled the occupied one. He unlocked the switch and threw it.
The Pooltex car was already beginning to roll. Four thugs were impelling
it from the main line into the empty siding. Each of them was using a long
pinch bar. The handle of each implement was twice the thickness of a pickax,
and the steel-shod curve at the lower end fitted under the wheels of the car
like levers. Powerful jerks tooled the car along at a rapid pace once it got
started and acquired impetus.
It passed over the turned switch and rolled onward along the siding.
Up ahead, the strange delay was irking the engineer. He couldn't see what
was happening in the fog, but he knew the job was taking an unusually long
time. He tooted his whistle impatiently for the signal to back up.
The leader of the gang turned, his slitted eyes grim. Suddenly he saw the
quick code flash from his sweating confederates. Three brief dots from an
electric torch. "O.K.," those flashes meant.
His lantern circled instantly. The train-began to back. The switch to the
first siding was open and ready. The train backed into the camouflaged car
loaded with hay and the regular car to be picked up. In a few minutes it was
over on the main track again. Another jarring bump and the split train was now
coupled together in a long, unbroken line.
If an inspection had been made, the train crew would have thought only
one
car was picked up.
The train got under way. As it puffed onward into the fog with gathering
speed, the masked killer hung by one hand from a ladder rung, waving the
signal
of "all clear." Then he doused the lantern and leaped to the flying ground
below
his poised feet.
Crouched in the gloom, the master-crook watched the train vanish. His
crime had worked like a charm. But it was not yet a perfect crime. There still
remained the stolen box car to dispose of - and the body of the unfortunate
brakie.
The killer laughed as he hurdled the sprawled figure of his victim. He
hurried toward the hijacked car.
THE seals were already broken. Four thieves stared at their panting
leader
as he leaped up into the car and snapped on his electric torch. Bales of
dark-brown cloth filled the interior of the box car.
The four henchmen were chuckling at their cleverness. But the leader
didn't take anything for granted. He could see that the piled bales were
actually cloth. But were they Pooltex cloth?
He squatted on the floor alongside a bale. In one hand he held a thick
plumber's candle. In the other he grasped a pint bottle that contained a
colorless liquid. It seemed to be half fluid and half writhing gray smoke.
Swiftly the masked man made his first test of the stolen cloth. He held
the hot flame against the fabric. He grunted as he saw neither sparks nor any
spread of fire. All that happened was a spreading smudge of carbon where the
licking flame had touched. The smudge was brushed away in an instant, leaving
the cloth unmarred. It wouldn't burn - couldn't burn!
The acid from the bottle made a second and even more satisfactory test.
It
bubbled in a swirling mass in a wrinkled depression which the killer hollowed
in
the fabric. Holding the puddled cloth carefully so as not to spill the
dangerous
acid against his hands or clothing, he allowed the testing fluid to spill to
the
ground outside the car.
The moment it touched the dark weeds alongside the track, the stuff
bubbled fiercely, hissing and fuming. Wherever a drop of the deadly fluid had
fallen, the weeds were completely eaten away by the corrosive power of the
acid.
But the closely woven cloth in the criminal's hand was entirely unharmed.
Like the candle flame, the bite of the powerful acid had been in vain. This
amazing fabric was the real thing!
In the near-by weeds a gruesome figure still lay motionless and bloody.
The criminal who had tested the stolen cloth jumped from the box car and bent
over the inert body of the young brakie. He went rapidly through the pockets
of
the corpse.
He found only trivial objects, until his exploring fingers dipped into
the
inner pocket of the brakeman's coat. The thing he took out was an old
dog-eared
envelope. Apparently it was nothing to unnerve a criminal as cool and daring
as
this killer had shown himself to be.
Yet, as he glanced at the writing on the outside of that crumpled
envelope, he gave a quick, incredulous cry. It was followed with a barking
chuckle of delight.
The four henchmen stared at their chief with puzzled expectancy. They
watched him eagerly open the envelope and read the letter. His chuckle became
a
harsh laugh. He placed his find back in the dead young man's pocket and
re-buttoned the coat with steady fingers.
"Who do you think that dead brakie is?"
There was no answer from his staring henchmen. He replied to his own
question with a single jeering name.
"Cardona!"
IT was the last name on earth those crooks expected to hear. There was
instant confusion, a swift babble of excited words.
"You're crazy, boss! This dead punk is only a kid! Joe Cardona is bigger,
heavier. A lot older, too."
"Who said it was Joe Cardona?" their leader snapped. "This young sap's
name is Anthony Cardona - he's Joe's nephew. That letter I just shoved back in
his pocket was from Joe himself. He was writing to the kid to ask him how he
likes railroading as a career. Telling him that some day he'll be a big
traffic
executive, if he works hard and sticks to business. How do you like that for a
lucky kill?"
There was ugly merriment among them. Joe Cardona was the most famous man
hunter on the New York police force. Every one of these four henchmen had
sworn
at one time or another to kill Joe. They had failed, of course, because Acting
Inspector Cardona was too tough a bird to be rubbed out.
And now his nephew lay stark and bloody at their feet in a swirling
blanket of fog somewhere in Connecticut. A swell bit of crooked luck! Killing
a
young punk that Joe loved was the next best thing to killing Joe himself!
The leader's abrupt rasp ended the mirth of his men.
"Get that box car moving! We've got empty trucks to load and it's going
to
take time. Squint!"
"Yeah?"
"As soon as the Pooltex car is safely hidden, drive your empty truck to
the spot up the line I showed you. Yesterday - and make it snappy! I want to
get back here in a hurry. Come on - tool that car along!"
The pinch bars which the thugs had already used with such proficiency
again appeared. Muscular shoulders strained. Then the car began to roll along
the track. It passed over the switch from the siding to the right of way. Then
it melted into the misty fog that blew in from the deserted salt marshes of
Long Island Sound.
The masked leader didn't follow his men. He turned the siding switch and
locked it. Except for himself and the dead body of the murdered nephew of
Cardona, he was now alone.
Tossing young Anthony Cardona's body across his shoulder, he melted along
the right of way. He crossed the ties and made his slow way back to where a
gasoline hand car was waiting on the northbound track.
He had been safe in leaving it there because he had an accurate knowledge
when the next northbound freight was due. Glancing at his watch, he saw that
he
had a full ten-minute leeway in advance of the train.
DUMPING the corpse on the square platform of the tiny car, the murderer
started the gas engine. With a rhythmic throb, the car moved along the rails.
It increased its speed. Mile after mile it traveled - in the direction
opposite
to that taken by the stolen box car.
A white marker beside the deserted track showed that the car had traveled
a fraction more than twenty miles. Abruptly the man at the control slackened
his speed. He saw ahead the steel structure of a bridge that spanned a narrow
inlet. This was the place where he had planned in advance to dispose of the
body of the brakeman.
The car stopped. Anthony Cardona's body was thrown overboard into the
racing waters of the narrow inlet. The tide at this place was strong and could
be depended upon to carry the corpse far out into the Sound.
Watching it for a grim instant, the murderer saw the limp body vanish in
a
swirl of dark bubbles. He turned and ran with quick strides to the waiting
gasoline car.
This time he throttled the pace down to a slower speed. He crossed the
bridge and kept his keen eyes ahead. He was looking for a blazed telegraph
pole
to the right of the track. A quarter mile onward he saw the mark that he
himself
had carefully hacked with a hatchet.
He threw himself outward and landed with a jounce on marshy land. The
empty gas car continued on its way. It would click monotonously along until
the
gas was exhausted or it rammed into a halted train ahead - the masked killer
didn't much care. All he cared about was a grim triangle of facts: a stolen
box
car, the body of young Cardona, and the scene of the robbery itself. Two
angles
had already been covered; the inlet tides would take care of the third.
Crossing the tracks away from the marshes, the murderer pushed his way
through brush until he emerged on a narrow dirt road. An empty motor truck was
waiting there. The killer climbed to the cowled seat alongside the henchman he
had called "Squint." The truck returned along the deserted road, jouncing over
its rutted surface.
The two men on the seat laughed softly. They were thinking of the grim
joke fate had played on Acting Inspector Joe Cardona: the death of his nephew.
Fate, however, was preparing a different outcome. The corpse of Anthony
Cardona was still in the inlet where it had been thrown by the crafty killer.
The current had wedged it into weed-covered timbers that jutted out from the
mudbank where an old jetty had once stood.
The force of the current was powerless to spin the body loose from where
it was jammed. The back-thrown head of the corpse kept staring with sightless
eyes toward the steel structure of the railroad bridge.
Two miles up the fog-hidden line, a trackwalker suddenly halted his slow
inspection tour. He had just seen a runaway gasoline car speed past him, empty
of workers. That car had no right to be there. Something wrong down the line!
The trackwalker turned instantly and retraced his steps. As he hurried
along the wet roadbed he had an uneasy sense that a mysterious voice in the
fog
itself was calling to him. A voice, and yet not a voice - calling -
Ahead of him the trackwalker could see the dim outline of the bridge over
the narrow inlet. He had a frightened feeling that something was badly wrong.
He began to run.
CHAPTER II
MR. EAST AND MR. WEST
LAMONT CRANSTON was bored. He sat in the ornate lounge of the swanky
Cobalt Club, pretending to read a newspaper. The afternoon and the evening had
conspired to ruin his social plans.
A heavy afternoon fog had caused the postponement of a yacht race in
which
Cranston had hoped to sail his trim little sloop to victory. Now his evening,
too, was spoiled because a world-famed violinist had been taken suddenly ill
and had cancelled his concert.
Cranston yawned, glanced at the clock. Nine o'clock, and nothing in
prospect to rescue an empty evening from dullness.
His vapid yawns, his pose of indifference, were merely parts of a mask to
cover a strange being whom nobody knew. A hint of who that hidden man might be
was stamped on Cranston's intelligent features behind his spread newspaper.
The long-beaked nose denoted virility and strength. The eyes behind
half-closed lids seemed to glow with a fierce flame in their steady depths.
His
chin was square and taut, his lips firm.
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!
The Shadow was the world's most successful criminal hunter. He chose the
paths of darkness in a grim, single-handed warfare against master-crooks,
against whom the ordinary methods of the police had proved powerless. Never
once had the secret of The Shadow's real identity been pierced.
Police Commissioner Weston was Lamont Cranston's best friend. So was
acting Inspector Joe Cardona. Both thought that Cranston was exactly what he
pretended to be - a wealthy idler with plenty of money, who had gained
somewhat
of a reputation as a globe-trotter. The Shadow encouraged them in this belief.
The Shadow relaxed suddenly in his comfortable chair and laid the
newspaper idly in his lap. A man was standing at the desk of the lounge
talking
in quick whispers to the clerk. Two things about the man interested The
Shadow.
First, his identity. Second, the fact that he seemed worried, ill at ease.
The stranger at the desk was a personage about whom much had been printed
in the newspapers - and little actually known. His name was Edgar Pool. He was
a famous inventor and owned many patents.
Up to a few months ago his life had been more or less an open book. But
six months earlier something had happened to change his habits. That something
was the invention of an amazing new cloth fabric called "Pooltex."
Nothing much was known about the material except that it was to be used
for a new type of soldier's uniform. Its formula was a secret, its manufacture
jealously guarded in a plant in Massachusetts. Hints that leaked into the
newspapers claimed that the new cloth was fire-and-acid-proof. Mustard gas and
flame-throwers would be powerless against soldiers who wore Pooltex uniforms.
And whispers added that although the closely woven cloth was not
bulletproof, its light metallic threads would slow the rip of a bullet and
turn
an ordinary casualty into a minor flesh wound.
To this vague information The Shadow added a more definite and ominous
knowledge gleaned from his own private methods of investigation. He was aware
that two powerful and warlike nations, who were arming abroad at feverish
speed, were interested in purchasing the entire output of Pooltex.
One of these nations had already succeeded in signing a contract with
Pool
and his financial associate, Roy Wallace. An agent of an enemy nation had
arrived secretly in the United States with unlimited credit. He was at present
engaged in a desperate effort to raise the bid and secure the indispensable
cloth for his own country. On the outcome of his efforts might rest victory or
defeat in the coming war which every one knew was now inevitable.
A cargo ship from each of these rival nations was now waiting
mysteriously
at piers on the New York water front. To The Shadow these facts tied up grimly
with the present agitation and worry of Edgar Pool.
The Shadow's sharp ears heard Pool whisper: "It's queer that Mr. Wallace
hasn't phoned or sent a message. He told me definitely he'd be here. Perhaps
he'll arrive later. I think I'd better wait. If he comes, tell him I'm at the
bar."
Cranston delayed a moment or two, then he followed the nervous inventor
to
the bar of the club. Pool was standing alone, moodily sipping a drink.
Cranston
put in an order. Presently he began chatting with his companion.
At first Pool was surly. But when Cranston introduced himself, the
inventor smiled and became cordial at once. Lamont Cranston's fame as a
traveler was well known.
Innocently, Cranston also let drop the fact that he was an old friend of
Acting Inspector Joe Cardona of the police department. He added that he was
thinking of killing a dull evening by paying a social call at the apartment of
his good friend Joe, who usually had a fund of hair-raising stories to tell
about criminals and gunmen.
Pool rose instantly to the bait. His nervousness was greater than his
caution. Before he realized it he was telling the smooth, smiling clubman at
his elbow the source of the worry that was gripping him.
Roy Wallace, his business partner, was mysteriously missing here in New
York. Both had intended to arrive together for a necessary business
conference.
But Wallace had changed his plans earlier that afternoon. He had flown ahead
in
a fast plane.
His ostensible reason had been a telegram from his daughter Lily, who had
just arrived from Washington. Pool had believed that story at first; now he
doubted it.
"Why?" Cranston murmured, seeming only half interested.
The inventor lowered his voice. He told about a sum of money Wallace had
drawn from the bank before he left the little town in Massachusetts, where
their textile plant was located. Five thousand dollars in cash. Carried in a
brand-new alligator bag that Wallace had bought on his way to the bank.
Pool had found out about it quite by accident. By that time Wallace was
already en route in the plane. The two men were supposed to meet here tonight
at the Cobalt Club. But there was still no sign of the missing Wallace.
"You suspect something unusual?"
Pool nodded haggardly. In a troubled whisper he told this new-found
friend
political things The Shadow already knew.
"NATURALLY, I can't refer to these two foreign countries by name," Pool
said slowly. "Nor can I tell you the names of their secret agents who came to
the United States to act for them. I think you'll understand the countries I
mean if I call one agent Mr. East and the other Mr. West."
"I understand perfectly," Cranston said, his voice faintly grim.
"We made a contract with Mr. West's government. The cloth was shipped
this
afternoon. But Mr. East, after vainly trying to outbid his warlike competitor,
has resorted to ugly threats. I'm afraid of theft - or worse! Mr. East swore
that the Pooltex will never reach the ship of his rival's government in New
York Harbor. Naturally, a contract is sacred with Wallace and myself. We
refused to be bulldozed.
"Now I'm afraid something has happened to Wallace. He acted so queerly
before he left me at the plant today. Why did he draw five thousand dollars in
cash? Was it a bribe to save his life from a foreign killer? And where is he
now?
"I'm frightened for his safety, Mr. Cranston - and for my own safety,
too!
I don't need to tell you that Mr. East's government, or Mr. West's, would go
to
any length - any at all - to make victory in this coming war certain. Do you
think I'm being overly suspicious about all this?"
Cranston set down his glass, paid the bar attendant. When the latter had
left them, Cranston's voice was soothing and yet authoritative.
"Why not come with me to see Inspector Cardona? I certainly think he
should know about this. And you'll feel better about your partner's safety,
I'm
sure, if the police take a hand. You can depend on Cardona for absolute tact.
The newspapers will never learn a hint of what's going on beneath the
surface."
FIVE minutes later the two men were in a cab speeding uptown. The fog
that
had lain over the city all afternoon was now gone. Rain was drizzling, and
there
was a mutter of thunder overhead. Traffic was unusually thick as if people,
held
in by the fog, were now pouring out to enjoy the shank of the evening.
Suddenly Edgar Pool gasped and clutched at Lamont Cranston's sleeve.
"Quick! Look! That cab that just passed us! Driver - turn around - follow that
taxi!"
Cranston's face peered swiftly. He saw the red tail-light of the cab that
had just passed them. He realized that it was an impossible task to overtake
it. In the swift instant he watched, the fugitive taxi had already been
swallowed up in the heavy jam of traffic.
Their own driver voiced Cranston's unspoken thought.
"Sorry, gents. It can't be done. The cab's out of sight. I wouldn't know
it from a herd of elephants."
Lamont Cranston smiled faintly. His sharp eyes had done something that
neither the hackie nor Pool had been able to accomplish. He had noted the
vanishing cab's license number and it was already memorized in his accurate
mind. As Lamont Cranston, the idler clubman, it was out of the question to act
immediately on the knowledge he had just obtained.
He said quietly: "Our driver is right. I'm afraid we can't do anything
but
continue on to Cardona's. Who was in the cab?"
"Wallace!" the inventor gasped faintly. "My missing partner!"
He explained why the sight of his business associate had so unnerved him.
Wallace had seen Pool staring at him - and had tried to hide his identity! He
had turned his head away, jerked a handkerchief up in front of his face in a
vain effort to avoid Pool's amazed recognition.
"He was not alone," Pool whispered. "There was a man riding with him - a
fellow with the ugliest face I've ever seen in my life! A thug!"
"Could you see any sign of a gun? Was the thug holding him up?"
Edgar Pool shook his head slowly. There was fear in his gray eyes.
"It was no kidnap job," he quavered, his face still white. "Wallace
didn't
want to be seen! If he was being kidnapped, he'd have screamed a warning or
waved to me to attract my attention. Instead, he tried to hide his identity!
What in Heaven's name is he up to?"
Lamont Cranston didn't reply. He had already spoken to their cab driver,
and the taxi was humming smoothly along on its interrupted journey. It halted
presently, and Cranston said quietly: "Here we are, Mr. Pool. We'll tell the
whole story to Cardona."
THE meeting between the three men was strange. Cardona was not his usual
good-natured self. His swarthy face was unsmiling, drawn in hard lines about
the mouth. He nodded at Cranston, grunted at the inventor. Cranston did not
introduce his friend nor mention his name.
Cranston, who knew Joe from long and intimate association, divined at
once
that some deep trouble was gripping his old friend. There were tears at the
back
of Joe's eyes. He was making a tremendous effort to control some deep emotion.
Lamont Cranston walked over to him, laid a firm hand on the detective's
chunky shoulder.
"Something has happened to you, Joe. I'm sorry if we've intruded on
anything personal. Would you rather we leave at once?"
"They've killed him, damn them! Crooks, thugs, criminal rats who hate my
guts! They couldn't get me, so they went after a kid - a mere boy who never
harmed a fly in his life! Smashed his skull and tossed him off a freight into
a
Connecticut inlet!"
There was deep shock in Cranston's clipped reply.
"You mean Anthony? Your nephew on the railroad?"
Cardona nodded. Regaining his composure, he told about the gruesome
discovery of a trackwalker, the long-distance phone call that had brought
tragedy over the singing wire. A bright, ambitious kid just out of technical
school, learning railroading from the ground up. Slaughtered without
compunction by a gang of thieves.
"Thieves?" Cranston echoed softly. "I don't quite understand. Anthony was
just a brakeman. He wouldn't have more than a dollar or two in his overalls
pocket."
"The poor kid was just a fall guy," Cardona growled, pale with grief.
"The
thieves were after something big. Anthony must have discovered them at the
actual theft. They stole an entire box car and its contents. It's vanished -
no
one knows where.
"The theft wasn't discovered until the train reached the terminal yards
in
New York tonight. I had the news from the chief railroad dick only a few
minutes
ago."
"You mean he found the car missing?"
"Cleverer than that," Cardona replied. "He found a duplicate car jammed
with moldy hay. The trick was done at a siding somewhere between Massachusetts
and New York. No clue to tell where. All the railroad dick knows is that the
car is gone, with every ounce of Pooltex cloth that it contained."
"Pooltex!"
Edgar Pool was on his feet, his cry a shrill bleat.
"I was right! Mr. East kept his word! His ruthless government has stolen
what they couldn't buy! And - and where is Roy Wallace? Tell me that!"
Cardona stared at the agitated inventor, who was waving wild arms in the
center of the room.
"Who's this guy?" he demanded curtly. "What's he know about all this?"
"Sorry," Cranston murmured in a level voice. "I forgot to introduce him.
Mr. Edgar Pool, inventor of the Pooltex process. The stolen shipment came from
his factory in Massachusetts."
CHAPTER III
THE HAUNTED BALCONY
THE expression of surprise on Joe Cardona's face was only momentary.
Watching him keenly, Cranston felt admiration for the stocky detective's
self-control. Not a trace of his own personal grief at the death of his nephew
was now visible on Joe's countenance. He was all man hunter now, a trained
public servant intent on getting to the bottom of what he divined would be a
difficult crime to unravel.
How difficult and dangerous this Pooltex case was to prove, Joe as yet
had
no inkling. But The Shadow knew.
The Shadow sensed the presence of hidden criminal forces engaged in a
mighty conspiracy. Pool's fears and suspicions raised many questions. The
strange behavior of the elusive Roy Wallace raised others.
The Shadow possessed the first clue to the tangle in the shape of a
memorized taxicab number. He intended to act immediately on that knowledge.
But
he would have to act as The Shadow, not as the rich clubman, Lamont Cranston.
The Shadow was eager to take his departure. Yet he tarried a moment,
waited quietly while Cardona asked curt, searching questions and Edgar Pool
answered them. There was a possibility that the agitated inventor might
remember some fresh angle he had failed to disclose to Cranston in their
earlier conversation.
But the story Pool told differed only in its phrasing. The facts
concerning Wallace and the two warlike nations who were represented by agents
known only as Mr. East and Mr. West were the same.
When Pool had finished and Cardona stood frowning, digesting what he had
heard, Lamont Cranston smiled and shook hands with the stocky police official,
murmured something about a forgotten engagement.
In another moment Cranston was in the elevator dropping swiftly toward
the
street level. There was a large drug store on the corner and he entered the
place. He descended stairs to the lower level of the shop, where an entrance
connected it with the subway. There was a row of phone booths here.
The Shadow turned into one, dialed a number unrecorded in any phone book,
and waited. There was a brief pause. Then:
"Burbank speaking."
The clipped voice of The Shadow went into the transmitter under the
protection of his lightly cupped hand. It was a voice entirely different from
the cultivated drawl of Lamont Cranston. It carried in its tones urgency and
authority.
The listener at the other end of the wire was The Shadow's trusted
contact
man. He was available day or night for the receiving and transmission of
orders
摘要：

THEPOOLTEXTANGLEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"October1,1937.Anamazingtaleofcrimethatrunsfromrailroadstoships,fromfactorytopenthouse,fromsmalltowntothecapitalsoftheworld!CHAPTERICREATURESOFTHEMISTTHElateafternoonfogcurledsluggishlyacrosssaltmarshesthatskirtedtheunseenwaters...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 135 - The Pooltex Tangle.pdf

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