Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 119 - Loot Of Death

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LOOT OF DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," February 1, 1937.
The $1,000,000 robbery looked like a plain bank stick-up to the police -
but to The Shadow it was a Loot of Death.
CHAPTER I
CRIME GAINS A MILLION
THE Northwark National Bank occupied a corner of the ground floor in a
huge Manhattan skyscraper. The main entrance was on the east side of a busy
avenue; there was also a small entrance from the south side of a narrow cross
street on the upper side of the building.
Entering from that smaller doorway, a visitor gained the best view of the
banking floor. On his right lay offices and open space, that ran along the
front wall of the bank. This expanse was broken in the middle by the broad
passage that served as main entrance from the avenue.
On the visitor's left were the tellers' windows, that formed a long,
unbroken line. At the far wall - the south end of the banking room - was a
large doorway that led to the vaults.
There was one other feature of the banking floor. The open expanse at the
front was protected from intruders by small, railed spaces. Those spaces were
occupied by desks that served the cashier, his assistants, and minor officials
who did not rate private offices of their own.
C. Daniel Jennery, the cashier, had a desk in the space just outside the
president's office; but he was seldom at it. He left most of the detail work
to
his assistants, while he roamed between offices and tellers' windows.
Jennery was tall, stoop-shouldered, and crablike of gait; but he offset
his awkward appearance by the carefulness of his attire. He always wore
gray-striped trousers, with a black frock coat; and he sported a wing-tipped
collar with a fat, green four-in-hand necktie.
Jennery was about forty-five, but he looked older. His face was dryish
and
droopy; his long nose gave him a shrewd look. So did his eyes; they were
small,
but sharp. The only feature that offset Jennery's keenness was his
nervousness.
He had a habit of cocking his head to one side, shaking it slightly as he did.
His lips were apt to twitch when he spoke; and his eyes blinked when he looked
squarely at anyone.
Around the bank, he had gained the nickname of "Jittery Jennery," which
fitted him excellently.
The Northwark National remained open until nine o'clock on Friday
evenings; and during those special banking hours, Jennery was usually at his
desk. On this particular Friday, the cashier was seated where he belonged;
with
arms folded, he was looking at the big clock that registered half past eight,
when a man came through the railed enclosure and sat down beside the cashier's
desk.
Jennery snapped from his reverie and turned toward the visitor.
THE arrival was a blunt-faced man. His forehead was wide, his nose
flattish. His lower lip had a slight outward thrust above his straight chin.
The stranger's eyes looked friendly; but Jennery noted that they varied in
color. Both were bluish; but one had a distinct trace of spotty green that
showed only because the man happened to be facing a light.
"Where's your boss?" The blunt-faced man waved his left hand toward the
president's office. "Is he still in there?"
No," replied Jennery. "Mr. Leddison went home at five. However" - Jennery
pursed his lips importantly - "when the president is absent, I frequently
manage matters for him."
"You'll do, then." The blunt-faced man shifted his right side toward
Jennery. "I'll talk and you'll listen. First off, sit where you are and don't
make any funny moves! I've got a rod here, and it's poked straight for you!"
Jennery blinked. The stranger's right hand was in his pocket, and Jennery
could see the bulge of a revolver. Moreover, the man's unmatched eyes had
taken
on a glower that meant business. Jennery nodded his willingness to listen. He
cocked his head toward the visitor and gripped his desk with hands that
trembled.
"We know this joint is fixed in case of trouble," growled the man with
the
revolver. "Somewhere in back of those tellers' windows, you've got a guy who
can
shoot tear gas and spring an alarm with just one kick of his foot. Who is he?"
Jennery's reply was a negative head-shake.
"No stalling, mug!" The growled undertone was harsher than before.
"Listen! We've done some fixing here ourselves. That big chandelier that was
installed a month ago has got a load of TNT in it. There's a fellow outside,
ready to shoot the juice. If I go out of here disappointed, the whole place
will be blown blooey! I mean it!"
Jennery looked nervously toward the chandelier. His gaze dropped lower;
he
saw short lines of people at the tellers' windows. He quailed at thought of
wholesale death. Jennery knew that the chandelier could have been fixed. He
remembered that it had been installed at night, by a chance crew of workmen.
Those men could easily have been crooks.
"How about it?" Ugly eyes were glaring hard at Jennery. "Who's the
key-man
behind those windows?"
"Ralph Creeve," gulped Jennery. "He's the head teller. At window No. 3."
"All right. Call him out of there!"
Jennery arose shakily. Accompanied by the blunt-faced man, he left the
railed enclosure and approached the third teller's window. The man with the
gun
was at his elbow, half behind Jennery so that Creeve could not see the
pocketed
hand.
RALPH CREEVE was a husky chap of about thirty. His face, too, marked him
as a man who could be entrusted with important duty. Creeve was square-jawed
and quick-eyed. The big forehead beneath his sleek, black hair was an
indication that he might be a swift thinker. Creeve looked like the right man
for an emergency; but the situation that he faced was not a suspicious one.
Jennery, his ribs nudged by the gun muzzle, stepped in front of four
depositors at the window and requested: "Will you come with me a few minutes,
Creeve? I am going to the vault room."
Though Jennery gave a lip twitch as he spoke, Creeve did not seem to
notice it. Accustomed to Jennery's nervous manner, Creeve simply nodded. He
paid off a depositor; then closed his wicket and pointed the other customers
to
another window. Coming out from behind his cage, Creeve took a circuitous
route
and reached a gate near the doorway to the vault. Jennery and the stranger
were
there to meet him.
With that, quick action started.
The odd-eyed man sprang away from Jennery and Creeve. With a snarIed
signal, he whipped his revolver into view; used it to cover both Jennery and
Creeve.
The cashier cowered; the head teller made a motion as though to dash back
to his station, then halted as he realized that it would be useless.
Other tellers heard the snarl, looked from their windows in alarm. Some
reached for guns below their counters; one started toward Creeve's vacated
post. A watchman by the outer door was quick to draw a revolver; but all were
too late.
Three men, who were pretending to write out checks at a corner desk, had
swung about at the signal. All were drawing on improvised handkerchief masks.
Each flashed a revolver. They caught the tellers and the watchmen flat-footed;
had them covered before they could resist.
The tellers reached their hands upward and stood where they were. The
watchman let his gun crack the floor.
In from the long front passage piled four more marauders; they were
waiting lurkers, masked and ready with guns. While they covered the shrinking
depositors, their leader appeared from the side street. A squatty, heavy-built
ruffian, he showed a long chin beneath the handkerchief mask that he wore. He
held a gun in his fist.
The masked leader's stride was a swagger, as he marched the length of the
banking floor to join the blunt-faced man who held Jennery and Creeve at bay.
His long paces, though, were marked by a slight limp every time he thrust his
right foot forward.
"I'll take over." Backed by two masked followers, the leader gave that
announcement to the blunt-faced man. Then, to Jennery and Creeve, he rasped:
"The vault, you mugs! Lead the way! Snap to it! Hurry!"
NUDGED by revolvers, Jennery and Creeve hustled through the doorway and
stopped in front of the huge vault. The door was open. Turning, about, Jennery
spoke pleadingly: "There's no money in here. It's all with the tellers."
"Sure," added Creeve. "You'd better make your haul there."
The masked leader guffawed.
"Want me to pick up small change, don't you?" he demanded. "Ten grand, or
so, that you keep on tap for the customers who show up at night. You can have
that dough. I won't waste time with it!"
The rogue was rummaging through the big vault as he spoke. He came upon a
steel box, located near the back. Stepping out to cover Jennery and Creeve, he
motioned his pals toward the box. The armed pair lugged it from the vault;
dropped it upon the tiled floor. The box bore a label, marked: "Reserve."
"This is what we came for," sneered the masked leader. "Don't worry about
that lock, you guys. We'll crack it later. I know what's in it. Just to check
it, though" - he pulled a group of thin record books from a pigeonhole, threw
them aside until he found the one he wanted - "I'm taking this. Yeah. Here's
The dope. One million bucks reserve, with all the bills listed."
Shoving the record under his arm, the man thrust his chin forward, glared
through the slits of his mask toward Jennery and Creeve.
"Speak up, you lugs," he grated. "If there's a duplicate to this book,
who's got it?"
"I have," quavered Jennery. "In my desk drawer -"
The limpy crook chuckled his interruption. He started his men out to the
banking floor, the two henchmen carrying the steel box holding the million
dollars between them. Backing away, threatening with his gun, the masked
leader
added to Jennery and Creeve:
"Stay where you are, saps! Any funny business, I'll be back to clamp you
in the vault. I'm picking up that duplicate record book on my way out. There
goes your million bucks. Better blow kisses to it."
Turning, the leader took long, limping strides to overtake the men with
the box. Creeve gritted his teeth; he made a move as if to follow. Jennery
restrained him.
"Don't, Creeve!" gulped the cashier. "You can't stop them!"
Creeve halted; he saw that the cause was useless. Nevertheless, he
snapped
to Jennery:
"You're yellow! You let them start this. You topped it by spilling the
information about that duplicate record book."
"I had to," gasped Jennery. "It wasn't any threat against me alone, like
being locked in the vault. They've got this place wired, Creeve. Ready to
blast
it if they want to, after they leave. They'd do it, too, if we tried to delay
them."
Creeve's glare was one of doubt. Jennery added the details that the
blunt-faced man had told him regarding the chandelier. Creeve stared out into
the banking room. He could see the chandelier; beneath it, the masked leader
of
the bandit band, coming from Jennery's desk with the duplicate record book.
The
men with the box of reserve funds were heading outward.
"There goes a million dollars," groaned Creeve. "Taken from our very
hands! No one outside has guessed what's happening. No one can make a move to
stop the robbery."
Creeve's glum statement seemed true. Crooks had rendered all persons
helpless within the bank; they were operating so smoothly that even police
outside the bank would suspect nothing. Nevertheless, Creeve's conjecture was
wrong.
Crooks were to meet stern opposition, before they made their get-away
with
the million dollars from the vault of the Northwark National Bank.
CHAPTER II
CROOKS CHOOSE FLIGHT
OUTSIDE the Northwark National, all seemed serene. Men of crime were
depending upon that fact to make their get-away with ease. To produce absolute
security, they had taken special measures in connection with the robbery.
Two unmasked men were engaged in conversation near the main door of the
bank. They were lookouts, posted to watch for any chance persons who might
enter the bank and urge such arrivals into the trap. They were also on the job
to give the alarm in case of emergency.
Parked squarely in front of the avenue entrance to the bank was an
armored
car. It looked like a vehicle on hand to transfer funds from the Northwark
National to another bank. Actually, that truck belonged to the bank robbers.
They had it ready to carry away the pilfered million.
On the side street above the bank were two men who appeared to be
repairing an electric drill. There had been paving construction on that
street;
the pair looked like workmen. Actually, they were members of the gang; and
they
served a double purpose.
Not only were they watching the side entrance of the bank; their electric
drill was wired to an obscure plug at the base of the bank wall. The wire told
that the flat-faced man's threat to Jennery had not been a fake one. Crooks
actually had an electrical connection to a bomb-laden chandelier inside the
bank.
Near the pretended drill-repair men was a touring car, parked with its
nose toward the avenue. A driver, behind the wheel of the darkened car, was
ready to take aboard the watchful thugs and their equipment.
Half a block up the avenue was a parked coupe. It was unoccupied, but a
driver was just about to step into the car. He was the flat-faced man who had
intimidated Jennery. His job was done: he intended to clear the vicinity
before
the robber crew made its departure from the bank.
As the man stepped into his coupe, he was recognized. Eyes spied him from
the interior of a limousine that was rolling slowly southward on the avenue.
Those eyes belonged to a personage cloaked in black. The Shadow,
super-fighter who battled men of crime, had spotted a crook whose trail he had
been seeking. The Shadow recognized the flat-faced man as "Skibo" Hadlen, a
trouble-maker from New York's underworld.
Tonight, agents of The Shadow had observed Skibo near Times Square and
had
trailed him to this particular avenue. There they had lost him; but the word
had
gone to The Shadow. On the chance that Skibo might reappear, The Shadow was
cruising along the avenue, watching from the back seat of his big limousine.
THE SHADOW spoke through the speaking tube to the chauffeur. The big car
wheeled toward the curb on the right, paused until traffic lessened, then made
a U-turn to come around in back of Skibo's coupe.
During that half circuit, The Shadow forgot Skibo Hadlen.
The swing of the limousine gave The Shadow an excellent view of the front
entrance to the Northwark National Bank. Sight of the armored truck aroused
his
immediate suspicion.
Though the police might think that steel-clad vehicle belonged there, The
Shadow did not share that opinion. He knew that comparatively few large banks
stayed open during evening hours. Therefore, there was no good reason why the
Northwark National should be transferring funds.
Sight of the two lookouts gave The Shadow added suspicions. His thoughts
jumping ahead, he sped a glance toward the side street. There, he saw the two
men faking the repair job on the electric drill; he spotted the waiting
touring
car near them.
Another command to the chauffeur. The limousine halted just above the
corner of the side street. The rear door opened, The Shadow stepped forth. In
crouched position, he covered the space between the curb and the darkened wall
of a building.
He paused at his new vantage point; he saw Skibo's coupe speed away. The
limousine also rolled northward; but it was merely leaving this area, in
accordance with The Shadow's final instruction.
Lone-handed, The Shadow was faring forth to counter crime. With darkness
as his shrouding cover, he took the most advantageous route. He went directly
toward the spot where the outside crooks were stationed with their silent
electric drills.
The huddled pair were listening to the man in the touring car. The
thuggish driver was looking through the side door of the bank, reporting what
he saw.
"There's Turk Dorth," he informed, in an undertone. He was referring to
the masked leader of the bank-robbing crew. "Turk's pointing two of the outfit
through the front. They're lugging a steel box. Turk's got the million he was
after!"
A pause, as the crook craned his neck to get another view of the squatty,
limping leader.
"Ready with the switch!" The watcher gave the order eagerly. "Turk's
flashed the word. He's going to blow the joint! Hold it, until we see the
armored car go by. Then hop in the car -"
THERE was a thud from the paving beside the electric drill. The thug in
the car heard it. He peered out, to see one of his pals sprawled senseless.
Above the disabled rowdy was a figure of blackness: a gloved hand held an
automatic. The Shadow had sledged the first man he had reached.
The crook in the car gave a warning yell. The other rowdy heard it too
late. The Shadow was upon him, dragging him from his place beside the drill.
Again, a long arm stroked downward.
The second man was lucky enough to ward off the blow. He was husky; he
grappled to restrain The Shadow's gun arm. The fellow in the car came out with
a revolver, tried to get an aim toward The Shadow. It was impossible to pick
out the black-clad fighter during that struggle on the paving. While the crook
in the car was still making up his mind, The Shadow began to shoot.
Tongues spat from the automatic, as The Shadow propped it on the swaying
shoulder of the crook who grappled him. Though aim was difficult, The Shadow
managed to fire toward the front seat of the touring car. His bullets whistled
past the ear of the frenzied driver. The fellow did a dive out the other side.
He came up over the hood, near the radiator.
He saw his pal flatten, dropping from The Shadow's clutch. Wheeling, The
Shadow stabbed shots along the hood of the touring car, guessing that his last
adversary would be there.
The driver took to his heels. All that he wanted was to escape.
The Shadow let him go. There was bigger game for the black-garbed figure
to tackle.
Springing across the street, The Shadow whipped the end of the drill wire
from its socket in the bank wall. He gripped the muzzle of his automatic and
swung the handle like a mallet, to ruin the plug at the wire's end. That
finished all chances of an explosion inside the bank. With the electrical
connection ended, the switch on the drill was useless.
THE SHADOW whipped out a fresh weapon. Whirling toward the street, he
stabbed two shots from darkness, to stop a pair of masked marauders who were
coming out by the side door.
One crook staggered. The other dragged him back into the bank, to haul
him
toward the front door, through which the rest had gone.
Rounding the corner of the bank building, The Shadow opened fire toward
the front door. Crooks had arrived there; they were piling the steel box
aboard
the armored car. Sounds of gunfire had hurried their get-away. "Turk," the
masked leader, was looking toward the corner, expecting trouble from that
direction.
Turk saw The Shadow. He whipped off his mask to take better aim. His
right
forefinger jerked his revolver trigger.
Turk's aim was hasty. His nervous bullet ricocheted from the granite
corner above The Shadow's head. That pot shot, however, was not a useless one.
It accomplished the exact result that Turk wanted. It made his followers halt
to open fire.
Five men sprang to the attack, aiming as they came. Some were still
masked; others, like Turk, had ripped off their handkerchiefs. With that surge
came the two lookouts who had been stationed near the armored truck. All seven
saw The Shadow; but none was prepared for the speedy move he made.
The Shadow did a quick dive back behind the corner. He hooked the stone
building edge with the side of his gun. Simultaneously, he began his fire,
wavering the gun back and forth as he loosed the steady volley.
Crooks returned a useless barrage. Their only target was a flame-spouting
gun muzzle that projected from the building corner.
The thugs, themselves, were clustered in the open. They tasted the
bullets
that came in their direction. Though The Shadow's fire was blind, his shots
were
calculated. Sizzling slugs clipped the foremost attackers and sent them
sprawling. The others scattered; dashed pell-mell for the armored truck.
Its safety was denied them. Turk Dorth had jumped aboard. The door
clanged
shut as the leader gave the order for the get-away. The truck's motor roared;
the heavy vehicle started up the avenue.
Turk had betrayed those members of his squad; but most of them forgot the
fact when they saw a machine-gun's muzzle poke from a loophole in the truck's
armored side. The big truck was rolling for the corner. The machine gun began
its withering clatter. Deserted crooks thought that Turk's measure was
intended
solely for their rescue.
The truck slowed as it reached the side street. The machine gun swung
back
and forth, ripping its hail of bullets on a low, wide line from one side of
the
street to the other. The Shadow had heard the truck's approach; he was gone
from his spot of ambush, into the cover of darkness.
The spread of the machine-gun fire was sufficient, though, to reach any
spot where he might be. Confident that The Shadow had fallen, Turk gave the
order for the truck to speed away. It rumbled northward on the avenue.
SILENCE lay complete in the side street, as soon as the machine-gun's
echoes faded. The bullet-riddled bodies lay beside the demolished electric
drill. They were the corpses of the men whom The Shadow had met in
hand-to-hand
combat, slugging one and wounding the other with a gunshot.
The Shadow had left those thugs alive but helpless. What had killed them
was the hail of the machine gun. Turk Dorth, shooting from the confines of the
armored truck, had not guessed that two of his men were lying in the street.
Turk had spied the touring car, twenty feet beyond the crippled pair. He
had supposed that the two men were in it, with the driver, ready to take
flight
when the armored truck had passed. On that account, Turk had kept his spray of
bullets just short of the parked touring car.
Through that policy, Turk had served The Shadow. The cloaked fighter had
foreseen the bank robber's action. The Shadow had chosen the one place that he
knew would remain secure. He was in the touring car. He had reached its front
seat just as the machine-gun barrage began.
Unscathed, The Shadow was ready for pursuit behind the wheel of a
captured
automobile. Crooks were to have further opposition, before they entered the
clear with their ill-gotten million.
CHAPTER III
THE LAW'S MISTAKE
WHEN The Shadow nosed the touring car from the side street, commotion had
begun along the avenue. Police whistles were blowing; sirens were whining the
arrival of the law.
Two cars sped in from a street below. Both were sedans; they looked like
police-manned chasers. But when they halted, the remaining crooks leaped
aboard. The sedans started up the avenue, carrying away the remnants of Turk's
band. It was then that the chase began in earnest. Police cars picked up speed
to race beside the sedans. Shots were exchanged between the rapid-moving cars.
Far ahead, the armored truck was clearing traffic. Automobiles and pedestrians
had time to seek shelter before the pursuing avalanche arrived.
Midway between the armored truck and the pursuing cars was The Shadow. He
had swung in ahead of the police cars; he was pacing them as they kept up
their
running fight. He found the borrowed touring car to be a fast one.
The police chase ended after a dozen blocks. One police car went to the
curb, disabled. Another cut in front of a crook-manned sedan, which promptly
took to a side street, leaving the patrol car stranded. As the police wheeled
about to take after the escaping thugs, the other sedan took a side street in
the opposite direction.
The armored car was forgotten. It had outdistanced all pursuers except
The
Shadow. Soon, the truck swung eastward along a crosstown street. When the
truck
reached an East Side avenue and started north beneath the elevated pillars,
The
Shadow brought the touring car almost up to it.
Previously, Turk and the crooks in the armored car had supposed that the
touring car contained their own men. They still thought so, for The Shadow had
not opened fire during the chase.
As he came alongside the truck, The Shadow saw an idle machine gun
looming
from a loophole on the left. Holding even with the truck, he raised an
automatic
and stabbed shots straight for the loophole. The machine gun was put out of
commission.
The driver of the steel-clad wagon swung obliquely to the left, hoping to
crowd the touring car against the "el" pillars.
The touring car literally launched itself forward, as The Shadow pressed
the accelerator to the floorboards.
Whisperlike, the light car forged ahead before the truck could pinch it
against the pillar.
Seeing a side street, the driver took the left turn, trying to give The
Shadow the slip before he could turn the touring car around. The truck tilted
badly as it made the swing, then came level as all four wheels hit the asphalt
of the side street. Regaining the clear, the truck started westward.
The Shadow completed a U turn and came back to the corner, ready to renew
the chase. Before he could take up the truck's trail, luck went completely
against him.
Police radio cars whined up to the corner. The call had gone out over the
air. One cut in to block The Shadow's path; another cut across the avenue to
make a broadside barrier if he headed south. Submachine guns clattered like
riveters. Instead of training in the direction of the armored car, they were
swinging for The Shadow!
The patrol cars had received the order to follow an armored truck.
Witnessing the battle between the steel wagon and the rakish touring car, they
had supposed that The Shadow's vehicle was the one the law wanted.
THERE was no time for explanations nor was there any chance for The
Shadow
to speed after Turk Dorth. His only course was to speed away in the few
seconds
that would elapse before the drilling police fire withered the touring car.
Midway in the crossing, The Shadow wheeled his car in a bewildering
circle
that took him past the elevated pillars. He was in and out, round and about,
heading up the avenue again, before the path of gunfire reached him.
A new chase began. The police cars were hot on The Shadow's trail. They
saw the touring car weave in and out among the elevated pillars. Streams of
bullets were always belated, clanging posts just after the touring car had
passed them.
Four blocks up, The Shadow saw a blockade of stalled traffic, He
performed
a bold left turn and cut squarely across the path of the police cars, at the
moment when the officers were forced to suspend their fire for fear of
riddling
the helpless traffic ahead.
Speeding westward, outdistancing the patrol cars, The Shadow hoped to
pick
up again the trail of the armored truck. He swung south on Lexington Avenue,
somewhere in the Sixties; but saw no sign of the truck as he cruised along.
There were police cars, though, and they gave sudden challenge. The touring
car
was marked.
Again, The Shadow sped away as cars pursued. It took him twenty blocks to
zigzag out of difficulty. At last, he doubled on his course, turned up a quiet
avenue and swung right into a side street. He turned off the ignition, leaped
from the halted car and took quick strides back to the corner.
When he appeared in the light of the avenue, The Shadow was carrying his
cloak and hat, bundled with his automatics, across his left arm.
He stopped by a parked limousine, silently opened the door and tossed the
bundle into the rear seat. Without disturbing the chauffeur, The Shadow closed
the door and strolled across the avenue. He came beneath the lighted area of a
marquee, where a doorman was showing a taxicab to a parking space.
The Shadow was at the entrance to the Cobalt Club. Posing as Lamont
Cranston, globe-trotting millionaire, he passed as a member of that club. His
black garb discarded, The Shadow was in the guise of Cranston. He was attired
in evening clothes; his face was calm and impassive, hawkish in appearance and
masklike in mold.
STOPPING at the doorway of the club, The Shadow paused to light a
cigarette. He looked up as a flurry of police cars wailed past. He watched
them
turn into the side street, to discover the abandoned touring car. Soon,
policemen appeared on the avenue.
One officer questioned the chauffeur of the big limousine; another came
over and talked to the Cobalt Club doorman, who shook his head. He had not
seen
fugitives who looked like thugs, racing away on foot.
All the while, The Shadow idled at the doorway, puffing his cigarette in
the leisurely fashion of Cranston. He had almost completed his smoke when the
doorman happened to look in his direction. Thinking that The Shadow had just
come from inside the club, the doorman became apologetic.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cranston," he said. "The police were
questioning me about some bandits who abandoned a car near here. I shall
summon
your limousine immediately, Mr. Cranston."
The doorman blew his whistle and waved. The chauffeur brought the big
limousine from across the street. It was the same car that The Shadow had
deserted near the Northwark National Bank. He had ordered the chauffeur to
bring the machine back to the Cobalt Club.
Flicking away the remainder of the cigarette, The Shadow stepped into the
limousine. He spoke through the speaking tube in a quiet, even tone that he
used as Cranston:
"Nothing more, Stanley. Drive home to New Jersey."
The limousine went southward. It took the avenue that it had used before.
Soon, it rolled past the front of the Northwark National Bank, where a whole
squad of bluecoats and plainclothes men were in evidence.
Among the throng, The Shadow recognized a swarthy, stockily built man
from
headquarters. He was Inspector Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force.
Cardona
had taken charge of the robbery investigation.
A low-toned laugh throbbed through the interior of the limousine, as the
smooth-riding car neared the Holland Tunnel. Solemn in tone, that laugh
carried
prophecy more than mirth. It was The Shadow's summary of the past, coupled
with
his forecast of the future.
Like Skibo Hadlen, Turk Dorth had made a get-away, despite The Shadow.
The
blame was not The Shadow's. He had let Skibo go; and the law's mistaken action
had permitted Turk's escape. Nevertheless, Turk Dorth was at large, with a
million dollars as his trophy of a hard night's work.
A new game confronted The Shadow. It would be his job to reclaim the
vanished million, looted from the vault of the Northwark National. Though he
regretted the loss of the funds, he looked forward to the task that confronted
him.
Crooks would find it difficult to cash that million dollars. There might
be clues by which The Shadow could find their trail before they completed a
division of the spoils. The Shadow was ready to undertake the trail of wealth.
Yet even The Shadow, as he visioned the future, did not foresee the
strange angles that would develop before he could locate the million dollars
that was the rightful property of the Northwark National Bank.
CHAPTER IV
NEWS FOR THE SHADOW
THE next day's newspapers carried screaming accounts of the robbery at
the
Northwark National. The crime had far eclipsed all previous operations in
Manhattan. Not only had crooks bagged a million dollars in one quick swoop;
the
completeness of their method exceeded those of any other robbery.
Daniel Jennery had given the law a verbatim account of his conversation
with Skibo Hadlen. With tender care, the police had removed the huge
chandelier
from the center of the big banking room. They had found that it contained a
bomb
big enough to blast the whole banking floor and shake the skyscraper on its
moorings. They had discovered a special wiring, capable of setting off the
charge.
The wires led through to the outer wall of the bank - to the socket from
which The Shadow had wrenched the plug. The electric drill, fitted with a
switch to shoot electricity through to the chandelier, was proof that crooks
were prepared to make good their threat.
Ralph Creeve corroborated all of Jennery's statements that pertained to
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LOOTOFDEATHbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"February1,1937.The$1,000,000robberylookedlikeaplainbankstick-uptothepolice-buttoTheShadowitwasaLootofDeath.CHAPTERICRIMEGAINSAMILLIONTHENorthwarkNationalBankoccupiedacornerofthegroundfloorinahugeManhattanskyscraper.Themainentrancewa...

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