Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 104 - Murder Town

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MURDER TOWN
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE HUSH OF DOOM
? CHAPTER II. THE D.A. DECIDES
? CHAPTER III. NEW DEATH STRIKES
? CHAPTER IV. THROUGH THE RAIN
? CHAPTER V. TRAILS PART
? CHAPTER VI. WORD DELAYED
? CHAPTER VII. LINKS TO CRIME
? CHAPTER VIII. WORD FROM THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER IX. THE GREEN CAMEO
? CHAPTER X. THE WRONG TRAIL
? CHAPTER XI. THE FULL REPORT
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S CLUES
? CHAPTER XIII. TRAILS ARE CROSSED
? CHAPTER XIV. AGENTS ARE ALERT
? CHAPTER XV. THE STAGE SET
? CHAPTER XVI. A VIGIL ENDS
? CHAPTER XVII. THRUSTS FROM THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XVIII. TRAILS CONVERGE
? CHAPTER XIX. A MURDERER SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XX. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
CHAPTER I. THE HUSH OF DOOM
AN evening throng had filled the pretentious lobby of the Ontranta Hotel. Handshaking,
shoulder-clapping men were everywhere. The big badges that they wore proclaimed them as members of
the Dynamo Club. This was the first night of the organization's State convention. The little city of Ontranta
was host to the out-of-town delegates; and the Ontranta Hotel was serving as convention headquarters.
Two men had stopped at a corner desk, to obtain their badges. Each noted the other; they shook hands.
Both were members of the local Dynamo. One had donned a badge that proclaimed him as "Lynn
Galbray, Realtor." The other's badge identified him as "Josiah Dunlon, Jeweler."
Galbray was a tall, round-featured man whose face carried a perpetual smile. He had an air of affability
that was something of a surface trend. It was good business for Galbray to be a greeter. It helped him sell
real estate; and he thrived on social contacts.
Dunlon, like Galbray, was a man in his forties; but he looked older. His face was serious, his smile slow
and only occasional. Though almost as tall as Galbray, Dunlon looked shorter because of his slight stoop.
His features were long and triangular, from wide forehead down to pointed chin.
"Hello, Dunlon," greeted Galbray. "Glad to see you. Coming up to the penthouse with me?
"To the penthouse?" queried Dunlon. "I thought the banquet was to be held on the twelfth floor?"
"So it is," returned Galbray, "but Rufe Rokestone is having all the local members up to his place
beforehand."
The two men entered an elevator. As the owner and manager of the Ontranta Hotel, Rokestone had
added the thirteenth-story penthouse as his own abode.
The elevator reached the top. Galbray and Dunlon crossed the hall and entered an open door, emerged
into a large living room where a dozen men were gathered.
RUFE ROKESTONE, tall and tuxedo-clad, was chatting with his guests. Dark-visaged, furrowed of
forehead, Rokestone seemed to be a man whose mind was troubled. He gave a friendly nod to the new
arrivals.
"Hello, Lynn," greeted Rokestone, cheerily. Then, a bit more formally, "Mighty glad to see you here, Mr.
Dunlon. By the way"—he turned about, to introduce a gray-haired companion—"have you met Purvis
Arnledge?"
"Yes," acknowledged Dunlon, with a smile. He shook hands with Arnledge. "But I haven't seen him
often. You don't spend a great deal of time in Ontranta, do you, Mr. Arnledge?"
"Why should I?" rumbled Arnledge. He was a big, booming sort of man, who smiled with a down-turn of
his lips. "I have no business here, since I sold out my factory and traction holdings to Craydon Throy. By
the way, Rokestone"— Arnledge swung to the hotel man— "where is our friend Throy, the King Midas
of Ontranta, the man at whose touch all turns to gold? Has he become too self-important to attend the
meeting of the Dynamo Club?"
"I expect him shortly," returned Rokestone. "He is still a member of the Dynamo. A life member, in fact.
By the way, Arnledge—there is something I want to speak to you about. Pardon us, please."
Rokestone's tone was nervous. Galbray and Dunlon nodded their acceptance of the apology. As
Rokestone drew away, Arnledge paused long enough to light a cigar. For this purpose, he used an
initialed cigarette lighter that he drew from his pocket.
"See both of you later," said Arnledge, to Galbray and Dunlon. "But remember, Lynn—don't let Craydon
Throy talk you into selling out your subdivision. There's money in Grayminster."
ARNLEDGE turned to join Rokestone. At that moment, a frail, weary-looking man stepped up and
smiled wanly as he thrust out a hand to Dunlon, then to Galbray. His badge proclaimed him as "James
Kedley, Editor."
"Thought I'd take the evening off," remarked Kedley. "I usually write my editorials at night; but this time I
can wait until the morning. I may gain some inspiration from the Dynamo banquet. Well, gentlemen, I
want to thank both of you for the fine advertising support that you have given to the Evening Messenger."
"You are the one who deserves the thanks, Jim," returned Galbray, promptly. "We get results from our
advertisements. At least, I do. How about you, Dunlon?"
"I find it a good advertising medium," nodded the jeweler. "Frankly, the Evening Messenger is far
superior to the Morning Clarion."
"Why shouldn't it be?" snorted Kedley. "Craydon Throy may have money, but he doesn't know the
newspaper game. He has turned the Clarion into a shopping news. He won't get bona fide advertising
until he has no competition, which is something he will always be up against, so long as I run the
Messenger."
"Which will be for a long time, I hope," inserted Galbray, cheerfully. "Longer perhaps than you will
control Grayminster," returned Kedley. "Throy is after that subdivision of yours, Galbray, and Throy has
a way of getting what he wants. He's been trying to get stockholders to sell him the Messenger, too, but
-"
"Throy will never buy Grayminster," interjected Galbray, impatiently. Galbray's voice was loud enough to
reach Rokestone and Arnledge, who were not far away. Kedley watched Galbray stroll off to greet
newcomers. Nodding his approval, the editor turned to Dunlon. He saw that the jeweler's face was
sober.
"You've been in town long enough," stated Kedley. "You can understand it, Dunlon. Throy is an octopus.
He reaches everywhere, to snag all that he can get. Legitimately, of course; yet I'm not so sure that his
past is flawless. Not so sure."
Quietly, Kedley delivered a sarcastic chuckle, then added:
"You've only had your jewelry business six months, Dunlon. You bought it after old Thadwaller had died
and the store was run down. But you're prospering; and you'll be getting a persuasive bid from Throy.
Like Rokestone, for this hotel; like Galbray, for Grayminster; like myself, for the Messenger.
Off beyond Dunlon were Rokestone and Arnledge. They had seated themselves in easy-chairs and were
engaged in a discussion. Kedley, looking in their direction, could hear snatches of their conversation,
while Dunlon was nodding to Kedley's statement.
ROKESTONE had reached an important point at the time when Kedley noticed him. The hotel man had
seen Galbray stroll away; on that account, he was starting to make mention of the realtor's name.
"I'm worried about Galbray," confided Rokestone, to Arnledge. "He knows that Throy wants the
Grayminster development. Galbray doesn't want to sell out; but he's afraid that Throy may force him to it.
So, to keep in right with Throy, he might sell him the property across the street from this hotel."
"Which would work against you," nodded Arnledge, shrewdly. "Because then Throy would have the site
for a rival hotel."
"I know it. That is why I must raise thirty thousand dollars, to buy the property before Throy goes after it.
Can you arrange the loan, Arnledge? You still have a strong connection with the Ontranta National
Bank."
"How soon would you need the money?"
"At once. Throy wrote me a final letter. Practically a threat. I scrawled my reply across the face of it,
telling him to do his worst. But I didn't have the nerve to slap it back at him until I talked with you about
the thirty thousand dollars."
"I can assure you of the loan."
"Great! Thanks immensely, Arnledge. I hoped that I could count upon you. Let me show you Throy's
letter, with my reply -"
Rokestone paused suddenly as he was drawing a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He thrust the
letter out of sight. Arnledge followed his gaze toward the door of the room.
A TALL, dignified man had entered there.
Bald, save for thin side patches of faded hair, he looked like a fierce gray eagle in search of prey. Stern
eyes were staring through high-rimmed spectacles. The arrival was Craydon Throy.
"I'll talk to you later," remarked Rokestone to Arnledge. "It will be policy for me to put up a front with
Throy."
Rising, the hotel man advanced and shook hands with the gray-haired arrival. He introduced Throy about
the circle. Every one present had met Throy.
While various club members were delivering flattering remarks to Ontranta's wealthiest citizen, a waiter
appeared at the door to announce that the banquet room was open. The magnate paused a moment at
the threshold; there, he spoke with Rufus Rokestone.
"You received my letter?" quizzed Throy, harshly.
"I have the letter here," returned Rokestone, drawing the paper half from his pocket. "My reply is already
written upon it. You will receive it in the morning, Mr. Rokestone."
"I shall appreciate it. Particularly because I can guess that it is negative."
"You have guessed correctly, Mr. Throy."
A hard smile formed on Throy's lips as he heard Rokestone's final statement. Without another word,
Throy turned about and went from the penthouse. Rokestone stood rigid; then, with a grim smile, he
closed the door and walked back into the living room. He sat down to puff a cigarette.
OUT in the anteroom, a side door opened slowly. An ugly, leering face peered forth. It was that of the
waiter who had come to announce the opening of the banquet room. The fellow had looked passable
when he had first appeared. No one had noticed that he had performed a sidestep into the anteroom.
There was another man hiding within the little room that led off from the anteroom. The peering waiter
slid back into cover and whispered to his companion. Apparently, the other had been here for some time.
"Rokestone's alone, Sinker," informed the waiter. "The chief has gone out. Whadda we do next?"
"We stick here, Riff," growled "Sinker." "The chief may need us. Everything all right for our get-away?"
"Sure. It's a cinch! All we've got to do is cut in through the service door past the banquet room, then
down the fire tower -"
"Shh! Hold it, Riff!"
Rokestone was moving about. He had finished his cigarette. The lurking rogues heard the hotel man
clicking light switches. Gloom settled through the penthouse, except for the single lamp in the anteroom.
The hotel man reached the anteroom. He pulled the cord of the floor lamp. Amid total darkness, he
moved to the door.
A click as Rokestone turned the knob. A slight puff of air as he pulled the door open. Then a puzzled
exclamation came from the hotel man's lips. The outer hallway was in darkness. Some one had
extinguished its wall light.
Rokestone's interjection was an unfortunate one. It was in his normal tone; a sure give-away of his
identity. The event that followed showed the reason why the hallway lights were out. Some one was
awaiting Rokestone's exit from the penthouse.
A startled gasp came from Rokestone as an attacker pitched upon him. A snarl from the hotel man's foe,
as the two locked in the darkness. Hands must have gripped Rokestone's throat, for the next gasp that he
uttered was a choked one.
Figures thumped against the wall. Then came a hard, resounding crack that meant metal driven against a
human skull. A body thudded to the floor.
Then came a harsh whisper in the darkness. Sinker responded:
"Chief!"
An evil chortle in the gloom. Sinker nudged Riff. Together, they advanced from their doorway. They
stumbled over Rokestone's body. Together, they gathered up the crumpled form. A harsh voice
commanded them to wait. A hand fumbled at Rokestone's inside pocket. Paper crinkled in the darkness.
A low, ugly voice buzzed in Sinker's ear.
"All right, chief," chuckled Sinker. "Leave it to me and Riff. If we don't come back, you'll know the coast
is clear."
There was work before departure, a task that both Sinker and Riff understood. Together, the two lurkers
were dragging Rokestone's body into the living room. Waiting in the anteroom, their evil chief heard the
upward sliding of a window sash, the sounds of scraping by the window sill.
Then came hurried, tiptoed footsteps, as Sinker and Riff returned. The two thugs found their way out
through the open door. Their footsteps faded through the hallway and down the stairs to the twelfth floor.
The lingering chief chuckled gloatingly. His turn to follow would come soon.
The hush of gloom had fallen through Rufe Rokestone's penthouse. Death had been delivered in the dark.
CHAPTER II. THE D.A. DECIDES
OUT-OF-TOWN delegates had been assembling outside the twelfth-floor banquet rooms when Riff had
gone up to make his announcement in the penthouse.
All this had thinned out rapidly. By the time that Sinker and Riff had come down the stairs from the
penthouse, the space by the elevators had cleared. The thugs lost no time in sneaking out.
The banquet had been delayed; hence there were no late arrivals, for all had been in the lobby. Thus
minutes passed during which few elevators came to the twelfth floor. An interval that was destined to
cause later speculation. An interval that came to an abrupt ending when an elevator delivered a stocky,
heavy-browed man at the twelfth floor. The elevator operator was speaking as the arrival stepped forth
from the car. "Mr. Rokestone may still be in the penthouse," the operator was saying. "I'd advise you to
look for him there, Mr. Fleed. I can take you up -"
"Never mind. I'll use the stairs." The elevator door clanged shut. Briskly, importantly, Fleed neared the
stairs. He stopped short as he saw a man's figure come partly in view, then turn about to ascend the
steps.
"Rokestone?" demanded Fleed. "Is that you, Rokestone?"
The man reappeared suddenly. Instead of the dark features of Rokestone, Fleed eyed the overlarge face
of Purvis Arnledge.
"Hello, Fleed," Arnledge greeted the district attorney, in a tone of half surprise. "Are you looking for
Rokestone?"
"Yes. Is he in the penthouse?"
"I couldn't say for sure. I haven't been up there. I was one of the first to come down. Right now, I'm
looking for a match, so that I can go upstairs and find the light switch. Some dub turned out the light in
the upper hall. This makes a problem for you, Fleed."
"I'm in no mood for banter," argued Fleed. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket. "I'll find the light switch.
Come along with me. But if you want to talk to Rokestone, make it brief. I have important business with
him."
"I won't be long," assured Arnledge. "I left something up in the penthouse. I was on my way up to find it."
THIS conversation was taking place while Fleed and Arnledge ascended the stairs, the D.A. leading with
his flashlight. It was not until they reached the top that the rays disclosed a brass switch plate in the wall.
Fleed pressed the light switch. The hallway filled with a mellow glow. Fleed found the penthouse door
unlatched. He opened it and saw the floor lamp in the anteroom. He entered and pulled the cord.
Arnledge strolled past, to look for the living-room light switch.
"I guess Rokestone has gone downstairs," remarked Arnledge. "Well, Fleed, if you will wait a few
minutes. I can go down with you -"
"Wait a moment," Fleed interrupted. Stepping into the living room, he found the light switch for which
Arnledge was searching. The D.A. pressed it, and looked across the room. "Ah! There it is—an open
window. I felt the breeze the moment I stepped in."
"What of it?" queried Arnledge.
"Look at the drizzle sweeping in," retorted Fleed. "What fool would raise a window wide open, with a
storm coming up."
"Maybe Rokestone did not know it. The place was stuffy."
"Perhaps there may be a more important reason. Rokestone seemed mighty anxious to talk to me about
something."
Fleed strode toward the window, thrust his large head outward and peered downward. Suddenly, he
wheeled about and looked for Arnledge. The gray-haired man was fishing beside the cushion of a chair.
He looked up as Fleed turned.
"I have it," chuckled Arnledge. He raised his hand and exhibited a small cigarette lighter. "I thought that I
had probably dropped it here. Well, Fleed, shall we shut the window and go down?"
"No," returned the D.A. "Come over to the window, Arnledge. I want you to look down and tell me
what you see on the white roof of the old garage."
Arnledge complied. He thrust his head from the window, craned his neck and stared. Finally, he pulled
back from the window and drew out a handkerchief to mop the drizzle from his face.
"I saw something blackish," he admitted.
"Did it look like a body—the body of a human being?"
"My word, Fleed!" Arnledge paused. "You—you don't think that it could be Rokestone?"
"That's what I'm going to find out!" As he made the firm declaration, Fleed reached for a telephone. He
put in a call to the desk, identified himself, and ordered both elevators and the house detective to the top
floor.
WHEN the elevators arrived, Fleed and Arnledge were awaiting them. Quickly, the D.A. made query of
the operators, while the house dick stood puzzled.
"Who was the last person to go down from here, within the last half an hour? And from the banquet
floor?"
Both operators shook their heads. One acted as spokesman:
"Only Mr. Throy," replied one operator. "I took him down just a little while before I brought you up to
the twelfth floor, Mr. Fleed. He's in the lobby now—making a long-distance call."
"Throy rang for you to come up?"
"No. I just happened to come up. Mr. Throy was by the door of the banquet room when he heard me
open the elevator door. He sort of looked like he was going in there; then he changed his mind and came
down with me. Asked about the telephones on the way."
"That's enough," decided Fleed.
Fleed turned to the house detective. "You and one operator stay here. Do not let any one in or out of the
penthouse until I return. Come, Arnledge." Entering the elevator, the pair descended. They made an
express trip to the lobby. As the operator opened the door, a fuming man stepped forward, about to
enter the car. It was Throy.
"Why the delay?" snapped the magnate. "I've been -"
Throy interrupted himself. He stepped back, staring in surprise as he saw Fleed and Arnledge. The
solemnity of their faces impressed Throy instantly.
"Good evening, Mr. Throy," said the D.A., brusquely. "Can you come along with us for a few minutes?"
For a moment, Throy seemed ready to deliver an objection. Then, nodding, he decided to comply with
the request. Fleed led the way rapidly, up a flight of stairs to the hotel balcony. He entered a deserted
reception room and flung open a pair of French windows. His flashlight flickered upon the roof of the old
garage.
FLEED had guessed the spot almost exactly. The rays of his flashlight settled upon the very edge of the
garage roof.
There, sprawled crazily in death, lay the body of a man. A head was twisted above the front of a tuxedo.
Though bashed, the bloodstained face was recognizable. Craydon Throy, staring, was the first to gulp the
name:
"Rufe Rokestone!"
The district attorney turned about and nodded. He motioned the other two men away from the windows.
Rokestone was dead; of that, Fleed was sure. The D.A. intended an investigation before he removed the
body. They reached the elevators, to find James Kedley awaiting them. The editor had apparently
learned something from the house detective, and had come down alone.
"Rokestone is dead?" inquired Kedley, anxiously.
"Yes," replied the D.A., as they entered the elevator. Then, to the operator: "Take us up to the twelfth
floor." They neared their destination in silence. Just before the car stopped, Arnledge put a sudden
question to Fleed.
"Just why did you come here to see Rokestone?"
The D.A. looked sharply at his questioner.
"Because," he said, "Rokestone called me. He said that he had received some sort of communication
which might be regarded as a threat."
The car had stopped. The door was opening when Arnledge made another comment to Throy.
"Rather odd," remarked Arnledge. "Rokestone spoke to me about a letter from Throy that he had in his
pocket. In fact, he was about to show it to me, but changed his mind."
"Rokestone and I had some correspondence," retorted Throy, with a glare. "But none of it was recent. It
concerned business only."
They were now in the hallway. Kedley caught a nod from Fleed. It meant to remain with Throy and
Arnledge. The D.A. stepped back into the elevator and ordered the operator to take him to the
mezzanine. From this short route, the D.A. hastened to the garage roof. He found Rokestone's body
undisturbed. He began an examination of the dead man's pockets.
WHEN Fleed again arrived on the twelfth floor, he found a group there. Members of the local Dynamo
Club had been quietly informed of Rokestone's death. Galbray, the realtor, was with Dunlon, the jeweler.
The two were talking to James Kedley.
Both Arnledge and Throy were silent. Their mutual dislike was apparent. Arnledge's remark about the
letter had fanned the flames of an old feud. Both men swung about when Fleed arrived, for each had
guessed where the D.A. had gone.
"I looked for the letter," declared the D.A. "I did not find it in Rokestone's pocket."
Arnledge's large face straightened. It showed no downward curve to indicate a smile. Chagrin was the
one expression that he registered.
The flicker of a smile showed upon the rugged lips of Throy's square-jawed countenance. His faint smile
was indication that he relished the fact that Arnledge's statement had been disproven.
Both Galbray and Dunlon looked puzzled when they heard Fleed's statement. Apparently, Kedley had
not told them about Arnledge's mention of Throy's letter. Tactfully, Kedley introduced himself into the
emergency. He spoke to Fleed.
"What next, Stephen?" inquired the editor. "There were about a dozen of us up in the penthouse. All
talked to Rokestone. Perhaps they could give you some opinions?"
"I intend to hear them," asserted the D.A., promptly. "I want statements from all who were in the
penthouse. We shall meet up there at once."
LYNN GALBRAY motioned to the others. They began to file toward the stairs. Only Stephen Fleed
remained, beside James Kedley. The district attorney's face was hardened. Kedley noted the furrows
above his heavy brows.
"You'll find the answer, Steve," assured the editor. "Rokestone was worried; still there may be other
reasons for his suicide."
"Other reasons, yes," returned the D.A., soberly. "But not for suicide, Jim. He was murdered!"
Turning about, Fleed beckoned for Kedley to follow him to the penthouse. For a moment, however, the
editor stood motionless. A keen expression came upon his face—one that might have signified the
confirmation of a suspicion; the dawning of an idea.
Whatever Kedley's thoughts, the editor did not express them in words. His visible registration ended,
Kedley became poker-faced as he joined Fleed and accompanied the D.A. up the stairs.
CHAPTER III. NEW DEATH STRIKES
IT was the second night after the death of Rufe Rokestone. Suicide or murder, the hotel man's plunge
had stirred the city of Ontranta; and the news had caused much speculation in towns about the region.
This was apparent from the conversation in the smoking car aboard the inbound local, due to reach
Ontranta at midnight.
One railroad served Ontranta. It was a branch line that ran northward from a town called Pittford, the
junction point on the double-tracked K B. Thirty miles in length, the branch still preserved its identity as
an independent pike. It was called Ontranta Southern; and from Pittford, it formed a comparatively
straight line, northward to Ontranta.
Among the passengers aboard the smoking car was a tall, silent personage whose face formed a
masklike visage. Keen eyes peered from that inflexible countenance. Listening, the passenger caught
every word that passed close by. He had come aboard from the K B Limited.
He was The Shadow. Master sleuth who hunted down crime, The Shadow had been attracted to
Ontranta by the news of Rufe Rokestone's death. New York papers had taken up the story. To-day,
The Shadow had learned the news. He had started for Ontranta.
THE SHADOW, holding a copy of the Evening Messenger, was apparently reading; in reality, he was
listening to the talk about him. This was to-day's paper—The Shadow had purchased it at Pittford—and
its tone had eased. No new developments since the news of Rokestone's death had broken.
Nevertheless, to the travelers on the local, Rokestone's death was still rife.
"Playing for votes, Fleed is," one passenger commented. "He's smart, even if he does kick up a stir.
Kedley with his paper, though, seems to be making trouble for Craydon Throy, too."
"Look's like Fleed's wrong this time," snorted another passenger. "Rokestone jumped—I say. Who
could have pushed him out?"
"Any of the bunch at the club could have done it."
"There ain't any one there who would have," another put in. "Those men there were too well known,
particularly Craydon Throy. They say a lot against him, but I ain't with them that talks that way."
A pause. Another speaker entered the conversation, while the conductor paused to listen. The new
entrant had evidently been listening to rumors of a different sort.
"What about Arnledge?" he inquired. "Take it from me, Purvis Arnledge is the fellow who had it in for
Throy. Funny, isn't it, that the last two fellows who could have seen Rokestone were Throy and
Arnledge?"
"Look at this talk about a letter that was supposed to be on Rokestone, but wasn't found? Arnledge kind
of lets on that it was from Throy; but Throy, while he isn't denying it, says any letter he sent Rokestone
couldn't have meant much. Who's lying? Which one?"
"Maybe both," interjected a wise-faced listener.
Guffaws from the crowd. Encouraged, the speaker added a statement to which all agreed.
"But the two of 'em ain't in cahoots," be assured. "Never was and they never will be. Throy froze
Arnledge out of too many propositions that turned out good."
NODS and grunts of agreement. Conversation lapsed for a few minutes; then one man tapped his copy
of the Messenger.
"Lots of sly hints in here," he affirmed. "One of 'em is something I've heard talked about. All of you have
heard it. Throy was out to buy the Ontranta Hotel. That's why Rokestone was worried. Too, he couldn't
stop Throy from buying that property of Galbray's across the street from the Ontranta Hotel, to start a
hotel of his own."
"Speaking of Galbray. Say—I guess he ain't so chipper to-day. Rokestone owed money, you know,
which means that the hotel will have to go up for sale. Throy will buy it; and won't need that property of
Galbray's."
"That's right! Then Throy will be all set to make a bid for Grayminster." Chuckles. One man opened a
copy of the Messenger. He pointed to an item that concerned the subdivision called Grayminster.
"The Grayminster Greeters are holding a midnight barbecue," came the man's remark. "That's Lynn
Galbray, all right. Getting all the property owners out there, to soft-soap 'em. Make 'em stick with him, to
keep Grayminster away from Throy."
"Whereabouts is this Grayminster?" queried another.
"Here. I'll show you."
The volunteer produced a frayed letter and started to draw a diagram upon the back of the sheet. The
man was seated directly in front of The Shadow, who easily observed the crude drawing.
"This here's the railroad," announced the man who was drawing the diagram, "running straight north. The
town lies mostly on the east of the depot. Here's the road. It runs south from the town and turns west.
Cuts under the railroad and goes straight into Grayminster.
"It ain't the main road, you understand. That keeps south to Calley's Mills, ten miles below Ontranta.
Then there's a road running from Calley's Mills over past Grayminster. Calley's Mills is where they've got
that big roadhouse, with dancing till 1:00 a. m."
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MURDERTOWNMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEHUSHOFDOOM?CHAPTERII.THED.A.DECIDES?CHAPTERIII.NEWDEATHSTRIKES?CHAPTERIV.THROUGHTHERAIN?CHAPTERV.TRAILSPART?CHAPTERVI.WORDDELAYED?CHAPTERVII.LINKSTOCRIME?CHAPTERVIII.WORDFROMTHESHADOW?CHAPTERIX.THEGREENC...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：81 页 大小：511.73KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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