Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 102 - The City of Doom

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The City of Doom
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. AT THE STEEL WORKS
? CHAPTER II. FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. THE DEATH THRUST
? CHAPTER IV. THE MAN WHO RETURNED
? CHAPTER V. THE STALEMATE
? CHAPTER VI. CRIME TO COME
? CHAPTER VII. AT THE CHEMICAL PLANT
? CHAPTER VIII. AT THE POWERHOUSE
? CHAPTER IX. THE LOST TRAIL
? CHAPTER X. THE NEW OBJECTIVE
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW AT DUSK
? CHAPTER XII. DEATH'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIII. MYRAM'S FOLLY
? CHAPTER XIV. THE PURPLE LAIR
? CHAPTER XV. THE PATH BELOW
? CHAPTER XVI. MONSTERS OF DOOM
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SNARE BELOW
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEW MENACE
? CHAPTER XIX. DISASTER'S HOUR
? CHAPTER XX. DEATH'S HARVEST
CHAPTER I. AT THE STEEL WORKS
THICK night engulfed the valley about the town of Hampstead. One area alone showed brilliance; that
was the central district of the little city, where rows of street lamps shone and electric signs added their
blinking brightness.
Near the town, a few specks of light showed against the hillsides; but beyond was a blanket of blackness
that seemed a shroud of doom. A stranger, viewing the town from some near-by slope, could well have
pictured the darkness as a monster, about to swallow the city.
Nor would the thought have been too fanciful. Hampstead was a city touched by terror - a town where
disaster had already taken toll.
Men who passed upon the streets were melancholy. Smiles were forced when friends exchanged their
greetings. Though business was as usual, this was a surface indication only. Secretly, every citizen of
Hampstead held a horror of the future.
Out where the railroad line reached the city limits, stood the long, low-roofed buildings of the Hampstead
Steel Works. There, quivering light flickered from frosted windows, accompanied by the thrum and clank
of machinery. The steel plant was working to capacity. The night shift was on duty.
Two men were standing in a little office, staring through the glass panel of a door that opened into the
main furnace room. They were watching a crew of men at work - a score of hardy laborers whose faces
showed grimy against the ruddy glare from open-fronted furnaces.
One of the observing men was the foreman of the furnace room. His companion was the general
supervisor of the steel plant.
"IT'S been like clockwork tonight, Mr. Harlin," declared the foreman, solemnly. "Not a thing to trouble
us. Every man's been right at his job."
Harlin nodded.
"I've been watching them, Steve," he told the foreman. "This department is running as smoothly as every
other one. But we can't be sure about anything."
"On account of those other troubles?"
Another nod from Harlin. The supervisor pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket and tapped its
headlines.
"This town is jinxed," he stated, seriously. "The people here know it. Our local newspapers have tried to
softpedal it; but they haven't in other cities. Look at this sheet, Steve."
The foreman took the newspaper, studied it while the supervisor kept steady watch through the window
in the door.
"Whew!" Steve's utterance was spontaneous. "They sure made a big howdy-do about those two wrecks
in the railroad yards!"
"Why shouldn't they?" demanded Harlin. "Both were unexplainable. One would have been bad enough;
but a second one, at the same spot, is ten times worse. Read what it says about the quarry company.
They're shutting down."
"Afraid to bring in dynamite," nodded Steve. "On account of danger in the yards."
The supervisor continued his watch, while the foreman devoured more news from the out-of-town
journal. Steve was mumbling in surprised tone, half to himself, half to the supervisor.
"Eight men killed in those smashes! We thought it was only three. Here are facts on that boiler explosion
at the dye plant last week. Two men died along with the engineer! Say, if this gets out -"
The supervisor snapped a query that interrupted the foreman's muttering:
"Who's on the ladle, Steve?"
The foreman laid the newspaper aside and stared through the square window. A huge device shaped like
a mammoth cheese-box was moving slowly through the furnace room, suspended from an overhead
track. Workmen had ceased their labors while it approached. Harlin was eyeing the advance of the metal
monster.
"Old Joe Grandy's handling it," declared the foreman. "Best man in the place. Always holds up when he
gets close to the pouring platform, so as to check it for himself."
"Good!" approved the supervisor. "Grandy is reliable. Let's go out, though, and watch while he lets the
ladle ride."
THE two men stepped from the office. The mammoth ladle halted as they approached it. They saw a
stocky, gray-haired man climb down from a perch where the controls were located. Spryly, he stepped
to the pouring platforms, which were at the side of the big room.
Checking those platforms was the foreman's job. It had been done; otherwise, no order would have been
given for the ladle to make its trip. But old Joe Grandy took nothing for granted. His job was to tilt that
ladle when it reached the pouring platforms; to loose tons of molten steel from the great cauldron that he
controlled. Old Joe was making sure that the platforms and their troughs were ready.
"Grandy's the right man," affirmed the supervisor, nodding to Steve, the foreman. "We'll put his system in
the regulations: Always stop the ladle short of the pouring platforms; make final inspection, then bring up
the ladle."
"That's what Grandy's going to do now," returned Steve. Then, with a laugh: "Look how spry old Joe is!
Shoving back those fellows who want to boost him up to the controls! He can make the climb himself."
Workers by the pouring platforms had seen the foreman. They were signaling that the second inspection
had shown all in order. Others, beyond the pouring platform were chatting as they stood beneath the bulk
of the motionless ladle.
"Steve'" ripped Harlin, suddenly. "What's making old Grandy wait? Why don't he move the ladle up to
the platforms? That molten steel can't wait all night."
"He's ready to move it now," snapped back the foreman. "There he goes, handling the controls. Only five
feet more and -"
Steve's voice broke with a gasp. Rooted, he stood goggle-eyed; then his new words came with a
terrified shriek:
"Grandy's at the wrong lever! Look out - up by the platforms -"
The cry was too late. Old Grandy had swung away from the levers that controlled the forward motion of
the ladle. He had placed his hand upon another rod; he was tugging it. The ladle was tilting; a yawning
mouth was opening in its side.
Nothing could have halted the deluge that came. Not even old Joe Grandy; for he, least of all, seemed to
realize his mistake. That was evidenced by the fact that his back was turned toward the tilting cauldron,
giving him no chance to swing away to the safety of his perch.
Out from the mammoth ladle came a cataract of liquid steel, more terrible than the flaming lava of a
volcano. With its first gulp, the surge of molten metal overwhelmed the unfortunate man who had released
it. Grandy, a shriek upon his lips, was plucked from the forward edge of his control perch. A bobbing
shape in a hissing, metallic wave, the gray-haired man was pitched to the floor beside the pouring
platforms.
As the wave struck, five other men were caught within its path. Roaring, its own weight adding to the
quick tilt of the ladle, the molten steel crashed with the power of a Niagara, engulfing the doomed men
below.
Not one of the five could scramble to safety. The cries that they managed to utter were brief - a
momentary recognition of the quick death which was coming to them.
Steel scorched flesh, withering its victims before their bodies could sense the pain of the terrific heat. A
blast of torrid air swept through the huge room, drowning the fumes of the furnaces. Then molten steel
was everywhere, pouring, spreading, seeking lower levels while men found their legs and ran shrieking
from the monstrous substance that sought them.
STEVE bolted forward. Harlin grabbed the foreman, hurled him back against the office door. There was
no help for the men upon the floor, except the aid that they could give themselves. Harlin, above the level
of the flow, held his vantage point and shouted advice to the men.
Some heard the supervisor and heeded. They leaped for iron steps between the furnaces; scrambled
upward to levels of safety. Others did not hear. Confused, they lost all sense of direction. Harlin saw
three more workers go to doom. Spreading steel caught their ankles, seemed to trip them as they
howled. They sprawled, splashing, into the hellish river that had gripped them.
A fourth man, farther away, stumbled at the foot of an iron stairway. He could not follow Harlin's call; but
a companion heard the supervisor's shout. From the steps, the other worker snatched the last man to
safety. The steel lapped the base of the steps; its heat made the ironwork glow and quiver.
The supervisor sagged, weakened by his ordeal. Nine men had perished including old Joe Grandy,
whose slip had loosed the molten horror. The liquid metal had reached its limits; it had lapped the fronts
of furnaces, found an emergency doorway. But that would be its farthest mark.
Steadying himself, Harlin managed to reach the office. He was looking for Steve, to tell him that the steel
would harden. There would be no more human toll; but other loss would prove tremendous. Harlin found
the foreman at the telephone.
"I've called for ambulances!" gulped Steve. "Thanks, Mr. Harlin, for hauling me back! I'd most certainly
have jumped in there -"
The foreman buried his head in his hands; the supervisor found a chair.
"No use, those ambulances," he choked. "Not even hearses could find work here, Steve! There'll be no
bodies from that mess. They were swallowed alive, Steve, lost in that steel! It happened - worse than I
feared."
The clang of ambulances was already sounding. The wail of a huge siren was rising from the steel works.
As Steve arose and pressed open a window to relieve the stifling atmosphere, he and Harlin could see
the lights of automobiles stopping on the highway that led into Hampstead.
Once again, stark terror had found this city of doom. The siren's wail; the clang of bells; the shouts of
men outside - all were proclaiming the horrendous news.
Rescuers, yanking open a door, saw the seething spread of steel that glistened in the glow of furnaces.
They heard the calls of men who were isolated in spots of safely - shouts that warned them to stay back
and let the metal cool.
The word passed in terrified tones. It stopped the arriving ambulances. It came to squads of men from
other portions of the plant and held them, in awed groups, whispering the news of tragedy.
Those whispers reached the space where cars had pulled in from the highway. Breathless men told others
of the terror that had struck; how rescue would be impossible for those who had felt the touch of living,
burning steel.
WITHIN the window of a coupe, a silent listener caught those tragic mutters. His eyes turned toward the
building where the hellish stream had done its work. The driver of that coupe had chanced to reach the
outskirts of Hampstead just as the steel plant's siren had broken loose with its banshee screech of
disaster.
A lone watcher among the throngs who huddled about the steel works - such was the arrival in the
coupe. Yet he, more than any other, held regret for the tragedy that had occurred. He had come to
Hampstead with a single mission: to prevent disasters such as this. He had reached the town too late to
halt the new stroke of unexplainable deaths.
The silent watcher in the coupe was The Shadow. Master of crime detection, he had divined the
presence of an evil, unseen hand behind the horrors which had come to Hampstead.
There was determination in the blaze of The Shadow's steady eyes. This tragedy would be the last. No
longer would destruction stalk through the city of doom.
CHAPTER II. FROM THE DARK
Two hours had passed since the catastrophe at the steel plant. Lights were glowing in the large furnace
room, where workers were present, using electric drills upon chunks of hardened steel. Outside, the
glimmer of flashlights told that guards were patrolling the vicinity of the plant.
There were lights in another building. They came from windows on the second floor and marked the
offices of the steel company. There was a downstairs door, where a guard stood on duty, chatting with a
companion.
"The big guns is upstairs," informed the guard, in an undertone. "They showed up half an hour ago."
"Listening to Harlin and Steve, are they?"
"Sure. The coroner's there with them. Harlin looked pretty shaky when he went up."
"He ought to. Seeing them fellows get swallowed by that steel must have been kind of tough to look at."
With this comment, the guard's friend started away. The guard called after him:
"See if you can find Travers over by the furnace. Tell him it's time I was off the trick. Have him send over
some fellow from his own crew."
Three minutes passed, while the guard paced back and forth in front of the dim light that came from the
doorway. There was a stir in darkness close by. The guard wheeled, with the query:
"Who's there?"
"Came over to relieve you," responded a gruff voice. "Mr. Travers sent me."
The guard did not see the speaker; but took it for granted that he was the proper man. He grunted a
good night and walked away from the door. It was not until he had passed a corner that a figure stepped
into the light.
That form was cloaked in black. The arrival was The Shadow. He had heard the conversation; he had
taken advantage of it. He had bluffed the guard into believing that he was the man sent as relief watcher.
THE SHADOW did not linger at the doorway. He knew that Travers's man would soon arrive. He
wanted the new guard to think that the old one had simply gone off duty because his time was up. The
Shadow's own work lay elsewhere.
Entering the doorway, The Shadow took to a darkened flight of stairs. He ascended and reached a
hallway that showed a narrow shaft of light from a partly opened door. Edging in from darkness, The
Shadow saw the interior of an office.
Officials were gathered about a table. With these company men was another whom The Shadow knew
must be the coroner. Harlin was seated at the far end of the table. The supervisor looked pale; his voice
came brokenly as he spoke.
"That's the whole story!" declared Harlin. "Just as I saw it, gentlemen. Nothing was wrong mechanically.
The mistake was a human one; and those kind are bound to happen."
"We have your full report on Joseph Grandy," returned the coroner, fingering a sheaf of papers. "I regard
it as thorough, Mr. Harlin. We can accept the statements of the foreman and three laborers that Grandy
was in full possession of his faculties."
"The most reliable man in the plant," stated Harlin. "Always sober and conscientious. A loyal fellow, too,
old Joe was. He didn't know the slip he'd made; if he had, he wouldn't have been the first to go."
The coroner drew a penciled diagram from the papers. It was a sketch made by Harlin, showing the
position of the levers that controlled the big ladle.
"I think that this explains it," decided the coroner, with a nod. "With all his carefulness, Grandy performed
certain actions automatically. He was farther forward than he realized. When he reached for the starting
lever, he grasped the tilting device instead."
"That's the way I saw it, coroner," assured the supervisor. "The diagram bears out my explanation."
The coroner arose; he put Harlin's report into a briefcase: then passed carbon sheets across the table to
the supervisor. Other men were rising; The Shadow saw them pause. One of the officials had a query.
"Tell us this, coroner," he asked, in troubled tone. "Do you connect this accident with the other disasters
that have occurred in Hampstead?"
Emphatically, the coroner shook his head.
"But they look like sabotage," persisted the official. "This is the fourth accident; and every one brought
heavy property damage along with its toll of life."
The coroner reached in his briefcase and brought out some sheets of yellow paper. He passed them
across the table.
"File those with your own duplicate report," he suggested. "They give the details of the explosion at the
dye works, the smash-ups in the railroad yards. Compare them with the disaster here. You'll see that I
am right. In not one instance, was there any outside factor.
"I've had lots of experience, gentlemen. Sometimes accidental deaths are uncanny. Like an epidemic, you
might say. A year - two years - no trouble; then they hit in a bunch. That doesn't mean a thing, unless
there's proof that some one was culpable or negligent. Not one of these cases shows any such
indications."
HARLIN had taken the duplicate sheets. The Shadow saw the supervisor place them in a table drawer.
Then it was time to step away; for the men were coming toward the door. The Shadow swung to a
darkened corner; when the door opened, it moved outward and covered him completely.
Harlin was the last man from the office. He waited while the others went down the stairs to the lighted
entry at the bottom. Then the supervisor clicked off the office light. The top landing was dark when he
closed the door and locked it. Harlin had no chance to see The Shadow.
Soon after the supervisor's footsteps had faded, a tiny flashlight shone upon the office door. Its glow was
but twice the size of the keyhole; but it was sufficient for The Shadow to work upon the lock. A gloved
hand introduced a long thin instrument that resembled a pair of pliers. A click came from the lock. The
Shadow opened the office door.
Using his flashlight within the office, The Shadow found the drawer that contained the report sheets. He
spread the duplicate papers and began a close study of past events in Hampstead. The Shadow soon
learned that the coroner's claims were well supported.
The boiler blast at the dye plant had occurred shortly after a routine inspection. The cause had evidently
been the failure of a worn safety valve. The engineer had made the inspection himself; he was a man of
long service, who would not have omitted an essential detail; nor have been so foolish as to tamper with
the machinery.
The first wreck in the railroad yards had occurred when a switchman highballed a shifting locomotive
along the main track. The engine had taken the siding instead, mowing down the switchman who stood in
its path.
The second wreck had been a brakeman's error. He had been crushed when a string of freight cars
crashed into a motionless line of day coaches. In both cases, additional lives had been lost.
Tonight's disaster at the steel plant resembled the others, in two definite ways. First: that no one from
outside had tampered with any machinery; second: that old Joe Grandy, like others who had died before
him, had been sound mentally and alert in action. Not one of the men who had borne the brunt of disaster
could have chosen to make a deliberate mistake.
Behind disasters stood crime, engendered by some master-plotter. A genius of evil was at work in
Hampstead. Through some process, this unknown criminal had managed to control the minds of unwitting
men. A master of murder and destruction had chosen to work with human tools, of whom old Joe
Grandy was the fourth.
The fact that this theory smacked of the incredible was something that gave it strength. There was a
reason, however, why The Shadow accepted it immediately. A few days ago, The Shadow had sent a
trusted agent to Hampstead to investigate disasters there. That agent's name was Harry Vincent. No
word had been received from him since yesterday.
Harry's disappearance had brought The Shadow to Hampstead. The steel plant disaster, at the very time
of The Shadow's arrival, had simply added to the supersleuth's belief that crime stood behind every
accident that had struck the city of doom.
EXTINGUISHING his flashlight, The Shadow left the company office. He reached the bottom of the
stairs to find total darkness. No guard was present; if one had come on duty, he had gone when the
officials departed.
The Shadow reached the highway, crossed it and arrived at his coupe, which he had wisely parked in the
shelter of a side road before beginning his investigation. The car was just within the town limits of
Hampstead. Ten minutes' drive would bring The Shadow to the heart of the little city.
That short journey was to be fraught with danger. Starting his car, The Shadow swung out to the main
highway. He headed townward and came immediately to a quarter-mile stretch where buildings were
few. Hardly had The Shadow struck this open space before a rakish touring car roared out from the
darkness beside a closed filling station.
Instantly, The Shadow knew what was due. Prowlers had spotted his coupe near the steel plant. They
had decided that the car belonged to some independent investigator. They had gone into ambush to
waylay the coupe when it arrived.
A machine gun rattled. Instantly, The Shadow veered his coupe from the touring car's path. He swung his
automobile into a ditch; let it careen and stop with a jolt, tilted far to the left. The men in the touring car
thought that they had scored an instant hit. The rakish machine slowed as it swung toward the halted
coupe.
An automatic spoke from the darkness of the ditch, just behind the coupe. The Shadow had dived from
the wheel, unscathed. He had waited for close range; his first shot was aimed for the rear door of the
touring car, where he knew the machine gunners would be.
A howl answered The Shadow's blast. He delivered a second gun-shot; another yell was the response.
The Shadow had winged a second crook.
The touring car shot forward. Its canny driver gave it a zigzag twist, wheeling over so that the bulk of The
Shadow's coupe would make the invisible marksman seek a new vantage point. The lights of the touring
car blinked off. Its driver, knowing the road, was chancing darkness.
A mocking laugh sounded in the darkness of the ditch, as The Shadow boarded his tilted coupe. Victor
in the short-lived fray, The Shadow had gained the proof he wanted. Crime lay behind the disasters in
Hampstead - crime so big that it needed murderous crews to back it in a pinch.
This first encounter would bring others. Battles and opposition could produce clues. The Shadow was
satisfied that his stay in Hampstead would lead him to a master-villain's lair.
CHAPTER III. THE DEATH THRUST
IT was half an hour before The Shadow reached the center of Hampstead, for he chose a roundabout
course that finally brought him to an obscure garage. His purpose was not to avoid a new encounter; he
would have welcomed such a fray. But The Shadow knew that there would be no new ambush.
Spies would be the next enemies. They would be watching for The Shadow's coupe, in hope of
identifying its occupants. Hence The Shadow chose to enter Hampstead from another direction; to keep
his car away from the main streets. He had, moreover, delayed five minutes during his circuit. In that
interval he had changed the license plates on his coupe.
When The Shadow strolled from the obscure garage, he was no longer clad in black. Street lamps
showed him dressed in a dark-gray suit. His features were full and bore little of the hawkish aspect which
enemies identified with The Shadow's countenance. The Shadow was carrying a large suitcase, which
contained his cloak and hat. He looked like a tourist who had stopped off in Hampstead.
The railroad station was near the garage. An approaching whistle told that a passenger train was due.
Picking an obscure route, The Shadow neared the depot and stood by an old freight shed until the train
arrived. A dozen passengers alighted; half of them had bags. The Shadow stepped up to the station
platform and mingled with the small throng. Two arrivals were going toward an old sedan that served as
taxi. The Shadow followed them.
The driver announced that his cab took passengers to the Hampstead House. The two men boarded the
car and The Shadow joined them. They rode through the main streets and pulled up in front of a
pretentious hotel. If spies were about, they took The Shadow merely for another passenger, who had
come into town by train.
The Shadow let the two other men register first. He wrote his own name as "Henry Arnaud," with
Chicago as his home city. The name and identity of Arnaud were The Shadow's own device. He used
them upon occasion such as this.
THERE was a lone clerk at the desk, and only two bell boys available. This meant a delay in room
assignments. The Shadow took advantage of it to note the lobby. He saw no potential spies. It was
possible that crooks had decided to head for cover, after their fray. That was not surprising, since they
had carried away two wounded men.
As he lingered by the hotel desk, secure in his role of Arnaud, The Shadow was rewarded for his
courtesy in letting others register ahead of him. The hotel manager came from a little office, spoke to the
clerk in an undertone that The Shadow caught.
"This man in 328," queried the manager. "You're sure that his luggage is gone?"
"Positive, sir!" replied the clerk. "He's jumped his bill, all right! Looks like he went out by the window."
"Three floors down?"
"Room 328 is over the kitchen roof, and that's two stories high, sir. The window was open when the
maid found the room vacated. I told her to leave everything as it was."
"Humph! Let that room stay empty. I'll go up and look it over myself in the morning. Give me that fellow's
full name and a report on what he looks like. He won't beat this hotel and get away with it!"
The Shadow thus learned new facts concerning his vanished agent. He had already known Harry's room
number: 328. He had not known, however, whether Harry had left the hotel openly or been carried away
a prisoner. Nor had The Shadow cared to make inquiry. The chance conversation had saved him such a
task.
The room to which The Shadow was assigned happened to be on the fourth floor; but at a different side
of the hotel than 328. The Shadow spent a short while in his room; then turned out the lights. Any
observer would have supposed that he was either going down to the lobby or that he intended to retire.
The Shadow did neither.
From his suitcase, he removed black cloak and slouch hat. He tucked a brace of .45 automatics under
the folds of his cloak. After donning thin black gloves, be added a tiny flashlight and a set of picks to his
equipment. That done, The Shadow opened the door of the room and squeezed out into the corridor,
blocking light from the hall.
There was a stairway leading down to the third floor. It was near Room 428, therefore The Shadow
knew that it would offer convenient access to Harry's former room, just below. The stairway was but
dimly lighted. The Shadow made a fleeting shape as he descended. At this third floor, he peered along
the nearest corridor.
Crooks had captured Harry Vincent. There was a strong chance that they suspected their prisoner to be
an aide of The Shadow. That, in itself, could have accounted for the ambush on the room. Crooks would
also guess that The Shadow knew Harry's room number at the Hampstead House. They would expect
him to visit it. This room might prove another ambush.
THE SHADOW eyed every visible door. From gloom, he had the advantage. The slightest motion would
have told him that crooks were keeping watch on 328. No indication came. The Shadow deduced that
crooks intended to keep clear of the hotel, particularly since they knew there would be a fuss about
Harry's sudden departure.
The Shadow moved out into the corridor, reached the door of 328. He worked smoothly, quickly, with
the lock. The key of his own room had given him sufficient idea of what the locks were like throughout
the hotel. The door yielded.
The room was almost pitch-dark for it was at the back of the hotel, away from any street lights. The
Shadow could feel a breeze from the open window. Approaching, he made out the flat shape of the
kitchen roof not far below. There was another building across the street; blank-walled, it appeared to be
the hotel garage. Two stories high, the building's roof was on a level with the window where The Shadow
stood.
Turning from the wide-opened window, The Shadow moved about the room, blinking his flashlight in
evasive fashion. He was looking for spots that might offer clues. His light dabbed the wall with a small,
luminous circle; then touched doors, articles of furniture. Finally, it streaked along the floor.
There, The Shadow spied a clue. Straight across from the opened window was a small table that stood
against the inner wall of the room, by the head of the bedstead. That table was slightly oblong. Marks in
the carpet showed that it should stand endwise, with a short side against the wall.
The table, however, had been moved, to bring one of its broad sides against the wall. The Shadow saw a
reason for the new position. Crosswise, the table could cover a greater stretch of wall. It had been
placed thus to hide something on the wall.
The logical step was to remove the table from its position. The Shadow turned out his flashlight. His
cloak swished in the darkness; but oddly, there was no sound of motion from the table. Once or twice,
the flashlight blinked in guarded fashion, that was all. Then came a pause - an interval of fully a dozen
seconds.
That time space was a lull before the surprise that came.
A sudden glare filled the room. It was the beam of a brilliant, straight-focused spotlight, coming from the
garage roof across the way. Blazing in from darkness, the bright gleam showed the head of the bed; but
not the table beside it. The reason was, that the table stood obscured by a crouched shape clad in black.
It was a sight that some ambushed observer had hoped to see: The Shadow, stooped motionless, in front
of that table. Hard upon the blaze of light came another occurrence, so swift that even The Shadow could
not have wheeled in time to escape it. A driving object whistled through the window at terrific speed.
Like an arrow, it found the cloak between the shoulders; drove to a stop and wavered.
The missile was a knife. It had buried itself full way to the hilt, in the shape beneath the black cloak.
Slowly, the stooping form tumbled forward and sprawled in huddled fashion in front of the little table.
As the figure stilled upon the floor, the light from the garage roof was extinguished. Blackness took
control along with silence. The death-thrust had been delivered; assassins were departing from the field.
Well had they chosen their ambush.
MINUTES passed in the silent hotel room. A flashlight blinked from the corner, following along the floor.
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TheCityofDoomMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ATTHESTEELWORKS?CHAPTERII.FROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.THEDEATHTHRUST?CHAPTERIV.THEMANWHORETURNED?CHAPTERV.THESTALEMATE?CHAPTERVI.CRIMETOCOME?CHAPTERVII.ATTHECHEMICALPLANT?CHAPTERVIII.ATTHEPOWERHOUSE?CHAPTERIX...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：69 页 大小：179.28KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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