Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 083 - Man from Scotland Yard

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THE MAN FROM SCOTLAND YARD
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. TRAILS CONVERGE
? CHAPTER II. ON THE WATERFRONT
? CHAPTER III. THE RAID
? CHAPTER IV. THE LOST TRAIL
? CHAPTER V. MEN IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER VI. HOPE IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER VII. THE RESCUE
? CHAPTER VIII. ABOARD AND ASHORE
? CHAPTER IX. MR. JARVIS KNIGHT
? CHAPTER X. SILVER RUPEES
? CHAPTER XI. AT THE CAPITAL
? CHAPTER XII. FROM THE STRONG ROOM
? CHAPTER XIII. CADY REPORTS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE CHANCE CLUE
? CHAPTER XV. THREE IN A ROW
? CHAPTER XVI. CRIME FORESEEN
? CHAPTER XVII. IN THE STRONG ROOM
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE FINAL WORD
? CHAPTER XIX. A MASTER'S DOOM
? CHAPTER XX. FACTS OF THE PAST
CHAPTER I. TRAILS CONVERGE
NIGHT-THICKENED fog lay heavy above Manhattan. Grimy, hazy blackness held pall above the great
metropolis. City lights were smothered in the mist.
That shroud which dampened the brilliant districts held greater grip upon areas that were ordinarily
gloomy after dark.
Near the waterfront, the grimy blanket had full reign. Steaming surges of mist were rising from the river,
clinging to piling and piers, rolling in upon the dim-lit thoroughfares. Basso blasts of steamship whistles
blared in from the water, accompanied by the staccato shrills of tugboats.
Such sounds alone cleaved the fog laden air. Other noises, clicking footsteps of passers, rumbles of
occasional trucks, were muffled by the thickness. People themselves were swallowed by the mist. Where
feeble lights showed dim areas, forms came into view, then disappeared.
Humans had become ghosts down by the river. Wafted in from the bay, the fog had taken a liking to the
land. Literally, it was enveloping Manhattan like a monster from the deep, creeping forward to a total
triumph that would end only when rising winds came to dispel it.
A muffled wayfarer was tramping along a street that led in from the river. The night was not cold;
dampness could be the only excuse for his upturned coat collar. Yet long, hunched shoulders and
down-turned face were indications of a menace other than the fog.
It was plain that the tramping man wanted to escape recognition. His gait betrayed the fact; his choice of
streets was added indication. Moreover, he showed a furtiveness when he peered back at every
crossing. The wayfarer feared followers.
The fog gave the man confidence as he reached the moisture-surfaced structure of an elevated railway.
He had put distance between himself and the waterfront. The grime of blackened pillars seemed to please
him.
Dull lights of shop windows gleamed from the avenue and showed a pallid, long-featured face. Protruding
teeth glittered as the muffled man delivered an unpleasant smile. A quick glance over shoulder; the fellow
ducked into the obscurity of a side street.
Fear of followers had passed from the wayfarers thoughts; had he lingered longer, his trepidation would
have returned. Hardly had the long-limbed individual cut away from the avenue before another hunched
figure shambled into view beside the "el" pillars.
Crafty eyes from a wizened face made thorough search along the avenue. Quick-gazing, those optics
picked the very street that the long-limbed man had taken. Shuffling cater-cornered across the street, the
newcomer headed for the same route.
Though this New York fog was as thick as the traditional London "pea-souper," the follower had kept on
the quarry's trail. Wherever the long-limbed man was going, the shorter fellow would remain close behind
him. Strange figures of the underworld, the two were playing an odd drama of the night.
OF the pair, the wizened-faced trailer was the more intriguing. Any man who could stalk prey through
this fog must unquestionably be clever at his chosen game. That little trailer was indeed clever. He had a
reputation for his ability. In the scumlands of New York, he was known as "Hawkeye," the craftiest of all
spotters.
One person alone was conceded to be Hawkeye's better at such tasks. That one was the mystery figure
of the underworld - The Shadow. Crooks gave The Shadow credit for superhuman powers; it was little
wonder that they were willing to acknowledge him superior to Hawkeye.
Gunners had claimed that they could outshoot The Shadow; cracksman had bragged that they possessed
greater skill than that unknown champion of right. Listeners had laughed at such boasts. Those of the
underworld knew this much of The Shadow - that he had no equal in any line of endeavor that came
within his sphere of action.
So Hawkeye, had he claimed himself on par with The Shadow, would have been greeted with jeers. But
Hawkeye, oddly, possessed a modest spirit regarding his own ability. The little trailer never made
mention of The Shadow; and he had good reason for preserving silence. Hawkeye was in The Shadow's
service.
The Shadow had found the little spotter to be a useful aid. Master who battled crime, The Shadow had
supertasks of his own. Known as the scourge of crookdom, he was forced to leave lesser work to
others.
Tonight's trail was one that The Shadow had passed to Hawkeye. Under secret orders, the little spotter
had been told to pick up the trail of a fellow named "Scud" Paffrey. Hawkeye had previously seen Scud
close to the waterfront. It was that vicinity that Hawkeye had chosen tonight.
Scud had been coming back from somewhere. Hawkeye had spied him slinking through the fog. One
glimpse of long, hunched shoulders and muffled face had been all that Hawkeye needed. The spotter was
still on Scud's trail.
Entering the side street that Scud had chosen, Hawkeye spied a glimmering light ahead. Fog rendered the
street lamp dingy; but Hawkeye knew that Scud could not get by that lighted patch without revealing his
stooped figure in the mist.
Close enough to have reached the street before Scud gained the light, Hawkeye knew also that the
long-limbed man must he close by. Creeping forward, The Shadow's agent advanced with caution.
Hawkeye had gained a hunch that the end of the trail was near.
Thirty yards from the corner, Hawkeye paused. Scud had not reached the street lamp. Here, on the near
side of that glow, blackness was complete. Hawkeye's eyes could spy nothing; the spotter was relying on
his ears. To his keen hearing came the sound of whispers, muffled, seemingly, by the mist.
Hawkeye reached out in the darkness. His hand encountered the fog-dewed surface of a brick wall.
Using this as a guide, Hawkeye crept ahead. The wall ended with an invisible corner. Voices became
audible. Hawkeye crouched.
Scud Paffrey was whispering to someone in the darkness. The rendezvous was being held in a passage
between two buildings, undiscernible in the overhanging blackness. Hawkeye caught the tones of a low,
half-growled voice. Detecting words, he realized the identity of the man whom Scud had met.
Detective Joe Cardona! Known as the ace of New York headquarters, this sleuth had contacts in the
underworld.
TO Hawkeye, the presence of Cardona indicated an astonishing fact. Scud Paffrey, accepted as an
average denizen of the underworld, was a stool pigeon, reporting to the law.
The Shadow must have known that fact. That was why he had put Hawkeye on the job of watching
Scud. The law was after information; Scud had access to it. The Shadow had decided to use Scud as a
lead.
Hawkeye grinned to himself in the darkness. He had been late in trailing Scud; hence he had not learned
the stoolie's objective. Here, however, lay opportunity. What Scud was telling Joe Cardona, Hawkeye
could also hear. The little man listened.
"No trace of any of them, eh?" came Cardona's growl. "Looks like you're laying down on the job, Scud.
You told me you'd find Rigger Luxley. But you haven't got a trace on him or any of his pals."
"I told you about Sailor Martz," insisted Scud, his whisper half a whine. "He's due down at Dory Halbit's
joint. Back from the fruit pier. He's comin' there tonight, Joe."
"What of it? That don't tell us anything about Rigger. He wouldn't be there."
"But Sailor was in with Rigger's outfit. No foolin', Joe; that's somethin' I know, for sure. An' maybe
Sailor's got some pals that was in with the mob."
"But that's something you're not sure about. Say, it looks like the dragnet is going to be the only bet, after
all."
"That won't be no use, Joe" - Scud's whisper rose in frantic protest - "honest, it won't! It's curtains for
me, if you spring the dragnet. Too many guys would know that I might've spilled somethin' about Rigger
Luxley."
"But what if I pinch this Sailor Martz?"
"Nobody'll know nothin'. Sailor Martz never seen me aroun' with Rigger. Nobody down at Dory's joint
will know nothin' about me. But they may know somethin' about Rigger. See?"
"Does Sailor Martz talk much to guys he knows?"
"Maybe. I can't say for sure; but he's got pals down on the waterfront. He might've talked to them. An'
they ain't likely to be all for Rigger. Some of them guys might talk."
Conversation ended. In the tenseness, Hawkeye could hear Scud's breathing, coming in wheezy fashion.
The stoolie was nervous as he awaited Cardona's decision. At last, the detective grunted a verdict.
"All right," declared Joe. "it's a raid. There's been coke peddlers seen down at Dory's joint. That's a
good enough reason to grab the gang that's down there."
"Then I can slide along?" queried Scud, anxiously. "So's I can be down at the Pink Rat before you head
for Dory's?"
"Sure. Keep yourself alibied with the guys that know you. I'll need you later, Scud."
"T'anks. Joe."
Scud edged from the space beyond the house corners. Hawkeye could have touched the fellow as he
came shiftily to the sidewalk. Scud chose the direction toward the street lamp. Hawkeye listened to his
clicking footsteps.
A minute later, Joe Cardona emerged. Stocky, but muffled like Scud, the detective came along past
Hawkeye. Joe's coat almost grazed the shoulders of the crouched spotter; but the detective did not spy
the huddled form.
HAWKEYE waited after Cardona had passed. Well did he know that either Scud or the detective might
peer back after reaching their respective corners. While he lingered, Hawkeye did some thinking. His
findings gave him a single answer.
A raid was due at "Dory" Halbit's, the waterfront dive that Scud had named. The raid, however, would
be delayed. First, to allow "Sailor" Martz time to get there; second, to let Scud establish himself at the
underworld joint known as the "Pink Rat"; third, to give Cardona a chance to form a picked squad at
headquarters.
All of which gave Hawkeye satisfaction. With one hour - perhaps two - before the law took action,
Hawkeye could complete his own work and allow The Shadow ample leeway. Realizing this, the little
spotter waited a full five minutes before leaving the wall by which he crouched.
Hawkeye sneaked back to the avenue. He saw no sign of Cardona as he paced along the dingy East
Side thoroughfare. Shambling across the street. Hawkeye headed northward until he reached a drug
store that looked like a palace of luxury on the fringe of this decadent district.
Entering, Hawkeye found a telephone booth. After glancing warily to note that he was unobserved, the
spotter dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."
In a half whisper, Hawkeye poured out his news. He was talking to a man whom he had never seen, the
contact agent who received the reports of active workers and passed them along to the chief. Hawkeye
had spoken to Burbank only by telephone; he regarded the contact man somewhat as he did The
Shadow.
For Burbank seemed on the fringe of that mysterious blackness that surrounded the master sleuth. A
quiet voice, always responding, ever ready with instructions. Such was Burbank, as Hawkeye knew him.
"Off duty."
Burbank's quiet tone was a command to Hawkeye. The little agent hung up the receiver and slouched
from the drug store. He had given his report. His task was done. Though Burbank had given no
commendation, Hawkeye knew that his successful work would not go unforgotten.
Hawkeye had gained an inkling that The Shadow, too, was out to trail "Rigger" Luxley's missing band.
That outfit was a dangerous crowd that had been missing from New York until recently. Rigger and
company had bobbed into view ten days ago; then had gone suddenly to cover.
The law was after Rigger. So was The Shadow. Sailor Martz, apparently, was the one man through
whom Rigger could be reached. Who would corner Sailor first: the law or The Shadow? Hawkeye
grinned as the question struck him while he shambled through the darkness.
Hawkeye knew the answer.
The Shadow.
CHAPTER II. ON THE WATERFRONT
FOG was relentless along the waterfront. Moving in from the sea, it had tightened its grip upon the land.
Thicker than ever, it clung most heavily to the spot of its first choice: where water met with shore.
There was nothing of comfort in the heavy-throated blares of whistles that came from the river. Those
blasts were ghoulish at close range. They were like the voice of the fog itself. Yet to those who
frequented these sodden spaces, the tones were commonplace.
Dory Halbit's dive was not a place for particular patrons. It attracted the riffraff with its cheap grog.
Hard-visaged huskies, rat-faced roustabouts, suspicious-eyed loungers - these were the customers who
slouched about at battered tables, undisturbed by those long-echoing blares from the river.
Dory Halbit was present in person. He always was. An ex-seaman, Dory had retired after being crippled
in a storm. The possessor of a wooden leg, he found land navigation troublesome and seldom left the
grog shop.
Tonight, as on all nights, the proprietor was leaning against the bar in the corner of the dive, keeping a
gleaming eye on all who entered or left. For Dory was on the lookout for trouble; when it came, he was
capable of handling it. Sleeves of his tattered shirt rolled to his elbows, neck bared, Dory looked
formidable. Tattooed arms and chest were brawny; and Dory's love for a fight made him forget his
wooden leg when action started.
Joe Cardona had stretched no point in stating that a raid would not cause surprise at Dory Halbit's. The
one-legged dive owner had many doubtful acquaintances. His place had come under frequent police
surveillance. It was Dory's caginess that had caused the law to desist. If the man happened to be working
in cahoots with dope smugglers, it was a sure bet that he would be able to cover up in a pinch.
It was conceded that when - if ever - the law did raid the dive, Dory would enjoy a good laugh the
morning after. Tonight, Cardona was ready for the thrust that would prove fruitless in incriminating the
proprietor. But in his drive, the detective would perhaps gain results of a different sort.
Through a general round-up of the dive's habitue's, Cardona might capture men who would give him
information. Joe wanted facts concerning Rigger Luxley; and if Sailor Martz failed to talk, others might
know something. Good reasoning; for these fellows at Dory Halbit's would not mind spilling whatever
they might know about a landlubber mobleader.
QUIET prevailed at Dory Halbit's. Quiet, according to the proprietor's view. Unshaven seamen were
swapping coarse jests; rowdies who had cash were growling for drinks; raucous greetings were being
exchanged between newcomers.
Such commotion, to Dory, was more pleasing than silence. So long as the customers were engaged in
trivial conversation, no brawls would begin. Much though he liked a fight, Dory did not want to see one
start. Fights meant cops; and Dory veered clear of trouble with the police.
Wisps of fog were creeping through broken windowpanes of Dory's dive. The place was below street
level; moisture-laden atmosphere picked it as a settling spot. Encroaching mists were driven back,
however, by the clouds of smoke that issued from the mouths of customers.
Medleys of tobacco were always common at Dory's. Dutch sailors were puffing at big pipes;
gesticulating Spaniards and Italians were consuming cigarettes of many foreign blends; squatty
Malaysians were smoking rank-odored cheroots. The haze of tobacco smoke was tinged with curls of
yellow and blue, and through that shifting cloud, Dory kept constant watch on all newcomers.
There were three doorways that led into this dankish, stone-walled retreat. One came directly from the
broad street that ran beside the piers; the second was from a side alleyway. The third was an interior
door, used only by chosen customers. It led into an adjoining house.
There were strangers here tonight. That was not unusual; but Dory always sized up strangers as soon as
they entered. He knew that feuds of shipboard often found their culmination on the waterfront. Dory kept
tabs on usual customers and knew when some required watching. Strangers, however, were always a
doubtful quantity. Dory checked all of them for future reference.
Ribald oaths sounded at the main door as three rough fellows entered. All were garbed in oilskins. Dory
recognized the trio as crew members of a coastwise barge flotilla. He watched the three men take a
corner table and pound riotously to summon a greasy-aproned waiter. Then Dory's watchful eyes shot
back to the door. Another man was entering, quietly. Beefy-faced and evil-eyed, the newcomer stared
about the room, a coarse smile on his lips. Dory knew the fellow, he was an ex-seaman whose friends
were landlubbers. To his pals, this ugly-eyed specimen was known as Sailor Martz.
Others went back to their ships when they left Dory's. Sailor Martz stayed ashore. He had no ship. Dory
knew, however, that Sailor was not always in New York. He had been absent during a period of nearly
two months; it was only recently that he had returned.
Whether or not Sailor Martz had filled a temporary berth on some ship was a matter which did not
concern Dory Halbit. He recognized Sailor as an accepted customer; the fellow's business was his own.
Moreover, Sailor's patronage was profitable to Dory. On more than one occasion, the bad-eyed
customer had paid the proprietor for the use of rooms in the adjoining house. Sailor had held meetings
there. That was all that Dory knew.
SAILOR caught the proprietor's stare. His ugly grin widened. Shaking his dark-colored slicker, shoving
his cap up from his forehead, Sailor strolled over to the bar and thrust a foot upon the broken-down
brass rail.
Dory leaned back and produced a bottle and glass. He placed these articles on the bar so Sailor could
help himself.
"Looking for somebody, Sailor?" queried Dory.
"Yeah." Sailor stood with glass in hand and stared suspiciously about the dive. "Lookin' for a mug that I
don't know. Maybe you can help me, Dory."
"How's that? If you don't know the guy?"
"I may be able to pick him out, if he's here. What I want to lamp is strangers. Tell me where to spot
'em."
"Couple of Filipinos over by the side door."
"Not them. This mug's an American."
"Fellow by the middle post. The one with the underslung jaw."
"Who else?"
"Dark-faced gent down in that inside corner. The one with the dark mackinaw. Might be a furriner, but I
don't think he is."
Sailor flashed a sidelong glance. He spied a thick-set man who was seated alone. Something in the
fellow's bearing rendered him inconspicuous. Sailor would not have noticed him but for Dory's
suggestion. "Look's like the mug," stated Sailor, his growl lowered almost to a whisper. "I'm slidin' over
to talk to him, Dory. Maybe he'll start somethin'; so be on the lookout."
"Yeah?" queried the proprietor, his voice as hard as Sailor's. "Take another guess, matey. This ain't no
joint for a fight."
"It won't be no fight," assured Sailor, bringing a clenched hand from a pocket of his slicker. "Not if you
use your noodle, Dory. Here - snag this."
He transferred a crumpled wad of bills to the proprietor's hand. Dory eyed the money, nodded and thrust
the bills into his pocket.
"Pass the high-sign to the regulars," whispered Sailor. "When I start it movin', they pitch in. Drag the guy
out through the side way, into the house. I'll talk to 'im there."
"All right," agreed Dory.
As Sailor strolled over to the indicated corner, Dory shifted behind the bar. Some of the customers had
noted him talking to Sailor and were staring curiously. Dory caught the eyes he wanted. He gave a
significant nod and a nudge of his thumb. Nods were the responses of the regulars. Eyes shifted to the
corner.
Sailor had stopped by the table where the stranger was seated. He was looking at his quarry; the man
was staring up to meet his gaze. Sailor eyed a face that was unshaven, with an upper lip that displayed a
short-clipped mustache. He gained the hunch that the sallow complexion had been increased in darkness
by a dye.
"Howdy, mate," he greeted. "Ain't I seen you somewhere? On the Colombo, when I shipped from
Buenos Aires?"
"Don't remember you," returned the stranger, with a short growl. "Maybe we've met; maybe we
haven't."
"Old Halyard Lubin was the skipper," recalled Sailor, seating himself at the table. "You heard of him, ain't
you?"
"Sure." The dark-faced man shoved a bottle and glass to Sailor. "Heard a lot about him. Never met him,
though."
"You heard what they said about Lubin in Puerto Rico?"
"Yeah. But I never got the story straight. What was it?"
Sailor's grin hardened. His tone was contemptuous as he leaned forward across the table. "You heard
about Halyard Lubin, eh? In Puerto Rico? Well, he never was there - because there ain't no such guy! I
thought you was the landlubber I was lookin' for -"
As he spoke, Sailor came up from the table. His arms shot forward; his long-nailed fingers clawed for the
dark man's throat.
The stranger, too, was in action, and he moved too swiftly for Sailor. Twisting away, the landlubber sent
his chair crashing to the floor. With one hand he made a grab for the bottle. Whisking it from under
Sailor's nose, he started a side-swiping swing straight for his antagonist's head.
Sailor ducked as he threw up a warding arm. The swing went wide; the landlubber shifted for a
downward drive before Sailor could stop him. That second blow would have brought results, but for an
attack from another source.
The regulars had responded. They were surging forward en masse. Half a dozen ruffians, followed by a
dozen reserves, all were springing at Dory's beck to aid Sailor Martz. The leading attackers caught the
landlubber before he could swing the bottle.
Twisting fiercely, the lone man yanked clear. He swung the bottle like a cudgel. He cracked the skull of
one assailant and smashed the bottle upon the capped pate of a second. Diving out front the corner, he
grabbed up a chair and swung it into the ranks of the foe.
Knives flashed. Revolvers came into view. Three men surged forward. The landlubber staggered as a fist
reached his jaw. Sprawling against the wall, he looked up to see Sailor Martz diving straight for him.
Sailor's face was venomous; his right hand was driving downward with a long-bladed knife.
Others stopped stock-still to let Sailor snag his prey. Death loomed with seeming certainty for the fighter
who had sagged beneath the force of numbers. Sallow lips pressed firmly shut as the eyes above them
saw the descending blade which the half-groggy victim could not stop.
THEN, from amid the chaos of commotion came a thunderous roar from an unexpected quarter. The
burst of an automatic spelled a new entrant into the one-sided fray. Sailor Martz's upraised body doubled
backward instead of forward. With a wild scream, the would-be assassin staggered sidewise; his fist
opened and his brandished knife clattered to the floor.
A fierce laugh broke the silence that the gunshot had brought. Hard-faced men wheeled about, fuming
oaths as they whirled toward the direction of that sinister mirth. Facing the interior door of the dive, they
saw the marksman who had crippled Sailor Martz.
A cloaked figure had emerged from the darkness of that inner doorway. Gloved fists projected from the
folds of his sable-hued garb. The brim of a slouch hat concealed the features above the cloak, save for a
pair of burning eyes that challenged all.
The Shadow had arrived upon the field of fray, to snatch a helpless victim from the toils of murderous
men.
CHAPTER III. THE RAID
THE denizens of Dory Halbit's dive were not of mobland's ilk. Yet these ruffians who had aided Sailor
Martz were cutthroats in their own right. To them, the name of The Shadow might be hazier than it was
to crooks of the underworld; that fact only made this squad of murderers more dangerous.
Crooks had faded often at The Shadow's advent. Rats of crime knew the menace of The Shadow. This
crew lacked such information. They saw The Shadow as an unexpected intruder who had balked them of
a kill.
Revolvers crackled as knife-wielding fighters charged forward, driving low. Under a high barrage, the
men with dirks were aiming for the intrepid stranger who had come from blackness. They, like Sailor
Martz, were to learn The Shadow's power.
Doubling to the floor, The Shadow sprang straight against the attacking ranks. Bullets whizzed above
him, aimed too high and too late. Mighty automatics belched flame into the phalanx of knife-armed men.
Snarling rogues sprawled to the cement floor.
One wounded assassin caught himself and sent a blade whizzing through the air. His stroke was late. The
Shadow had whirled from the charge. Diving along the wall, he gained the bar where Dory Halbit was
stationed. The brawny proprietor sprang forward to stop the sweeping figure. Gun-fisted hands shot
upward and sent the one-legged foeman clattering across the floor.
Revolvers burst anew. The automatics answered. The Shadow had found the vantage point he wanted.
There were full barrels beneath Dory's counter. They served as a bulwark against bullets. His guns upon
the counter level, The Shadow blazed responding shots.
Attackers broke. They had not counted upon conflict with a vengeful, sharp-shooting foe. They valued
their hides too much to keep up the quarrel on behalf of Sailor Martz. Wild with desire for escape, the
armed men followed the noncombatants who had already scurried through the doorways to the streets.
Sprawled figures told of The Shadow's prowess. The cloaked fighter had not aimed to kill. He had
dropped his adversaries with quick, clipping shots; his wounded foemen were crawling toward the doors
that offered escape.
There was one exception. Sailor Martz, half doubled in agony, was picking up his knife. His bleary eyes
were looking toward the landlubber whom he had failed to slay. He was out to get that victim at any
cost.
The dark-faced man had risen also. Grogginess ended, he was ready to pounce forward the moment that
Sailor made a move. The Shadow watched the coming drama. He knew that the full advantage lay with
the man whom he had saved. Sailor Martz surged crazily forward; the landlubber caught him and sent
him staggering back.
Then came a shrill interruption from the doorways through which escaping rogues were diving. Police
whistles told the entry of the law. Ruffians came staggering back; plainclothes men piled down the steps
into the underground dive.
Cardona's raiding squad had arrived. They had caught men who were seeking flight, not fight. The police
were just in time to make a complete round-up of the scattering customers from Dory's dive.
THE SHADOW dropped behind the counter. His whispered laugh faded. His work had been
accomplished. He had come here tonight to back the law. He had entered only because a crisis had
arrived before the raid. He had wounded Sailor Martz. The man was helpless. The law could have him.
But the law was due to blunder. Sailor Martz had sagged to the floor under the pressure of the
landlubber with the dark-hued skin. A bulky plainclothes man bounded forward; the dark man swung
about to speak.
The dick placed a hard punch to the dyed jaw. The landlubber crumpled. Half recovering, he came up;
another plainclothes man sprang in and clubbed him. Together, the two officers dragged their limp victim
to the door.
Sailor Martz came to his feet. He swayed a moment; then grinned in sickly fashion. Unnoticed by the
raiders, he turned about and staggered through the inner door that led to the adjoining house.
Clattering footsteps now sounded on stone. The raiders had done most of their work outside; they were
dragging out the last of their prisoners. Joe Cardona appeared in the side doorway; looking about, the
raid commander saw that the work was complete.
But Joe did not spy the figure that rose hazily behind Dory's counter. That spot was out of the light. The
Shadow, peering forward, was unobserved as he, too, made a survey of the scene. The Shadow spied
Joe Cardona; he followed the direction of the detective's gaze toward the front door of the dive.
There The Shadow's eyes were fixed. Between two plainclothes men he saw a figure that he recognized.
Instantly The Shadow realized the mistake that the raiders had made. They were dragging out the
rescued man. Sailor Martz had disappeared.
Impatiently, The Shadow waited. He watched Joe Cardona turn about and leave. The dive was
deserted. Dory Halbit had been thrust out with the rest. Swiftly, The Shadow moved from behind the
wooden bar. He swung toward the inner doorway and merged with the darkness beyond it.
The law, confident of the swiftness of its clean-up, had failed to bag the one man that it sought. Sailor
Martz had made a get-away, despite his wound. The Shadow, alone was on the fellow's trail.
OUTSIDE the dive, Joe Cardona was watching clanging patrol wagons pull away into the mist. Prisoners
had been herded aboard. In the crowd somewhere - Joe was sure - would be the man he wanted: Sailor
Martz.
Cardona smiled as he stepped aboard a police car. The fight in the dive, just before the raid, had been a
fortunate break according to the detective's reasoning. It offered a good pretext for the raid. Dory Halbit
could make no howl.
Clanging through the fog, the car reached the nearest precinct. Alighting, Cardona walked up the steps of
the building and entered the big room to survey the prisoners. He found half a dozen who were due to be
shipped in an arriving ambulance. Not one of this crowd answered the description of Sailor Martz.
摘要：

THEMANFROMSCOTLANDYARDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.TRAILSCONVERGE?CHAPTERII.ONTHEWATERFRONT?CHAPTERIII.THERAID?CHAPTERIV.THELOSTTRAIL?CHAPTERV.MENINTHEDARK?CHAPTERVI.HOPEINTHENIGHT?CHAPTERVII.THERESCUE?CHAPTERVIII.ABOARDANDASHORE?CHAPTERIX.MR.JA...

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