Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 076 - The Triple Trail

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THE TRIPLE TRAIL
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A MESSAGE OF MOMENT
? CHAPTER II. WICKROFT TALKS
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ENTERS
? CHAPTER IV. THE MENACE STRIKES
? CHAPTER V. NEW VISITORS
? CHAPTER VI. THE LONE TRAIL
? CHAPTER VII. TWO MEN MEET
? CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW OBJECTIVE
? CHAPTER IX. THE STAGE SETS
? CHAPTER X. NEW CRIME BREAKS
? CHAPTER XI. CRIME DISCUSSED
? CHAPTER XII. THE MAN FROM LONDON
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S TRIANGLE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE MEETING
? CHAPTER XV. THE CELLINI MANUSCRIPT
? CHAPTER XVI. THE LAW PREPARES
? CHAPTER XVII. OTHER FACTORS ENTER
? CHAPTER XVIII. TABLES TURN
? CHAPTER XIX. SIGNET SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XX. THE FIRST PART
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SECOND PART
? CHAPTER XXII. THE THIRD PART
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW'S TURN
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST STROKE
CHAPTER I. A MESSAGE OF MOMENT
IT was a dull, sullen morning. Brooding clouds hung low over the New Jersey countryside, threatening to
add new deluge to downpours that had fallen in the night. The hillside town of Droverton was blanketed
beneath a gloomy pall of mist.
The morning letter carrier shouldered his nearly emptied sack and glowered up at the threatening sky. His
route had taken him completely through Droverton. One more call; then he could head back for the post
office. He was wondering if he would make the return trip before new rain commenced.
Pacing along a gravel sidewalk, the mail carrier thrust his hand into the bag and produced a half dozen
letters. He checked them to make sure; all were addressed to Stanton Treblaw. The last stop on the
route.
Funny old duck, Stanton Treblaw. That was the carrier's opinion, despite the fact that he had seldom met
Treblaw in person. Musing as he strode along, the mailman recalled Stanton Treblaw as a white-haired
individual with a reddish, rounded face.
“Foxy Grandpa!” That was the nickname the town boys had given Treblaw. The postman chuckled as he
thought of it. The name suited; for if anyone looked foxy, Stanton Treblaw was the man. Worth plenty of
money, Treblaw was, even if he did seem goofy, living in an old mansion that looked like a haunted
house.
The carrier had reached Treblaw's. He stopped at the long walk that led up to the old house. His fists
tightened a bit as he entered the grounds. The place was spooky all right, even in daylight. Funny, the
carrier thought, how it always seemed like eyes were watching from that house.
The postman shuddered as he reached the front of the gloomy building, with its cracked stone walls.
Then, with an air of bravado, he tapped with the big brass knocker that hung on the front door. Whistling
to keep up his spirits, he began to count over the letters in his hands.
Two pieces of mail puzzled the postman. One was a long envelope that bore an English stamp, with the
postmark “London.” It wasn't the first letter that Treblaw had received from England.
And here was another envelope that resembled ones which the postman had seen before. It was from
New York; but on the back it carried a large dab of sealing wax, impressed with a crown-shaped seal.
Intent on his study of the mysterious letter, the postman was not looking up when the big door opened. It
was the sound of an advancing footstep that made him swing about to face a tall, dry-faced serving man
who had responded to the knock.
The postman started as though he had seen a corpse. With nervous motion, he thrust the letters into the
servant's hand; then, as the tall man blinked suspiciously, the postman muttered something about the rain,
turned about and strode quickly away from the house.
Glancing back as he reached the gate, the postman saw that the door had closed. Yet he still felt that
sensation of watching eyes. He stared toward a window where dull red curtains formed a somber mass.
They looked suspicious, those curtains, as though they had been the hiding place of a lurking watcher.
Raindrops began to patter. The postman shifted away from the gate; then, as the shower increased, he
started off on a jog, using the downpour as an excuse for fleeing from a neighborhood that he did not
relish.
RED curtains had concealed a watcher. Within the old house, a man was standing behind those very
drapes that the jittery letter carrier had observed. This watcher had been looking for the postman's
arrival. He had seen the letters in the carrier's hand.
This spying man was young, but crafty-faced. He looked like a private secretary; pale in countenance,
almost self-effacing in manner. The room in which he stood was half study, half office. Filing cabinets and
a battered safe vied with antiquated chairs and tables to produce a composite appearance.
Footsteps in the hall announced the servant's approach. The young man stepped away from the window
and glanced mildly toward the door as the servant entered.
“Mail, Baxter?” he questioned.
“Yes, Mr. Wickroft,” replied the servant, extending the letters. “All for Mr. Treblaw.”
“I shall take charge of them, Baxter.”
“Very well, Mr. Wickroft.”
The secretary waited until the servant had left. Then, with gleaming eyes, he began to sort through the
letters. He stopped when he saw the envelope with the London postmark. He studied it as the postman
had. Then he came to the letter with the crown-impressed seal.
Wickroft's lips pursed. His hands dropped the other letters on a table. Holding the sealed envelope
beneath the light, the secretary betrayed unmistakable eagerness. He looked anxiously toward the door
of the room.
Suddenly he dropped the red-sealed letters with the others. He stepped away from the table, trying to
appear nonchalant, just as another person entered the room.
The arrival was Stanton Treblaw. The old man fitted the postman's mental description. His shocky white
hair formed a tousled mass above a rotund face. But Treblaw's expression was not a benign one. The old
man was glaring as he entered.
“Where is the mail, Wickroft?” he demanded, in a wheezy voice.
“Right here, sir,” returned the secretary. “I placed it on the table —”
“And failed to inform me that it had arrived?”
“I was just about to do so, Mr. Treblaw. I was coming into the dining room to tell you—”
“Baxter saved you the trouble.” Treblaw's tone was testy. “Well—is there anything of importance in the
mail?”
“A letter, sir”—Wickroft paused hesitatingly—“one from Signet—”
He broke off. Treblaw had seen the letter. With crab-like gait, the old man was making for the table.
Pouncing upon the sealed envelope, he ripped it open and yanked out the message from within. His quick
eyes scanned typewritten lines. Tossing back his shaggy head, Treblaw delivered a cackly laugh.
“I've won!” he cried. “I've won, Wickroft! Signet has come through with the proper offer!”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars, sir?”
“Thirty thousand! Better than I wanted. Here, Wickroft, read it for yourself.”
THRUSTING the letter to his secretary, Treblaw seated himself behind the table. His sharp eyes
glistened as they watched Wickroft read. The secretary smiled wanly and passed the letter back to
Treblaw.
“Properly signed,” remarked Wickroft, pointing to a dab of sealing wax at the bottom of the letter.
Treblaw nodded. That circle of wax, imprinted with a crown, was the letter's only signature. It matched
the impression that was on the envelope.
“Sit down, Wickroft,” ordered Treblaw, his tone quiet. “I want to talk with you.”
“Very well, sir.”
As the secretary seated himself, Treblaw studied the crown-signed letter. At last the old man laid it aside;
then spoke in a quiet, steady wheeze.
“Wickroft,” he declared, “I have shown you the other letters that came from Signet. I have mentioned
their importance to you. I expect you to keep this matter to yourself.”
“Certainly, sir,” responded the secretary.
“The first communication came some weeks ago,” proceeded Treblaw. “In it, this man who calls himself
Signet offered me five thousand dollars for certain old manuscripts that are in my possession.”
“I recall that, sir.”
“I ignored Signet's letter. He wrote again, offering me ten thousand dollars. I let the matter pass. He went
to fifteen thousand; now he has suddenly doubled his offer to thirty thousand.”
“You intend to sell him the manuscripts, sir?”
“Certainly. And yet they must be worth far more than Signet offers. Because those manuscripts,
Wickroft, bear testimony to the authenticity of certain art treasures. Masterpieces, Wickroft, that should
bring a full million dollars if proven genuine!”
“I remember that you mentioned that fact, Mr. Treblaw.”
The old man chuckled. He shook his shaggy head as if in disapproval of his own action.
“I might hold out for more,” he decided. “Signet is unquestionably a man of great wealth. But, after all,
Wickroft, what right have I to make unfair demands? I purchased those manuscripts for a thousand
dollars. Signet is offering me a tremendous profit. I was ready to deliver them for twenty-five thousand.
He bids thirty thousand.”
A pause. Treblaw was reflective. Then he added:
“Of course, I took on the expense of an investigation. I paid Burson, Limited, of London, to find out if
supposed art treasures had been purchased abroad. Their investigators discovered that certain objects
had been purchased.”
“But they failed to learn the name of the purchaser,” reminded Wickroft.
“Of course,” acknowledged Treblaw. “But that is evidence that Signet was the purchaser. Signet: a man
who seeks to hide his true identity.”
Another pause. Treblaw picked up the rest of the mail from the desk. Wickroft eyed the action.
“There's another letter, Mr. Treblaw,” remarked the secretary. “One from England. From Burson,
Limited, perhaps.”
Treblaw found the envelope. He opened it and read the letter within. Wickroft watched the old man's
gleaming eyes. Then came a shrug of stooped shoulders as Treblaw thrust the letter into his pocket.
“Nothing important,” said Treblaw. “Merely an acknowledgment of my last letter. A statement that
Burson, Limited, will appreciate any further business that I give them.”
Rising from his desk, the old man handed the Signet letter to Wickroft. He drew a briefcase from beneath
the table and placed it where Wickroft could reach it.
“Add this Signet letter to the others,” ordered Treblaw. “Put them all in my briefcase. The
correspondence from the Burson file, also.”
As Wickroft started to his task, Stanton Treblaw pressed a button on the wall. Baxter arrived in
response to the call.
“My grip, Baxter,” ordered Treblaw. “Pack it at once. Summon the cab from the depot. I am leaving in
fifteen minutes. For New York, Baxter.”
The servant departed. Old Stanton Treblaw chuckled as he watched Wickroft pack papers into the
briefcase.
“For New York,” repeated the old man. “There to comply with the instructions from Signet. A happy
trip, Wickroft. One that will net me close to thirty thousand dollars.”
RUBBING his long, claw-like hands and cackling with unrepressed glee, Stanton Treblaw strolled from
the room. Wickroft completed the packing of the briefcase and laid the bag in readiness.
Ten minutes later, Baxter entered. He picked up the briefcase and took it out into the hall. A toot of an
automobile horn sounded from in front of the house. Wickroft listened; he heard the front door open and
close.
Peering from between the dull crimson curtains, Wickroft watched Stanton Treblaw fare forth into the
rain. The old man was carrying the briefcase; Baxter was accompanying him with the grip; and the
servant was also holding an umbrella to shield his master from the downpour.
Stanton Treblaw entered the dilapidated taxi that had come from the Droverton depot. Baxter thrust the
grip in with his employer. The old car pulled away; Baxter watched it, then turned about and came slowly
back toward the house, bringing the umbrella.
Wickroft let the red curtains come together. He chuckled in an evil tone as he stepped away from his
lookout post. The secretary's face was not pleasant. His mild mask was gone; craftiness alone dominated
his features.
For Wickroft had no further reason to veil his true expression. He had watched Stanton Treblaw start
forth upon a trip that was to bring an evil climax.
CHAPTER II. WICKROFT TALKS
ONE hour had passed since Stanton Treblaw's departure. Wickroft was still in the room with the
crimson curtains. Seated at a table, the secretary was going over cards in little filing boxes.
This was Wickroft's regular morning routine. After the mail had been read and answered, Treblaw
invariably left the secretary alone. The old man had hired Wickroft for the job of classifying a huge
collection of letters and manuscripts.
As a rule, Treblaw went for a walk in the morning. This procedure left the house in charge of Wickroft,
Baxter and Anna, the cook. On days when it rained, Treblaw remained indoors, but usually stayed in an
upstairs room. Hence Wickroft was never disturbed in his morning routine.
Something in the secretary's sly attitude showed that he counted on the fact that he was left alone. He had
peered from the curtains in a manner that indicated usual procedure.
Moreover, he betrayed a satisfied expression because of Treblaw's absence. It was plain that Wickroft
was waiting for something to occur; that he felt he ran no risk in stealthy practice while his employer was
absent from the house.
But at the end of the full hour, anxiety began to register itself on Wickroft's countenance. As he handled
the filing cards, the secretary looked occasionally toward the telephone that rested on a corner table.
Fifteen minutes more ended Wickroft's work with the files. Rising from the table, the young man began to
pace the floor. His lips were twitching nervously. His eyes were more troubled than crafty as they turned
to look at a big clock on the wall.
Then came an expected sound: the ringing of the telephone bell. Pounding to the corner table, Wickroft
seized the instrument and raised the receiver to his ear. He waited for a dozen seconds. Then he spoke.
“HELLO...” Cautiousness filled Wickroft's voice. “This is the residence of Mr. Stanton Treblaw...”
A pause. Then a low, steady voice responded. Its tone was obviously disguised.
“It's all right, chief,” informed Wickroft. “The old boy's gone out. No chance of him cutting in on the
upstairs phone.”
“Gone out?” came a growl over the wire.
“Yes.” Wickroft's tone was eager. “Not for a walk, though. It's raining heavy out here. He's gone to
New York, chief.”
“Signet?”
“You guessed it, chief. Another letter this morning. Thirty grand is the offer. I'll give you the details.”
“Go ahead.”
“The letter was like the others,” spoke Wickroft, in a low tone. “It told Treblaw to bring the Cellini
manuscripts to New York. Goliath Hotel—an ad in the Classic—same details as before. But this time,
the letter offered thirty thousand dollars.”
Wickroft paused. There was no response. Anxiously, Wickroft queried:
“Did you get that, chief?”
“Yes,”—a growl over the wire—“keep on. I'm listening.”
“Treblaw packed,” resumed Wickroft, “and he headed out for New York. He's going through with the
deal. That means he'll be at the Hotel Goliath.”
Again, Wickroft paused. Hearing nothing, he was about to put another query; then, fearing that it would
annoy his chief, he proceeded.
“I was right about those manuscripts not being here,” asserted Wickroft. “The old man didn't take
anything with him except the Signet letters and the Burson file. It's a sure bet that he's got the Cellini stuff
buried somewhere in New York.
“There's nothing out here that's worth much. But he's never said anything about a safe-deposit vault.
Maybe one of his friends has the manuscripts. Tilton, maybe. But that's only a guess.
“He'll have to shoot straight with Signet, though. Because the letters told him to have the manuscripts
ready. To put the ad in the Classic and to either expect Signet or wait for a reply. Like a return ad. You
know the details.”
Again, Wickroft paused. This time he could think of nothing further to say. The growled voice came
across the wire:
“What else?”
“Nothing much,” returned Wickroft. “Only one thing: A letter from Burson. I didn't get a chance to read
it. Treblaw stuck it in his pocket and never gave it to me to file. But it wasn't important. Just a reply to
Treblaw's last letter, when he paid their bill for investigation. They said they'd be glad to have further
business from him. That's all.”
AS Wickroft paused, a checking statement came across the wire. The voice at the other end was severe;
almost accusing.
“You said that you did not see the Burson letter. Yet you have told me its contents.”
Wickroft's face twitched. He had heard this sharp, checking tone before. It worried him.
“I didn't explain it right, chief,” he protested, nervously. “Honestly, I didn't see the letter—the Burson
letter, I mean. It was the old man who read it; but he mentioned what was in it, see?”
Wickroft paused. Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead. He was afraid that this cold-toned
chief did not believe his statement. He wanted a response; he received silence instead.
“Did you hear me, chief?” queried Wickroft, anxiously. “You understand now, don't you?”
“I understand.” The growled response was almost sarcastic. “Remember, though, what I expect from
you.”
“I know, chief,” blurted Wickroft. “I'm playing straight. I know what happens to double-crossers. I'm on
the level! Honestly!—on the level—”
“See that you keep that way,” came a growled admonition. The interruption made Wickroft quiver. “Go
ahead. What else?”
“Nothing, chief,” responded Wickroft. “All I want to know is what I'm to do now. It's all set for you to
get those letters. They're worth a million, Treblaw says, to the man who can use them. Like this Signet.
But if you go after them, that leaves me here—”
“Remain where you are,” came the cold interruption. “You are safe. You know nothing. You will hear
from me later.”
“All right, chief. I'll play it through. But—but if—”
This time a click was the interruption. The man at the other end had terminated the call. Wickroft stood
aghast; then, with shaking hand, he hung up the receiver.
SETTING the telephone on the table, Wickroft began to pace the room. Anxiety had replaced his
satisfaction. His lips were moving as he mumbled to himself. But as he continued his solitary reasoning,
the treacherous secretary began to regain his crafty smile.
“You are safe. You know nothing.”
Automatically, Wickroft repeated his chief's assurance. The words, half aloud, gave him courage. After
all, Wickroft's position was a most tenable one.
The tool of a master crook, Wickroft had never met the chief who ruled him. Until some months ago,
Wickroft had been a legitimate secretary, skilled at classifying collections.
Then had come a mysterious telephone call. An offer of easy money if he would play a crooked game.
Wickroft had accepted it. Coming into the employ of Stanton Treblaw, he had been ready to aid in theft
or robbery.
Treblaw's collection of letters and manuscripts had proven of comparatively small value, so far as
Wickroft could see. Then had come the messages from Signet.
Treblaw, taking Wickroft in his confidence, had spoken of other manuscripts—ones of high value—that
the old man kept elsewhere than in this house. Signet wanted an old manuscript. One that had been
written by Benvenuto Cellini; one of several such scripts that mentioned art treasures not discussed in
Cellini's famous autobiography.
Wickroft, responding to regular calls from the chief who had bribed him, was quick to pass along the
information. While Treblaw dickered with Signet; while the old man had British investigators studying the
European curio market, Wickroft had been keeping a supercrook posted on the game.
At last the payoff was due. Treblaw had decided to deliver. The old collector had gone to New York.
There he would pick up the manuscript that Signet wanted; there he would negotiate with the would-be
purchaser.
The game was out of Wickroft's hands. The secretary chuckled as a frown erased itself from his brow.
The chief was right. Wickroft, back here at Droverton, could pretend that he knew nothing. Even if the
Signet messages came to light, along with the Burson correspondence, Wickroft could pretend that
Treblaw had conducted these secretly. That would be a logical story; one that would pass muster.
Smugly, Wickroft smiled. His period of vigil had ended. His crooked chief would do the rest. The only
cloud that formed upon Wickroft's face was due to another thought. Wickroft was wondering how great
his reward would be.
There was no link between himself and the master of crime. Did that mean that his chief—a man whom
he had obeyed without meeting—might let him down when it came to a share of the spoils?
The idea troubled Wickroft for a few moments. Then he recalled payments that he had already received:
Cash, in letters that had come to his old address in New York. He had been worth money then; surely he
would be worth more, now that he had delivered the goods.
Besides that, Wickroft saw how he could make trouble for the master crook. Even without jeopardizing
his own position. Suppose the deal went through—with Treblaw losing his thirty thousand dollar prize.
Suppose the unknown crook dropped Wickroft cold. What then?
Wickroft smiled. He realized that he could trump up some story. Talk of bribery that he had not
accepted. Hazy clues that would start the law on the trail of the master criminal. All the while, with no
direct link between himself and the supercrook, Wickroft could play the part of a faithful secretary to
Treblaw. A helping aid; not a traitor.
The smile broadened as Wickroft stopped beside a curtained window and peered through at brilliant
sunshine which had supplanted the morning's rain. He was confident that his criminal chief would deliver
him his share. That would be the only wise policy.
Wickroft chuckled as he drew the curtains open. He turned off the electric light and returned to the filing
table. Resuming work in the clear illumination of daylight, the traitor became methodical in his task. He
could afford to wait; to continue his inconspicuous part while men of crime were dealing with Stanton
Treblaw.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ENTERS
THE same rains that had deluged the town of Droverton had brought heavy damage to low-lying New
Jersey areas. Cloudbursts had flooded valley towns and the New York newspapers were proclaiming
the fact with large headlines.
In the office of the New York Classic, a young man was banging on a typewriter, writing a final story that
summarized the destruction in the storm-swept districts. He finished with a string of asterisks across the
bottom of the page; then yanked the paper from the machine and handed it to a copy boy.
That done, the young man picked up a newspaper that had just been left on his desk. It was the bulldog
edition of the Classic, off the press five minutes ago. Settling back in his chair, he passed up the front
page and began to look through other portions of the tabloid.
This young man was Clyde Burke, reporter for the Classic. The rewrite of the storm news had been
given him as a last assignment for the midnight edition. With his work done, Clyde was more interested in
a story that he had written during the afternoon.
That story dealt with crime. Clyde Burke was usually detailed as a police reporter. Crime interested him
more than storms. There was a double reason for the fact. Clyde Burke was not only a reporter on the
staff of the Classic. He was also an agent of The Shadow.
Clyde's work carried him into the underworld. As a newspaper reporter, he was immune from the usual
feuds of mobdom, so long as he minded his own business, which Clyde appeared to do. Secretly,
however, the reporter kept tabs on crook movements and passed his findings along to The Shadow.
Clyde was always alert in The Shadow's service. To him, The Shadow was a leader who commanded
complete obedience. Battling against crime, The Shadow was a mysterious power who held the balance
in favor of the law. Clyde, like others, was doing his part to aid that mighty task.
Thumbing pages of the Classic, Clyde looked for other news items. Like all newspaper men, he knew
that a story frequently had another story behind it. If he needed inside dope, he could get it from his
fellow reporters. It was his policy to go through each edition while still hot from the press. On page
thirteen of the bulldog, Clyde Burke stopped with a puzzled frown. The Classic conducted a personal
column which happened to appear upon this page. Usually, the items were trivial. But this time, Clyde
had spotted a rare one. He read it carefully:
SIGNET: Terms agreeable. Am waiting at G. Ready for reply. T.
Tucking the newspaper under his arm, Clyde arose and strolled over to a telephone booth in the corner.
It was a pay station that a nickel-saving city editor had introduced for reporters who wished to make
personal calls. That suited Clyde; for the call that he intended to make could not go over the regular
switchboard.
Dropping a coin in the pay box, Clyde dialed a number. He waited for a few moments; then heard the
click of a receiver, followed by a quiet voice: “Burbank speaking.”
“Burke,” said Clyde. “In the Classic office. Just been reading the bulldog. Listen to this. In the
personals.”
Pulling the newspaper into view, Clyde read off the advertisement. Burbank acknowledged it; then gave
an order to stand by. Clyde hung up and strolled back to his desk. He noted the time as he did so. Half
past eight. The early bulldog edition would not be on the street until shortly before nine.
Slouching in his chair, Clyde stared out through the window and watched the flicker of Manhattan's
evening lights. Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow, was relaying the call to the master sleuth. Orders
would be forthcoming. Of that, Clyde Burke was sure.
SOMEWHERE in Manhattan, a bluish light was glimmering upon the polished surface of a table.
Long-fingered hands were at work, sorting clippings and report sheets. The Shadow was in his sanctum,
preparing campaigns against crime.
A glittering bulb from the wall announced a call to the sanctum. The Shadow's hands stretched forth and
plucked earphones. A voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
The Shadow's tone was a whispered command. Burbank's quiet voice continued. The Shadow's right
hand appeared beneath the light, writing words upon a sheet of paper. The earphones went back across
the table.
A soft laugh from the darkness just beyond the light. The Shadow had received Clyde Burke's relayed
message. His keen eyes were analyzing the item that had come from page thirteen of the Classic.
Three points impressed The Shadow. The name “Signet”; the letter “G”; and the letter “T.” Beneath the
copied advertisement, the long hand began to write inked statements of deduction.
The Shadow's first finding was an obvious one: namely, that “Signet" was an assumed name, intended to
cover the true identity of the person to whom the message was addressed. The logical supposition,
therefore, was that “T” also hid an identity; one, however, that Signet would recognize.
Logically, T should have had an assumed name of his own, instead, he had resorted to a simple initial.
This showed that T, in all probability, was the actual initial of the sender. Being known only to Signet, the
single letter was a sufficient cover for the identity of the sender.
Someone with a name that began with T. A hopeless clue in an ordinary message. But The Shadow saw
a point that offered a further finding. That was the letter G. T was waiting at G.
Had the message been signed by an assumed name, the letter G might have meant some designated spot,
taken from a list that both persons had available. But the signature T showed that this was not a regular
form of correspondence, T had used an initial to cover his own name. Therefore, G was an initial that
covered another name.
G might be the initial letter of a city or a town; it might be some spot in New York. The Shadow leaned
to the latter conclusion; his assumption was based upon the fact that the Classic, a tabloid newspaper,
had little circulation outside of New York City.
Logically, T was in New York; and so was Signet. G must be a place in the city. With T waiting there,
ready, G should be some spot where Signet could find him at night as well as at day. Probably a hotel.
Inked writing faded. Such was the way with The Shadow's inscribed thoughts. His pen contained a fluid
that vanished after drying.
摘要：

THETRIPLETRAILMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.AMESSAGEOFMOMENT?CHAPTERII.WICKROFTTALKS?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWENTERS?CHAPTERIV.THEMENACESTRIKES?CHAPTERV.NEWVISITORS?CHAPTERVI.THELONETRAIL?CHAPTERVII.TWOMENMEET?CHAPTERVIII.THENEWOBJECTIVE?CHAPTERIX.THE...

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