Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 070 - The Blue Sphinx

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The Blue Sphinx
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. HAWKEYE HEARS NEWS
? CHAPTER II. THE SECOND LINK
? CHAPTER III. FROM THE SANCTUM
? CHAPTER IV. IN THE PAWNSHOP
? CHAPTER V. THE SWIFT SEQUENCE
? CHAPTER VI. THE STORM BREAKS
? CHAPTER VII. IN THE MUSEUM
? CHAPTER VIII. STRANGERS ARRIVE
? CHAPTER IX. MURDER AT EIGHT
? CHAPTER X. THE MAN WHO KNEW
? CHAPTER XI. AT THE PHOENIX HOTEL
? CHAPTER XII. MORE MEN MOVE
? CHAPTER XIII. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIV. WITHIN CLOSED WALLS
? CHAPTER XV. THE LULL ENDS
? CHAPTER XVI. CLIFF SENDS WORD
? CHAPTER XVII. THE BAD BREAK
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE NIGHT ATTACK
? CHAPTER XIX. THE BREAK ARRIVES
? CHAPTER XX. THE ESCAPE
? CHAPTER XXI. BY THE BRIDGE
? CHAPTER XXII. THE EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE GAME REVEALED
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE SECRET OF THE SPHINX
CHAPTER I. HAWKEYE HEARS NEWS
"WHAT you doin' in this doorway, fellow?"
The policeman growled the question as he stepped suddenly into the entryway of an old, dilapidated
store. Flickering a flashlight, he studied a shrewd, pointed face that showed above the collar of a
turtle-neck sweater.
"Just keepin' out of the rain, officer." The sweatered man grinned as he made reply. "Smokin' a cig while
I'm waitin' for it to let up. Comin' heavy, ain't it?"
Short of stature, the sweatered man straightened his stooped shoulders as he spoke. He made two
gestures. One, with his left hand, showed the lighted cigarette of which he had spoken. With his right
hand, the little man indicated the steady downpour that was dripping about the structure of an elevated
line.
A train came rumbling along before the cop had another chance to speak. The little man puffed
nonchalantly at his cigarette while the bluecoat continued to scrutinize him with the flashlight. Then, as the
clatter faded, the cop delivered another question.
"Keepin' out of the wet, eh?" he challenged, "Lookin' out for your health, I guess?"
"That's it," returned the little man, with another puff at the cigarette.
"Yeah?" growled the bluecoat. "Well, wise boy, I'm tellin' you somethin'. You won't find a doorway a
healthy place on my beat."
"This one's not so bad, officer."
"Yeah? Why not?"
"Because the store's empty. Use that glim you've got an' you'll see. That's why I picked this spot. Figured
you might be comin' along."
The cop flashed his light on grimy, empty windows. He saw that the sweatered man's statement was
correct. This doorway offered no inducement for crime. Whatever the man's purpose here, burglary
could not be a motive.
"Lucky the dragnet's not operatin'," declared the cop, gruffly. "If it was, I'd run you in. Move along! If I
catch you loiterin' again, I'll make the pinch!"
The sweatered man flicked his cigarette into the gutter. With a shrug of his shoulders, he slouched from
the doorway and headed down the street.
The patrolman, using the doorway as his own temporary post, watched until he saw the fellow cross the
next street. Swinging his club, he resumed his beat.
TWO minutes after the policeman had passed the corner, a hunched figure stepped from the shelter of an
elevated post. A drizzle-dulled street lamp showed the same crafty face above the rolled neck of the
sweater.
Moving swiftly, the little man returned to the doorway from which the officer had ejected him. Crouching
in the darkness, he lighted a fresh cigarette. As he smoked, he kept the glow hidden by his hand.
This doorway occupant was well known to certain characters of Manhattan's underworld. He was
nicknamed "Hawkeye," and the moniker was well chosen. For Hawkeye possessed an uncanny ability in
keeping watch on the business of other people; and he was also famed for his skill in detecting the
approach of any danger.
Hawkeye had slipped to-night. His muttering was testimony to that fact. It had been a long while since
any flatfoot had uncovered Hawkeye nestled in a hiding place. Hawkeye knew the reason: the policeman
had spotted the glow of the cigarette. That was why the crafty-faced fellow was keeping the new glow
covered.
Hawkeye's mutters ended in a chuckle. After all, he had talked the cop out of making a pinch. That
showed foresight on Hawkeye's part. He had chosen this lurking place because the patrolman was new
on the beat. Others might have recognized Hawkeye; but this bluecoat had not.
There was another reason, also, why Hawkeye had picked this place to loiter. The borders of the
underworld were cut by definite routes along which crooks traveled. This particular block and the one
beyond it formed a highroad of the bad lands.
Passers had thinned while the patrolman was in sight. With the officers gone, new figures came in sight. A
shambling hop-head; a cane-toting peddler; two hard-faced gorillas—these were men who went by while
Hawkeye watched. From the darkness of the doorway, the wary-eyed observer continued his vigil.
Hawkeye was looking for old faces. Identified with crooks, he was constantly on the lookout for old pals
who had long been missing. More figures passed. Hawkeye stamped out his consumed cigarette and
cautiously lighted another. Then his low chuckle came again as he spied a man approaching on the other
side of the street.
The newcomer's face was not discernible at this distance. But his gait, half stroll, half slouch, seemed
familiar to Hawkeye. The watcher waited until the man had passed; then, after a quick peer from the
doorway, Hawkeye emerged and took up the trail.
Half a block ahead, the stroller turned into an alleyway. Hawkeye quickened his pace as he crossed
beneath the elevated. When he reached the alley, he looked through to a lighted street at the other end.
There was no sign of the stroller.
Hawkeye knew where he had gone. Halfway down the alley was the darkened entry of a dive that
regulars called "Luke's Joint."
That, alone, could have been the stroller's destination.
HAWKEYE had entrance to Luke's Joint. He went along the alley, descended three steps and gave a
short, quick rap. A door opened; a scarred face met Hawkeye's. A nod and a growl; and the little fellow
was admitted into a dimly lighted entry.
Continuing through, Hawkeye entered a fair-sized room where half a dozen rough-faced rowdies were
seated at tables.
One man, seated in a far corner, was alone. He had apparently just entered, for Luke, the proprietor,
was setting a bottle and glass on the table. Hawkeye caught a glimpse of the man's face. Strolling over,
he stepped up as Luke was turning and nudged the seated man on the shoulder.
The fellow wheeled. His square, pock-marked face showed a scowl as challenging epithets came to his
bloated lips. Then the scowl changed to a leer. A big hand grabbed Hawkeye's and dragged the little
man to the table.
"How're you, Tinker?" chuckled Hawkeye. "Thought it was you, the minute I lamped your mug.
Say—you're the last guy I thought I was goin' to see when I come in here."
"Yeah?" laughed "Tinker." "Well, it's the same here, Hawkeye. I ain't knowed anything about you since
we was up in the Big House together. Have a drink. Then tell me the news."
Hawkeye shrugged his shoulders. That indicated that he had nothing to talk about. His eyes, however,
were shrewdly questioning.
Tinker caught their meaning. He laughed; then spoke low.
"Figuring something, ain't you?" he asked. "Figuring that the big town ain't no spot for Tinker Furris."
"That's it," nodded Hawkeye.
"I ain't staying here long," declared Tinker. "Moving out day after to-morrow."
"Where to?"
"A town called Latuna. Ever hear of it?"
"A long way from here, ain't it?"
"Yeah." Tinker nodded. Then, carefully, he added. "What else have you heard about that town?"
"Nothin' much," replied Hawkeye, in an indifferent tone. "Only enough to make me figure it ain't healthy.
Cuckoo Mohart was down in Latuna once. Took it on the lam with some other gorillas when the town
had a clean-up. Told me it was too hot."
"It was," decided Tinker. "But it ain't now. Konk Zitz is sitting pretty in Latuna."
"Yeah? What's his racket?"
"He don't seem to have none yet. But he wants me down there with him. What's more, he can use any
guy that's a pal of mine. More than one, for that matter."
"Meanin' me, for instance?"
"Yeah."
TINKER'S proposition was a prompt one; but it brought a shake of the head from Hawkeye. Tinker
eyed his former prison mate. Apparently, Hawkeye preferred to remain in New York. Tinker made a
statement instead of putting a query.
"Might use you on a job here," he suggested. "To-morrow night. That's why I'm in town."
"A job for Konk Zitz?" inquired Hawkeye.
"No," replied Tinker. "A lay that I wised up to on my own. I can let you in on it, Hawkeye, if you can get
me the guy I want."
"Who's that?"
"A bird you used to travel around with. Fellow named Tapper. Pretty good safe-cracker, ain't he?"
"Not many better."
"Can you get him?"
"Maybe." Hawkeye was cagey for a moment; then, looking around warily, he turned to Tinker and spoke
in a whisper. "Tapper's like me. We're both dodgin' the bulls. Ain't no use takin' too many chances."
"This one's a set-up—for a guy like Tapper."
"Yeah. I've heard of set-ups before. So has Tapper. It was a set-up put him in the Big House. We're
keepin' out of stir, Tapper an' me -"
"Listen," interrupted Tinker, with a low growl. "You know where old Cobleton's hock shop is, don't
you?"
"Sure!" responded Hawkeye. "Next block to where Bingo's old speak used to be."
"Well, Cobleton's would be a cinch, wouldn't it?"
"Sure—for a guy that'd want to drag away a lot of theatrical trunks an' old stage stuff. Every busted
vaudeville troupe unloads its junk on that guy."
"That's what people think. But I know different. Heard it from an actor that had some jewelry along with
his old curtains. He hocked a back drop with Cobleton, then asked him about getting cash for the rocks.
This ham saw some of the sparklers that old Cobleton had in his safe."
Hawkeye looked up and blinked. Tinker Furris laughed. He saw awakened interest.
"Cobleton thinks that junk is a good blind," whispered Tinker. "But it ain't no longer, now that I'm wise.
He leaves the hock shop at night. It'll be a cinch—with Tapper for the job. Well—are you getting him?"
"Sure!" responded Hawkeye. "I'll talk to him."
"All right." Tinker pushed the bottle toward the little man. "Have another drink. Then slide out. Meet me
here to-morrow night, with Tapper. In the back room. And listen. This means taking it on the lam, see?
Latuna for us, as soon as the job's over. Before the bulls get on our trail. We'll be all set when we get
with Konk Zitz."
Hawkeye nodded slowly. He finished his drink, growled a good-by and slouched from Luke's joint.
Reaching the alley, he turned away from the direction of the street where he had spied Tinker Furris.
A SHREWD smile showed on Hawkeye's lips as the sweatered spotter neared a lighted area. Hawkeye
was heading from the borders of the underworld. His mission for to-night was accomplished. Out of
many passers he had spied one who looked like quarry. From that one he had learned the details of a
contemplated plan.
There had been method in Hawkeye's reluctance to join forces with Tinker Furris. For Hawkeye had
long since left the paths of crime. Accepted as a crook by the underworld, this crafty worker was doing
his part to offset men of evil.
Hawkeye had gone straight since his discharge from Sing Sing. That, however, had been but his first step
in a new career. After abandoning crime as a profession, Hawkeye had done his part to beat the workers
of the underworld. He had become an agent of The Shadow.
Through his connections in the bad lands, Hawkeye had become a useful aid to the hidden master who
battled men of crime. Whatever Hawkeye learned went to that superfighter whose very name had
become terror to all crookdom.
Tinker Furris had come to New York to complete a deed of crime. That finished, he intended to leave
for the town of Latuna, to serve as underling for "Konk" Zitz, a powerful crook leader whose
whereabouts had long been undiscovered.
Two clues from Hawkeye to The Shadow: Known crime to be thwarted; unknown evil to be forestalled.
Such would be Hawkeye's contribution to the chief whom he now served. Yet the double information
offered a dilemma to Hawkeye, despite the enthusiasm that the crafty spotter felt.
To prevent Tinker Furris from completing crime; yet to leave Tinker free to join Konk Zitz in
Latuna—such would be The Shadow's problem. How The Shadow would accomplish both was a puzzle
to Hawkeye.
Yet the crafty smile did not fade from Hawkeye's lips. His part was done. The action lay with The
Shadow. And Hawkeye, acquainted with the prowess of his hidden chief, could feel no doubt.
Somehow, Hawkeye knew, The Shadow would solve the problem.
CHAPTER II. THE SECOND LINK
ON the following morning, a rotund, chubby-faced man alighted from a taxicab near Times Square. The
steady rain had ended shortly after dawn; and the freshness of the morning air brought a pleased smile to
this leisurely, methodical-looking individual.
The chubby man paused outside the entrance of the mammoth Badger Building; then, with a reluctant
manner, he entered the lobby and took an elevator. He alighted at one of the higher floors and strolled
along a corridor until he reached a door that bore the lettering:
RUTLEDGE MANN
INVESTMENTS
With a smile that denoted ownership, the chubby man entered to greet a stenographer and an office boy
who had arrived before him. He walked into an inner office where he found a stack of newspapers on his
desk, with a small pile of letters close by.
Opening the letters, Mann read them briefly until he came to one that was written in ink of vivid blue.
The message could not have been deciphered by an ordinary reader, for it was in code. Mann, however,
perused it with ease. At the same time, he was careful to note every detail of the odd epistle. He seemed
to be memorizing the letter as he read.
Mann placed the message on his desk, when he had finished. He stared meditatively from the window
and began to tap his forefinger upon the desk as he recalled what he had read.
While Mann was thus engaged in thought, the writing on the letter started to fade. Words disappeared in
irregular order, as though some ghostly hand had stretched forth to eradicate them. When Mann again
turned toward the desk, the sheet of paper was a total blank.
The investment broker did not appear surprised. He simply crumpled the blank sheet and tossed it in the
wastebasket. Then he rang for the office boy.
"Go down to the Times Square news stand, Horace," ordered Mann. "I want you to obtain some more
out-of-town newspapers."
"Did I forget some, Mr. Mann?" questioned Horace, anxiously. "I brought all that were on your list, sir.
At least I thought I did -"
"You did," interposed Mann, quietly. "The ones that I want were not on my original list. Buy some recent
journals—all that you can obtain—from the city of Latuna."
"Yes, sir."
After Horace had left, Mann drew a fountain pen from his pocket and began to write a message of his
own. It was in the same ink of vivid blue; it was also a note in code. As soon as the ink had dried, Mann
folded the sheet and sealed it in an envelope.
The message that Rutledge Mann had received was from a man named Slade Farrow, a criminologist
who was ever ready to aid The Shadow. Slade Farrow was Hawkeye's sponsor. It was Farrow who
had turned the ex-crook straight.
Last night, Farrow had received Hawkeye's information. Using special ink supplied him at The Shadow's
order, Farrow had passed on the word to Rutledge Mann. For this chubby-faced gentleman who posed
as an investment broker was actually an aid of The Shadow. Mann served as contact agent between the
active workers and their mysterious chief.
In writing to The Shadow, Mann had merely repeated the report as received from Hawkeye. But he had
also taken on another duty. One of Mann's functions was to go through out-of-town newspapers in
search of items that might give inklings of crime. The stack of newspapers on his desk were there for that
purpose. No Latuna paper was among them. So Mann had sent out for those journals.
WHEN Horace returned fifteen minutes later, he brought four newspapers. Three were copies of the
Latuna Gazette, a sizable journal, while the fourth was a thinner sheet called the Latuna Enterprise.
Mann chose the Gazette for a start. He went through each issue carefully, checking on the events of three
succeeding days. He found nothing of striking interest.
The Enterprise was a more sensational sheet. Its news value appeared limited, however, until Mann
reached the fourth page, where he observed an editorial in large type. As he began to read the column, a
smile appeared upon Mann's lips. The editorial bore an apt title; and its language was satirical:
ONE SPHINX MORE
The city of Latuna is to gain a new art treasure. Even though our uncompleted museum lacks space to
exhibit the valuable collections that it owns, the donors appear to be undeterred in their efforts to make
Latuna the art center of this state.
Thanks to Strafford Malden, who deeded Latuna the ground upon which the unfinished museum stands,
our citizens will soon be able to gaze with awe upon the serene countenance of a genuine Egyptian
sphinx.
A relic of the Eighteenth Dynasty, the Blue Sphinx has been pried from its moorings in the Libyan Desert
and is now learning the comforts of modem travel aboard a flat car attached to an American fast freight.
We should like to interview the Blue Sphinx upon its arrival in Latuna. We should like to learn its present
impressions as they contrast with its four-thousand-year sojourn amid the desert sands.
But—unfortunately— sphinxes are famed for their silence. No sphinx would talk, even if it could.
So the Blue Sphinx will remain silent in Latuna. From its resting place in the great hall of the museum, it
will wisely eye our citizenry and keep its impressions to itself. We shall learn nothing from the Blue
Sphinx. But perhaps the Blue Sphinx will learn something from us. If it does, it will be happy.
For it will discover that it is not alone in Latuna. The Blue Sphinx will be pleased when it sees our Mayor
Sphinx and our Police Chief Sphinx. Indeed, every day that it rests in the museum, it will be the guest of
our Curator Sphinx.
Most of us will be present when the Blue Sphinx is installed. That will be a time for silence—on the part
of Sphinxes. But afterward, when individuals can visit the museum quietly and alone, we may visualize a
Sphinx party, wherein the Silent Ones may gather in secret conclave.
There, perhaps, our Mayor Sphinx may explain why he has not exposed the details of graft that he
discovered when he house-cleaned after the demise of the previous administration. Our Police Chief
Sphinx— again perhaps—may state why he still allows characters of criminal caliber to sojourn in our
midst. Our Curator Sphinx—yes, perhaps— may reveal the causes for his delay in completing final plans
for the new portions of the museum.
In return, perhaps, the Blue Sphinx may divulge some mighty secrets of the Nile. But we doubt that such
revelations would interest its human brethren. After all, the Sphinx party may never be held.
Yet one fact remains apparent. The Blue Sphinx from Libya might be a unique possession for any city
other than Latuna. But in our fair town, it will just be one more Sphinx.
When he had finished reading the editorial, Mann referred to the masthead at the top of the column and
learned that the owner and editor of the Latuna Enterprise was named Harrison Knode.
Still smiling, the investment broker clipped the editorial and the information above it. He sealed the
clipping in another envelope. Then he placed both sealed envelopes in a larger wrapper.
Referring to copies of the Gazette, he found mention of the mayor's name as Quirby Rush. He also
learned that the police chief was named Lawrence Grewling.
After a longer search, Mann found an item which mentioned that the Latuna Museum was open from 10
A.M. until 8 P.M. The curator's name was given as Joseph Rubal.
Mann wrote all three names upon a sheet of paper and put it in a little envelope of his own. He added this
to those in the large envelope, sealed his packet and placed it in his pocket. Then he left his office.
TWENTY minutes later, Rutledge Mann arrived at an old office building on Twenty-third Street. He
entered, passed through a dingy hall and ascended a flight of creaking, tilted stairs. He reached an
obscure corridor and stopped in front of an office door. The grimy, cobwebbed panel was of glass. It
bore the name:
B. JONAS
Mann dropped the big envelope in a mail slot and departed. His face was quizzical when he reached the
street. It was not the thought of that obscure office that made Mann seem puzzled. That office was
permanently deserted, from all appearances; yet it served as The Shadow's mail box.
Mann had given up speculation regarding how and when The Shadow entered to receive reports.
What puzzled Mann was the same problem that had troubled Hawkeye. Like the crafty spotter, the
investment broker was wondering how his chief would handle Tinker Furris, yet still have a free hand
when he began an investigation in the town of Latuna.
Hawkeye had supplied word that Tinker planned crime; also, that Latuna was a spot where crime
impended. Mann by reference to the Latuna Gazette, had produced tangible evidence that deep waters
lay ahead. Latuna must be The Shadow's goal. Would he let Tinker Furris get away with crime in order
to keep Konk Zitz lulled?
Mann decided not. Though The Shadow was a mystery, even to this contact agent, Mann, like all the
other aids, knew that The Shadow allowed no spoils to evil-doers. Somehow, The Shadow would
thwart Tinker's scheme of crime, yet manage to keep from damaging his Latuna campaign.
How? Rutledge Mann was still wondering when he reached his office, and the only solution he could
furnish was a head shake. Like Hawkeye, Mann had reached the conclusion that the problem was
beyond all persons but The Shadow.
CHAPTER III. FROM THE SANCTUM
WHITE hands, agile and long-fingered, beneath the rays of a bluish light. The Shadow was in his
sanctum, an unknown abode, secluded somewhere in Manhattan. Upon a polished table lay Mann's
messages, together with the clipping from the Latuna Enterprise.
Writing faded. Clipping was thrust aside. Hands stretched across the table and obtained a pair of
earphones. A tiny signal bulb glimmered on the wall. A quiet voice came across the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
Mann—in his office, during daytime hours; Burbank—in an obscure room, at night. These were the
contact agents of The Shadow. Where Mann, slow and deliberate, served in the development of
preliminary plans, Burbank was ready when action called. Active agents were always ready to receive his
relayed orders from The Shadow.
"Instructions to Vincent." The Shadow's voice came in an awesome whisper. "Insert this advertisement in
the late edition of the Evening Traveler: 'Wanted, Four Salesmen, preferably those knowing Mid-West
conditions convincingly.'"
Burbank's reply was a careful repetition of the words that The Shadow had given him. Then came
another order from The Shadow.
"Instructions to Burke," was the whisper from the unseen lips. "Arrange to accompany Cardona on
nightly inspection tour of the East Side. Special story for the New York Classic."
"Instructions received," replied Burbank.
"Instructions to Marsland," resumed The Shadow. "Pick up message in Shrevnitz cab one block above
Cobalt Club, seven o'clock. Follow orders as given."
"Instructions received."
The earphones clicked against the wall. The bluish light went out with a click. A soft laugh quivered
through blackened walls, rose to a startling crescendo, then faded into shuddering echoes.
With the last tones of that dying mockery came a hush amid the Stygian blackness. The Shadow had
departed by his secret exit. The sanctum had returned to its inky emptiness. Day or night, that strange
abode remained a chamber of blackness.
AFTERNOON hours waned. It was half past six when a personage attired in evening clothes entered a
cab near Times Square. Tall, calm-faced and silent, this individual carried himself with remarkable
composure.
Despite the fact that his keen, hawklike visage was most unusual, this stroller had a way of rendering
himself inconspicuous in the crowd. He chose an opportune moment when he entered the cab and
stepped aboard so quietly that even the shrewd-eyed driver failed to note his entry.
The first indication that the taximan received of a passenger was when a whispered voice came through
the opened window to the front. The driver half started; then nodded. He stared straight ahead when he
pulled from the curb.
The taxi driver's name was Moe Shrevnitz. Familiar with Manhattan's many thoroughfares, a capable man
in a pinch, Moe had been mustered into The Shadow's service. The Shadow owned the independent cab
that Moe drove. The taximan kept close to a chosen point near Times Square, to await The Shadow's
call.
The voice from the cab was the whisper of The Shadow. Recognizing it, Moe knew that he was
conveying his chief. As he neared his destination, he again caught a statement from The Shadow.
"Wait for Marsland," was the whisper. "Deliver this message to him."
An envelope dropped beside Moe as the driver wheeled toward the curb. Moe picked up the envelope
as he stopped. He placed it in his pocket; then turned about. The cab was empty.
In that brief interval after the arrival, The Shadow had stepped to the curb. Though garbed in evening
clothes, he had strangely vanished.
Moe settled back to await Cliff's appearance.
The Shadow had chosen a destination close to the exclusive Cobalt Club. He had turned in the direction
of the club building after leaving Moe's cab. A few minutes later, the doorman bowed as The Shadow
strolled into view.
"Good evening, Mr. Cranston," said the doorman. "Commissioner Barth is expecting you, sir."
"Very good," was the quiet reply. A slight smile showed on thin lips as The Shadow entered to find the
police commissioner. In his visits to the Cobalt Club, The Shadow came in the guise of Lamont Cranston,
millionaire globe-trotter. It was a most convenient personality, for the real Lamont Cranston was seldom
in New York.
In his guise of Cranston, The Shadow had become a close friend of Commissioner Wainwright Barth. He
found Barth awaiting him in the lobby. They shook hands and went to the grillroom for dinner.
SEATED at the table, the two formed a marked contrast. The Shadow's guise of Lamont Cranston made
him appear as a quiet, lackadaisical individual, despite the keenness of his hawklike countenance.
Barth, on the contrary, was restless. Tall, he thrust his long neck forward from the collar of his evening
shirt. His smooth pate gave him the appearance of a bald eagle, while his eyes gleamed through the lenses
of his pince-nez spectacles.
"Prevention of crime," announced Barth, above his soup cup. "That is my watchword, Cranston. Despite
the fact that the newspapers sometimes criticize my policies, I am achieving results."
"Ah, yes," responded the pretended Cranston. "Come here, waiter. Get me a final copy of the Evening
Traveler."
"Yes, sir," said the waiter.
"The Traveler is a conservative newspaper," commended Barth. "You will find very little sensationalism in
its pages. If you wish to see the outrageous crime reports that some journals are printing, I refer you to
that yellow sheet, the Classic."
"I am not looking for crime reports," returned The Shadow, in the quiet voice of Cranston. "I am
interested in the day's doings at the stock market. Pardon me for a few minutes, commissioner, while I
read the Wall Street news."
Barth looked annoyed while he was finishing his soup. Cranston's few minutes were longer than
摘要：

TheBlueSphinxMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.HAWKEYEHEARSNEWS?CHAPTERII.THESECONDLINK?CHAPTERIII.FROMTHESANCTUM?CHAPTERIV.INTHEPAWNSHOP?CHAPTERV.THESWIFTSEQUENCE?CHAPTERVI.THESTORMBREAKS?CHAPTERVII.INTHEMUSEUM?CHAPTERVIII.STRANGERSARRIVE?CHAPTERIX....

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