Grant, Maxwell - Chain.of.Death

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Chain of Death

CHAIN OF DEATH

As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” July 15, 1934

CHAPTER I.

PLANTED DEATH.

MISTY NIGHT HAD SETTLED on

Manhattan. A chilly drizzle was

creeping in from the bay. The bright lights

of Times Square blinked and blazed in de-

fiance of the gathering fog. This district

maintained its brilliance despite the ele-

ments.

A young man, pushing his way through

Broadway throngs, turned suddenly as he

neared a subway entrance at the corner of

Forty-second Street. He stopped to pur-

chase an evening newspaper. His face

showed keenly in the light. It was a well-

featured countenance, with thick, dark eye-

brows and a black, pointed mustache as its

most conspicuous features.

Though his face was a trifle haggard, as

though from overwork, the young man

showed no signs of weariness in his ac-

tion. As he stepped away from the news

stand, he headed briskly for the subway

entrance and hurriedly disappeared down

the steps.

A dozen minutes later, the same young

man reappeared from a subway exit in a

different section of Manhattan. He had

reached the Wall Street area. His footsteps

again were hasty as they carried him

by Maxwell Grant

through a man-made canyon between two

towering buildings.

Blanketing fog had created a strange ef-

fect in the lower district of Manhattan. The

chilling drizzle had come in more heavily

from the Battery. It was accompanied by

low-hanging clouds that swirled in mist-like

fashion about the upper stories of closely

packed skyscrapers.

Towering office buildings rose out of

sight. Like mountains of stone, they thrust

their shafts into the enshrouding fog.

Passers in the street were few. The chasms

between the massive monoliths were silent

and almost deserted. The business day

ended, this district seemed a city of the

dead.

Chain of Death

Straight ahead, at a corner of the narrow

street, was a tall white building that appeared

magnified by the fog. Light glimmered from

its open doorway. Above, at scattered in-

tervals, were the lights of offices, which

marked the presence of business men who

had remained to work late.

Still higher, from spots where the build-

ing itself was invisible in the fog, shimmers

of faint light marked other offices that were

occupied. This was not unusual. The huge

Zenith Building, which the young man now

approached, was one of the best tenanted

of skyscrapers. Every night found some

late-stayers in the thousand-odd offices that

were located within its eight-hundred-foot

walls.

THE young man entered the lobby of the

Zenith Building. The place was scantily

lighted. On the left was a desk, where a

watchman remained on duty. On the right,

beyond, was a row of elevator shafts.

One elevator door was open. It was to-

ward this objective that the young man

turned his steps. He was nearly at his goal

when the stentorian voice of the watch-

man stopped him. Turning, with a slight grin,

the young man came back to the desk on

the left.

“Forgot all about it, George,” he re-

marked, as he picked up a pencil and be-

gan to sign the register book. “I was in a

hurry. I come in and out so much during

the day that I never think to register at

night.”

“That’s all right,” growled the watchman.

“I’m here to tell people when they forget.”

He watched the young man sign his name

as Howard Norwyn; after that the number

of the office to which he was going-3318.

Then Norwyn marked the time of entry as

9:15, taking it from a clock above the reg-

istration desk.

“Your boss went upstairs fifteen minutes

ago,” remarked the watchman. “Guess

that’s why you’re in a hurry, eh?”

Norwyn nodded. He had read the name

of his employer, George Hobston, on the

Chain of Death

Hobston’s arrival as nine o’clock.

Howard Norwyn hurried to the elevator.

The sleepy operator had no challenge. The

man was standing slouched in the corner

of the car; he took it for granted that any

one who entered had registered. The

checking of names was the watchman’s

job, not his.

The elevator reached the thirty-third

floor. Its lone passenger alighted. Howard

Norwyn paced along the gloomy marble

corridor as the elevator doors clanged be-

hind him. He reached the door of 3318. It

was the entrance to a suite. On the glass

panel appeared the legend:

HOBSTON & COMPANY

INVESTMENT ADVISORS

GEORGE HOBSTON

PRESIDENT

Norwyn found the door unlocked. He

Chain of Death

opened it and entered a darkened outer

office. He seemed a trifle puzzled. Ordi-

narily, George Hobston would have kept this

room illuminated. It was light from an in-

ner room that allayed

Norwyn’s worries. He

strode in that direction.

The inner office was

Hobston’s own.

Norwyn had an appoint-

ment with his employer, so

he naturally supposed that

Hobston was awaiting his

arrival. But as he reached

the door Norwyn paused

upon the threshold. He

stared straight across the

dimly lighted inner office.

OPPOSITE was the en-

trance to a strong vault

room where George

Hobston kept all money

and securities. The vault

room had a massive door of

metal grillwork; beyond it,

the vault itself was set in the

wall. This arrangement

made it possible for

Hobston to guard himself

while opening the vault,

through the simple expedi-

ent of closing the grilled

door behind him. Yet at the

same time, air was obtain-

able through the open metal work.

The grilled door was always kept closed.

To-night, it was wide open. A light was

burning in the small vault room. Its rays

showed the vault, also opened wide, with

papers scattered everywhere. The vault

room, however, was empty!

Howard Norwyn stood

petrified. Robbery was evi-

dent; still, there was no sign

of the thief. In wild alarm,

Norwyn thought of his em-

ployer. Where was George

Hobston? Spontaneously,

Norwyn looked about the

gloomy office. His eyes fell

on a figure that was

slouched in a desk chair.

It was George Hobston.

The president of the invest-

ment company was dead.

His body was crumpled for-

ward, almost as if some one

had placed it there. One

motionless hand lay beside

a telephone on the desk. As

Howard Norwyn’s bulging

eyes stared back and forth,

they saw that George

Hobston’s back was on a

straight line with the open

door of the vault room.

Mechanically, Howard

Norwyn stepped forward.

As he did, he sensed a

sound from in back of him.

He wheeled toward the

door to the darkened outer

office. A man came springing from the

gloom. As Norwyn’s hands came upward,

husky fists caught his throat and sent him

A Personal

Message

From The Shadow

to you

The Shadow has a per-

sonal message for every

reader of The Shadow

Magazine. It is of utmost

importance to all who know

The Shadow and his work,

and it is written in one of The

Shadow’s special disap-

pearing-ink compounds.

If you want to have this

message mailed to you,

send your name and address

plainly written, to The

Shadow, 79 Seventh Av-

enue, New York, N.Y., and

The Shadow’s message will

come to you promptly.

NOTE: Members of The Shadow Club

are asked not to send their names, as

their names are already on The Shadow’s

file, and they are always the first to

receive notification from their master,

The Shadow.

Chain of Death

backward to the floor. A short quick pound-

ing motion banged Norwyn’s head upon the

thick carpet. Groggy, the young man

sprawled helpless, with arms outstretched.

Norwyn’s attacker, a thick-set, leering

rogue, arose to survey his work. A pleased

grin showed on puffy lips. The man had

evidently accomplished what he sought. He

had stunned Norwyn but had not seriously

injured him. Within a few minutes, the

young man would come back to his senses.

Hoisting Norwyn’s body, the thickset man

carried his burden into the vault room. There

he propped Norwyn against the wall. He

applied a handkerchief to the young man’s

throat, to remove the grime of finger prints.

From his pocket, he drew a revolver. He

wiped it with the handkerchief and placed

it in Norwyn’s right hand. Using the cloth

as a covering for Norwyn’s fist, the man

squeezed Norwyn’s hand tightly about the

weapon.

Stepping back, the evil-faced man deliv-

ered another leer. Howard Norwyn was

moving weakly. His eyes had not yet

opened; but it would be minutes only be-

fore he regained full consciousness. With

handkerchief on hand, Norwyn’s attacker

clanged the metal door shut. Through the

grill, he could still see Norwyn moving fee-

bly.

FOR a moment, the man became cau-

tious. He had given Norwyn a loaded

weapon; a sudden recovery would enable

the victim to fire from the vault room.

Norwyn’s attacker drew a revolver of his

own. He raised the weapon; then lowered

it as he observed Norwyn slouch back into

a stupor.

The villain’s work was done. In the dull

gleam of the office, which was lighted only

by a corner lamp, the thickset man’s pock-

ets showed heavy bulges that represented

stolen money and securities. The man ap-

proached the dead body of George

Hobston; he frisked the pockets in a man-

ner which showed that he had already gone

through them, but was merely making sure

that his search had been complete.

Placing his handkerchief upon the left

hand of the dead man, the ruffian clamped

the lifeless fingers to the telephone receiver.

He used Hobston’s hand to knock it from

the hook.

With the revolver pointed to the open

window of the office, the murderer stood

in readiness for clicks through the receiver.

His vile face showed its vicious grin. Evil

had gained a triumph.

Murder had been this villain’s first crime.

Then had come robbery. The third step in

the sequence was under way. This man

who had slain George Hobston; this crook

who had rifled the investment dealer’s safe,

was ready to complete his evening’s work.

Simply, but with craft, he was planting

his crimes upon Howard Norwyn, the

young man who was lying helpless behind

the locked bars of the vault room!

Chain of Death

CHAPTER II.

FROM THE NIGHT.

WHILE GRIM EVENTS WERE tak-

ing place on the thirty-third floor, the

lobby of the Zenith Building still maintained

its hollow quiet. Two men came walking in

from the outer door; simultaneously, the

clang of metal announced that the elevator

had reached the ground floor.

Two passengers alighted. Like the two

men who had entered, they went to the

registration desk to sign. The watchman

was busy, checking the names of two per-

sons who had entered and watching the

departers tabulate the time that they were

leaving.

Other eyes observed the cluster at the

table. These were the eyes of a watcher

at the outer door. Standing against the wall,

in from the sidewalk, was a tall figure that

was remarkably inconspicuous.

Dressed in dark suit, this spying visitor

might well have materialized from the black-

ened fog. He formed a shape that was al-

most spectral. Brief minutes had passed

since his arrival here; he moved inward

through the door. It became the form of a

man whose close-fitting suit was glistening

with moisture from the drizzle. In his right

hand, this arrival carried a black briefcase.

There was something amazing in the

stride of this tall personage. Where other

footsteps had clicked upon the marble floor-

ing of the lobby, his paces were swift and

noiseless. Swinging to the right side of the

lobby, where the window of a darkened

shop showed black, the intruder was almost

invisible as he headed for the elevator.

The watchman turned to see the two men

who had registered go toward the eleva-

tor. Swinging about, he observed the other

two men making their departure. He missed

a glimpse of the extra arrival who stood a

dozen paces from the elevators.

It was when the watchman turned to-

ward the outer door that the tall intruder

came suddenly to life. His quick, noiseless

steps brought him to the elevator; he moved

into the car just as the operator was about

to close the doors.

The two men who had registered were

engaged in conversation. The operator was

sleepy and had no interest in his passen-

gers. No question was put to the carrier of

the briefcase. The operator closed the

doors. The elevator was ready for its up-

ward trip.

It was at that moment that the watch-

man found another duty. A buzzer had been

sounding beside the registration table. It

indicated a call from an office. The watch-

man picked up a telephone and growled into

a mouthpiece.

“Hello. . . Hello. . .”

The watchman received no reply. In-

stead, he heard a sound that startled him.

Over the wire came the report of a revolver.

Then a gasp, a gargling, incoherent groan.

A voice tried to mouth words. It failed. The

thump of a falling receiver was the final

token.

“Hello. . . Hello. . .”

The watchman looked at the board. He

saw the number of the office from which

Chain of Death

the call had come: 3318. He hung up the

receiver and wheeled toward the elevators.

The lone night car had started upward. Its

dial showed that it had stopped at the eighth

floor.

The watchman hung up the receiver. He

waited for breathless seconds. Then he

raised the receiver with shaking hand and

put in a call to the police. He knew that

crime had struck within the Zenith Build-

ing. He was sounding the alarm.

THE elevator was leaving the eighth

floor. Two passengers had left it-they were

the men who had registered-and only one

remained. The operator looked toward the

tall personage who held the briefcase.

“Thirty-five,” announced the passenger.

The operator nodded. The car sped up-

ward. It reached the thirty-fifth floor. The

passenger alighted. The doors closed and

the elevator began its downward trip.

A soft laugh came from the lips of the

visitor who stood in the corridor of the

thirty-fifth floor. Long, white hands opened

the briefcase. From it, they drew the folds

of black cloth.

This became a cloak which slipped over

shoulders. A slouch hat settled on the

visitor’s head. Black gloves were drawn

over white hands. A brace of automatics

came from the brief case and disappeared

beneath the folds of the cloak.

Then the case itself was rolled into small

compass. It went out of sight beneath the

cloak as the tall visitant moved in the di-

rection of a stairway. This being who had

passed the watchman was indeed a crea-

ture of the night.

It was The Shadow who was descend-

ing from the thirty-fifth floor of the Zenith

Building.

Crime had already struck in the Zenith

Building. No word of its completion could

have reached The Shadow. Yet he was

here, in the building where one man lay

murdered and another was held a prisoner,

to have crime planted upon him. George

Hobston’s suite of offices was on the thirty-

third floor. The Shadow had alighted at the

thirty-fifth. His course had become a de-

scent. He reached the thirty-third floor and

there he stopped.

The corridor was silent. A full four min-

utes had elapsed since the watchman in the

lobby had received the telephone call from

3318. The Shadow had been in the eleva-

tor when the watchman had gained word.

An automatic bristled in The Shadow’s

fist as the black-garbed visitant stopped

before the door of 3318. The free hand

turned the knob. The Shadow entered the

suite. A tiny flashlight appeared in his left

hand. It sent a shining disk of light about

the outer office.

The room was empty. Striding to the in-

ner office, The Shadow saw that this dimly

lighted room contained but a single occu-

pant. That lone man was dead. The body

of George Hobston lay sprawled where the

murderer had left it.

THE SHADOW saw the telephone upon

the desk. The receiver, lying beside the in-

strument itself, was proof of what had hap-

pened. The Shadow knew that a call had

Chain of Death

been made below. That call, moreover, had

been given during the last four minutes.

Approaching the body, The Shadow de-

tected something else. It was the trace of

revolver smoke; a faint odor of burned pow-

der that was most noticeable close to the

desk. The Shadow’s eyes saw the swirling

of heavy fog from the opened window. The

Shadow knew the answer.

A shot had been fired close by this desk.

Yet, as The Shadow viewed Hobston’s

body, he could tell that the man had been

killed from a greater range. A soft laugh

came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. It

sounded weirdly through this room of death.

Subtle in his conclusions, The Shadow

could see factors that others would not

note. Hobston’s dead left hand was

clamped to the fallen receiver. His right

hand, however, was loose as it stretched

toward the telephone.

An inconsistency that others might pass;

yet to The Shadow, it was evidence of what

had actually occurred. Beginning with the

scent of powder-an odor that would soon

be disseminated throughout the room-The

Shadow had gained a starting point.

A murderer, he knew, had deliberately

given an alarm. Why? The answer must

be here. Already, The Shadow was look-

ing toward the spot where it could be found-

the grilled door to the lighted vault room.

The Shadow had observed that entrance

before he had viewed Hobston’s body. All

the while, he had been sending keen glances

toward the metal door. Howard Norwyn,

slumped behind the grillwork, was motion-

less. The Shadow had glimpsed the outline

of his body; but had left the inspection of

the vault room until later.

A sound came upward from the street.

It was the whine of a siren. A police car

was arriving through the fog. Again, The

Shadow laughed. Like a living phantom, he

strode to the grillwork and worked upon

the automatic lock.

His keen eyes flashed as they surveyed

the form within. Lack of motion by Howard

Norwyn had indicated that the young man

might be dead. But as The Shadow worked,

Norwyn moved. He blinked. He stared at

the grillwork; he could see the motion of

blackness beyond it.

Then Norwyn realized that he held a re-

volver. The fact impressed itself as he was

rising. Thinking that an enemy stood with-

out, the young man emitted a hoarse cry,

just as the door swung open in The

Shadow’s grasp.

Norwyn raised his gun too late. Like a

living avalanche, The Shadow came sweep-

ing in upon him. A blackened fist clipped

Norwyn’s chin. The young man slumped

to the floor. The revolver clattered from

his hand.

The Shadow gained the weapon. He

opened the chamber and spied one empty

cartridge. A soft laugh came from his lips

as he pocketed the weapon. Standing above

Norwyn’s slumped form, The Shadow

gazed at Hobston’s body.

THE situation was plain. Some one had

murdered George Hobston. The killer had

thrust Howard Norwyn into the vault room,

planting the gun upon him. The grillwork

Chain of Death

offered numerous loopholes. It would have

been easy for a man to have killed Hobston

from this room.

The false evidence looked plain. Appar-

ently Hobston and Norwyn had quarreled.

Hobston had managed to lock Norwyn in

the vault room. Then Hobston had put in

his call; Norwyn, coming back to his senses,

had shot his employer in the back.

The openings in the grill were too small

to push a revolver through. Hence Norwyn

could not have gotten rid of the gun until

released. Had the police arrived before The

Shadow, they would surely have arrested

Howard Norwyn as the murderer of

George Hobston.

The police! Again, a siren’s whine came

cutting up through the foggy night. The

Shadow’s laugh was grim. The Shadow

could see the truth of what had happened

here. He knew that Howard Norwyn must

have been overcome by some swift-acting

foe.

The real murderer was gone. To leave

the wrong man here for the police to quiz

would be in keeping with the murderer’s

desire. Too late to apprehend the killer him-

self, The Shadow, at least, could balk the

criminal’s schemes.

The Shadow had a double opportunity.

First, to release Howard Norwyn from his

dilemma; second, to leave the police look-

ing for the murderer. The man who killed

George Hobston could not have gone far.

Doubtless, he was still in the building; se-

cure in the thought that murder would be

blamed upon Howard Norwyn. The

Shadow saw a way to save an innocent

man from trouble; also to force the police

to the search, which the murderer thought

would be delayed.

Turning toward the vault, The Shadow

stooped and raised Norwyn’s body over his

shoulder. Carrying the unconscious young

man as a trifling burden, the Shadow strode

toward the outer office.

In his possession, the black-clad investi-

gator was carrying the revolver which con-

tained the empty cartridge. The Shadow

reached the corridor. It was as silent as

before; yet The Shadow knew that any

minute would bring men of the law into this

hallway.

Swiftly, The Shadow gained the stairway.

Still carrying his burden, he turned upward.

As he did, a shuddering laugh of triumph

came from his lips. Echoes died along the

hall. The Shadow was gone; Howard

Norwyn with him. Silence reigned for the

space of seven seconds.

Then came the clang of the opening el-

evator doors. Three men leaped into the

corridor. Detectives had arrived from head-

quarters. They were here to view the scene

of crime. They did not know that a visitor

from the night had arrived before them.

For The Shadow, swift and decisive, had

left no trace of his mysterious presence.

Yet he had carried away the man on whom

crime had been planted; and with him, the

weapon that the murderer had used to de-

liver death.

Chain of Death

CHAPTER III.

THE DEPARTURE.

THE DETECTIVES HAD LEFT the

door of the elevator open. The opera-

tor, no longer languorous, was lingering in

the corridor until their return. He did not

have long to wait. Two detectives came on

the run from 3318.

“A guy’s been murdered.” one of them

informed. “You’re going to take me down

to the lobby, so I can bring up the rest of

the squad. Say-we’ll have to start a search

of this whole blamed building.”

“You’re right,” returned the other dick.

“Have ‘em keep a close watch in the lobby

all the while. There’s no way for the mur-

derer to get out of this building except by

the elevators. That’s a cinch.”

“This is the only car that’s running,” re-

marked the operator. “The others are all

down in the basement.”

“Good,” commented the detective.

While this conversation was under way,

The Shadow had reached the floor above.

At a spot directly over the heads of the

detectives and the operator, he had laid

Howard Norwyn on the floor. Strong hands

were at work on the closed doors of the

elevator shaft. With an instrument of steel,

pried between the sliding metal barriers,

The Shadow released the catch.

The doors opened; peering downward,

The Shadow saw the top of the elevator a

few feet below. He could hear no sound of

talk; for the elevator was a solid car that

completely filled its portion of the shaft.

Easing downward, The Shadow gained

a footing on the top of the elevator. His

strong arms stretched forward and drew

Howard Norwyn into the shaft. The

Shadow rested the young man on the car;

his gloved hand eased the doors shut.

In the midst of solid blackness, The

Shadow crouched to the top of the eleva-

tor and gripped Howard Norwyn in a firm

grasp. The space was ample; so long as

The Shadow held Norwyn on his precari-

ous perch, no harm could befall the man

who had been rescued.

Yet The Shadow was not a second too

soon. Hardly had he completed his prepa-

ration before the muffled clang of the doors

sounded from the thirty-third floor. The el-

evator began a record drop on its way to

the ground floor.

The Shadow clutched Howard Norwyn

tightly during the three-hundred-foot de-

scent. His grip was firm as the car came

to a stop at the lobby. Doors clanged again.

Footsteps shuffled from the elevator; but

voices could not be heard in the lobby.

THE SHADOW was counting, however,

upon another interval. Sliding over the side

of the car, he slipped downward until his

feet rested upon the top of an elevator that

was on the basement level. From this ad-

joining shaft, The Shadow could just reach

Norwyn’s feet. He drew the young man

toward him as Norwyn’s body came limply

from above. The Shadow caught it and

rested the stupefied man upon the lower

elevator.

Seconds passed; then doors clanged. A

whirr of air as the first elevator sped up-

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摘要：

1ChainofDeathCHAINOFDEATHAsoriginallypublishedin“TheShadowMagazine,”July15,1934CHAPTERI.PLANTEDDEATH.MISTYNIGHTHADSETTLEDonManhattan.Achillydrizzlewascreepinginfromthebay.ThebrightlightsofTimesSquareblinkedandblazedinde-fianceofthegatheringfog.Thisdistrictmaintaineditsbrilliancedespitetheele-ments.A...

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Grant, Maxwell - Chain.of.Death

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