Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 322 - Dead Man's Chest

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DEAD MAN'S CHEST
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH FROM BEYOND
? CHAPTER II. TRAILS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER III. AT THE CLUB CADENZA
? CHAPTER IV. THROUGH THE WINDOW
? CHAPTER V. JUNE GAINS A CLUE
? CHAPTER VI. MEET SKIPPER MALLOY
? CHAPTER VII. DEATH TELLS A TALE
? CHAPTER VIII. A LETTER TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER IX. CRANSTON'S APPOINTMENT
? CHAPTER X. TRAIL OF THE MERMAIDS
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW COMES FIRST
? CHAPTER XII. DUEL IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIII. THE RIGBY RECORD
? CHAPTER XIV. THE VANISHING FIGHTERS
? CHAPTER XV. QUEST OF THE MISSING
? CHAPTER XVI. THE MAN WHO TALKED
? CHAPTER XVII. GONE FOREVER, CLEMENTINE
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW TAKES A TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIX. A QUESTION OF CHESTS
? CHAPTER XX. IRON HEAD
? CHAPTER XXI. LAST OF THE LONGBOATS
? CHAPTER XXII. OUT OF THE PAST
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE RIDDLE OF THE CHEST
CHAPTER I. DEATH FROM BEYOND
DOUG LAWTON paused along the Manhattan waterfront and looked for the old Darien Pier. He saw
it, looming above the express highway, a grim, gray, ghostly structure that looked like a monster with a
pre-historic past, ready to swallow any unwise wayfarer who might come within its reach.
Below the elevated highway lay the broad, rough-surfaced street that ran along the waterfront, an
esplanade of darkness as black as the river itself. Doug had followed that thoroughfare southward from
Fourteenth Street; how many blocks he didn't know, for he had been looking for the pier.
Besides, it was difficult to count the blocks in this vicinity for the streets were all dead-ends, some with
numbers, others with names, that slanted to meet the veering edge of the Manhattan shore line. Counting
streets would be the next task for Doug Lawton, now that he had found the Darien Pier. But he would
have to wait until he heard the tugboat whistles. They wouldn't come for several minutes yet, for when
Doug looked at the luminous dial of his wrist watch, he saw that he was ahead of schedule.
Pausing in the darkness, Doug studied the old pier which, though obviously long empty, still bore the
name "DARIEN LINES" in faded letters against its colorless background. Doug could now understand
why the Darien Pier had been picked as his starting point for tonight. It was about the only structure high
enough to catch the reflected glimmer of Manhattan lights, for the low buildings on the near side of this
street cut off the city's glow. Therefore, the pier made a conspicuous landmark, when judged by its upper
stories.
What Doug didn't like was the lower portion of the pier, the stretch beneath the express highway. As
Doug moved over beneath the elevated pillars, the darkness absorbed him and he could picture figures in
the vague, black entrance of the old forgotten pier. If Doug could not see such figures, they in turn could
not see him, but that was little comfort. Nevertheless, Doug did not intend to move into the blackness
where he might suddenly be trapped; not while he was carrying a thousand dollars cash in his pocket.
Cars were speeding along the express highway above; an occasional truck or taxicab came jouncing
along the broad waterfront street. None of their lights could reach among the pillars where Doug had
stopped beneath the superstructure.
As he waited, Doug let his hand go to his hip pocket, not to clutch the roll of bills that totaled a thousand
dollars, but to grip the handle of a loaded sixgun that he had brought with him from Oklahoma.
Doug Lawton had come to New York for a very specific purpose. For several years, he had been
looking into a little matter of some Cuban gold, which had been owing to his great-uncle, Artemus
Lawton, since the time of the Spanish-American War. During a fruitless hunt in Mexico, where he had
hoped to trace the gold, Doug had kept up correspondence with various persons who had done business
with his uncle, years ago.
Upon his recent return to Oklahoma, he had received a letter, a letter which he now carried in his pocket.
The letter itself was strictly anonymous, bearing no identification other than a New York postmark. Its
message was brief, stating simply that if Doug Lawton would come to New York City and call a certain
telephone number, he would be told where and how he could obtain the information that he wanted.
The letter had stated the approximate time at which Doug was to make that all-important phone call and,
in addition, it carried another definite proviso. With him, Doug was to bring a thousand dollars in cash, as
payment for the information should it be what he wanted.
So far, Doug had fulfilled the conditions. When he had called the telephone number, a rough but
otherwise indefinable voice had told him to go to the waterfront at Fourteenth Street and walk southward
until he saw the pier bearing the name of the Darien Lines. There, at an appointed time, Doug would hear
tugboat whistles. They would come in a series, telling him how many blocks he was to go south, east,
south, east, and so on until he reached the place where he was expected.
Doug had hedged at those instructions. Over the phone, he had asked the name of the man he was to
meet. The voice had hesitated, then stated bluntly, "Tom Jeffrey." With that, the call had ended abruptly,
leaving Doug to accept or reject the proposition as he chose.
Doug had chosen to accept.
Now, Doug was by no means sure that he had taken the wiser course. The whole thing could be a hoax,
designed to put him at the mercy of a gang of roving wharf-rats who would slug and rob him. Should he
suffer such an experience, Doug's only clue to the whole thing would be the name of Tom Jeffrey, a man
who might not even exist.
To Doug's strained mind, the Darien Pier, with its boarded entrance and higher sockets representing
permanently shuttered windows, had taken on the aspect of a grotesque and massive death's head, as
forbidding as a bleached skull on a desert waste. Common sense advised Doug to scram, yet having
come this far, he was loath to give up the prospect of a final goal, should there happen to be one.
From the river came sounds that in themselves goaded Doug to remain. He heard the basso whistles of
some freighters; then the grand diapason of a deep-throated liner. Amid these came the constant clang of
a ferry-house bell, answered by a trailing banshee howl from across the Hudson, a sound that guided
ferry-boats to their slips on the Jersey side. The ferries themselves were giving intermittent blasts, but
none of them could be the high-pitched tugboat calls that Doug was waiting for.
Then the thought struck home: Why wait?
Turning back into the darkness beneath the elevated structure, Doug eased slowly past a pillar, then
quickened his pace beneath the shelter. His gun half-drawn, Doug kept swerving as he moved with long
strides. It wouldn't have been a happy coincidence for anyone to spring at Doug in that gloom. Tall, rangy
of build, Doug had sidestepped plenty of troublesome creatures in his time, rattle-snakes included, and he
was now allowing for any breed that might be around.
Yet this was not retreat; it was inspiration.
The voice had said that the first signals would guide Doug south. That was the direction he was taking
now, along the course that he would have to go. Smart business this, for it was giving Doug a head start
on his coming journey, in case the game proved fair. That in turn meant that Doug would no longer be at
the Darien Pier at the time when the signals were due. Hence, if the whole thing proved a trap, it would
lack its most important feature, an intended victim named Douglas Lawton.
One block... two blocks -
Doug was counting them now, as he traced his way from pillar to pillar, counting them by looking across
the wide street to the dingy houses that lined the other side. All the while, Doug was listening for shrill
tokens among the whistled throbs that pulsated from the river.
They came, from back over Doug's right shoulder; high squeals from some craft which Doug calculated
must be just off the end of the deserted Darien Pier. Three shrills; then the voices of the bigger boats took
over. Next, two more pipes, penetrating despite the interference of the deeper tones. A pause; then one
sharp squeal. That was all.
Three blocks... two blocks...one block.
Simpler than Doug had anticipated, for he had assumed he would have to follow a longer trail. Already
past the second street south of the Darien Pier, Doug slanted his course across the waterfront and rapidly
reached the third. Turning that corner, Doug strode two blocks eastward. There he made another turn
and covered a single block, to a crossing of a small alley.
Here the situation explained itself. The corners were occupied by loft buildings and a warehouse, but to
the right the alley formed a short dead-end, terminating at the very door of an old, dilapidated brick
house. This was the only residence that could be entered; above and beyond its roof, Doug could see the
higher floors of a fairly modern office building, which obviously fronted on another street. That, however,
was unimportant; the house was all that mattered.
The door was open, the entrance lighted. Doug entered and saw a row of push-buttons with name cards;
above these, a placard that stated "Buzzer Out of Order." Pushing through an inner door, Doug went up
a creaky stairway, looking for lights beneath doors. He saw none until he reached the third and top floor;
there a light glimmered from beneath a door at the back of the hall. Stopping at that door, Doug rapped
on it, duplicating the whistled signal that he had heard:
Three... two... one.
There was a half-opened window the hallway that led to a fire escape, so Doug watched it as he listened
for sounds from within the room. Quick footsteps came; as the door opened, Doug wheeled, then
relinquished the hold that he had taken on his gun.
The man who opened the door was of lean and flimsy build, half a head shorter than Doug's six-feet-two.
He was wearing an artist's smock and had a paint brush in his hand. His face was sallow, wise of
expression both in smile and eyes. Giving Doug an affable nod, the man gestured for him to enter.
The room itself was an artist's studio with tall windows at the back. Those windows extended from low
sills almost to the ceiling and they were pivoted crosswise at the center so they let in air as well as light.
Doug scarcely noticed the windows for they formed a blackish background. He was more interested in
the contents of the room, which included canvases, some blank, others painted; a large easel at the side
of the room; a drafting board over toward one window, with a chair beyond it.
Going to the easel, the sallow man laid aside the paint brush and wiped his hands on a rag as he said,
"I guess you must be Lawton."
"That's right," returned Doug. "I take it you're Tom Jeffrey. But you're not the man I talked to on the
telephone."
Doug was standing just inside the door, arms folded, the expression on his rugged face spelling business,
nothing more. His whole manner gave the effect of a quiet patience, hanging on a balance point.
"I have no telephone," explained Jeffrey, hurriedly. "That's why I left that detail to a friend. But the
business is between us. You have the letter?"
Doug's arms unfolded, bringing his left hand into sight with a letter from his coat packet.
Jeffrey tightened his sallow lips nervously.
"Here's the letter," said Doug. Then, coolly, he asked, "Did you write it?"
"Well, not exactly," parried Jeffrey. "I know what it says, though. Did you bring the money?"
"I'll have it when it's needed," Doug assured him. He replaced the letter in his pocket. "Now what can
you tell me that's worth a thousand dollars?"
Going over to the window, Jeffrey pushed the chair aside; standing behind the drafting board, he
beckoned to Doug who sauntered toward him, but stopped a few paces short.
"Here's the man you'll have to meet." Jeffrey began a rapid sketch. "He knows something and says it
would be worth a lot to you. Whether he'll tell it is your problem, not mine."
The sketch, though rough, was complete. Its penciled lines showed a bearded face with gnarled forehead
and bristling eyebrows, carrying the salty expression of an old sea captain.
"There's one odd point," stated Jeffrey. "The skipper - I mean the old gent - says that if he never tells
what he knows, it may mean more than if he did tell it. Does that make sense to you?"
"It might," replied Doug, "and it mightn't."
"Maybe this will help." Jeffrey's quick pencil was making another sketch. "It has a lot to do with it. That
much I know."
The sketch consisted of wavy lines representing the ocean. Rising from the water were the figures of two
mermaids, arms gesturing to indicate a space between them. Jeffrey knew the sketch by heart for he was
looking up as he finished it. Cannily, Jeffrey asked, "Would that be worth a thousand dollars?"
Doug had approached to watch Jeffrey's pencil work. Now, arms still folded, Doug drew back a step,
turned slightly away, as though to consider the question.
"I suppose you know who the old gentleman is," said Doug, "and also where I can find him."
"Both," assured Jeffrey, "but I want the money before I tell you those facts. That's fair enough, isn't it?"
"Fair enough," replied Doug, turning toward the door, "provided this all means something -" Suddenly, he
swiveled on both heels, bringing his right hand straight up with the gun. He'd sensed a move from Jeffrey
and he hadn't guessed wrong. The sallow man was coming forward across the drawing board, a
distorted look upon his face. Jeffrey's hands were clawing ahead of him. If they'd been reaching for a
weapon, Doug wouldn't have hesitated with his gun. But Jeffrey's hands were empty, helpless even in
their frantic grab.
Falling, the artist crashed into the drawing board and the flimsy uprights that supported it. In the midst of
the wreckage he sprawled headlong on the floor, a gasp coming from his writhing lips, only to be
drowned by the thud and splintering of the table and its board. Looking beyond, Doug saw the closed
window, black against the night; then his eyes returned to Jeffrey, wondering what sort of game the fellow
was trying to play.
If a game, it was a grim one.
Buried to the hilt in Jeffrey's back was a heavy knife, its rounded handle the central spot of a slowly
widening circle that carried the crimson dye of blood.
Doug Lawton was standing alone in a room with a dead man whose murder had come like a stroke from
the beyond!
CHAPTER II. TRAILS IN THE NIGHT
THE stark reality of Jeffrey's death was slow in penetrating Doug Lawton's mind.
To Doug, the scene before him seemed strangely remote, like some picture woven from his imagination.
It was like the drawings on the sketch pad attached to Jeffrey's board, which had skidded ahead of him
in the final moment of his sprawl. Doug was looking at those sketches now, the portrait of the bearded
skipper, the figures of the beckoning mermaids.
Those pictures were etching themselves into Doug's memory, for the skipper represented a man that he
must some day meet, while the mermaids in their tantalizing way, were luring him toward the discovery of
a secret that he had long sought to learn. Somehow, they existed without Tom Jeffrey, yet it was his hand
that had drawn them.
Jeffrey's hand.
It lay there, almost upon the drawings, as though seeking to pluck them from the sheet. Magnetically,
Doug's eyes moved from that hand, along the arm and past the shoulder to the center of Jeffrey's back,
as though drawn by the steel of the very blade that was buried there.
The crimson circle was widening further. Under the glare of a hanging lamp which had been above
Jeffrey's drawing table, the blot showed vividly against the light buff of the dead man's artist's smock.
Yes, Jeffrey's death was very real. The only incredible part was the manner of its delivery. Reaching up
with his left hand, Doug turned the switch of the overhanging light, extinguishing it. There were other lights
in the room, but they were over toward the door, hence there was no longer any reflection from the
window. Staring out into the darkness, Doug could see a drizzle-swept space that represented either a
courtyard or a garden; beyond it was a wall bounded by the dim lights of an alley. Past that reared the
dozen or more stories of the office building, dark except for the lights of a few scattered windows.
Glancing down to the dampened window sill, Doug saw that the window itself was solidly locked by an
automatic clamp. Again, Doug studied the outer darkness, and calmly, since he was positive now that
murder could not have struck from there. It was singular, as Doug recalled it, that he should have thought
of that darkness in terms of death, only to have tragedy strike in the midst of a lighted room.
From somewhere, a clock chimed heavily, announcing eight o'clock. Doug didn't have to count the
strokes. He knew the hour, because he had been told to wait at the Darien Pier at exactly ten minutes of
eight. Of course, he'd had a few blocks start from there when he heard the whistled signals.
Correspondingly, Doug had gained a few minutes leeway, and those minutes had been enough to throw
any followers off his trail.
Or had they?
Granted that Doug had outdistanced any pursuers, they could have overtaken him when he arrived here
in Jeffrey's studio. In that case, the knife stroke could have been meant for Doug himself, not Jeffrey, and
the only place it could have come from was the door. He'd turned toward the door, but he remembered
that he'd been swinging slowly around to face Jeffrey when he saw the artist fall. Maybe Jeffrey himself
had turned in the direction of the window and had just started to move back when the knife caught him.
Odd that Doug hadn't heard the flying blade whistle past him; odder still that it should have missed Doug
and so accurately found Jeffrey. Yet those were minor objections compared to the impossibility of a knife
coming through a tightly shut window. Therefore, the door was the answer.
All this had sorted itself in Doug's mind by the eighth stroke of the clock. He'd folded his arms again
during that rapid contemplation; now, thinking in terms of the door, Doug swung toward it instantly, his
arms still crossed.
Doug wasn't wrong in thinking of that door in terms of danger.
The door had opened and in the doorway stood a girl with a gun. Not a big girl nor a big gun, still both
were sizable enough to command respect. They were about .32 caliber, as Doug rated them. He was
more interested in the gun, though, than the girl, except for the one finger that she held against the trigger
of the revolver. Trigger fingers could tell a lot, particularly where nerves were concerned.
The girl was rather beautiful, if Doug had wanted to notice it. Her eyes were brown, like her hair, and her
firmly tightened lips were naturally red. Those features stood out sharply against the white background of
her rounded face, so sharply that Doug didn't realize that the girl was deathly pale. Not having met her
before, Doug couldn't be blamed for his lack of discernment. Besides, he was watching that trigger
finger.
Doug idled a few paces in the girl's direction, then halted easily as the gun came up. He met the girl's gaze
now, because it was sighted along the revolver and in her turn, she was stepping forward to force Doug
back. Just to please her, Doug relaxed with a backward slouch and he was glad to see the girl's trigger
finger lose its momentary tension.
The girl's eyes darted briefly toward the figure on the floor, only to center on Doug again. Though the
corner light was out, Jeffrey's body showed clearly.
"Whoever you are," the girl said coldly, "you came here to frame him."
"You mean Jeffrey?" queried Doug, with a lift of his broad eyebrows. "Hardly that, lady. He's dead."
"I don't mean Jeffrey," the girl snapped. "I mean Anjou." She paused, watching to see if Doug showed
recognition of the name, then gave it in full, "Anjou de Blanco."
"I never heard of him," returned Doug, calmly. "But speaking of frame-ups, there's somebody else who
ought to be considered first."
The girl's lips widened in a gasp.
"You... you don't mean me!" she exclaimed. Then, her tone sharpening: "Why, that's just who you do
mean! You did something to stop Anjou from coming here, because you guessed I would be along.
You're trying to frame me!"
As though to corroborate the girl's claim, a shrill sound broke the quiet. It was the siren of a police car,
echoing in from the alleyway on which the house fronted. Off in the distance came sharp blasts of police
whistles in answer to the summons. A sudden color came to the girl's face, her voice was low,
challenging, as she came another step toward Doug, but he noted that her trigger finger still restrained
itself.
"I see it now!" came the girl's words. "You're bringing the police to blame Anjou for the murder. You'll
accuse me of having helped him. You think you're framing me -"
"Or maybe it's just the other way about," put in Doug, suddenly. "When I said somebody else, I meant
myself. A nice job, lady, to have the police find me standing here and Jeffrey lying there."
Doug turned his head half about to nod sideward toward Jeffrey's body. That, however, was just the
start of his maneuver, a gesture that he knew would bring the girl's gun a trifle forward. With a sudden
reverse spin, Doug unlimbered his long left arm, carried it in a sudden sweep that clamped his hand over
the girl's, gun and all. Then, launching his right hand for her shoulder, he was spinning her about, the gun
pointing upward as the girl's trigger finger acted.
The arriving siren was drowned by the sharp barks of the .32 as its bullets punctured the ceiling
harmlessly. Then the gun itself was flying through the air and the girl was doing a headlong skid across the
room, knocking over Jeffrey's easel as she tried to halt her spinning dive. Crashing into a stack of
canvas-covered frames, the girl sprawled against the wall, while Doug laughed an unfriendly good night
and wheeled out into the hallway.
Doug didn't take to the stairs. He knew the police would be coming from that direction. Instead, he slid
through the open window and started a swift trip down the fire escape. Not that he expected the police
to trail him by this route; Doug was thinking in terms of the girl and wanted to get a few layers of steel
steps between himself and the window.
Again, Doug was guessing right.
The girl hadn't lost an ounce of her determination. Brushing aside the canvases, seeing her gun in the
corner, she grabbed it, rushed out through the door and turned directly toward the window, guessing that
Doug had used it for his exit. Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs, but the girl didn't hear them.
She was all intent upon reaching the window and blasting useless shots after a man who was out of range
and whose existence she couldn't even establish, if questioned.
It was then that blackness swooped from the head of the stairway. A cloaked figure, arriving two flights
ahead of the police, flung itself upon the girl, turning her full about. A gloved hand, more skillful than
Doug's, wrenched the gun from the girl's fist before her finger could even find the trigger. Amazed, the girl
was staring straight up into a pair of eyes that seemed like live coals as they looked at her from beneath
the brim of a slouch hat, strange eyes that commanded silence.
Then, carried by that same sweeping arm, the girl found herself at the front of the hallway, past the stairs
from which clattering footsteps were about to arrive. There the roof of the old house sloped into a low
alcove that contained a skylight. A gloved hand pushed the skylight upward, while a sibilant voice spoke
from lips that were hidden by heavy folds of a cloak:
"This way, before the police find us!"
Before the girl could even nod, a powerful arm had literally propelled her upward and she was groping
along the slight slant of a tin-sheathed roof, her gaze blurred by the drizzle. The skylight settled noiselessly
back into place and again the cloaked stranger was beside the girl, guiding her to a small window of a
building next door. Climbing in the window, the girl found herself in a long passage that stretched to a
stairway far beyond. All this was shown in the long, thin glare of a flashlight that the cloaked rescuer
pressed into the girl's hand.
Then came final instructions from the being in black:
"Those stairs will lead you out the side door of this warehouse. When all is clear, twist the end of the
flashlight to the right. Take the cab that comes for you."
The girl nodded, gasped a "Thank you," and turned to look for the mysterious stranger. He was gone,
like a shadow. Nor was it strange that such a thought should cross the girl's mind. For those very words,
The Shadow, was the name by which this master of the night was known.
Meanwhile, Doug Lawton had been faring less happily than the girl whom he had left to explain matters
to the law. At the bottom of the fire escape, Doug had turned toward the wall at the back of the space
which proved to be a flagstone courtyard. Reaching that wall, he groped along it until he found a gate.
Gun drawn, he eased the gate open, his gaze turned up toward the tall windows that represented Jeffrey's
third floor studio.
They were dim, those windows, but as Doug moved through the gate, one window brightened suddenly.
The police had reached the studio and had turned on the overhanging light. Against the panes, Doug
could see the outlines of men in uniform, stooping to examine Jeffrey's body.
With that, Doug performed a stoop of his own in the shelter outside the wall. The gate clattered slightly as
he closed it and Doug wheeled instinctively, recalling his former suspicion of spies. This time the thought
came late.
A powerful hand clamped Doug's wrist, shoving his gun hand upward. In the glow of the street lamp
Doug saw a smooth, handsome face, dark in the dull light, but with glittering eyes and shiny teeth that
showed in a smile that was both grim and pleased. Before he could swing a left hand punch, Doug was
caught by a grappling arm and a moment later he was completely locked with this antagonist whose name
sprang spontaneously to mind.
Anjou de Blanco.
That was the name the girl had spoken, the name of the man she had claimed that Doug had tried to
frame. The recollection filled Doug with a surge of anger, partly toward himself. He'd misjudged the girl
when he'd countered with an accusation of his own, for Anjou's absence at that crucial time indicated that
the fellow had betrayed the girl who trusted him. That gave Doug a double score to settle.
Gun shots wouldn't do it. They would only bring the police and more complications. What Doug wanted
was to bring his gun down on Blanco's head. Letting one knee drop, Doug braced for a counter-stroke
as Blanco pressed him downward. A sudden twist and Doug's hand was free, slicing over to the left, to
begin a cross-swing.
But it wasn't Doug who swung.
Catlike, another figure had sprung up behind him, and a deft hand tapped a rounded implement against
the base of Doug's skull. Sagging, Doug let the gun slip from his hand as he toppled forward, supported
only by Blanco's powerful hands. Blanco gave an approving nod to a little man who paused to scoop up
Doug's revolver, grinning in the happy fashion of an ape.
"Well done," said Blanco. "Hurry, we must take him to the car."
Together, they half-carried Doug through the outlet of the alley. They were gone, when a cloaked form
vaguely outlined itself against the roof edge above the very room where the police were discussing their
discovery of Jeffrey's body. Then the figure of The Shadow was moving silently, obscured by the misty
drizzle, to the roof edge just above the fire escape.
From there, The Shadow made a noiseless descent by the very route that Doug had taken. Reaching the
gate, he seemed to filter past it, forming only a fleeting patch of blackness as he passed the dull glow of
the lamplight. It was in the further darkness that The Shadow paused to listen. There, he caught the faint
sound of a departing cab, from almost a block away; but that was not all.
There was another car that started from closer by, hardly around the corner from the alley. Swiftly, The
Shadow moved through a passage beside the office building, but when he reached the next street, the car
was gone. All that he saw was a subway entrance, adjoining the building itself.
A low, whispered laugh came from The Shadow's lips. As it died away, The Shadow, like the mirth itself,
had vanished into the night.
CHAPTER III. AT THE CLUB CADENZA
IT was quarter of nine when Lamont Cranston strolled into the Club Cadenza, one of cafe society's
newest midtown night spots. Immaculately attired in dinner clothes, Cranston didn't look like a man who
had recently been climbing over rooftops, but he had been doing exactly that. For the leisurely Mr.
Cranston was a man who lived two lives, his own and The Shadow's. Cranston made it a practice to
keep the two identities widely separated.
In the club, he hesitated and stared about in a puzzled fashion until a head waiter approached and
conducted him to a table. Cranston expressed surprise when he saw the blunt-faced man who rose to
greet him with a firm, but brief handshake. As they sat down at a table for four, the blunt man kept
looking toward the door, obviously expecting someone else.
"Sorry I was late, Belville," remarked Cranston quietly. "I thought it would be better if your other guest
arrived first." He glanced at the two vacant chairs. "Or should I say guests?"
"Neither," returned Belville, in an annoyed tone. "I think our bird has flown without waiting for the bait.
Perhaps it's just as well, because it proves that the police commissioner was right. Still, it leaves the
fellow free to work his crooked game somewhere else."
"At least you've been expecting him," reminded Cranston, gesturing to the chairs, "But who was he
bringing with him? The girl?"
Belville's eyebrows raised, shoving heavy wrinkles up to the roots of his dark, bushy hair.
"How did you know there was a girl in it, Cranston?"
"I said the girl," Cranston repeated. "There always is one, when they work the Spanish prisoner swindle.
She is always some charming senorita, who has to be brought all the way from Spain, or somewhere in
South America, which costs money, and often an elderly duenna must accompany her, which costs more
money. Then the senorita gets you alone and pleads with you to rescue the poor prisoner, not just
because of the fortune that will be yours, but because of some family tradition. She doesn't love the
prisoner; she never did. She's merely sorry for him. But now she has come to care for you, because your
sympathy has been so deep, so real. You are just a wonderful Americano and a Grade A sucker, only
you don't find that out until later."
Belville was now smiling broadly, chuckling despite himself, but at the same time he was shaking his head,
raising his hands and spreading them in mild protest. Then, as Cranston finished, Belville became serious
again, though with a trace of a knowing smile.
"It sounds as though they've taken you, Cranston," commented Belville. "Maybe more than once?"
"They've tried," conceded Cranston. "That's why Commissioner Weston wanted me to look into your
case after you reported it to him. The Spanish prisoner racket pops up after every revolution, political
shake-up, or any minor pretext. There's always some unfortunate who has to be bailed out of the
calaboose in order to show you where he's buried a million dollars."
"But this case is different," protested Belville. "I'll admit it begins with a Spaniard, this chap who calls
himself Anjou de Blanco, but there isn't any prisoner. There's just a man Blanco says he can produce,
who has a half-interest in a mighty lot of money that may take some financing to find."
"And the man's name?"
"Blanco won't give it," replied Belville. "He says he wants to be sure of where I stand. Otherwise, he'll
have to try someone else."
"Good," decided Cranston. "That's why the commissioner brought me into it. You can let this fellow
Blanco switch over to me."
"Provided he ever shows up again," returned Belville, dourly. Then, his quick eyes steadying, Belville
added, "But if Blanco proves to be on the level, it's my privilege to finance him. Understand?"
A thin smile traced itself on Cranston's lips.
"You talk as though you've already been taken," stated Cranston. "However, it's all yours, if there's
anything in it. I'm merely helping the police commissioner investigate a complaint. Now tell me, who
claims the other half of the money?"
摘要：

DEADMAN'SCHESTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHFROMBEYOND?CHAPTERII.TRAILSINTHENIGHT?CHAPTERIII.ATTHECLUBCADENZA?CHAPTERIV.THROUGHTHEWINDOW?CHAPTERV.JUNEGAINSACLUE?CHAPTERVI.MEETSKIPPERMALLOY?CHAPTERVII.DEATHTELLSATALE?CHAPTERVIII.ALETTERTOTHES...

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