Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 301 - The Mother Goose Murders

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MOTHER GOOSE MURDERS

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 1946.

In a series of startling robberies, murderous men hold a beautiful

hostage, and a clever code of nursery rhymes spells gun play instead of

child's

play! Can The Shadow smash the intricate web and bring a halt to terror?

EVERYBODY on the crowded subway train seemed to be reading newspapers:

their own or other people's. That was what bothered Diane Marlow, the fact

that

somebody was looking over her shoulder, scanning the very headlines that held

her own eyes.

The headlines read:

POLICE LINK BOND AND JEWEL ROBBERIES

Promise Immediate Arrest

GIRL AIDED GEM GRAB

The first two headlines didn't worry Diane; it was the third that

bothered

her, because she happened to be the girl it meant. That in turn cast doubt

upon

the second headline, which didn't specify who was to be arrested, the robber

his feminine accomplice.

Silly, this whole thing, but frightening. Diane's gloved hand clutched

tighter on the subway strap and she found herself gripping the newspaper so

hard that it crumpled in her other hand. Hastily relaxing, she opened the

paper

and lifted it to hide her face.

Fortunately, this attracted no attention because of the lurch of the

train. They were coming to a station and Diane decided she could hang on for

one stop more - her stop. She was feeling faint, but that didn't matter. You

just couldn't collapse in a subway car jammed as this one.

Besides, Diane was realizing that she had more to learn and no time to

waste in doing so. She needed to know what details the newspaper contained,

whether they were facts or not, so she steeled herself to the effort during

the

hop to the next station.

Maybe the facts were right about the robber, but they didn't apply to the

girl, as Diane could vouch if anyone would believe her.

According to the newspaper, the police defined the robber as the same

masked man who had entered a brokerage office two days ago and forced the

owner

to hand over a batch of securities that were in his desk drawer.

Of course the robber had backed the operation with a gun, and this very

afternoon he had repeated the process by stalking into a jeweler's private

office and demanding a very special jewel case, with its contents, which had

been delivered only a short time before.

In each instance, this daring character had made a very hurried

departure,

picking up a taxicab by flourishing the gun in the driver's face. Outside the

brokerage, however, he'd been forced to run half a block in order to

commandeer

the cab, and he had evidently remembered that experience when he tackled the

jewel job.

A cab had been waiting outside the jewelry shop. It was waiting because

had arrived with a passenger, a girl who had offered the cabby a ten-dollar

bill

which he couldn't change. The girl was holding the cab while she fumbled in

her

bag to find smaller money. The cabby hadn't suspected that the girl was

stalling until the masked man appeared, hopped into the cab with the girl and

said to get going.

They'd dropped off together, those two passengers, which made the cabby's

theory valid. Except that the cabby hadn't waited to see that the girl and the

masked man hurried away in opposite directions, the gun spurring the girl's

flight. That part wasn't mentioned in the newspapers.

The girl was described as a fluffy-haired blonde attired in a fancy blue

sport suit. At least none of the subway passengers would tag Diane from that

description, for it was raining outdoors and her hair had lost its fluff;

furthermore, Diane had changed from her sport outfit to an older, dark-brown

dress that she reserved for bad weather.

Besides, Diane wasn't smiling and jolly as she'd been early that

afternoon. Right now, in the last minutes of the rush hour, she wore a serious

frown that gave her the tired look that only long office work can produce. In

fact, Diane was more than tired; she was grim, very grim indeed, as she left

the train at her station, tucked the newspaper under her arm, and started up

the steps to the street.

This couldn't really be called Diane's station; it just happened to be

the

nearest stop to the address of Joey's Shoe Parlor, the name on the card that

Diane had scooped into her bag along with other things that were lying on the

cab seat. Since Diane had never before heard of Joey's Shoe Parlor, she was

playing the hunch that the slip of cardboard had dropped from the masked man's

pocket.

And right now, the stakes had doubled where Diane Marlow was concerned.

She'd started on this journey hoping to gain some first-hand information

before

notifying the police regarding the jewel robber. Now she wanted those same

facts

in order to clear her status as the unknown woman in the case.

The shoe parlor was the sort of basement establishment that Diane

expected

it to be. Joey also came up to specifications; he was busy at his task and

mumbled because his mouth was full of hob-nails. Diane was trying to smooth

her

hair and bending her head so the rain would drip from her hat; hence Joey

didn't

see her face. Besides, all that interested Joey was the receipt that Diane

showed him.

"Not ready yet," declaimed Joey. "I said tomorrow I deliver. Me, I'm

always prompt, I never kid a customer. Besides, I say I deliver and that means

I deliver. My boy Marcus, he'll be around tomorrow after school with those

shoes all fixed."

To prove his point, Joey not only gestured to the shoes but picked up the

stub that was with them. Before Diane could figure how to phrase the question

she wanted to ask, Joey answered it.

"Apartment Number Two, Letter D, the Cedarcroft," announced Joey,

referring to his scrawl on the stub. "I keep good check on all repair jobs and

satisfied customers will tell you same. New customers get good service too -

you see?"

The thump of the closing door and the jangle of the old-fashioned bell

above it were the only answers that Joey received. Diane was on her way,

hoping

to find the Cedarcroft within the next few blocks, which she did. The

apartment

house consisted of two old residences converted into apartments and as Diane

hoped, the front door wasn't locked.

Taking the walk-up to the second floor, Diane found Apartment 2-D at the

back of the building, its number showing under the mediocre glow of a light in

the hallway ceiling. Firmer than ever, Diane tightened her hand on the knob

and

slowly tried it, only to find that the door was locked.

There was a transom above, but no light showing from it. The wild notion

of wriggling through that transom crossed Diane's mind, but didn't make a

dent.

She'd been silly enough in the taxicab today, in an involuntary way. No use of

getting into trouble purposely. Visions of being stuck half way through the

transom were something Diane didn't like.

Still, it seemed foolish to have come here all for nothing. On that

thought Diane decided that maybe the downstairs vestibule would hold the

answer. She hadn't looked for the name plates when she hurried through the

door; now it would be a good idea to go down and study them. But as Diane

turned reluctantly toward the stairs, she threw back a glance at the door of

Apartment 2-D and what she saw there halted her.

A bit of white was projecting from under the door and it looked like the

corner of an envelope. Diane pounced for the object, drew it her way and found

that it actually was an envelope. In fact it was a letter that the obliging

janitor must have put under the door as part of the Cedarcroft service and it

gave Diane her first good clue as to the masked man's identity.

The envelope was addressed to one Lee Quade and it was specifically

marked

Apartment 2-D. Hesitating only briefly, Diane tore open the envelope, blew

into

it, and extracted its thin contents.

Thin, because the envelope didn't contain a letter; what it held was a

slip of paper that Diane thought at first must be a newspaper clipping until

she discovered instead that it was part of a page cut from a child's book.

Even

in the poor light, Diane could easily read the large-print words that were

common to most editions of "Mother Goose."

The rhyme was a familiar one that Diane found herself reading half-aloud,

as a flash-back to one of her own childhood habits.

This was the verse:

Old King Cole

Was a merry old soul

And a merry old soul was he.

He called for his pipe

And he called for his bowl

And he called for his fiddlers three.

Smiling as she finished the rhyme, Diane realized that this wasn't the

time for smiles. Whatever he was, other than a masked robber, Lee Quade wasn't

the sort to be receiving nursery rhymes except as a gag; and anyone who knew

him well enough to joke with him, might well be the next stop along the trail

that Diane had started.

Staring with distant eyes below her furrowed forehead, Diane spoke

slowly:

"Old King Cole! It may mean the next person on the list! The next person

that Quade is supposed to rob -"

If Diane's eyes had been as busy as her thoughts, she would have noticed

the darkness that was gradually moving across the slip of paper that she held

upon the opened envelope. But she saw nothing, heard nothing, not even the

slight creak beneath the frayed carpeting of the hallway floor, as a figure

loomed behind that spreading darkness.

Then came the sudden swoop of a hand, the clamp of a fist upon Diane's

wrist. Before the girl could give more than a startled gasp, a low snarl

ordered silence.

There was more than a snarl to support the order. Turning, Diane stared

into hard eyes and recognized their cold glisten as something she'd seen

through the slits of a mask, that very afternoon. Even colder than the eyes

was

the more potent silencer that Lee Quade had previously handled.

That silencer was the muzzle of a .38 revolver, aimed squarely between

the

eyes of Diane Marlow!

CHILLED quite out of her wits, Diane couldn't even quiver at sight of the

gun. She went numb all over and Quade wasn't slow to recognize it.

Disdainfully, the fellow dropped the girl's limp wrist and caught the envelope

with its attendant slip of paper, before the objects could drop from Diane's

falling hand.

In professional style, Quade stepped back, keeping his gun trained on

Diane, but at the same time he made a half turn so that he could read the slip

of paper. Evidently Quade understood the significance of the verse and gave it

a criminal interpretation, for he gave an unpleasant laugh.

In her turn, Diane interpreting Quade, her stressed mind going in heavily

for detail, curiously enough. He was like something all off-key, this man

Quade. He was handsome, but with just a brutal touch; dark, but with a trace

the sallow. His eyes, though keen, were suspicious, while his smile had a

bitter

curl.

Those features were still evident, even when Quade turned his back to the

light to focus fully on Diane. Oily though the man's speech became. Diane

still

caught the hard note in it.

"How did you find me?" queried Quade. "And why?"

After a few lip motions, Diane found her voice. It came in whispery

blurt.

"You dropped a stub - a shoe receipt - I read the name on it. It was - it

was -"

"Joey's Shoe Parlor," interrupted Quade. "You don't have to cover up for

him - unless you told him something."

Emphatically, Diane shook her head.

"I haven't told anybody - anything."

It was the truth and it seemed the safest thing to say, for Diane could

picture Quade's gun pumping away so often that she'd no longer hear it, if he

even suspected that she had blabbed. Quade's satisfied smile relieved Diane

somewhat, until he asked sharply:

"Where did you find this?"

Diane pointed feebly to the bottom of the door.

"Do you know what it means?"

To that, Diane shook her head, but Quade must have caught some hesitancy,

for he snarled, low:

"Out with it! What are you thinking?"

"The only thing," replied Diane, surprised at her automatic answer. "It

means somebody else you're supposed to rob, like the broker and the jeweler."

Quade's smile had much of the leer as he nodded his agreement.

"You're a cute guesser," confirmed Quade, as he thrust the envelope and

the printed paper into his pocket. With his same hand he brought out a key.

"Only don't worry, kid. You're my accomplice - or didn't you know?"

"I know."

"Then let's go in the apartment." Quade was unlocking the door, but

keeping the gun well in hand. "We can talk it over there. After all, you're in

a jam like I am, even if it doesn't apply."

Why Diane hesitated on the threshold, she didn't quite yet realize.

However, hesitation didn't help, for Quade's gun muzzle found the middle of

Diane's back with a nudge so earnest that she stumbled hastily across the

threshold. Next, Diane was in a corner where Quade gestured her as he nudged

the door shut with his elbow. Pocketing his key, he deftly transferred the gun

from his right hand to his left and sat down at a telephone, which had its

dial

turned away from Diane's view.

Juggling the gun lightly with his left, Quade dialed a number with his

right. Then:

"This is Lee..." Quade evidently recognized the voice across the wire.

"I'm back at my place... Yeah, I'm all right, but the dame is here... The dame

that was in the cab this afternoon... Yeah, she found out who I was...

"No, she says she hasn't blabbed... I guess if she had, the coppers would

have shown here instead of her... Of course she knows I pulled the jewel job,

but she found out something else... That's right, she found the letter with

the

King Cole verse..."

There, Quade paused to let the other speaker have a chance. Diane could

see the pleased glitter that swept the man's hard eyes, in the light from the

table lamp. At last, Quade's spreading grin seemed to set itself in ugly

style.

"You know," said Quade, into the telephone, "you hit it right on the

nose... That's right, the dame figured it meant the next job I'm to do... Let

the other boys handle it? Sure I will... A cinch, because the dame hasn't any

idea who King Cole is... But she knows who I am..."

Quade's final tone made Diane very uneasy, particularly when he hung up

with a slam. Switching his gun again, Quade gestured to the telephone with his

left hand.

"You know what he said?" demanded Quade. "He said it didn't matter, your

finding that letter. The boys will clean up the next job before you can even

tell the police to start guessing about King Cole. As for me, I'll have time

lam before you can tell them about me either. They're likely to have me tagged

pretty soon, anyhow.

"So all I'm going to do is tie you up, nice and tight. That dress you're

wearing looks strong enough to do for rope and your scarf will make a good

gag.

Maybe you can work loose by morning and meanwhile you can thank yourself for

not

talking to the coppers. Otherwise -"

There was no reason for Quade to continue. Diane not only understood but

realized now why she had faltered when he started to shove her into the

apartment. In here, shots would be muffled, which they wouldn't be in the

hall.

All Quade would have to do would be to close one window which Diane had

noticed

was open.

Quade's last words across the telephone fitted. The phrase, "But she

knows

who I am" could well have been Diane's death warrant. It wasn't mercy on

Quade's

part that Diane was going to live, but just simple common sense, plus

efficiency.

"I'm to use my own judgment," stated Quade. "That's what I was told over

the telephone. Since my own judgment says it's quieter to tie you up than

shoot

you, I'm letting you live. Only remember, screams make more noise than

gunshots."

This time, Diane was observing the blackness that accompanied Quade's

approach. His back was toward the lamp, blocking off its light and the whole

room seemed to darken, including the open window. Maybe Quade had forgotten

that the window was open, but it wouldn't help if he had. Diane didn't care if

people heard gun-shots, because by the time they did, she would be full of

bullets.

There was something monstrous, grotesque about Quade as his hand

stretched

out in the darkness that his bulking form produced. Just managing to repress a

scream, Diane wrenched away instinctively as that hand clutched the neck of

her

dress. The result was that Quade's grip produced a ripping tug and he snarled

again as he pounced forward to make sure that Diane didn't tear herself free.

It was then that the shriek came.

Not from Diane, but from somewhere in the outer darkness, a screech that

transformed itself into the long, troubled wail of a police car's siren!

Diane came full about at that, horrified and rigid, with her arms spread

against the wall. Quade saw her as a figure hung with tattered sleeves, then

lifted his gun toward the girl's wide, frozen eyes that looked like a double

target calling for a shot midway between.

Quade's judgment now was death, for that approaching wail symbolized that

Diane had lied when she said she hadn't told; and having told too much too

soon, she could tell something more - and also too soon - should she live. A

spurt of flame was due from that gun muzzle that barely glittered as it thrust

forward from the darkness.

A death spurt would have flashed if the surrounding blackness hadn't

hurled itself more swiftly. To Diane, what happened seemed the result of her

own mental whirl.

Quade's aim ended with a jolt that sent him flying upward, backward, gun

first. By the time he tugged the trigger, his gun merely spouted, for its

target was the ceiling. Writhing, flaying madly at nothingness, Quade seemed a

portion of Diane's distorted notions until he finished with a sideward reel

that took him from the path of the lamplight.

Then Diane saw that blackness was alive. It had transformed itself into a

cloaked figure of a tall, limber fighter who wore a slouch hat, and who was

swinging a heavy automatic with a gloved fist, to meet the wild downward slash

of Quade's revolver.

Loud came the wail of the approaching siren, like the howl of some

wandering banshee, announcing that the impossible had become real. Such was

Diane's impression of her first meeting with this rescuer known as The Shadow!

III

GROTESQUE against the lamplight, Quade and his half-visible antagonist

gave the slow, dreamlike effect of figures cavorting in the glare of a

blinking

spotlight. The Shadow's turns and twists were responsible for the blinker

illusion, but the process operated in reverse.

Every time The Shadow came in front of Quade, the latter disappeared,

only

to come in sight again, like something disgorged by space, whenever The Shadow

completed the roundabout. Of course then The Shadow vanished so that Quade

seemed to be struggling with thin air.

Thus it was from Diane's outlook and with her distorted view came the

equally fantastic accompaniment of arriving wails that no longer seemed like

police sirens, but rather the cries of ghouls, penetrating to what had become

Diane's own little world.

Sirens they were, however, and Quade knew it, which was why he kept

punctuating his struggle with gun-shots that The Shadow constantly diverted

toward the ceiling. Along with the low, taunting laugh that The Shadow used as

a retort for every shot, the figure in black was becoming snowy.

The reason was the plaster that showered from the ceiling under the urge

of Quade's wasted bullets. It was indeed odd, the way The Shadow was becoming

living statue, growing out of nothingness. Quade seemed to be struggling with

granite bust that laughed.

Shrill whistles now, and shouts. The pound of footsteps coming up into

the

apartment house. Quade's shots had been heard, the police weren't losing time

getting to their goal. True to Quade's own fear, as expressed to Diane, the

law

had found the criminal.

And Quade was desperate.

Slugging hard with his now empty gun, Quade missed The Shadow completely.

In fact, The Shadow wasn't there at all; the object that stopped Quade's lunge

was the table with the lamp. Both crashed and as the light vanished, the

clatter in the room was drowned by a louder smashing at the door.

The police were here.

In that last fleeting moment, Diane saw a huge mass of blackness grow in

her direction. It loomed to vast proportions, only to be suddenly absorbed by

the complete darkness that filled the room. Diane forgot that The Shadow was a

friend and began the long-restrained scream that Quade had warned against.

The scream was smothered and Diane was whirled by swift, powerful hands,

over to the window, where, suddenly released, she found herself teetered on

the

sill, aimed for a forward pitch into the drizzly darkness of the courtyard

below. Something vaulted past her, but Diane didn't realize it in her mad

effort to halt her topple.

Diane failed. Overbalanced, she went headlong, delayed but briefly as her

torn dress caught on a window catch and then gave. She landed squarely in the

same strong arms that had hauled her to the window, for it was The Shadow who

had gone past her, to be ready below. Then, like something she seemed to be

leaving behind her, Diane could hear the clicks of her own high heels as The

Shadow rushed her out through a narrow passage which he seemingly discovered

through some radar sense that was peculiarly his own.

As if on schedule, a taxicab rolled up, took Diane as a passenger under

The Shadow's rapid urge, and whisked away, picking a zigzag course through the

next few blocks, to avoid converging police cars. All during that mad race,

Diane thought she could hear the echoes of The Shadow's parting laugh, a tone

so encouraging, that the girl supposed her rescuer had accompanied her.

Amazement was Diane's when the cab reached a lighted avenue and she

looked

for the mysterious personage called The Shadow but the seat was vacant beside

her.

There was still work for The Shadow, back at Quade's. This was one of

those instances where the police, gaining a lead to a suspected criminal, had

started on their quest only to be preceded by The Shadow. In rescuing Diane,

The Shadow had let the law catch up; now his purpose was to block off Quade

should the fellow try to escape by the route along which The Shadow had

piloted

Diane.

Except that escape was no longer Quade's idea. Climbing from the wreckage

of the table, he was gripping the heavy metal lamp that his hand had found in

the darkness. The door was crashing under the ramming efforts of the police

and

Quade's mad, vengeful mind was concentrated on repelling those invaders.

As the door burst, hurtling men inward with it, Quade sprang into the

light that poured dimly from the hall and swung the lamp like a great

bludgeon,

intending to brain a few adversaries before they could stop him. Cloaked

shoulders were coming up above the window-sill and with his timely return The

Shadow despatched an equally timely shot that jolted Quade's arm in mid-air,

diverting the downsweep of the lamp.

The invading police were timely too; their shots came a few split seconds

after The Shadow's. But as the persons menaced, the police didn't draw a line

at merely stopping Quade's swing. They stopped him with it, riddling him with

close-range fire that crumpled him upon the floor.

The Shadow eased down into the darkness, listening intently to what

followed. The police were dragging Quade into the light; in searching him for

reserve gun, they found the envelope and its printed slip pertaining to King

Cole. His head half-lifted, Quade stared with glazed eyes and coughed

spasmodic

words.

"Try and help King Cole." The broken tone still carried Quade's

characteristic snarl. "It won't do any good - not even if you find him. Not

now, it won't - it wasn't my job - not this one -"

A sturdy police inspector was hauling Quade's ashen face up into the

light. From the window, The Shadow recognized the swarthy, dead-pan

countenance

of Joe Cardona, top man among inspectors.

"You're going to live, Quade," Cardona emphasized. "So whatever you tell

us now may be used for you, instead of against you. We figured there were

others beside you. If they're aiming to rob somebody tonight, tell us who he

is. If we stop them, it goes to your credit."

Quade's curling lips set tightly; then relaxed. His eyes went shut and

his

voice came with a wheeze.

"You're lying, Joe," gasped Quade. "Lying - and you know it. I'm through

so it won't help me - whatever I tell you. But it won't hurt - won't hurt my

pals - if I tell you -"

"Go on," prompted Cardona. "I want to know about the job. Who's this King

Cole that's being robbed tonight?"

Quade's lips opened for the last time. All they said was:

"Wouldn't - wouldn't you just like to know!"

Letting Quade's stiffening body thump the floor, Cardona pounced for the

telephone and called headquarters. He began giving orders and brisk ones.

"Instruct all patrol cars," announced Cardona. "Tell them to check all

neighborhoods for clues to a robbery that may be under way right now, if it

isn't already done. Particularly wealthy neighborhoods - and another thing -

check on apartment houses and hotels, in case the crime is happening there.

"Pay special attention to any phone calls that come in, even if they do

sound screwy. Somebody may spot something and try to inform us. Let me know of

any developments. I'll give you the number where you can reach me."

Reading off the number of Quade's phone, Cardona hung up and gave a

stolid

stare at the dead man. Quade wouldn't have liked that look if he'd been alive

see it. Mechanically, Cardona flipped the paper that bore the printed verse.

"Like finding a needle in a haystack," gruffed Joe, "and the only man who

can tell us what it's good for, can't talk." Wheeling to the surrounding cops,

Cardona snapped the order: "Search the place! Look for the stolen stuff if

it's

still here. But more important, see what you can find that will give us a lead

to the next job!"

The police were ransacking the room with no success when the phone bell

jangled. Cardona caught it at the end of the first ring. The call was from

headquarters and what Cardona heard put him into prompt action.

"Let's go!" Joe told the officers. "They just got word of the robbery

that

links with the King Cole message. Old Artemus Hapwood, the chain store owner,

found bound and gagged in his house off Park Avenue. His safe was rifled" -

Cardona stared again at Quade - "and I'll bet it traces to this guy and his

crowd!"

By the time the police were on their way, the courtyard was as vacant as

the window above it. As before, The Shadow was profiting by information that

had reached the law.

Crime's latest scene was due to receive a visit from The Shadow!

THE Hapwood residence was ablaze with light when Inspector Cardona

reached

it and outside was standing a big official car which belonged to Police

Commissioner Weston. Swarthy-faced Joe wasn't pleased when he saw the

Commissioner's car, but he contented himself with the thought that he would

have his innings later.

Entering the house, Cardona reached the living room and found

Commissioner

Weston already in conference with Artemus Hapwood. The living room was ample

and

so was Hapwood, but Cardona was more interested in the circumstances of the

recent robbery.

That pleased the commissioner, because he had expected it. A man of

efficiency to the points of his military mustache, Commissioner Weston liked

his subordinates to be thorough in their work and Cardona wasn't disappointing

him. Eyes roving the room, Cardona took in everything and finally settled on

the chair where Hapwood was seated.

"Very good, inspector," approved Weston, briskly. "I expected you here,

I preserved the scene intact. Mr. Hapwood was right where you see him now when

we released him." Big and portly, Hapwood was occupying the only chair that

was

really large enough to hold him. It was a heavy chair and well upholstered,

but

the arms were separate, not part of the chair proper. Noting trunk straps

lying

beside the chair, Cardona recognized that they must have been used to bind

Hapwood's arms and legs, while a large silk handkerchief, tightly knotted, had

obviously served as a gag.

Beside the chair was a table with a telephone, but that didn't interest

Cardona as much as a low-built serving stand on which stood a bottle with a

huge brandy glass and an oversized meerschaum pipe beside it, plus a tobacco

humidor.

Weston seemed annoyed when Cardona neglected the telephone. To Hapwood,

the commissioner said:

"Tell the inspector everything that happened and how you managed to call

for help."

"The bounders caught me unaware," boomed Hapwood, lifting his double

chin.

"There were two of them, brawny brutes, both wearing masks."

Cardona nodded, still staring at the serving stand.

"I'd just finished a phone call," announced Hapwood. "Not here, but

upstairs. Talked to a couple of business associates, you know, like I often

do.

I came downstairs wanting a drink and a smoke, never thinking the servants had

all gone out."

Cardona put a prompt query.

"How many servants?"

"Three," replied Hapwood. "They'll all have excuses, I'm careless that

way. However, while I was shouting that I wanted a smoke and a drink, who

answered but these masked chaps. I looked up and there they were."

To illustrate, Hapwood looked toward the door and fixed his gaze there.

Weston turned to see a tall man who had just entered.

"Hello, Cranston!" exclaimed the commissioner. "I was sure you would get

the message that I left at the club. A very interesting case, this."

Hapwood lifted his heavy eyebrows and queried:

"Lamont Cranston?"

With a nod of acknowledgment, Weston completed the introduction. Hapwood,

a man of big business, had naturally heard of Cranston, the gentleman about

town who had a singular ability for investing in curious enterprises that

always paid off. But Hapwood and Cranston formed a striking contrast.

Big of neck, paunch, face and hands; Hapwood had all the makings of a

jolly fat man, except that he was very serious at present, though he did allow

a smile to spread across his massive face at the rare privilege of being

introduced to the famous Mr. Cranston.

In his turn, Cranston was tall, with a calm face that was as impassive as

a mask. He looked positively thin at the present moment, but that was only

because of the contrast with Hapwood. When Hapwood extended his hand like a

seal's flipper to receive Cranston's long, thin-fingered shake, Cardona wasn't

surprised to see the fat man wince. There was plenty of steel in that grip of

Cranston's, as Cardona knew from experience.

Since Weston often called Cranston in on cases like this, Cardona didn't

connect the commissioner's friend with events at Quade's. There was a link,

however, in the form of a long stretch of blackness on the floor, ending in a

hawkish silhouette. But Cardona wasn't thinking of Cranston's shadow in terms

of a personage called The Shadow, who - so far as Cardona knew - hadn't

figured

in connection with the recent robberies.

Cardona didn't know that when he'd phoned Weston very recently regarding

the lead to Quade, that Cranston had just been leaving the commissioner's

office. The lead had come from a stool pigeon and Cranston often checked such

information when it was relayed to Weston, but on that point too Cardona was

ignorant.

His introduction to Cranston complete, Hapwood continued with his story.

"There's the smoke and the drink" - Hapwood pointed to the pipe and the

brandy - "but I wasn't to get them. The masked men threatened me with guns as

soon as I shouted for my three servants. Then they bound me in my chair and

gagged me.

"After that, they broke open my safe" - Hapwood gave a depreciating

gesture to the item that he named - "and took everything that was in it.

Nothing of value, however, because my business associates hadn't delivered the

cash that went with our deal."

Cardona studied the safe and understood why Hapwood didn't rate it

highly.

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摘要：

MOTHERGOOSEMURDERSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"March1946.Inaseriesofstartlingrobberies,murderousmenholdabeautifulhostage,andaclevercodeofnurseryrhymesspellsgunplayinsteadofchild'splay!CanTheShadowsmashtheintricatewebandbringahalttoterror?IEVERYBODYonthecrowdedsubwaytrains...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 301 - The Mother Goose Murders

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