Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 297 - The White Skulls

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THE WHITE SKULLS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," November 1945.
A dangerous gang of men terrorizing everyone they met - their weird
skeleton garb prophesying their wake of destruction. Could The Shadow identify
his unknown foes - or would it be complete obliteration?
CHAPTER I
SARK'S picture glowered up from the desk and Jud Mayhew glowered down at
it.
There was a difference, though, in those glowers, as Philo Brenz studied
them from across the desk.
The photograph of Alban Sark wore a fixed expression. The face was dark
and
sinister, with a straight-lipped smile that had a creepy effect when closely
scrutinized.
As for Jud Mayhew, he was going through the usual reactions that
accompanied a survey of Sark's portrait. Finding the features difficult to
distinguish, Jud had begun to frown, first in an annoyed fashion; then
angrily.
Maybe Sark's looks had suffered from the enlargement of the photograph,
which had originally been a small snapshot. The present background, a light
gray, helped etch it. Sark's face belonged in shadows, had probably been
lurking
there when the camera had caught it. Maybe Sark had scowled because his
picture
was being taken, but at any rate his expression fitted him.
Chief of Sark's features were his bulging forehead; his hard, square
chin.
Bad lighting couldn't distort them because they were fixed feature. A forward
tilt of his head, habitual probably, would account for that bulging forehead.
An
outward shove of the lower jaw, another customary mannerism, could explain the
heavy chin.
What the camera had really caught were Sark's eyes, his teeth, and a
patch
of nose between. From his own knowledge of photography, Jud decided that a
light
must have been glowing down upon Sark's face when the picture was shot. The
eyes
were white and glisteny, their pupils no more than black dots. The nose,
projecting into the light, had caught a whiteness too. The teeth gleamed from
the widened lips that formed what could be called a cold smile.
In any event, Sark's face was the sort that would be remembered from this
picture. Such was Jud's opinion. He looked up from the desk and stared at the
wall beyond the chair from which Philo Brenz watched placidly.
Jud's long stare at the photograph bothered his eyes. He blinked, slowly
at
first, then rapidly, to finish with a wide, amazed gaze.
Philo Brenz spoke quietly.
"You see it?" he queried. "The White Skull?"
There was a nod from Jud. He gave it without moving his eyes.
"I noticed it myself," remarked Brenz. "It rather startled me. An optical
illusion of course, but very appropriate."
Brenz's tone seemed distant to Jud, as remote as the submerged traffic
noises of the street, half a hundred stories below. Everything was
subordinated
by that image on the wall, the white shape of a death's head, projected in
huge
size as the after-image of Jud's long look at Sark's picture.
Forehead, chin and cheeks. All the darkish features of the picture now
were
white, while the eyes, nose and teeth had become blackened hollows, completing
the leering physiognomy of an ugly skull.
Closing his eyes, Jud brushed away the illusion, brought himself back to
reality by opening his eyes again and looking straight at Brenz.
"What about Sark?" inquired Jud. "Have you ever met him, Mr. Brenz?"
"Only formally," replied Brenz. "At luncheons, conventions, and affairs
of
that sort."
"He looks like his photograph?"
"Exactly, except that it accentuates features that would not be noticed
normally. Poor though the picture is, the camera seems to have gotten
something
that the eye missed."
"You mean something accurate?"
"I would say very accurate. If my suspicions are correct, it probed to
Sark's heart, if he has one."
Jud sat back in his chair to listen further. It was strange to be
happening
in America. Jud had been accustomed to hearing reports about insidious
characters while he had been trekking through the heart of Nazidom, helping to
block off war criminals from flight to what they called their National
Redoubt.
But right now, Jud wasn't gazing from a peak among the Bavarian
mountains,
where gorges and winding roads lay below. He was staring from a man-made
altitude, the top floor of a New York skyscraper. In place of crags, he saw
other buildings; instead of gorges, the canyons of downtown Manhattan, where
there were paved streets in plenty, instead of a few dirt roads.
Yet Sark's picture, the after-image of the White Skull, were factors that
brought back the past with sudden, stark realism.
"I have told you about the construction contracts," spoke Brenz. "The
ones
that our companies lost to lower bidders."
Still looking from the window, Jud nodded to show that he was listening.
He
preferred to gaze out at the cloudy sky, rather than bothering his eyes with a
repetition of that skull which still haunted the office wall, every time Jud
looked at it.
"As you know," continued Brenz, "the construction of highways, factories,
and the conversion of plants to wartime production was a staggering
undertaking.
It took a firm like Brenz, Incorporated to handle such projects at low profit,
along with the necessary financing."
"Of course," agreed Jud. "I wasn't surprised when I heard you'd absorbed
my
old company. Tristate Engineering was an efficient outfit, but small. I might
say very small."
"And you might add very good," complimented Brenz. "The records of its
technical men who joined the armed services were proof of that. I hope that
more
men like yourself will soon be back with us, as the real assets that we
acquired
from the Tristate Engineering Company. I only wish that you could have
returned
to us sooner."
Brenz emphasized that final statement with a thud of his fist upon the
desk
top. Jud swung his gaze from the window to see that Brenz's broad face,
usually
mild, had become very grim. That fist of his was planted squarely on a sheaf
of
papers.
"There was something wrong with these," announced Brenz. "When a
commission
crowd like Universal Contractors, run by an old fossil like Townsend North,
could underbid us all along the line, I simply don't understand it. How they
managed it I don't know" - Brenz was leaning forward on the desk - "unless
Alban
Sark was the answer."
Jud's eyes opened again. He pushed Sark's picture further away, so it
wouldn't start clouding him with another skull image.
"You mean Sark was in with North?"
"I don't know," returned Brenz, slowly. "It would be hard to prove, since
North's jobs always went to subcontractors. With rush jobs on war plants,
sudden
shortages on essential materials that would allow the use of substitutes, a
lot
of very questionable deals could have been arranged."
Brenz's fingers were strumming the desk. His broad face was as serious as
the distant stare that had come to the gray eyes which strikingly matched his
hair. In a sense, the contrast was not great between Philo Brenz and Jud
Mayhew,
for the younger man showed an equally sober expression.
In Jud's features though, there was a drive that Brenz now lacked. Jud's
youthful face was more than firm; it was rugged, weather-beaten. It should be,
considering how he had accompanied airborne troops to accomplish engineering
missions. In only a few such exciting months, Jud had gained experience that
would cost another man years.
Centering on Jud, Brenz's eyes saw that fact. His ears could almost hear
the unspoken word "Go" from Jud's motionless lips. Jud's steady, dark-eyed
stare
brought a steely flash from Brenz's gray gaze. The older man spoke with the
authority that belonged to the president of Brenz, Incorporated, with the
weight
of millions of dollars behind it.
"It is your task, Mayhew," announced Brenz, solemnly. "As important to
future progress as was the work you did abroad. Already" - Brenz gestured
again
to the papers - "we have received inquiries from Washington asking why our
bids
for post-war construction should be so high in proportion to prices
established
by Universal Contractors."
Jud nodded, showing he'd expected comment of that sort.
"It reflects on our integrity," added Brenz, "and if we demand an
investigation of Universal, it will tip our hand to either North or Sark, more
specifically the latter."
That made still more sense to Jud. He pictured Sark as a man who would be
awaiting investigation and prepared for it. Folding his hands, Brenz rested
his
chin on them as he propped his elbows on the desk. Then:
"Sark has an uncanny faculty for spotting private detectives," Brenz
declared. "He disappears like an earthworm, the moment they begin to track
him.
Here are some of their reports." Reaching to a desk drawer, Brenz pulled out a
stack of papers bigger than the pile that lay in front of him. "Every man we
have hired has failed.
"Besides, what if they did gain a look into Sark's business affairs? None
of them have the technical knowledge needed to bring in a proper report.
That's
why I want you to take over the case, Mayhew. If you can gain access to any of
Sark's records - in the right way of course - so much the better."
The idea appealed to Jud. He asked:
"Where can I find Sark now?"
"In the town of Stanwich," replied Brenz, referring to his notes.
"Fortunately we have just gained another lucky lead to him. As a stranger,
decidedly not of the detective type, you are not likely to arouse his
suspicions."
"Where is Sark stopping?"
"At the Stanwich Arms, the one good hotel in the town. Incidentally,
Stanwich is a place where North's company handled quite a variety of contracts
and may be planning to do more business. The sooner you get there, the
better."
Jud Mayhew thought the same. Rising from the desk, he gave a short nod to
Philo Brenz. Then, emphatically, Jud reached for Sark's photograph, took
another
steady look at it and tossed it back among Bren's papers. With that, Jud
strode
from the president's office.
Eyes glittering their approval, Philo Brenz watched the technical man's
departure, then gathered the photo with the papers and put them back in their
proper drawer. For the work that he wanted done, Brenz could not have picked a
better confidential agent than Jud Mayhew.
One thing was certain: Jud would recognize Sark once he saw him. Such at
least was Brenz's impression.
It was Jud's impression too, but in a reverse way. Riding down from the
fiftieth floor, Jud was staring at the blank wall of the elevator and seeing
things again.
Etched before Jud's eyes was the visual reflex that looked like the
negative print of Sark's photograph, enlarged to more than human size. It was
a
sinister visage, that thing of imagination brought to realism, the White Skull
that leered an ominous welcome to this man who was seeking Alban Sark!
CHAPTER II
IT wasn't a long trip to Stanwich, but by the time Jud Mayhew arrived
there, his plans were fully made. That was easy enough because the plans
practically made themselves. When a stranger arrived in Stanwich, there was
only
one place where he would normally go and that was to the Stanwich Arms.
The question was whether he'd find a room at that hotel and the chances
were about a hundred to one that he wouldn't. Nevertheless there was no harm
in
trying, and it fitted with Jud's role as a casual stranger in the town.
At least visitors were scarce this afternoon, as Jud learned when he took
a
cab from the station. There were only three cabs waiting there and this one
alone had a driver; the others were shooting pool across from the depot,
apparently just waiting in reserve.
The cab had a conspicuous local license bearing a facsimile picture of
the
driver and giving his name as Leo Trobin. So Jud tossed a few queries to Leo
as
they rode to the Stanwich Arms.
"What's happened to Stanwich?" queried Jud. "Looks to me as though the
town
were dead."
"Yup," returned Leo from a chew of tobacco. "Looks that way, only
't'aint.
Stanwich is a live burg."
"You mean was."
"Don't fool yourself mister. It's only the holiday that makes things look
asleep."
Jud couldn't remember that today was a holiday and said so. Leo
obligingly
supplied the information that the holiday ruled locally in Stanwich and
nowhere
else.
"They're dedicating the monument to Mayor Fitzler," explained Leo the
cabby. "Did a lot for Stanwich, the old mayor did. Fine monument too, and it
ain't costing the town a penny."
Jud asked why.
"Public subscriptions," Leo told him. "An outfit called Universal
Contractors supplied the material and labor. They're planning to do a lot of
post-war building here. Got to take care of housing when Stanwich converts to
peace time industry."
Leo was darting quick looks across his shoulder to note the effect of
this
on Jud. The cabby's shifty eyes matched those of his picture and Jud could
guess
that the fellow knew a lot that was going on in Stanwich. After all, a man who
hacked visitors to and from the station ought to learn a lot, and Leo Trobin
was
the garrulous sort.
Just to prove that he could turn his talkative ability to smart use, the
cabby suddenly inquired:
"What's your line, mister?"
"Manufacturer's representative," returned Jud promptly. "Looking for good
factories that might be vacant. I heard there were some in Stanwich."
Leo chuckled.
"I'll show you just your ticket, mister. It's kind of out of the way, but
we got to make a detour anyhow, considering that the main street is roped off
on
account of the parade."
The cab swung around through side streets that had once been pleasant but
no longer were. All along these streets were old-fashioned houses that either
should have been kept in their pristine state or torn down and replaced by
modern homes. Instead, they had been turned into rooming houses and the
owners,
anxious to capitalize on the rental boom, hadn't wasted a cent on decorative
improvements. Whatever paint jobs had been done were cheap, while all visible
construction was in the form of wings or extensions that made the houses look
grotesque.
"Used to be pretty, this neighborhood," commented Leo. "Guess maybe it
will
again when they get to fixing it. These streets feed right into the
superhighway
which will be getting a lot of traffic once there's a lot of new cars with
enough gas to run them."
Swinging into the superhighway, Leo turned the cab across a broad
concrete
bridge that excited Jud's immediate attention. The bridge was of pre-war mold
and it crossed an underpass which must have been completed at the same time,
for
Jud could tell by the contour of the ground that the lower road had been built
over a creek bed.
Further proof of the creek's existence was evidenced by an old brick
building, its foundations reinforced with concrete, that jutted from a steep
rise of ground close to the far end of the bridge.
"There she is," announced Leo, with a wave of his hand. "T'ain't a big
factory, but it's a good one. Trucks can come in from either level and there's
a
railroad siding out to the back."
Jud's practiced eye was studying the structure, but more from the
engineer's standpoint than that of a manufacturer's representative. However,
he
spoke in the latter terms.
"It hasn't been used as a factory."
"Not unless you count when it was an old paper mill," admitted Leo. "They
rigged it for a war plant though, only it wasn't big enough. So it got used as
a
warehouse. Has a lot of confiscated enemy goods in it, they tell me, including
Jap fireworks."
Jud was looking back to complete his appraisal of the brick building
while
he wondered if Universal had done the construction work. Then Leo was swinging
the cab from the highway, down toward the lower road in order to avoid the
main
part of town. As they joined the other road, Jud saw where the creek emerged
from a huge culvert, trickling through mushy ground that served as an
automobile
junkyard.
Those old graveyards had been rather depleted of late, but this one had a
stock of fairly complete junkers. Probably the factory hands had run some of
their old cars so ragged that they weren't good enough to repair. Then,
swinging
through a stretch of rocky, wooded land, the cab crossed a bridge below a bend
where the creek formed a prettier stream, and pulled up at the Stanwich Arms.
Outside the hotel, Leo handed Jud a card, giving an appropriate smirk.
"If you're pulling out of town tonight, call the Apex Cab Service,"
suggested Leo. "There's our garage number on the car. We'll get you to your
train in time."
What Leo meant was plain, when Jud went into the hotel. Though commodious
in relation to a normal town the size of Stanwich, the Arms just couldn't hold
its present applicants. The sizable lobby was stacked with dozens of
suitcases,
their owners seated on them, awaiting their assignment to rooms.
Promptly Jud decided that he wouldn't have to stay all night. His job
would
be to locate Sark first. The easiest and most impersonal way was to go to the
cashier's window and make an inquiry, so Jud did. Casually Jud asked the man
behind the window:
"Has Mr. Sark checked out?"
The name didn't register with the cashier.
"Mr. Alban Sark," specified Jud. "He's been here the past few days."
Apparently Sark hadn't registered either, for the cashier couldn't
uncover
a bit of data that concerned him. He kept repeating the name though, which
didn't please Jud because other persons were crowding up to the window to pay
their bills, and Jud was afraid that somebody might overhear. Jud turned away
abruptly to stare across the lobby.
There was a man standing several feet away. If he had shifted, Jud would
have noticed him, but the man did not budge. Close enough to hear what passed
between Jud and the cashier, this witness made it his business to remain
indifferent. His only reaction was to tilt his head slightly forward so that
his
heavy brow dominated his appearance, except for the challenging thrust of his
chin.
His eyes however were sharp and whitish; his teeth gleamed from a fixed,
hard smile as Jud looked his way. The man was avoiding argument, but ready for
it if it came. The result was that Jud stared right past the man, conscious of
his presence without defining him. Jud's gaze was focused further across the
lobby, watching the people who were passing there.
Then, with a shrug, Jud stepped in another direction only to stop in his
tracks.
Against the pastel shade of the blank lobby wall, Jud was seeing
something
too fresh to be an after-image of the past, something that cold logic told him
must have come from a recent observation.
Growing uncannily, a huge, vague skull impressed itself upon that wall!
The answer flashed home. Jud remembered a man whose face he had hardly
noticed in the semi-gloom along past the cashier's window. Only one face could
have produced that reflex effect of a White Skull as vivid as if alive. It
belonged to Alban Sark!
Acting on impulse, Jud wheeled to look for the man again. Sark was gone,
and he could only have turned the corner leading to the elevators. Starting in
that direction, Jud was ready to discard discretion and openly challenge Sark,
except that he couldn't find the fellow.
The immediate clue to Sark's disappearance was an elevator with its dial
pointing to the figure one. The door was closed but if Sark had boarded the
car,
there would still be a chance to overtake him. Springing forward, Jud pounded
the door, hoping to add himself to the passenger list.
The door clanged open but before Jud could board the car, he realized
that
it had just come down. Passengers were getting off it and the first that Jud
encountered was a girl with reddish hair who was only momentarily taken aback
by
Jud's precipitous advent. Then, with an arm that had considerable drive, the
girl brushed Jud aside.
Too intent even to mutter apologies, Jud stared into the elevator. Sark
wasn't there. The girl, in her turn, paused to watch the pantomime with eyes
that were as keen as they were narrowed. She was more than just aggressive,
this
redhead, she was smart, for she recognized the intensity of Jud's hurried
man-hunt.
Coolly, the girl opened a hand-bag that was dangling from her arm and
reached within to draw out something that would have glittered in the light if
she hadn't kept it artfully from view. That object was a compact revolver that
the girl trained in Jud's direction.
Then Jud had wheeled around again, giving the girl no more than a passing
glance. He didn't see what her eyes had noticed; the dial of another elevator
stopping at the seventh floor. Instead, Jud was more interested in a door at
the
end of the short corridor, an exit that Sark might have used.
Abruptly, Jud headed through that door and found himself out in the
street,
amid the gathering dusk. The girl let the revolver drop back into the bag and
turned away serenely. From somewhere in the distance came the fanfare of
trumpets, announcing the assemblage of the parade that was to open this
evening's events in Stanwich.
Much was due tonight and it had only just begun!
CHAPTER III
As the crowd in the lobby thinned itself, partly because rooms had
finally
been assigned to prospective guests and also because people were starting out
to
see the parade, a young man came into sight, largely because the throng had
cleared itself from around him.
He was standing beside a marble pillar, and it had given him a peculiar
vantage point. A few paces in any direction not only enabled him to see all
parts of the lobby; such procedure could also put him out of sight from any
angle that he chose.
Not that he needed to keep out of sight. He was of a keen yet easy
mannered
type, the sort who could efface himself by simply minding his own business.
This
was quite important, considering the nature of his business.
This man was Harry Vincent, star performer in a continuous show produced
by
a certain person styled The Shadow. Harry was the ace among the agents who
served a mysterious chief whose main purpose was to combat crime.
It wouldn't have taken a second guess to cover the fact that Harry's
business here in some way concerned Sark, except that no guessers were
bothering
about Harry. In turn this proved that no one knew how many others might be in
town on similar business; at least no one except The Shadow and those who
served
him.
In watching for somebody, Harry hadn't long to wait. As an elevator
reached
the ground floor, Harry's expectant eye saw a tall figure step from it, that
of
a man in immaculate evening attire. It was as if by coincidence that both
Harry
and the new arrival reached the cigar stand at about the same moment.
Coincidental, too, that the clerk had to leave the counter to find the
particular cigars that the tall customer wanted.
That gave Harry Vincent a chance for a few quiet words with Lamont
Cranston, the tall man in evening clothes.
As an important visitor to Stanwich, Cranston was to help occupy the
reviewing stand when the parade went by and later make a speech at the banquet
to be held in honor of the late mayor. Cranston was a man of many parts; a
noted
traveler, a wealthy art collector, a New York clubman in the spare time of
which
he seemingly had plenty.
All that, however, was quite deceptive. Much of the time Cranston was
very
busy in a totally different identity, that of The Shadow.
Right now, Cranston was thinking definitely in The Shadow's terms as his
calm voice gave the order:
"Report."
"Sark went up to his room five minutes ago," stated Harry. "There was a
chap looking for him."
"As Sark?"
"As Sark. He evidently didn't know that Sark is registered here as Hubert
Rudland. He knows Sark by sight though, because he recognized him."
Cranston's keen eyes put a query that Harry understood, but could only
answer in part. It concerned the man who had been looking for Sark.
"A young chap," expressed Harry, describing Jud Mayhew. "Looks older than
he is and is probably an ex-service man. I don't know his name though."
"Neither does Sark," returned Cranston in his even tone. "He's still
trying
to find out."
It startled Harry for the moment; then he remembered having seen the
elevator dial stop at number seven, which wasn't Cranston's floor. Quite
obviously Cranston had looked in on Sark after the latter returned upstairs.
In
fact, right now Cranston was carrying a brief case, probably containing
testimonials to be presented at the banquet, but Harry knew from long
experience
that it could also hold the regalia of The Shadow.
"Sark phoned the desk and the bell Captain," Cranston commented. "He
asked
if there had been any inquiries for him."
"By his own name?" Harry exclaimed.
"Of course," returned Cranston. "Since he is known here as Rudland, he
might be looking for Sark too. But he was more interested in finding out who
else was, which he didn't. I take it that Gail North didn't know the stranger
either."
Mention of Gail North brought a puzzled stare from Harry. Gail was the
daughter of Townsend North, the contractor, and she happened also to be the
red-head who had bumped into Jud Mayhew when coming from the elevator. How
Cranston already knew about that encounter was a puzzle.
Nor did Cranston's expression answer the riddle. His features merely
increased the enigma as they always did. Calm, impassive, definitely masklike
when a certain light struck it, Cranston's face remained constantly unchanged,
except when he purposely molded it into someone else's. Among other arts, that
of skillful disguise was often used by this man whose other self was The
Shadow.
How Cranston could have spotted Gail and still kept tabs on Sark was the
thing that baffled Harry until his chief gave the slightest of gestures.
"Look over toward the lounge," suggested Cranston, "and you will see
Margo
Lane doing everything but wigwag a message."
Looking, Harry saw an attractive but anxious brunette peering from just
within the door of the cafe lounge. Cranston was right; it was Margo and she
was
trying to catch his eye.
"Gail went into the lounge," called Harry, "but I don't see her now."
"Margo does," explained Cranston. "That's what she is trying to tell us.
But your report is sufficient, Vincent. I can check with Margo later.
Meanwhile,
this chap you saw -"
Cranston's break-off was a cue for a quick response, so Harry gave it.
"He went out through the door past the elevators. Maybe he's still
looking
for Sark" - Harry paused, not quite sure - "but perhaps he just went to see
the
parade."
"You should certainly see the parade." Cranston's voice rose from the
undertone that he had automatically adopted earlier, yet it lost none of its
even tenor. "It is to be a fine affair I understand. Tanks and other military
vehicles will be among the local floats. This is a great night for Stanwich.
Ah!" Cranston's eyes were turning as he spoke. "My panatelas. I knew you would
have my brand."
This last comment was to the cigar clerk, who had just returned without
Harry realizing it. Buying himself a quota of thin cigars, Cranston turned and
gave Harry a nod as if to emphasize that the parade should not be missed.
That was something with which Harry quite agreed, since it offered
another
chance of running into Jud, whose name Harry didn't yet know. So Harry left by
the door beyond the elevators while Cranston went out through the main door,
the
shortest route to the reviewing stand.
One thing was certain: Alban Sark wouldn't leave the hotel unnoticed.
As he passed the lounge, Harry saw Margo relax dejectedly at her table
and
a glance beyond showed him Gail. Though at a distant table, the red-haired
girl
had a perfect view of the elevators and the stairway near them.
Finding Jud might prove difficult, but the procedure was quite definite.
Harry's plan was to take a short-cut up to the broad bridge and meet the
parade
when it came across. By keeping ahead of it all along the route, he would
stand
a fair chance of discovering Jud somewhere along the way.
What Harry didn't expect were the rapid results he got. Cutting through a
narrow street to the near end of the bridge, Harry picked his man right out of
the crowd. The main street was brilliantly lighted, even at this end, and Jud
had picked himself a rather conspicuous observation spot behind the ropes that
held back the crowd.
Oddly though, Jud wasn't interested in the approach of the brass band
that
was marching across the bridge. He was studying a building on the other side,
a
red brick structure that was a white elephant. Harry knew about the old mill
and its history; how plenty of money had been spent to convert it into a war
plant that was never used as such.
Why it interested Jud was the question and Harry pushed close to see if
he
could guess the reason. His shoulder brushed Jud's and the young man turned
suddenly only to see Harry staring blandly toward the oncoming parade. In
turn,
Jud forgot the brick building briefly and looked toward the bridge too.
Blaring full blast, the band came down the ramp with the feature
attraction, the big army tanks, creeping along just in back of it. The rumble
of
the mechanized armor drowned the martial music and the bridge seemed to
vibrate
like the eager crowd.
Then, as though such sights were commonplace to him, Jud let his eyes
rove
from the roaring tanks. His gaze went back to the brick building that now
served
as a warehouse.
Harry kept watching Jud's expression, but not for long.
Jud's face froze suddenly. Instinctively, Harry looked for the reason,
but
by then, Jud was over the ropes, lunging through the marching band, flinging
musicians aside as he waved his arms in wild warning to people on the far side
of the street.
They must have caught Jud's meaning for they turned and looked above
them;
then scrambled out into the street as if their lives depended on it.
Their lives did.
Looking up, Harry Vincent found his own eyes frozen upon the thing that
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THEWHITESKULLSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"November1945.Adangerousgangofmenterrorizingeveryonetheymet-theirweirdskeletongarbprophesyingtheirwakeofdestruction.CouldTheShadowidentifyhisunknownfoes-orwoulditbecompleteobliteration?CHAPTERISARK'Spicturegloweredupfromthedeskand...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：66 页 大小：165.27KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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