Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 257 - Trail of Vengeance

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TRAIL OF VENGEANCE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A TRAIL DISCOVERED
? CHAPTER II. CRIME UNPROVEN
? CHAPTER III. FOES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER IV. BATTLE'S CLIMAX
? CHAPTER V. SMOOTH RETRIBUTION
? CHAPTER VI. THE SECOND GOAL
? CHAPTER VII. THE GAME REVERSED
? CHAPTER VIII. THRUSTS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER IX. MURDERER'S FLIGHT
? CHAPTER X. NUMBER THREE
? CHAPTER XI. TOO MANY WATCHERS
? CHAPTER XII. CHASE OF DEATH
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SECRET PLAN
? CHAPTER XIV. THE HUNTED MAN
? CHAPTER XV. SWIFT TRICKERY
? CHAPTER XVI. THE FINAL GOAL
? CHAPTER XVII. THE FINAL GOAL
? CHAPTER XVIII. ENWOOD'S VISITORS
? CHAPTER XIX. FACTS ARE TOLD
? CHAPTER XX. MATTERS OF MURDER
CHAPTER I. A TRAIL DISCOVERED
BERT GLENDON rode up the escalator in the Pennsylvania Station, gripping his suitcase in one hand
and crunching a telegram in the other.
Odd, that telegram, and important, too; otherwise, it wouldn't have been delivered to him on the train at
Newark. The telegram worried Bert, for it signified that something might have happened to his uncle
Lionel.
Glancing at the big clock near the train gates, Bert saw that he had already lost time getting up from the
platform. He put his suitcase down beside a telephone booth. Then, unfolding the telegram, he read it
again. The telegram was signed by Julius Calden, and its message stated simply:
CALL ME OR DR. BRAY
BEFORE YOU VISIT YOUR UNCLE
Bert Glendon was slightly acquainted with both Julius Calden and Dr. Howard Bray. Calden was his
uncle's attorney, and Bray the family physician. Both men would certainly have the interests of Lionel
Glendon very much at heart, and if they wanted to talk to Bert before he saw his uncle, it would be wise
for him to comply with their wishes.
Nevertheless, Bert indulged in brief reflections as he thrust the telegram back into his pocket.
It had been several years since Bert had seen his uncle Lionel. The old man lived here in New York,
attended only by a faithful butler named Timothy, who was also a relic of the past. Lionel Glendon had
retired from business after accumulating a large amount of wealth, and since then had preferred a simple
life, due partly to ill health.
There were old friends who visited him and spent quiet evenings at the old brownstone house. Who they
were, Bert did not know, but he was sure that Bray and Calden called there, also. More particularly, the
doctor rather than the lawyer, for old Lionel had been confined to bed for the past month. But Calden
must also have been a recent visitor.
Bert had received a long-distance call in Cincinnati. His uncle had spoken in a quavery voice, begging
him to come to New York to discuss important affairs. Ben had offered to fly, but his uncle had
objected, saying he didn't trust planes, so Bert had named the train that he would take and the time of its
arrival. To Bert, his uncle's mention of "important affairs" was an indication that Calden would be
present.
The telegram, delivered on the train, substantiated Bert's opinion. Calden's mention of Bray was the
worrying factor. It meant that something might have happened to old Lionel. So Bert thumbed through
the telephone directory, found Calden's office and apartment numbers, and told the girl on duty to try
them both.
The telephone operator received no response from either number. This explained why Calden had
mentioned Bray. So Bert found the doctor's number, gave it to the operator and went into a booth. He
could hear the phone ringing steadily, but there was no answer. Reclaiming his nickel, Bert decided that
he'd have to go to the house after all, so he turned to get his suitcase.
It was gone.
This, in itself, was a minor tragedy, for the suitcase contained a whole sheaf of engineering statistics which
Bert needed in his important job of standardizing highway bridges to meet the requirements of heavy
military equipment.
So Bert found himself chasing through the vast expanse of the station, to finally catch up with a befuddled
porter who was carrying a suitcase that someone had told him to put in a cab, only to find out that it was
the wrong one.
With fifteen minutes wasted on phone calls and suitcases, Bert took a cab of his own. He gave his uncle's
address; then delved into the suitcase to make sure the reports were there.
They were, but by that time Bert found that the cab was traveling in the wrong direction; in fact, had been
for five minutes. So, even though he put the cabby straight and the fellow apologized profusely, Bert
could count another ten minutes lost in getting to his uncle's house.
TIME was far more vital than Bert supposed. In the brownstone house, old Lionel Glendon was standing
in front of the fireplace in his parlor, much perturbed. Lionel's haggard face showed color, but it came
from the flicker of the firelight. When he stepped away from the fire, his face showed as gray as the ashes
that streaked the hearth.
Timothy, the butler, looked in from the hallway door. He was a solemn man, Timothy, who could control
his features to the point where they were absolutely expressionless. He had a catlike way of walking,
accomplished by a peculiar forward motion from his knees; he had cultivated that stride so as not to
disturb old Mr. Glendon.
But it happened that old Mr. Glendon was already quite disturbed. Seeing Timothy, he demanded
querulously:
"Did you call the station again?"
"Yes, Mr. Glendon," replied Timothy. "The train arrived on schedule. I am sure that Mr. Bert will be here
shortly."
"You were sure of that a quarter of an hour ago," snapped Lionel. "Listen!" The old man cocked his
head. "Do I hear a car out front? Go to the door and see. And stay there, Timothy!"
The butler nodded solemnly and raised his hand, as though about to speak. Lionel cut him off abruptly.
"Don't tell me to be composed!" the old man stormed. "I've heard all that, Timothy! I know that I'm still
supposed to be in bed; that Dr. Bray says my heart won't stand a heavy strain. I'll follow advice as I see
fit. In your turn, Timothy, you will follow orders when I give them!"
Completing his nod, Timothy turned toward the front door, and Lionel stalked across the room, to stare
suspiciously after him. Seeing that the butler was actually keeping watch, Lionel returned to the parlor
and went to a cabinet beside the fireplace.
In contrast to Timothy's silent stride, floor boards creaked when Lionel crossed them. Had the butler
been listening from the front door, he could have detected all of Lionel's actions from those sounds.
Feeling in his pockets, Lionel failed to find the key to the cabinet. He looked in the desk and discovered
a key ring, with several keys attached. One fitted the cabinet, so Lionel unlocked it and took out an
oblong box, which he brought to the desk. With another key, he unlocked the box.
Added to the creaks of the floor boards, the groan of cabinet hinges, the thump of the box on the desk,
and finally the sharp snap of the opening lock, were sounds that betrayed old Lionel's operations.
From the box, the old man brought out a few dozen sheets of blank paper, deep yellow in color, which
crinkled as he laid them aside. Pawing deeper, his trembling hands found bundles of stocks and bonds,
printed contracts, and important-looking envelopes, all tied in little bundles by pieces of thin string.
For a moment Lionel's fingers twitched, as though they intended to slip the strings from the topmost
bundle; then, letting those packets remain in the box, the old man reached for the blank sheets that he had
first removed.
Taking a pen, Lionel Glendon began to write in a long, old-fashioned scrawl.
It was, indeed, a curious setting. Sputtering firelight showed the feeble old man, intent upon his writing. A
musty odor of age pervaded the room. The scratching of Lionel's pen was faintly audible, though
drowned for the most by the crackle from the fireplace.
One thing, alone, gave no indication. It was the tread of Timothy, the butler. Catlike, the solemn man had
come back from the front door and was looking in from the hallway. He saw the withery figure of Lionel
crouched above the desk, with a hand engaged in trembling penmanship. Then, as though sensing
something in advance, Timothy stepped away just before old Lionel raised his head.
Suspicion glinted in the old man's eyes. He hadn't heard Timothy, nor had he seen him. Yet Lionel could
sense things also, otherwise his writing hand would not have paused amid his task. Jabbing the pen back
into its bolder, the old man placed both hands upon the desk and started to rise.
The effort stopped halfway.
A pained expression swept over Lionel's face. His hands tightened on the desk, but his body sagged
backward. His head tilted high and a rattling sound slipped from his lips.
It should certainly have been heard by Timothy, but another sound drowned it. An interrupting sound-the
clangor of the doorbell, announcing the arrival of Bert Glendon.
Ill-timed, that ringing echoed loud above the curious rattle that came from Lionel's throat. The old man
was slumped completely in his chair, his head tilted forward toward the half-written paper. His left hand
still rested on the table edge, while his right was advanced toward the inkstand. Though stilled, the
nervous fingers of that hand looked ready to give another twitch.
WHEN Timothy appeared at the parlor door with Bert, the position of Lionel Glendon was unchanged.
The butler saw nothing unusual in the posture of his master; contrarily, he simply raised his fingers to his
lips, signifying that the old man had slipped into a drowse.
Trying to muffle the creaks that his feet made on the floor boards, Bert crossed the room and sat down in
a spare chair beside the desk. Anticipating the moment when a snap from the fire would awaken his
uncle, Bert began to smile a greeting.
Suddenly, Bert's gaze stiffened.
His uncle's eyes weren't closed; they were open. Wide, they should have been looking at something; but
they weren't. They were directed toward the floor, and their glint, tinted by the firelight, had a glassy
look.
Quick to his feet, Bert placed a hand upon his uncle's shoulder, and the withered figure caved to the
desk, one arm sliding across in crazy fashion. Away from the firelight, Lionel's face showed pasty white in
the glow from a desk lamp. Bert's uncle was neither drowsing nor in a stupor.
He was dead!
Tensely, Bert drew away. This discovery seemed the climax of a puzzling series of events that had begun
even before Bert's arrival in New York. Strange that his uncle should die on the very evening of Bert's
visit, during those minutes that his nephew had lost in getting to the house.
Maybe Timothy could give some explanation. Bert was on the point of calling the old servant, when
something made him stop.
The "something" was his uncle's half-finished note. Drawing the sheet of paper from under Lionel's arm,
Bert saw that it was addressed: "Dear Nephew."
Startling words followed:
"I have summoned you to tell you of my legacy," old Lionel had written. "The fortune I am leaving you is
worthless. It represents a half million dollars, invested at the advice of men who termed themselves
friends, all of whom profited through my loss. There were five, and their names-"
There, the note ended. Looking beyond it, Bert saw the open box, with its bundles of worthless securities
and other evidence of the swindles mentioned in the note. Bert hesitated, and while he did, a thing
happened that decided him.
The doorbell rang again, and though Bert couldn't hear footsteps, he knew that Timothy was answering it,
for there was a clatter when the door opened. Without wasting another moment, Bert scooped up the
half-finished note, crumpled it and thrust it into his pocket, along with the telegram.
The new arrival was Dr. Bray. Bert was facing the door when the physician entered in dapper style,
accompanied by Timothy. Nodding to Bert, Bray started to stay that he had come to see how his patient
was-but Bert's sad headshake told the doctor that something was amiss. Hurrying forward, Bray stooped
beside the body of Lionel Glendon.
A few minutes later, Bert heard Bray's verdict. it was given briefly:
"Heart failure."
Strange that Bert Glendon should have doubted the word of the family physician; that he should likewise
have eyed the solemn face of Timothy with actual suspicion. But Bert did both, and the reason lay in that
unfinished message that he had thrust into his pocket.
Through Bert's brain kept pounding a verdict of his own:
"Murder!"
For Bert Glendon stood convinced that his uncle had been done to death by the machinations of five
so-called friends who had stripped him of his wealth and thereupon covered their evil work by a crime
more heinous.
Death's challenge had been delivered to Bert Glendon, and he intended to answer it!
CHAPTER II. CRIME UNPROVEN
THE funeral was over and Bert Glendon was receiving condolences from many men who had been
friends of his uncle Lionel. That some-indeed, most of them-had been real friends, Bert felt no doubt. His
uncle's unfinished message had specified but five false friends, and there were at least two dozen persons
at the funeral.
Sifting the false from among the true was a difficult task. The handshakes that Bert received were warm,
and every spoken word sounded sincere. Though Bert was registering every name and face for future
reference, the task seemed fruitless.
If only the five had stayed away! Then Bert could have checked them by their absence; but they were
too clever to let him do so.
Making subtle inquiries among persons with whom he chatted, Bert learned that all his uncle's old friends
were present. Hence, it was apparent that the swindle clique had turned out in full force. But whoever
they were, they were too clever to reveal a trace. At no moment did Bert see any exchange of glances
among the mourners that might have given him a lead to the men he sought.
One person, however, made a definite impression upon Bert Glendon.
His name was Lamont Cranston, and he was younger than the rest. Bert had heard of Cranston as a
millionaire clubman and friend of the police commissioner. How Cranston had come to know his uncle,
Bert did not inquire. What he did feel was that Cranston was a man who could be trusted.
Tall, calm of manner, and with a face of hawklike mold, Cranston had a way of searching other faces
with a keen, steady gaze. Several times, his eyes met Bert's and caused that young man to feel that
Cranston, too, might have learned that the fortune of Lionel Glendon had dwindled under the wiles of
swindlers.
As Bert left the funeral parlor and stepped out into the bleak afternoon air, he found himself thinking that
if his own investigation should fail, it would be an excellent idea to call on Cranston and ask his advice.
Bert didn't realize that he could ask far more.
It happened that the calm-mannered Mr. Cranston was far more than he appeared to be. In public life,
he posed as a leisurely clubman. Privately, he was The Shadow!
Strange master of darkness who hunted down crime, The Shadow held more than a passing interest in
the sudden death of Lionel Glendon. As Cranston, his acquaintance with old Lionel had been
comparatively slight. He was taking this opportunity to look over some of the dead man's friends and
relatives.
Though Bert didn't know it, he had met The Shadow's test; more than that, Bert had revealed his own
misgivings regarding his uncle's death. It wasn't to be a case of Bert looking up Cranston. Sooner than he
expected, Bert would receive a visit from Cranston in another guise-that of The Shadow.
Meanwhile, Bert's own thoughts were switching to another man-his uncle's attorney, Julius Calden.
Back at the old house, Bert sat at his uncle's desk and went through the contents of the oblong box.
Worthless though they were, those securities, contracts, and promissory notes had once represented a
fortune, regarding which Bert intended to talk to Calden.
Grimly, Bert brought the crumpled message from his pocket and laid it on the desk beside the sheaf of
blank paper that he saw there. Immediately, his chance glance became a stare.
Undoubtedly, Bert's uncle had used a sheet of that batch in writing his message, but the crumpled paper
no longer resembled the rest. The blank sheets had lost their color; they were almost white. What made
the fact apparent to Bert was the yellow tint still visible upon the written sheet that had lain, crumpled, in
his pocket.
TIMOTHY hadn't returned from the funeral, and Bert decided not to wait until the butler arrived. Picking
up a blank sheet, Bert folded it along with the written one and put both in his pocket.
Leaving the house, he took a cab, but instead of going directly to see Calden, he stopped at a laboratory
run by a college friend named Steve Moffatt, who had gone in for chemical engineering.
Bert gave Steve the whitened sheet of paper, then tore a strip from the blank portion of his uncle's note.
He left both for analysis, and Steve promised to have the job done shortly.
From there, Bert went to Calden's. The lawyer was a drab man, but his eyes looked shrewd between
their half-closed lids. Calden seemed to be expecting some sort of outburst, so Bert delivered it.
Dumping the contents of the oblong box, Bert demanded to know why his uncle had kept such worthless
stuff. Calden's first answer was a smile. Then:
"In my opinion," stated Calden, "your uncle intended these documents to represent his visible estate."
"His visible estate?" queried Bert.
"Yes." Calden brought a list from a desk drawer and showed Bert that its items tallied with the contents
of the box. "You see"-those eyes of Calden's were weighing Bert-"your uncle gave heavily to charity, so
he said, but he wanted the gifts to remain anonymous. Naturally, he had to account for his fortune
somehow. So he probably accumulated these worthless items for that purpose."
Neither Calden's explanation nor his shrug satisfied Bert. He began to go over the items in detail,
beginning with the stocks and bonds. Patiently, Calden continued his opinions.
"Aldebaran Mines lost money for everyone," recalled Calden. "The whole property was disposed of for a
song. This stock could have been bought at the price of wallpaper."
"But the mines are making money," returned Bert. "They were absorbed by a larger company. Perhaps
the majority stockholders deliberately ran down the value to freeze out people like my uncle."
Calden shrugged again, pushed the stocks aside. Thumbing through contracts, he pointed out that they
involved the names of corporations, not Lionel Glendon as an individual. When Bert suggested that it
might all be part of a swindle and wanted to know something about the corporations involved, Calden
stated that he had been unable to trace them.
So it went with other securities and contracts, until they came to promissory notes. These were made out
to Lionel Glendon, and all were for large sums. The trouble lay with the makers of the notes. All the men
who had signed them were either dead or, for all Calden knew, nonexistent.
"Your uncle managed his own business affairs," declared Calden, rather testily. "He gave me these
records only recently, so I would have them in case anything happened to the original documents. As
attorney for Lionel Glendon, I find everything quite in order.
"Of course, if you are disappointed"-Calden was rising as he spoke-"that is another matter. I don't blame
you, Bert, for looking forward to a large fortune from your uncle. It simply happened that he preferred to
dispose of his money otherwise. Possibly he felt that it would do more for your character, if your future
depended entirely upon your own efforts."
They were at the door by the time Calden finished, and Bert, aroused now, stopped the lawyer abruptly.
A moment later, Calden was beating a retreat back to his desk, followed by Bert's verbal barrage.
In no uncertain terms, Bert was declaring that he had always been on his own, and always intended to
be. Regard for his uncle was the only motive that actuated him.
"Uncle Lionel was swindled!" stormed Bert. "You ought to know it, Calden, as well as I do. He was
swindled by men who posed as his friends! I can tell you exactly how many of them there were-"
ABRUPTLY, Bert paused. He'd shoved his hand into his pocket, intending to bring out the written sheet
that would prove his declaration; but his hand had found something else. From its feel, Bert could tell that
he was clutching the wadded telegram that bore Calden's own name!
"Take last night, for instance," spoke Bert, in a tone that was steady but sharp. "I was supposed to see
my uncle and discuss these"-he gestured to the contents of the box-"but I arrived too late because of the
telegram I received on the train."
From his chair, Calden looked up, puzzled.
"What telegram?"
"The one that told me to call you," returned Bert. "Or, if I couldn't reach you, to get in touch with Dr.
Bray. I wasted a lot of time phoning, and couldn't get an answer from either of you."
Calden's expression went quite blank.
"I never sent such a telegram," he declared. "Did Bray?"
Bert caught back the answer that was coming to his lips. He was going to say that the telegram bore
Calden's name, but he realized that neither the statement nor the telegram itself would prove the point.
Anyone could have sent that wire, using Calden's name. The lawyer could fall back on that argument, if
he wished. Bert decided that it would be better to let Calden say more. Calden did.
"Your uncle might have wired you," remarked Calden. Then, with a headshake, he added: "No. Lionel
knew that I was out of town. He also knew that Bray was making his usual calls, and that the first place
he could be reached would be at your uncle's own house."
From a reflective mood, Calden suddenly displayed his sharpness, with its accompanying narrow stare.
"I'd like to see that telegram," he said. His eyes went toward Bert's pocketed hand. "Do you have it with
you?"
Bert pulled his hand from his pocket, empty.
"I'll produce it if necessary," he snapped. "Meanwhile, if you aren't interested in uncovering the crooks
who posed as my uncle's friends, I'll do it my own way!"
With that, Bert gathered the worthless bonds and documents and put them all in the box. Snapping the lid
shut, he stalked out, not bothering to say good-by to Calden.
The lawyer rose and went through the outer office. Peering through a crack of the door, he watched until
he saw Bert enter an elevator.
Then, turning to his secretary, Calden gestured toward the telephone and ordered:
"Get me Dr. Bray."
On the way back to Steve's, Bert kept mulling over the Calden situation and wondering just how the
lawyer stood. He was glad that he hadn't revealed his full hand to Calden, and he decided to adhere to
the same policy with Bray.
Even though he hadn't stayed around to learn that Calden was phoning Bray, Bert linked the lawyer with
the physician. Whether they had been his uncle's friends or enemies, Bert wasn't sure.
Bert's real jolt came when he reached Steve Moffatt's laboratory. His friend had much to say regarding
the analysis.
"VERY odd, this paper," declared Steve. "If you'd only brought me the one sheet, I'd have said it wasn't
unusual. Some mighty odious poisons can be used in the chemical treatment of writing paper, so it isn't
surprising to find faint traces of them. But that torn strip-" Steve shook his head. "You're sure it belonged
to the same batch?"
Bert nodded emphatically.
"I'd say that it was heavily dosed then," asserted Steve, "though it would be impossible to prove it. The
amount of gas emitted when the paper was fully exposed to air might have been enough to kill a fly. No
more."
"But suppose a whole batch of that paper had been heavily saturated! What then, Steve?"
"If it had been kept in a closed space," replied Steve, "I wouldn't have wanted to whiff it when it was
opened. You understand, of course, I'm speaking of a maximum saturation."
"You mean it would be deadly?"
"It wouldn't prove good for a man with a weak heart," returned Steve. "He'd take a few long breaths,
and fold. It wouldn't show much trace, if any, in his lungs, the stuff dispels so rapidly in air. That's why it's
no good as a poison gas. There are a lot of very dangerous compounds that are overlooked because
they seldom function as they might. Potentially, though, under certain conditions-"
Steve halted because he saw that Bert, though nodding, was not listening any more. Unaware that Bert
was investigating his uncle's death, Steve simply thought that his friend had fancied himself on the verge of
an important discovery that hadn't panned out.
Nor did Bert give away his real thoughts to Steve. He didn't want his friend involved in a case that could
not be definitely proven. This was Bert's own problem.
Leaving the laboratory, he stepped out into the dusk, a surge of grim thoughts rushing through his mind.
To his own satisfaction, Bert Glendon had proven that among five men who had swindled his uncle, there
was one who had topped earlier crime with murder.
First, Bert intended to find the five. Then, in dealing with them as they deserved, he hoped to pick out
one whose case demanded further settlement.
Though Bert Glendon did not know it, his cause was the sort that might lead him to disaster, unless he
enlisted the aid of a powerful personage known as The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. FOES IN THE DARK
GLOOM lay thick about the old Glendon mansion when Bert arrived there. Only a few lights were
burning in the house, which meant that Timothy might have come and gone. Bert's mind was burning, too,
with recollections of the facts that he had recently learned, but sight of the old house brought him back to
his more sober senses.
There might be danger lurking here. Not that Bert feared it; contrarily, he would welcome it. Anything,
wherein the hidden opposition would show its vicious hand, would serve as real relief to Bert Glendon.
But he didn't want to place himself in a position where the hand could strike as subtly and effectively as it
had in his uncle's case.
If it did, there would be no one to avenge the evil done to Lionel Glendon. Calden and Bray did not
count; Bert was ready to class them as belonging to the opposition. If anything happened to Bert, there
would be no one except old Timothy-who, in Bert's opinion, was too decrepit to be of any value.
That was why Bert sidled across the street and paused, to stare suspiciously at every streak of darkness.
One patch captured his strained attention, for when Bert noticed it, against the house wall near the
brownstone steps, it looked like a silhouetted profile.
As Bert stared, it faded in a fashion which gripped him more. Quickly, he looked for a human shape that
might have etched that profile; then, seeing none, he went up the steps, looking back over his shoulder.
Bert was looking over the wrong shoulder.
There was a shape, a living one, in the gloom that fronted the old mansion. But the same street lamp that
had revealed its trace against the wall, created an illusion that tricked Bert's observation. Much as a
mirror reflects in reverse, so did the lamplight function.
Gone in the opposite direction was the figure that Bert failed to see-the form of a black-cloaked being,
whose head was topped by a slouch hat. Briefly visible were burning eyes, that caught the glow, then lost
themselves in deeper darkness. They were the eyes of The Shadow.
Unseen, like their cloaked owner, those eyes watched Bert enter the old house. Then, avoiding the
revealing stretch of wall, The Shadow advanced anew. Like blackish smoke, he ascended the steps, to
pause and work upon the door that Bert had latched behind him.
A few minutes of silent effort with a tiny picklike instrument and The Shadow would likewise be within
the mansion. He hoped, by proper observation, to trace all that Bert had learned-and more-regarding the
sudden death of Lionel Glendon.
Those minutes of delay were proving costly to The Shadow. Inside the house, Bert was moving stealthily,
as though the place did not belong to him. He couldn't quite manage to avoid creaking the floor boards,
but he minimized them as he entered the little parlor.
Stopping at the desk, Bert decided not to turn on the lamp. Instead, he groped for the loose, blank
papers that had been upon the desk.
Bert's hands finished a futile search. The incriminating sheets were gone.
With forced breath, Bert set down the box he was carrying under his arm. He swung about, fancying that
someone was in the darkness near him. A short laugh escaped his lips when he decided that his
imagination was tricking him again.
The laugh proved otherwise.
It was like an awaited signal. A hand moved across the desk and pressed the lamp switch. Bert wheeled,
to find himself in the glow confronted by the long barrel of a revolver. Then, as the old-fashioned weapon
thrust forward, guided by the firm hand that controlled it, Bert saw a face above.
The face of Timothy.
BERT'S expression went bitter. He'd played the fool in trusting Timothy. Suspicion of Calden and Bray
had clouded Bert's brain. He hadn't realized that a murderer could have chosen a better accomplice than
either the family lawyer or physician. Here, Bert saw-or thought he saw-the living proof of double-dyed
treachery.
Then Timothy spoke, crisply, as he stretched out another hand that was quite as firm as the one that
clutched the gun. Timothy's order was:
"Give me the message that Mr. Glendon wrote."
Bert thrust his hand into his pocket. He tried to fake a gun move of his own, but Timothy seemed to
guess that. Bert wasn't carrying a revolver. Dejectedly, Bert brought out the crumpled sheet and flung it
on the desk.
Picking it up, Timothy brought it over to his gun hand and used both to unfold it, without letting the
revolver relax in its aim.
摘要：

TRAILOFVENGEANCEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ATRAILDISCOVERED?CHAPTERII.CRIMEUNPROVEN?CHAPTERIII.FOESINTHEDARK?CHAPTERIV.BATTLE'SCLIMAX?CHAPTERV.SMOOTHRETRIBUTION?CHAPTERVI.THESECONDGOAL?CHAPTERVII.THEGAMEREVERSED?CHAPTERVIII.THRUSTSINTHEDARK?CH...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：75 页 大小：190.06KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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