Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 256 - Clue for Clue

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CLUE FOR CLUE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE DUTCH ROOM
? CHAPTER II. FIGHTERS FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. CRIME'S LONE TROPHY
? CHAPTER IV. CLUES FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER V. FACTS OF CRIME
? CHAPTER VI. LINKED TRAILS
? CHAPTER VII. CLUES EXCHANGED
? CHAPTER VIII. ROAD TO DEATH
? CHAPTER IX. A QUESTION OF MURDER
? CHAPTER X. THREE MEN MISSING
? CHAPTER XI. CRIME DENIED
? CHAPTER XII. THE CLUES GATHER
? CHAPTER XIII. WANTED: A SHOWDOWN
? CHAPTER XIV. THE WRONG APPOINTMENT
? CHAPTER XV. THE WAY OUT
? CHAPTER XVI. TROUBLE BRINGS TROUBLE
? CHAPTER XVII. METHODS REVERSED
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE THREE-WAY DEAL
? CHAPTER XIX. DEATH'S DOUBLE HAND
? CHAPTER XX. THE PRIZE REGAINED
? CHAPTER XXI. CRIME'S GRAND TOTAL
? CHAPTER XXII. PARTNERS IN DEATH
CHAPTER I. THE DUTCH ROOM
TALBOT BRANFORD unlocked the door of the Dutch Room, gave a short bow and a dour smile as
he spoke in a tone that was blunt, if not curt:
"There you are, ladies and gentlemen—the cherished treasures of my esteemed friend Wadden van
Zuyder."
This wasn't the first time that Lamont Cranston had seen the Dutch Room, the strongly locked and
heavily shuttered apartment on the second floor of Branford's brownstone home. Nor was it a novelty to
Glenn Owen, the New York diamond merchant who was a mutual friend of both Branford and Van
Zuyder.
Cranston simply glanced about with the calm air of an appraiser checking on items that he had noted
before. Owen remained in the doorway, rather annoyed that Branford had taken time to give this preview
of the Dutch Room.
Of course, Margo Lane was thrilled. With Cranston, she'd arrived among the early guests, but hadn't
expected to view the Dutch Room until much later. Here it was, the room that the newspapers had
mentioned without adequate description, its contents the household effects of Wadden van Zuyder, the
Dutch diamond king.
The place was like a curio shop, or perhaps an art gallery in miniature, for in it Branford had set up
everything that Van Zuyder had shipped to him on one of the last boats from Holland. Foreseeing
invasion, the wealthy Mynheer had decided that his personal treasures would be safer in New York than
in Amsterdam, but, unfortunately, Van Zuyder hadn't accompanied his collection to America.
Heavy furniture crowded the room, but that wasn't what attracted the eye. More important were the rare
paintings on the wall, unquestioned specimens of Flemish art. There were mosaics which Branford stated
had once been tops of tables, though they now stood upright in corners of the room.
On a mantel was a clock, its dial circled by a ring of genuine diamonds; on each side of it were statuettes
of gold, inlaid with gems. In a closet, Branford displayed some rare specimens of kitchenware which
included a row of Dutch cheeses that were works of art in themselves, their surfaces hand-decorated
with the appearance of ornamental porcelain.
The reason why Branford was giving this preview was because he wanted to get rid of a nuisance named
Clyde Burke, a reporter for the New York Classic. Having learned that Branford intended to unveil the
Dutch Room to his guests, Clyde had come to the party uninvited.
It seemed better to let him have his exclusive story and go his way, so Branford was doing just that. And
while Clyde listed the various Van Zuyder treasures, Branford kept reminding him that under no
circumstances could the room be photographed.
"These are Van Zuyder's personal belongings," asserted Branford testily. "They were listed when they
passed the customs, so I see no reason why they should not be listed again. But photographs"—
Branford shook his head emphatically—"no!"
Clyde took it with a shrug. He simply asked how much the Van Zuyder effects were worth. Branford
replied that he had no idea. Van Zuyder's American funds, totaling several million dollars, had been
frozen when the Germans invaded Holland. The United States government was allowing a time limit for
Van Zuyder to arrive and declare the value of his property.
"Then the full duty will be paid," assured Branford. "Until Van Zuyder appears, a complete appraisal is
impossible. Take this portmanteau as an example."
He was talking less reluctantly, was Branford. Elderly but spry, he hopped to a corner of the room and
turned in birdlike fashion, a pleased expression on his thin, withery face. The portmanteau proved to be
an object the size of a small suitcase, about two feet long, a foot wide and six inches in depth. It was
made of mahogany decorated with a pattern of bold strips that crisscrossed it in bands.
First, Branford called attention to the goldwork, which he termed a "filigree" since the bands were
ornamented with little knobs and indentations, alternately arranged. Next, Branford opened the
portmanteau, hinging one section flat beside the other. But it didn't open on a straight line, like a suitcase;
instead, the division was a slant, so that the portmanteau, fully extended, had a level bottom but an angled
top.
"An antique writing desk," Branford explained. "Perhaps once the property of a Dutch ruler, such as
William of Orange. Notice how its surface forms an angle, like a writing table. Two surfaces joined into
one, with pigeonholes beneath."
He lifted the top of the nearer half; beneath it were partitioned sectors, some large enough for writing
paper and envelopes, others smaller, as though designed to contain pens and inkwells. Replacing that
slab, Branford lifted the top of the other half. There he showed square partitions that were repositories
for letters and other documents.
"Could you place a value on this antique?" chirped Branford. "Frankly, I cannot until I know its history.
Nevertheless"—his eyes lighted as he stroked back his thin gray hair—"I should appraise it at a thousand
dollars or more, merely because Van Zuyder valued it. Wadden is a man who knows values."
Glenn Owen put in an interruption from the doorway. He was an emphatic chap, Owen, tall, heavy of
build, with blunt face and manner. When he became restless, he always interrupted people.
"Yes, Van Zuyder knew values," expressed Owen, "particularly in diamonds. And speaking of diamonds,
Branford, you promised to look over those I brought from my store."
Nodding, Branford closed the portmanteau and fastened the old-fashioned clamp that held its portions.
Clyde reached forward and lifted the portmanteau, finding it fairly light, not more than a dozen pounds in
weight. Whereat, Branford smiled.
"Even in the old days, excess weight was inconvenient," explained Branford. "I suppose passengers had
as much trouble with stagecoach luggage as they do today when traveling by airplane. Of course, the
weight of the portmanteau would vary, according to its contents. But come along; I have shown you the
Dutch Room, so you should be satisfied."
BRANFORD locked the Dutch Room and dropped his keys into a pocket of his smoking jacket. Still,
Clyde wasn't satisfied, for he caught a glance from Cranston, which ordered him to learn more.
It happened that Lamont Cranston was also a personage known as The Shadow, and that Clyde Burke
was one of his agents. As The Shadow, Cranston was specially interested in the Van Zuyder collection.
They went to Branford's living room, where Owen opened a display box to show the diamonds he had
brought. Again Margo was intrigued, this time by the dazzle of rings and necklaces that rated high in
value. But Branford, a connoisseur of diamonds, simply shook his head.
"Not interested, Owen," he declared. "Your diamonds have glitter, but they lack quality."
"You can blame Van Zuyder for that," returned Owen. "If he had only sent that final shipment of un-cuts,
I'd have just the stock to please my clients."
"Without a doubt," agreed Branford, "considering that so many expert cutters have migrated here from
Amsterdam. But don't worry; Van Zuyder will show up."
"With his diamonds, I hope," responded Owen. "Or maybe the diamonds will show up from
somewhere."
With that, Owen closed his display box. Branford drew his ring of keys from his pocket and announced
that he'd show Owen out the back way. A usual custom, since it made Owen appear to be an ordinary
tradesman, rather than a diamond merchant toting a large supply of valuable wares.
"I won't say good-by," stated Owen, turning to the others, "because I'm coming back to the party. I don't
think I shall be very late, considering that most of the guests have not yet arrived."
The moment that Branford left with Owen, things moved like clockwork. Cranston told both Clyde and
Margo exactly what they were to do. Clyde was to stroll after Branford, to meet him when he returned
from the back door; then ask him some more questions. Margo was to remain in the living room and if
Branford appeared there, she was to tell him that Cranston had gone to meet his friend the police
commissioner, who was coming to the party.
With that, Cranston strolled out from the living room and down the grand stairway that led to the front
door of Branford's brownstone home.
In his turn, Clyde reached the rear hall to see Branford unlocking the door to the servant's stairway which
Owen was to use. He heard Branford tell Owen to close the door tightly, so that it would latch. Then
Branford had turned and was coming along the hall, to stop suspiciously when he saw Clyde. Branford's
tone was querulous:
"Well, Burke—what now?"
"You mentioned the history of Van Zuyder's collection," replied Clyde, "but you weren't very specific. If
you could tell me more, Mr. Branford -"
Interrupting with a gesture, Branford led Clyde frontward past the locked Dutch Room and into a study.
There, Branford hung his smoking jacket on a chair, put on a stiff collar and black necktie, and brought a
tuxedo coat from the closet. All the while, he was discoursing on Van Zuyder's possessions, but only
from recollections of conversations with their owner.
As he smoothed his tuxedo coat, he took Clyde by the arm and eased him out through another door,
then across a hallway to the living room, where they found Margo alone.
"And now, Burke," finished Branford with a bland smile, "I have told you all I know. You have your
story, so good afternoon."
Branford pressed a button, and a servant appeared from the front stairs. Branford told him to usher
Clyde out; when that was done, the gray-haired man turned to Margo and asked where Cranston had
gone. When Margo said that Lamont was meeting the police commissioner, Branford's smile widened.
"It is really ludicrous," declared Branford. "The police commissioner is coming here because he thinks the
Van Zuyder collection is in danger. Such is the way of the police: when something is publicized, they
become alert. But who would want to steal paintings, mosaics"—Branford's tone became a laugh—"or
inlaid Dutch cheeses? No one with any sense!"
Margo reminded Branford about the jeweled clock. At that, his expression sobered.
"That is a point," he admitted. "Still, no one will know about the clock until Burke's story appears in print.
But I still believe, Miss Lane, that if criminals really wanted a target, they would choose a man like Owen,
a recognized diamond merchant, rather than someone like myself who happens to be custodian of a
collection which has not yet been properly valued."
"And now"—hands in the pockets of his tuxedo coat, Branford bowed - "you will excuse me for a few
minutes, while I return to my study."
ALONE, Margo Lane glanced from the rear window of Branford's living room. Below she saw a lovely
garden with marble benches, a fountain playing in the center. Tempted by the sight, Margo stepped to the
balcony that overlooked it.
Though small, the garden was a rare thing for Manhattan, and Margo regretted that its array of trees
should be limited by a high wall connecting with the rear of the house.
Then her mind came back to more pressing circumstances as she realized that somewhere beyond that
wall, Owen was leaving amid the gathering dusk with his valuable cargo of diamonds. At least, it wasn't
fully dusk just yet, hence Owen would be safe.
But afterward—what? There was only one answer. With dark, crime would be due in Branford's own
home. Crime, with the Dutch Room as its target, despite Branford's belief that Van Zuyder's treasures
were secure. For the preview that Clyde Burke had wangled was but part of a strategic scheme designed
by The Shadow to offset danger ahead.
Whenever crime was due, The Shadow was the first to know it, and likewise the first and foremost in the
business of proving that crime could not pay!
CHAPTER II. FIGHTERS FROM THE DARK
LAMONT CRANSTON hadn't gone outdoors to see if his friend the police commissioner had arrived.
He knew that Ralph Weston, the commissioner in question, was quite capable of finding Branford's
house. What Cranston wanted was a personal preview of the outside scene, to counterbalance his look
into the Dutch Room.
As yet, crooks weren't on hand. They would be soon, for The Shadow's secret agents in the underworld
had reported that tonight certain unworthies intended to raid Branford's home. Those crooks were under
the leadership of Rupe Bonsal, a racketeer who had been living on the profits of his former glory ever
since the police had clamped down on his special fields of enterprise.
Rupe's come-back was overdue. Yet, it wasn't quite dark enough for Rupe and his men to be gathering
outside of Branford's, the place where The Shadow knew he could expect them. But there was
something else that concerned The Shadow, as he strolled down Branford's steps in the leisurely style of
Cranston. He was thinking of Glenn Owen and the latter's diamonds. Maybe Rupe had gotten wind of
those, too.
If so, Rupe would be disappointed, since Branford wasn't keeping the diamonds over night. But it might
be that some lookout, employed by Rupe, was at present on the back street where he might chance to
see Owen's departure with the display box.
Therefore it behooved The Shadow to make a tour around the block and see how matters stood. For
that purpose, The Shadow, still in Cranston's style, beckoned to a cab across the way.
The cab was piloted by Moe Shrevnitz, one of The Shadow's agents. All that Cranston had to do was
enter the cab and ride around the block. But before he could step into the taxi, a big, official car pulled
up behind it and a booming voice called for Cranston to wait. It was Commissioner Weston, actually
arriving early.
Rapidly, The Shadow detailed Moe to the inspection tour, telling him briefly what to do. Then, as he
turned to greet the police commissioner, he saw Clyde Burke coming from Branford's front door. With a
casual Cranston gesture, The Shadow signaled Moe to wait. With Clyde as a passenger, the inspection
trip would be more efficient.
Seeing the cab and catching Cranston's nod, Clyde stepped toward the cab, only to be halted by
Commissioner Weston, who inquired brusquely why the reporter was here. Clyde said he'd come to see
the Dutch Room.
"What's more," added Clyde, "Branford showed it to me. Here's a list of things I saw"—he wagged his
notebook—"and they were enough to make a good story. But I'm not staying for the party. Branford just
gave me the bum's rush in a polite sort of way. I may be a veteran reporter, but I can still take a hint."
Weston and Cranston were both entering Branford's front door when the cab pulled away. Around the
block, Moe eased the cab to minimum speed, and they were just taking the corner to the back street
when a car pulled away. Moe was about to gun the cab, but Clyde stopped him.
"That's Owen's coupe," informed the reporter. "He's not starting in a hurry, so he's safe so far. Take it
easy, Shrevvy, and let's see if anybody tags him."
Moe stopped the cab in a gloomy spot where great shade trees towered above the high back wall of
Branford's property. They saw Owen's car negotiate the next corner in normal style, and Clyde even
identified Owen as the driver, thanks to the brilliant lights of a corner drugstore.
But there wasn't a ripple anywhere along the street. There were only a few parked cars, all empty. When
Moe and Clyde peered at doorways and other crannies, they didn't see a single face poke into sight. All
was still clear in Branford's neighborhood.
Taking Clyde to the Classic office, Moe detoured past Owen's jewelry store near Fifth Avenue. They
saw the coupe parked in an alley between the store and an old theater.
There were lights in the store, indicating that Owen had arrived quite safely, but Moe didn't take that for
granted.
On the way back from the Classic, he pulled up near the store and was on watch when Owen came out,
wearing a tuxedo.
Seeing a handy cab, Owen decided to use it instead of his coupe, since the street in front of Branford's
would be crowded with the cars of party guests. So Moe completed his routine duty by actually bringing
Owen back to the bailiwick safeguarded by The Shadow!
FROM a darkened front window on Branford's ground floor, The Shadow watched Owen's arrival in
Moe's cab. No longer was The Shadow guised as Cranston; instead, he was garbed entirely in black.
At least a dozen guests had arrived and it was easy to stroll away from them unnoticed. Downstairs, The
Shadow had claimed a slouch hat and black cloak that he'd placed in this room when he first arrived.
Now, fully equipped for heavy duty, he awaited crime's advent.
It would come soon. When Owen stepped from the cab and ascended the brownstone steps, there was
a stir between cars across the street. Rupe Bonsal and his pack had arrived and were on the lurk.
Spotting Owen for the first time, they were preparing for their raid, which fitted The Shadow's theory that
crooks knew of the diamonds brought here earlier by Owen.
Naturally, they'd want such merchandise as a bonus with the trophies from the Dutch Room. Not having
seen Owen's previous departure, they'd suppose his diamonds still were here. They might even think he'd
come for the gems, hence their urge for action. Rupe Bonsal was too efficient to waste time with two
robberies—inside and outside the mansion—when one job would suffice!
Since Owen was entering empty-handed, there was no need for The Shadow to convoy his trip up the
brownstone steps. Gliding from the front room, the black-cloaked guardian was past the grand stairway
when a servant admitted Owen by the front door.
Reaching a back stairway, The Shadow ascended it rapidly and stopped at the door that Owen had
latched when he made his previous departure. Here was a narrow window from which The Shadow
could see the full courtyard and the high back wall. No sign of crooks there, except for the top of a truck
parked just beyond the wall.
The Shadow gave a low laugh in the darkness.
In through the front, out by the back, such would be Rupe's system. But The Shadow didn't intend that
crime should even reach that stage. After trying the door at the head of the stairs to make sure it was
properly latched, The Shadow went down to the ground floor, arriving almost in answer to a brisk ring at
the front door.
Shrouded in darkness by the stairway, The Shadow was aiming a brace of .45 automatics when a
servant opened the front door, expecting more guests. If those "guests" had shown their fangs at that
moment, they'd have received a roaring welcome from The Shadow.
But these incomers, Rupe Bonsal and his cronies, dressed in tuxedos and wearing handkerchief masks,
didn't get too tough with the servant. Instead, they merely nudged him with their guns, telling him to lead
the way upstairs and formally introduce them.
Ghostly was the shape that glided up the grand stairway behind the masked thugs, keeping to the shaded
sector of its curve. The looks that Rupe's men darted across their shoulders gave them no token of The
Shadow's presence immediately behind them. In effect, he was living up to his reputed power of
invisibility.
It was at the stair top that Rupe Bonsal gave his first display of roughness, but only in brief fashion. A
harsh snarl came through his mask, a tone that befitted Rupe's ugly glare and chunky build.
Simultaneously he shoved the servant to a corner of the hall, telling him to "stay put" where he landed.
Gun ahead of him, Rupe reached the curtained entrance to Branford's living room and beckoned for his
men to cluster behind him, which they did.
Branford had just finished introducing Owen to the guests. There was a jangle as Branford drew his
batch of keys from his tuxedo pocket and announced that he was going to show his guests the Dutch
Room. Branford turned to the doorway leading into the rear hall, and the guests crowded eagerly after
him.
Rupe's men shoved forward, too, but their leader restrained them as he saw Branford pause.
"Don't crowd!" exclaimed Branford. "Please allow me time to unlock the room. Suppose you wait here,
Owen, and usher the guests through a few at a time? If there are too many, I shall call to you, so others
can wait until the first have had their turn."
Owen nodded and took his place in the rear doorway. Weston was standing near him, planning to be
one of the first who would see the famed Dutch Room. Again, Rupe's men pressed forward, this time to
hear their leader undertone:
"Wait, you lugs! Give Branford time to get the joint unlocked. It's going to be easier that way. Only we're
not letting anybody else start through that hall. We'll handle them all right here—and now!"
RUPE'S final word came as Branford called from the distant door of the Dutch Room, telling Owen he
could send the first guests through. Before Owen could even beckon to the nearest persons, all attention
was swung the other way. And with good reason—for Rupe Bonsal was the man who demanded it!
Shoving past the curtains, Rupe grated a command for people to put up their hands. He punctuated that
order with a gesture of his gun. Behind Rupe, three other weapons poked in from the doorway as an
added threat. As a criminal, Rupe was something of a showman, so he stepped aside to let his victims
see what they were up against.
They saw.
Bristling revolvers, masked faces above them, not only added to the impetus of rising hands. They made
people cower. Owen was half backed through the door to the hallway, from which Branford's voice was
coming impatiently. Weston was edging in that same direction, anxious to spring for shelter, yet
wondering if he had a right to desert the other guests.
In a corner near the balcony, Margo was giving hopeful looks toward the open window. She doubted
that she could reach it, but she had an idea that The Shadow might arrive from there.
The other guests were shrinking as best they could, while Rupe Bonsal scoffed at their qualms. This was
crime the way he liked it, a situation wherein he could stand back and let his men take over.
Contemptuously, Rupe lowered his own gun and beckoned to his men, as he sneered:
"All right, boys. Herd these goats for me -"
Rupe paused, squinting above the top of his handkerchief. There wasn't a move from any of his men.
They were frozen, their own guns lowering, as though actuated by a hidden force. Their eyes, peering
above masks like Rupe's, looked beady, frightened. A scared trio, against a background of blackness,
with no explanation for their behavior, until Rupe saw the blackness swirl.
It was living blackness, nudging in among those gunners, giving them the whispered word that any action
on their part would be their last in life!
What Rupe's eyes saw, his ears corroborated. No longer did The Shadow require invisibility, or silence.
This was the timely moment when a proclamation of his presence would make full flood of the tide that he
had turned.
Strange, weird was the laugh The Shadow uttered. More than a challenge, it was filled with triumph.
Voiced by hidden lips, it seemed to come from the very thugs who were trembling, cowed, under The
Shadow's sole control.
Master of justice, The Shadow had stemmed this crime at its very outset. All that remained was to clinch
the victory by sharp, direct action in which others could play a helpful part. A simple task for The
Shadow!
Yet, even with the triumph of justice assured, crime was to score an unexpected point—a thing The
Shadow was to learn!
CHAPTER III. CRIME'S LONE TROPHY
IT was Rupe Bonsal who began the trouble, though he behaved in accepted style. Savagely, Rupe flung
himself at the curtained doorway, howling for his men to grab The Shadow at any cost, which they tried
to do, much to their cloaked foe's enjoyment.
Sledging hard as dazed crooks tried to stab their guns at him, The Shadow sent them reeling, sprawling
into Rupe's path, their guns popping harmlessly. Tripping over his own tribe, Rupe fired two shots
himself, so wide that they completely missed the doorway.
Already living blackness was slicing from between a curtain and the side of the broad doorway. It was
past the tumbled thugs who were rising shakily to copy Rupe's mistaken aim. The only persons who saw
The Shadow perform his swift circuit to the center of the living room were Commissioner Weston and the
other guests.
The Shadow wanted them to take over, so that he could handle matters elsewhere. Take over they did.
The Shadow prepared it by scattering masked crooks with cyclonic fury, cudgeling them anew, this time
including Rupe in the festivities. Weston and the bolder guests piled upon the hapless thugs, snatching
their guns away from them.
Finishing his whirl, The Shadow saw that control was under way, so he continued his spin out through the
doorway. Those in the living room heard his laugh rise in new challenge.
The Shadow was at the stair top greeting Rupe's reserves, who had dashed in from the street when they
heard the gunfire. These gunners weren't wearing tuxedoes; they were roughly clad and unhampered by
masks. But The Shadow outgunned them when they aimed up the stairway in answer to his challenge.
They couldn't see their cloaked foe; all they witnessed were the tongued flames of big automatics that
bulleted the foremost crooks and staggered them back against the rest. The Shadow was turning that
charge into an utter rout, except for a few marksmen who were aiming long range from the front
doorway.
Those gunners had a bead on The Shadow—or did have, until they were suddenly slugged from the rear.
As crooks caved, their guns unfired, The Shadow delivered an approving laugh. It was meant for the
sluggers who supplied that timely aid: Cliff Marsland and his side-kick, Hawkeye, The Shadow's agents
who patrolled the underworld. They'd done more than report Rupe's planned invasion of Branford's
premises; they'd come along, Cliff and Hawkeye, to help The Shadow thin out human weeds.
And then, with triumph signed, sealed and delivered, came sudden, unexpected tragedy!
It started in the living room, where Weston and the guests were mopping up Rupe's shock force. But
Rupe Bonsal wasn't giving in so readily. He'd lost his revolver, his mask had settled to his neck, and he
was wrenching free from gripping hands, when he came face to face with Commissioner Weston. In that
glance, the crook saw a stubby revolver in the Commissioner's fist, so Rupe made a grab for it.
As the pair reeled, struggling for the gun, they neared the door to the rear hall, where Glenn Owen was
trying to press back the more excited guests so that he could take a hand in battle.
Sight of Rupe coming their way, with a gun almost in his clutch, was too much for the frightened guests.
They piled for the hallway door, flinging Owen ahead of them, a few spilling headlong after him. The
reason the rest didn't go through was because they clogged the narrow doorway.
There was a shout from Talbot Branford, who was coming from the Dutch Room brandishing an
old-fashioned pistol that he'd found among Van Zuyder's effects and had hurriedly loaded. The door of
the Dutch Room was open, Branford's keys dangling in its lock.
For a moment, Branford was in the light that issued from that doorway. An instant later, he was dashing
into the gloomier section of the hallway.
At that moment, Rupe Bonsal, clutched by a new array of hands, gave an incoherent call. In response, a
gun ripped from somewhere in the rear hallway. Twice that gun spoke, its target Talbot Branford. With a
shrill, birdlike shriek, the custodian of the Van Zuyder treasures twirled and plummeted to the floor near
the door of the Dutch Room.
Branford's antique pistol thudded to the floor before he sprawled. His twist was like a final effort to
continue duty, for his empty hands made a feeble claw for the open door and the keys he couldn't reach.
Finishing that futile clutch Branford's hands stiffened and were still.
BY then, The Shadow was back at the door of the living room. He'd broken the attack from the front
stairway and the muffled shots, coupled with Branford's shriek, told him of trouble elsewhere. Seeing that
the living room was blocked, The Shadow decided to take the roundabout route that led past Branford's
study. Commissioner Weston managed to reach the rear hall ahead of The Shadow. Blundering through
the blockade, Weston stumbled over a pair of guests and reached Owen, who was on hands and knees
scrambling for the antique gun that Branford had dropped. Grabbing that weapon, Owen didn't waste
time to point the direction that Branford's murderer had taken.
Owen aimed the antique gun instead, at the same time panting to Weston:
"He went that way... the killer... through the door to the back stairs -"
The rest was drowned by the blast of the ancient pistol, which Owen fired rather than waste further time
in words. The single shot from the gun jarred the door and split its woodwork, but there was no telling
whether it had reached a man beyond.
So Weston brushed Owen aside and dashed for the door in question. Ripping it open, he saw the back
stairs and heard a clatter from below, but it wasn't the murderer who provided the commotion.
Rupe's reserves, thwarted in their attack on the front stairway, had cut through the ground floor and were
starting up by the back route, not only intent upon reaching the Dutch Room, but by their very action
screening the flight of Branford's murderer if he had chosen to continue out through the back door!
On his feet, wagging the antique pistol that had spent all with its one shot, Owen was about to go to
Weston's aid, when The Shadow arrived. Grabbing Owen, the cloaked fighter whirled him back from
foolhardy endeavor and sent him through the door into the living room, where he could be more useful in
helping to suppress the last efforts of Rupe Bonsal. By then, Weston was on his way back, knowing that
he couldn't stand off Rupe's reserves single-handed. Side-stepping into the doorway of the Dutch Room,
The Shadow let Weston go by. Reaching the living room, the commissioner saw Rupe's last stand. Free,
but gunless, Rupe was grabbing for a revolver that one of this captured crowd had lost. Owen was
springing for him, slugging hard with the antique pistol.
Warding off the swing, Rupe snatched for the cumbersome pistol and Owen let him grab it. Smart work
on Owen's part, for it enabled him to snatch up the very revolver that Rupe wanted. Rupe was charging
in to bash Owen with the improvised bludgeon, when Weston jabbed shots at the murderous crook.
Timely shots in behalf of Owen, but they weren't necessary, for at that moment Owen came up with the
revolver he'd picked from the floor and gave Rupe a close-range blast.
Whipped by the two-way gunfire, Rupe wavered crazily and side-slipped to the floor, a death rattle
coming from his snarly lips. Then Weston was bawling for Owen and others to help him stave off the
attack from the back stairs.
They started in that direction—too late.
Not too late to halt crime's final thrust; simply too late to have a hand in stopping it. Already guns were
jabbing toward the rear of the hallway, accompanied by the mocking laugh of the cloaked marksman -
The Shadow!
Out of the Dutch Room, The Shadow was weaving toward the back stairs, his automatics spurting ahead
of him. Crooks broke and fled for the floor below, The Shadow hard upon their trail. More shots echoed
摘要：

CLUEFORCLUEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEDUTCHROOM?CHAPTERII.FIGHTERSFROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.CRIME'SLONETROPHY?CHAPTERIV.CLUESFROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERV.FACTSOFCRIME?CHAPTERVI.LINKEDTRAILS?CHAPTERVII.CLUESEXCHANGED?CHAPTERVIII.ROADTODEATH?CHAPTERIX.A...

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