Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 237 - Alibi Trail

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ALIBI TRAIL
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE M.S.A.
? CHAPTER II. MURDER DISCOVERED
? CHAPTER III. FIND THE MURDERER
? CHAPTER IV. LINKS TO CRIME
? CHAPTER V. CRIME'S INTERLUDE
? CHAPTER VI. THE SECOND VICTIM
? CHAPTER VII. DARK BRINGS ITS TRAIL
? CHAPTER VIII. ROUNDABOUT TRAIL
? CHAPTER IX. HUMAN CARGO
? CHAPTER X. ALONG THE HIGHWAY
? CHAPTER XI. FRIENDS OF THE ROAD
? CHAPTER XII. RETURN FROM OBLIVION
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S TEST
? CHAPTER XIV. ACCEPTED CHALLENGE
? CHAPTER XV. PRELUDE TO MURDER
? CHAPTER XVI. THE UNSEEN GUEST
? CHAPTER XVII. THE DOUBLE TRAIL
? CHAPTER XVIII. WHERE CRIME FAILED
? CHAPTER XIX. THE LAST CHAPTER
CHAPTER I. THE M.S.A.
Six o'clock was a quiet hour in the cafe lounge of the Hotel Metrolite. Most of the afternoon customers
had gone by that time, while those who came for dinner considered it fashionable to arrive later than six.
Hence, Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane had the cafe lounge almost to themselves, as they sat at a
table near the front window watching the cars that stopped in front of the hotel.
The drizzly day had brought an early dusk. Traffic was jammed along the avenue, in keeping with New
York tradition. Every now and then, a cab would pull out from the jumble, stop at the lighted front of the
Hotel Metrolite and drop a passenger. Such were the people that Cranston and Margo were watching.
Cranston had recognized the last four. All were drab-faced businessmen, of somewhat portly bearing:
members of the Manufacturers Security Association, which was to hold a six-o'clock meeting at the
Metrolite.
Glancing at Cranston, Margo smiled. She was contrasting his firm, hawkish features with the flabby,
heavy-fowled faces of the men from the cabs. She was considering, too, how Cranston's lithe, athletic
build differed from the heavy, lumbering figures of the others.
"Your playmates have arrived," bantered Margo. "Why don't you go up to the meeting, Lamont? The
sooner it starts, the sooner it will be over, and we can go somewhere to dinner."
"It won't start yet," returned Cranston. "Hubert Purnell hasn't arrived."
The statement awoke Margo's interest. She stared from the window, anxious to see Purnell. She'd heard
much about the man, for he'd been in the news a great deal. Frequently dubbed the Wall Street Wizard,
Purnell was a man who thrived on high finance; but, with all his reputed wealth, he lived in Spartan
simplicity.
Even in Manhattan, Purnell drove his own car, instead of depending on taxicabs or keeping a chauffeured
limousine, both of which he regarded as too expensive. He didn't like the subways because he was too
often recognized. Very probably, Purnell was having trouble, at present, getting through traffic to the
Hotel Metrolite. If so, he would be doing a lot of grumbling, for Purnell was noted for his habit of
punctuality; and on this occasion, he would be late.
There was a doorman out front, who would certainly take charge of the car when Purnell appeared;
nevertheless, the financier would be in glowery mood, which was something else that Margo wanted to
see.
"I didn't know that Purnell belonged to the association," remarked Margo to Cranston. "How important is
he?"
"He runs it," Cranston responded. "It's fortunate he does, or the association might degenerate into a
racket."
Margo paused on lookout duty to give Cranston a puzzled gaze. His statement was doubly surprising.
She didn't expect him to toss bouquets to Purnell; nor could Margo picture Cranston, himself, connected
with anything that resembled a racket. For Margo Lane was quite convinced that Lamont Cranston was
none other than The Shadow, master foe to crime. His business was cracking rackets, not establishing
them.
Which made the situation more intriguing, as Margo considered it. Cranston's membership in the
association could mean that he was handling the case from the inside. She hoped that her sudden
expression of interest would cause Cranston to tell her more. He did.
"QUITE a title, the Manufacturers Security Association," spoke Cranston in his calm, even-toned style.
"It was formed by independent manufacturers, to insure themselves against unusual conditions arising
from the demands of national defense projects."
Margo put a query:
"You mean these manufacturers are engaged in supplying defense materials?"
"Just the opposite," corrected Cranston. "These men represent ordinary everyday industries, and want to
preserve their status. Let me give you an example, Margo. Suppose the government should demand all
the aluminum in the country, what would happen to a manufacturer who makes aluminum kitchenware?"
"He would go out of business, of course."
"Not if he belonged to the M.S.A.," stated Cranston, using the abbreviated term for the Manufacturers
Security Association. "The other manufacturers would take care of him."
"But - how?"
"That seems to be a problem." Cranston smiled, reflectively. "Some say that orders should be assigned,
pro rata, by other members of the association. Others think the individual members should be insured,
with the rest paying the cost. Whatever the solution, whoever controls the M.S.A. will have charge of
huge fund, along with power to distribute them. Which is why the organization needs a canny financier
like Hubert Purnell as its head."
Mention of Purnell caused Margo to glance at her wrist watch. It showed seven minutes after six, and the
Wall Street Wizard still hadn't arrived.
"Purnell is eligible," remarked Cranston, "because he controls certain industrial plants. So, for that matter,
do two other men, either of whom could turn the M.S.A. into a racket. Fortunately, those two are at
odds."
Margo asked who they were. Cranston named them. One was Ralph Lambron, a man whose past had
never quite caught up with him. Rumor had it that he was found among beer runners during Prohibition
days.
With repeal saving him from Federal indictments, Lambron had bought up independent theaters
throughout Pennsylvania, welded them into a chain, and sold stock in it, that dwindled down to nothing
after he dropped the enterprise. Lambron had put the profits, amounting to several millions, into various
factories, which he still owned.
The other man was Andrew Brenz. His name, too, spelled swindle. Operating from the Midwest, Brenz
had established gambling houses all over the country, but always by proxy. It was just coincidence that
Brenz owned factories in those cities where the gambling houses operated. A coincidence, too, that
Brenz loved race horses and owned a very respectable stable that freed his name from any connection
with racetrack scandals and betting manipulations.
Margo was listening, eyes very wide, when Cranston gestured toward the window and said:
"There he comes now."
Margo's watch registered just ten minutes after six, as she looked, expecting to see the wizened face that
she connected with Hubert Purnell. Instead, she observed a powerful man, with strong, square-jawed
face and sharp but deep-set eyes. He was stepping out of an expensive limousine which had a
convertible top. He was followed by a square-set chauffeur, in dark-brown uniform. Margo expressed
surprise.
"Why, that can't be Hubert Purnell."
"I didn't say he was Purnell," reminded Cranston, rising. "I was speaking of Andrew Brenz. He's ten
minutes late for the six-o'clock meeting, and he seems quite put out about something. I'm going up to the
meeting, Margo. You can watch for Purnell."
BRENZ and his chauffeur were one elevator ahead of Cranston; hence, Brenz had made his entry into
the meeting room when Cranston arrived there. Pushing aside the stocky chauffeur, who partially blocked
the door, Cranston strolled in and sat down.
Brenz was standing in the center of the room, waving a folded newspaper at half a dozen manufacturers
who eyed him with mixed doubt and surprise.
"Don't tell me you haven't heard about the scandal!" stormed Brenz. "You seem to regard Ralph
Lambron as an important member of this organization. You certainly ought to know that he's threatened
with indictment, down in Philadelphia, over that theater stock swindle! The newspapers are full of it!"
A cold-eyed man named Fitzcroft picked up a newspaper that was lying on the table. Glancing over the
front page, he thumbed through the next few, and then demanded bluntly:
"What newspapers?"
"The Philadelphia newspapers, of course" retorted Benz. "Here - take a look at this one."
It was a Philadelphia newspaper that Brenz spread on the table, and it carried a broad streamer, saying:
LAMBRON THREATENED WITH INDICTMENT
Underneath was Lambron's picture, with column after column telling of his connections, past, present,
and future. Such little things as war news must have been consigned to the comic section, for each page
that Brenz turned told more about Lambron and his questionable activities. The way Fitzcroft and the
others gobbled up the news brought a scoff from Brenz.
"That's the way with you New Yorkers," he gibed. "You seem to think that Philadelphia is in another
world."
Fitzcroft looked up, cold-eyed as before, and inquired:
"Isn't it?"
The sally brought laughs from the rest. They were of the opinion that the Philadelphia news was a lot of
empty talk. Purchasers of Lambron's theater chain had simply let it go to pieces, and were blaming him
for the debacle. Philadelphia investors had that habit, these New Yorkers claimed. They thought that if
you planted money, it would sprout like potatoes; but that sort of thing didn't happen any more, not even
in Philadelphia.
"Empty talk?" demanded Brenz. "Then why isn't Donald Kerring here? He comes from Philadelphia. He
probably decided that we wouldn't even hold a meeting, after this Lambron scandal. Why don't you
phone him and get his opinion?"
Fitzcroft decided to call Kerring. He tried, but couldn't get an answer from Kerring's Philadelphia home.
He was trying again, without luck, when Brenz scoffed:
"Maybe you ought to call Lambron. He's easy enough to reach. Try the district attorney's office, in
Philadelphia."
Fitzcroft promptly took up the suggestion. In a few minutes he had Lambron on the wire, and was
repeating what the latter told him. Quite relieved, Fitzcroft turned to the men about him.
"It is empty talk," assured Fitzcroft. "Lambron says so. He claims that the Philadelphia newspapers tried
to make news before it happened. Lambron and his secretary are going over everything with the district
attorney, and will be busy the rest of the evening. By tomorrow, the newspapers will be printing
apologies."
Impetuously, Brenz snatched the telephone from Fitzcroft's hands and roared into the mouthpiece.
"So you think you can get away with it!" shouted Brenz. "Well, we'll know by tomorrow if you do. This is
Brenz talking, and whatever I do, I keep my hands clean. I'd like to see you do the same."
Brenz paused abruptly and suddenly flung the telephone on the table. It was Fitzcroft who asked, wisely:
"What did Lambron say?"
"He hung up," snapped Brenz. "So that's the end of it! The end of this meeting, too, because if you're
waiting for Hubert Purnell, he won't be here. I phoned him around three o'clock, and when he heard
about the Lambron mess, he said you could hold it but he wouldn't attend, because we couldn't settle
anything with this cloud hanging over us. Purnell decided to drive down to Washington and attend to
some of the pressing matters there."
Turning on his heel, Brenz spoke to his chauffeur: "Come along, Richtle." Together, the two left the
meeting room, and in a little while the others decided to do the same. As Fitzcroft put it, they might do
without either Brenz or Lambron, but certainly not without Purnell.
Down in the cafe lounge, Cranston found Margo still looking from the window, expecting to see Purnell,
though it was nearly quarter of seven. Remarking that Purnell wasn't coming, Cranston next suggested
that they dine in the cafe lounge. Margo agreeing, they didn't even bother to change tables.
It wasn't long before Margo noticed that Cranston was still watching from the window. She asked him
why, since Purnell wouldn't be along.
"I'm watching for Donald Kerring," stated Cranston. "He rates high in the association, and it's odd he
didn't come over to the meeting. You know the chap I mean - Kerring, the one they tried to reach in
Philadelphia before they called Lambron."
"But didn't they decide that Kerring would think the trip useless, with Lambron in such a mess?"
"Yes. But I'm not sure that Kerring would have seen it that way. He's one of the capable members of the
association. Kerring, Fitzcroft, and a third man, Dryne, are the ones who have been keeping check on
Lambron and Brenz. I think that Kerring should have felt it his duty to attend this meeting."
Half past eight. Cranston and Margo had finished dinner, with no sign of Kerring. As they started from
the hotel, Cranston stopped in the lobby and put in a call to Kerring's Philadelphia residence, with no
answer forthcoming. Outside the door, he paused, noticed that the weather had cleared. Then:
"A good evening for a drive," said Cranston. "Suppose we take one, Margo. To Philadelphia, to drop in
on Donald Kerring and get some facts regarding Lambron that none of the New Yorkers seem to know,
or care, about."
Margo nodded. She liked the idea. It reminded her of other times when she had set out on trails with The
Shadow. But this trail was to prove different than most of those that Cranston took. It was a trail back
into the past.
The real goal upon which all depended was six o'clock, the hour of doom that The Shadow had missed
while he and Margo had been staring so idly from the window of the cafe lounge!
CHAPTER II. MURDER DISCOVERED
IT was eleven o'clock, a very late hour in the fashionable Philadelphia suburb where Donald Kerring
lived. Mist, rising from the Wissahickon Valley, was creeping out from the fringe of expansive Fairmount
Park, to encroach upon the lawned preserves where Kerring's graystone home bulked somber in the
night.
The house was dark, and hedges atop the surrounding wall had the look of absolute barriers. Only from
the gateway straight in front could one obtain a complete view of the house, itself. At that spot, under a
parade of sheltering maples, two men sat in a large sedan that was parked with its lights off. They were
looking through the gate, toward the white block that marked the front door of Kerring's house.
A flashlight swept back and forth along the sidewalk, roving from maples to wall. It was swinging jerkily,
indicating that its owner was bulky and walked with waddling stride. The beam splashed the sedan once,
and swung away; then, coming back, it stopped. The man flicked off his flashlight and reached for a
handy nightstick, as he gruffed:
"Hey, you -"
"Hello, Wilkins," spoke a smooth voice from the car. "We were expecting you along. We thought maybe
you would know why Mr. Kerring hasn't come home."
The bulky watchman shoved himself toward the car, raising the flashlight instead of the club. A man in the
car obliged him by pressing the switch to the dome light. Wilkins promptly recognized the sallow, smiling
man who leaned half across the steering wheel to look at him.
"Oh, hello. Mr. Lambron!"
Wilkins also recognized Lambron's companion, a thin-faced man who wore large-rimmed glasses. He
was Lambron's secretary, Mordan. The two had visited Kerring rather frequently, usually in the evening,
which was why Wilkins had met them. It was his business to look over all strangers in this neighborhood.
Beefy-faced and brawny, Wilkins was a survival of an old Philadelphia custom, the private watchman.
He was hired by some forty residents of the section, at a few dollars a month apiece, to make regular
rounds at night and see that doors and windows were securely locked. He even checked on such small
matters as cellar lights that residents forgot to turn out. He was helpful, too, when it came to starting
stalled cars.
He looked like a London bobby, and had something of the same temperament. His slow round, by many
devious bypaths, took him close to an hour and a half, and when he had finished it, he went over the
same terrain again. All night, Wilkins made those plodding rounds, and residents felt secure.
Not that the neighborhood lacked police protection. At various intervals, a police car coursed through
the curving, mazelike streets of this suburban area. But it didn't cover the ground the way that Wilkins
did.
It was easy for prowlers to dodge out of sight behind walls or shrubbery when the police car came along;
but with Wilkins on the Job, they might dodge right into his lap. Such, at least, was the theory held by
those who hired Wilkins.
Right now, Wilkins was scratching his head over the matter of Kerring's absence. He knew that Kerring's
servants had gone off today and wouldn't be back until midnight, which could mean that Kerring had
gone out to dinner, and possibly to a movie afterward.
But Kerring was rather elderly and didn't like late hours. He was always home by ten-thirty, though he
often kept the light burning in his library, where he loved to delve among his books.
Wilkins threw a look toward the car, said: "You've been here long, Mr. Lambron?"
"About half an hour," calculated Lambron. "It was ten o'clock when we left the district attorney's office.
We've been with him since three this afternoon."
Wilkins nodded and gave a sympathetic mutter. He'd read about Lambron's troubles and didn't agree
with the newspapers. Any friend of Mr. Kerring's would have to be all right with Wilkins. Since it was
just about a half-hour trip from the Philadelphia city hall to Kerring's home, it was quite obvious that
Lambron must have had a half-hour to spend. But Wilkins had another question.
"Why didn't you pull up in the driveway?" he queried, with a sweeping gesture of his heavy hand. "Most
people do."
"We did," returned Lambron, "but when we saw the house was dark, we were afraid we'd block
Kerring's way, so we came out here to wait for him."
The car gave a sag as Wilkins planted his bulk on the running board.
"Drive in there again," suggested the watchman, "and we'll take a look at things."
WITH Wilkins on the side of the car, Lambron drove around the corner, swung in through a driveway
that passed the side of the house, and finished in a gravel circle, a survival of the old horse-and-carriage
days. Only by bearing hard on the steering wheel was Lambron able to make the turn; even then, his car
grazed the flowerbeds around the circle.
Dropping off, Wilkins tried a little door that led into the house; it was the side entrance that people usually
used when they came by car. The door was locked, so Wilkins took a look along the wall at windows
above.
He had just come to the corner of the house, when he remembered that Kerring might have gone out of
town. Nevertheless, Wilkins took a cursory glance along the wall past the corner.
In that glance, he thought he saw a ghost.
It loomed out from a window, a whitish phantom that matched the best description of spooks on parade.
As suddenly as it came, the white thing vanished, giving Wilkins the impression that it had sailed upward,
outward, to be swallowed in the night.
Shifting his hand from nightstick to revolver, the watchman dropped back behind the corner. Lambron
saw him from the car, and called in hoarse, worried whisper:
"What's the trouble, Wilkins?"
The watchman gave a beckon.
Lambron and Mordan came from their car to join him. By then, Wilkins had regained his nerve. He
wasn't a man to be frightened by odd things at night. He'd stood the test every Halloween, when boys
rigged up sheets and balloon faces to scare wayfarers. Wilkins was an ace at exposing such hoaxes, and
he'd handle this one, too, even though it was out of season.
"Take a look," said Wilkins. "See if you see what I saw."
Lambron and Mordan looked. Again, the ghost made its shivery appearance, in a way that really startled
them; but this time, Wilkins caught its flutter as it vanished. He felt the breeze that wafted past the stone
house, noted that the fog had receded.
"A window curtain from the library," identified Wilkins. "The wind caught it. But the window shouldn't be
open. Let's take a closer look."
They reached the window and stared at the thin white curtains that bellied again, just above their heads.
Wilkins glanced at his companions. Both were tall and rangy, but Mordan was lighter than Lambron. So
the watchman suggested helping the secretary through the window, at which Mordan recoiled. Smiling at
his secretary's fright, Lambron softened the matter.
"It's really your job to enter," Lambron told Wilkins. "You're the watchman, you know. Here - we'll help
you in."
With a combined lift, Lambron and Mordan sent Wilkins over the high sill, a powerful hoist, considering
the watchman's bulk. As he went, Wilkins was speaking back to them:
"Get around to the door. I'll unlock it for you."
Then Wilkins was over and his companions retracing their steps, when a stumble and a thud came from
the darkened library. Apparently, Wilkins had tripped over the window curtains; if so, it was no excuse
for him to rig himself in one and play ghost for spite. It certainly looked as though Wilkins had, when he
unlocked the door where Lambron and Mordan waited.
It took the two a few seconds to realize that they were looking at the watchman's own face, not at a
whitened curtain worn like a veil. For Wilkins had gone very, very pale, a remarkable thing, considering
the man's normally ruddy complexion.
He couldn't even speak; he simply beckoned, as a ghost would. Lambron and Mordan followed Wilkins,
saw the shake of his hand as he found the switch for the library lights.
Then, when the lights came on, the visitors stared, as riveted as the watchman. They saw the thing that
accounted for the stumble Wilkins had made. It was lying in the very center of the library floor, the lifeless
form of a frail, peak-faced man whose scrawny features had drawn themselves into the grinning, lipless
semblance of a skull.
THE dead man was Donald Kerring. His shirt front, crimson with blood, showed that he had been shot
through the heart. He was lying across one of the half dozen scatter rugs that carpeted the library, and
purplish blotches on the blue of the Oriental floor-piece were further evidence of Kerring's lifeblood. The
peculiar sideward hunch of the body; the twisted upturn of the dead face were rather horrible to view.
"He's been dead a long while," spoke Wilkins in a hollow voice. "I... I'd better call the police at the
district station."
He was reaching for the telephone, when Lambron took it first. Lambron's tone was steadier, but
forced.
"We'll call headquarters," declared Lambron. "They can notify the district station. I'll tell them to talk to
the director of public safety. He was with me off and on during the evening, while I was in the D.A.'s
office."
Wilkins gave an astonished stare.
"You mean - they might accuse you Mr. Lambron?"
"Why not?" queried Lambron bitterly. "they've accused me of everything short of murder! Poor Kerring!
He'd never have wanted this to happen tonight, of all times. He believed that I could disprove the charges
against me. It looks as though someone else believed it, too, and decided to frame me for murder!"
Ten minutes later, cars were pulling up around the Kerring mansion.
They were the police advance guard, from the nearest district station, bringing a police surgeon, along
with uniformed officers and district detectives.
Ralph Lambron was on the spot. He could account for his actions up to ten o'clock that evening. How
well his alibi would protect him in the case of murder discovered at eleven, the immediate future was to
prove!
CHAPTER III. FIND THE MURDERER
HALF past eleven.
At the wheel of his coupe, Lamont Cranston gave a satisfied chuckle as he recognized a street sign;
which pleased Margo Lane. They'd made the trip to Philadelphia in a little less than three hours, only to
get lost in the worst tangle of suburban streets that Margo had ever seen.
Most of the signs called the streets by such names as "road," "avenue," or "lane," and Cranston had
recognized quite a few of them. The trouble was, they had a habit of stopping one place and beginning
somewhere else, which meant being on the right street and the wrong one at the same time.
They had all been named on the theory that some day they would be cut through, which they hadn't. With
the way they curved, sometimes changing names from one block to another, it way impossible to pick up
a continuation without a great deal of hit-or-miss hunting.
Cranston had remembered, however, that Kerring's house was near Fairmount Park, which was far too
big a target to miss. Skirting around, he had reached the park and was cutting back into Kerring's
neighborhood.
"This is bringing us the wrong way," he remarked. "In at the back of Kerring's. But if the right streets can
be the wrong ones, the wrong way may be the right way."
It was the right way.
Stopping the car suddenly, in a block that had no houses, Cranston pointed through the windshield. They
were on the fringe of the park, and ahead was the residential section. Cranston was indicating a stone
house, where lights were flicking on and off at many windows, while the glare from porch lights showed
police cars parked in a circled driveway.
"Kerring's house," declared Cranston calmly. "Something has happened there. Wait here, Margo, while I
see what it's about."
Leaving the coupe, Cranston opened the rear compartment without Margo hearing it. From beneath the
slightly raised edge he took a black cloak, a slouch hat, and a brace of automatics. Putting on the black
garments, Cranston became The Shadow. From then on, he was a gliding shape, unseen in the night.
Reaching Kerring's house was quite simple. Lines of trees along the sidewalk, the sheltering hedges,
banks of shrubs and flowers, provided cover that would have hidden Cranston, even without the black
garb that transformed him into The Shadow. The house, itself, was a collection of darkened patches, with
porches convenient to upstairs windows, where lights had gone on, only to be turned off.
The crux came when The Shadow was inside the house itself, on the second floor. The police were
investigating the back stairs, so he had to use the front staircase, which was well lighted from the lower
hall. But no one suspected that a prowler would be using those stairs, so The Shadow had a straight
course down, even though he might have been spied instantly, had anyone come along.
Finding a rear door into the library, The Shadow blended with its heavy curtains and peered into the
room. A rug of the runner type ran through the doorway, but The Shadow stepped from its soft tuft, to
gain better concealment from the dark-hued curtain at his left.
He was in an extension of the hall, a sort of alcove, with a corner that cut off the brighter light.
Motionless, his black-cloaked figure could scarcely be distinguished from the deep blue of the curtain,
but by slightly spreading the drape, The Shadow obtained a complete view of the library.
The Shadow saw the floor with its crowded scatter rugs, and the dead form which occupied the center.
He recognized Kerring's face, as a police surgeon arose from beside the body. Among the people in the
room, The Shadow saw Lambron and his secretary, Mordan, both with strained faces.
"THIS man has been dead at least five hours," declared the surgeon. "I would establish the time of death
as approximately six o'clock."
Relief registered on Lambron and Mordan. Wilkins gave them a knowing nod. The beefy watchman was
quite sure that neither of these men would have murdered Kerring. The only objection came from a
newcomer, who was entering the room by the doorway from the main hall. He was tall, gray-haired, and
officious; The Shadow recognized him as the director of public safety, the Philadelphia equivalent of
police commissioner.
"Six o'clock?" quizzed the director sharply. "You're sure of that, doctor?"
"Approximately six," the surgeon repeated, emphatically. "There could be a variation, perhaps ten
minutes, one way or the other. The time of death can be well established in a case like this."
The director gave a disgruntled grunt.
"Sorry, director?" queried Lambron coolly. "Is it because the circumstances clear me?"
The director answered both questions in one breath.
"I am," he snapped, "and it is! You're lucky, Lambron, because you have an absolute alibi from three
o'clock to ten."
"To ten-thirty," corrected Lambron. "I couldn't have gotten here any sooner, director, after leaving your
office. Whether you like it or not, you'll have to concede that neither Mordan or I could have killed
Kerring."
"I concede it," retorted the director. "I know you're innocent in this case, just as I know you're guilty of a
lot of crooked work that couldn't be proven against you this afternoon! You handled the D.A., Lambron,
but some day my department will catch up with you!"
Abruptly, the safety director dropped his challenging tone and began to inquire into what was known
regarding Kerring's death. Lambron and Mordan told their story, and Wilkins corroborated his share of
the details. Like the director, The Shadow made mental note of them. In the pause that followed, a
district detective asked the director if he wanted the body taken to the morgue.
"Not yet," the director declared. "When it does go, you can pick it up in that rug where it's lying. We'll
want the rug as an exhibit."
He looked over the rest of the room, even eyeing the rug that ran out through the rear doorway, but he
decided that none of the other rugs would be needed. None of them had bloodstains, though they needed
examination to make sure, because the remaining Orientals trended to red backgrounds, whereas the one
on which the body lay was largely blue.
While the director was making his survey, Wilkins asked if he could leave to resume his rounds through
the neighborhood. The director gave him a nod.
摘要：

ALIBITRAILMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEM.S.A.?CHAPTERII.MURDERDISCOVERED?CHAPTERIII.FINDTHEMURDERER?CHAPTERIV.LINKSTOCRIME?CHAPTERV.CRIME'SINTERLUDE?CHAPTERVI.THESECONDVICTIM?CHAPTERVII.DARKBRINGSITSTRAIL?CHAPTERVIII.ROUNDABOUTTRAIL?CHAPTERIX...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：77 页 大小：193.74KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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