Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 236 - Crime's Stronghold

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CRIME'S STRONGHOLD

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. ROAD TO CRIME

? CHAPTER II. PATHS IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER III. DEADLY MEASURES

? CHAPTER IV. THE SHORT CUT

? CHAPTER V. CRIMINALS CONFER

? CHAPTER VI. ONE MOVE AHEAD

? CHAPTER VII. CRIME GOES RAMPANT

? CHAPTER VIII. DOUBLE DEPARTURE

? CHAPTER IX. IN TWO CAMPS

? CHAPTER X. THE MONKEY BUSINESS

? CHAPTER XI. FROM THE SKY

? CHAPTER XII. THE LAW'S TURN

? CHAPTER XIII. HALF AND HALF

? CHAPTER XIV. THE TWO RECRUITS

? CHAPTER XV. CRIME'S SNARE

? CHAPTER XVI. VANISHED PREY

? CHAPTER XVII. CLIFF MEETS THE BRAIN

? CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEW SCHEME

? CHAPTER XIX. THE DOUBLE TRAIL

? CHAPTER XX. RIVALS IN STRATEGY

? CHAPTER XXI. STROKES OF JUSTICE

CHAPTER I. ROAD TO CRIME

GABBY TARCOT swung his rattletrap car from the paved highway and nosed it cautiously along the

sand road. He knew the difficulties of Florida sand roads, particularly at dusk, and he had good reason

not to use his lights. But Gabby soon found that this road didn't offer trouble.

A clearing revealed a low but widespread building of Spanish architecture. Its grilled gates and walls of

coquina rock gave it the appearance of a fortress. The structure, however, was no relic of the period

when Spain had ruled Florida. It wasn't more than a dozen years old, and the fancy flowerbeds around it

dispelled the illusion of anything ancient.

There was a bronze plate above the grilled front door, and Gabby paused long enough to try to read it;

then gave a shrug and decided that he had found the right place. The sign said:

ANTHROPOLOGICAL LABORATORY

The word "anthropological" had something to do with monkeys; that much, Gabby could guess, because

Griff Perrick had mentioned it. Gabby remembered, too, that Griff had said to come in by the side door.

So Gabby wheeled his junky car around to the side of the extensive building, and alighted.

He saw a bell beside the door, with a sign above it that said "Ring," a word within the limitations of

Gabby's vocabulary. So Gabby pressed the button and waited, a grin upon his sallow, peak-nosed face.

When the door opened, Gabby's smile left him. Instead, his lips voiced a one-syllable ejaculation that

wouldn't have looked nice on the bell sign. He'd expected to see Griff Perrick; instead, Gabby, was

confronted, by something that wasn't human.

His ring had been answered by a five-foot chimpanzee, wearing an apron. At sight of a stranger, the ape

shoved its big jaw forward in a fashion that Gabby mistook for challenge.

Gabby considered himself tough, but he wasn't going to parley with a chimpanzee. At least, so Gabby

thought as he started for his car; but the chimp had a different idea. Before Gabby could drive away, the

creature smacked a big hand on his arm and brought him through the door in a headlong fling.

Coming up against a wall, Gabby wheeled, groping frantically for a gun, as he heard the door slam and

saw the aproned ape turn formidably in his direction.

Another hand stopped Gabby. Under its grip, he heard a raspy voice he recognized, and turned to see

Griff Perrick, who had just stepped from an inner door. Cold of eye, blunt of nose, and with a jaw that

matched the ape's in hardness though not in size, Griff gave Gabby reassurance.

"Cissie won't hurt you," said Griff. "She's our regular doortender. She'll get to know you, like the rest of

them."

"You mean the rest of the guys?" queried Gabby anxiously. "Or the rest of the monks?"

"Both," returned Griff, opening the inner door and beckoning Gabby through. "Here. Take Loco for

instance."

Gabby brought up short, facing a glary-eyed orangutan that was pouting with its big lips. The room was a

library, and the ape was brandishing a heavy unabridged dictionary it had taken from the reading stand.

Griff hooked Gabby's arm.

"Don't duck," warned Griff. "If you do, he'll throw it sure. I'll show you how to handle him. What he

wants is to see pictures."

Taking the dictionary from Loco, Griff opened it to one of the colored plates. The orangutan ended its

grimace and made cooing sounds as it stalked away, rubbing its fingers across the smooth color page.

Griff moved Gabby along a hallway and halted him before another door. There, Griff queried:

"You brought the layout with you?"

Speechless, Gabby could only nod, as he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to

Griff.

"What about Blink Halley?" continued Griff. "You said you could fix him. Did you?"

Another nod from Gabby; then, finding his voice:

"It took half a grand."

"Not too heavy," said Griff. "Only, I don't like dealing with a guy like Blink. Maybe he isn't a

double-crosser, like I used to figure, but, anyway, he's a squealer, even if he is a pal of yours."

Gabby was about to argue the point, but Griff silenced him with a short rasp. Quite solemnly, Griff

knocked at the door, and when a sharp voice called to enter, Griff did, drawing Gabby with him. As they

went through the doorway Griff undertoned to Gabby:

"You're meeting Professor Morton Englemere. Show some class."

SO far, Gabby Tarcot had supposed that the roving apes, Cissie and Loco, were the most curious

creatures that he could expect to meet in the Anthropological Laboratory. He dropped that notion when

he saw Professor Englemere.

The head of the institution was a great-shouldered man who's large; black beard added to his bulk. He

was taller than Griff and Gabby, but his stooped posture brought his eyes to a level of theirs. Those eyes,

dark and boring, gave Gabby the same impression of sharpness as did Englemere's voice.

Despite his large size, Englemere was almost dwarfed by the creature that hovered beside him, an ape far

more formidable than the two that Gabby had previously met. The bearded professor's companion was a

great gorilla, that probably spent most of its time here in his study, for the creature seemed very much at

home.

"Meet Mr. Tarcot," introduced Griff. "He's the new keeper I told you about, professor. We call him

Gabby for short."

A long laugh emerged from Englemere's beard.

"Our new keeper, eh?" queried Englemere. "And you call him Gabby? Good! Gabby, meet Tongo."

The professor gestured to the big gorilla and Gabby gave a nod, which brought another chuckle from

Englemere, who tilted his head for another look at the new keeper.

"Your nickname implies that you are talkative," said Englemere. "Well, Gabby, you will be after you get

used to our friendly pets, like Tongo. It takes a little while." The professor suddenly shifted his eyes to

Griff. "Take Mr. Tarcot to his quarters; then join me in my workshop."

When Gabby reached his quarters, in the far corner of the building, he was due for a more pleasant

surprise. He found himself shaking hands with a dozen other "keepers," all men he recognized, and rather

envied. Tough guys, all, but they knew how to carry it in a smooth way, like Griff.

Leaving Gabby in select company, Griff made his way to another corner of the building, where he found

Professor Englemere unlocking a heavily padlocked door. They stepped into the room that the professor

called his workshop; there, closing the door, Englemere turned to Griff with an inquiring gaze.

Griff promptly handed him the folded paper that Gabby had brought. Englemere spread it out; studied the

diagrams that it displayed. His eyes gleamed.

"You know what this means to us, Griff?"

"I have a general idea, professor."

"Of course," nodded Englemere: "I've shown you the effects of my medium Vapor Gun."

HE turned to a corner, where a squatty machine stood on a metal stand. The device was about three feet

square, fitted with many tubes that connected to glass containers filled with liquids. Most conspicuous,

however, was a chromium-plated nozzle that spread like a wide funnel from the center of the machine.

"Like many biologists," mused Englemere, "I was simply a disappointed chemist. I accepted my position

here hoping that I would find spare time to devote to chemical experiments."

Griff nodded. He had heard the preamble before.

"I developed my Vapor Gun," continued Englemere. "Calcium compounds, vaporized with sulfuric or

nitric acids, can produce astounding results. But I have thought in greater terms, Perrick. If I could only

find an explosive of a milder acid content, I could add range to my Vapor Gun. I would have a weapon

unheard of in modern warfare."

Griff didn't nod. It wasn't necessary. Englemere's eyes were glittering in a faraway stare.

"Such an explosive has been created," resumed Englemere. "It was discovered here in Florida. It is being

manufactured from the pulp of citrus fruits. They call it Citrite, and its formula is closely guarded. Nor can

we obtain a specimen of the stuff.

"But we know where plenty is to be had. In the Citrite factory, only fifty miles from here. So we shall go

there to obtain it." Turning, Englemere clapped his hand on Griff's back. "This very night, Perrick, now

that you have supplied the one thing we needed" - Englemere was waving the paper - "the complete chart

of the Citrite factory."

"I've done more than that, professor," assured Griff. "I've fixed things so we can get right through to the

storeroom where they keep the Citrite. What's more, I've picked the proper men to take along with us."

Englemere's enthusiasm increased. He strode to the door and opened it, waving to Griff to follow.

"Excellent!" exclaimed the professor. "We shall pack the machine and start at once. Success will be ours,

and this night's venture" - he gave Griff a gleaming gaze - "will be but the first of our mutual endeavors, I

assure you."

Griff grinned and nodded, but he warded off the shoulder clap that Englemere was about to give him.

Griff had just seen Tongo coming from the professor's study.

"Lay off the friendly wallops," advised Griff, "whenever Tongo is around. He copies whatever you do,

professor, and a love pat from a gorilla is enough to break a couple of ribs."

Englemere withheld his hand. He went one way and Griff the other. Griff's destination was the room

where Gabby was renewing his acquaintance with companions of the days when mobs rode high, wide

and handsome. As soon as Griff entered, chatter ceased. Looking about, Gabby realized that these men

were expecting something that they had long waited to hear.

"It's jake," Griff told them. "I'd like to take you all along, but it won't do. First off, the prof might worry if

I let too many guys in on the first job. Besides, there's the monkeys. He'd get the jitters if he started

thinking about them, with nobody looking after them."

The mobbies agreed with Griff's logic. He wrote their names on slips of paper and dropped them into a

hat, remarking that he was leaving Gabby's out because the professor wouldn't want a new man on the

venture. Then, from the dozen wads of paper, Griff picked out four and read off the names. The chosen

men went along with him.

IT was pitch-dark outside the Anthropological Laboratory, or the Ape Lab, as the mobbies chose to call

it, when two cars set out along the sand road to the highway. The first car was a coupe, containing

Professor Englemere and his lieutenant, Griff Perrick. Scientist and racketeer were faring forth upon the

road to crime, and in the back of their car they carried the contrivance which the professor termed a

"Vapor Gun."

The second car was a sedan, its occupants the four mobbies chosen by lot. They were gleeful at this

chance to cut loose in the good old fashion, and not at all perturbed by any worry over any future

consequences. From their comments, they expected to baffle the local sheriffs, the State police, and even

the Feds, should the latter be called in.

A final touch came when one of the four had the temerity to mention a name that all had so far avoided.

A name that criminals would ordinarily have dreaded, because it had so often spelled disaster to men of

crime.

"This is one job," the hoodlum gloated, "that is going to be a cinch, even if we meet up with The

Shadow!"

For a moment, there was awed silence; then from the car came the combined glee of the four. Men of

crime were giving the laugh to The Shadow!

CHAPTER II. PATHS IN THE DARK

THE SHADOW was seated in the office of the Citrite factory, listening to the talk of men about him.

They were the officers of the Citrite Corp., and the chief among them was Hubert Alden, president of the

concern. Of course, neither Alden nor his associates guessed that their silent companion was The

Shadow.

They took him for Lamont Cranston, a wealthy New Yorker and a possible purchaser of stock in the

newly-formed Citrite Corp. Most of their talk was high-pressure salesmanship, for Cranston's benefit.

Hubert Alden was the principal spokesman for the group. A chubby man, with a high, wrinkled forehead,

Alden was very earnest about the matter.

"I tell you, Cranston," he insisted, "whoever gets in on the ground floor of this proposition will be in on

something big. This corporation is going to expand to ten times its present size!"

There were nods from the "yes men" who surrounded Alden. The nods didn't seem to stir Cranston

greatly. He was a very calm person; his face, hawklike in profile, was practically immobile.

"The proposition would sound excellent," expressed Cranston, "if there were not so many explosives

already on the market."

"But Citrite draws upon a surplus product," argued Alden. "We use the pulp of oranges and grapefruit in

its manufacture. More of them are grown than are needed."

"Except in off years."

"Those do not matter to us, Mr. Cranston. If a freeze spoils the fruit, we can use it just the same. In fact,

a bad year for other consumers will be a good year for us. The more citrus fruit rejected, the more we

can buy that much cheaper."

The shrewd point seemed to impress Cranston, so Alden quickly followed it with another.

"Of course, there are other compounds used with Citrite," explained Alden. "The fruit pulp is simply the

base. The product itself depends upon a secret formula -"

"And how well do you guard that formula?"

Alden had an answer to Cranston's question. He brought out a large-scale chart that showed the whole

plan of the factory. Though he didn't realize it, Alden was giving Cranston the very information that the

visitor wanted. Cranston, it so happened, had a secret formula of his own.

He was The Shadow. His secret formula was his method of battling crime. He liked to get in on the

ground floor of propositions where crime threatened; and meet it when it came. This case was no

exception.

The Shadow didn't have to be convinced that Citrite had merit as a new form of explosive; he had

already looked into the matter. He was here, as Cranston, simply to make sure that proper methods had

been taken to guard a newly-invented substance that he considered far more valuable than the public, or

even the government, yet realized.

Sponsors of Citrite, like Alden and the others present, did not recognize the vast trust that was theirs.

They thought of Citrite as a money-maker. They said they were protecting it; but were they?

Such was the question that concerned The Shadow.

THE ground plan showed that the Citrite factory was well fenced, and consisted of several buildings.

Only one building was vitally important: the one wherein The Shadow was at present. It held the offices

where this conference was under way. They were on the second floor, and directly beneath was the

storeroom which contained the manufactured Citrite.

Alden realized that it wasn't a comforting thought to be seated over a few tons of explosive that packed

more wallop than dynamite, but he hastened to assure Cranston that danger was almost nil. Citrite would

not explode in an atmosphere of low temperature, and the storage room was specially air-conditioned to

keep it in a state of safety. That point settled, Alden went into other details.

He traced a pencil about the ground plan, indicating how each stage of Citrite manufacture was carefully

handled by trusted men, in separately located buildings. By the time the stuff had gone through its entire

process, no one individual would hold the key to the whole.

Very important data for an investor like Cranston, who would naturally want to make sure that no other

manufacturer would be able to steal the secret and produce a rival explosive. But The Shadow was

noting other features on the chart.

His concern was the main building. He observed that direct entrance to the storage room could be gained

only through a formidable steel gate; thence through a passage to a strong steel door, that protected the

storage room proper. He had seen the gate in question, when he came here with Alden.

There was another way to reach the storage room. That was through the office where The Shadow was

at present. This route was also protected by a steel door downstairs, and the office windows were

barred. Across the office, The Shadow could see a connecting door to the inner stairway leading down

to the storage room. Looking at it, The Shadow saw that it had no lock. Allen observed his visitor's

glance.

"That door bars from the other side," said Allen. "The storage room is one hundred percent secure. It is

just about time" - Allen was glancing at his watch - "for our chief watchman to report. I should like you to

meet him, Mr. Cranston."

Allen had hardly folded the plan sheet before the chief watchman appeared. His name was Dorset, and

he was stocky, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes and bulldog chin. He had just made the rounds of the

grounds, posting the six watchmen who formed the night squad.

His gruff, blunt tone indicated that Dorset knew his business, and while he spoke he kept one hand

resting on a revolver he carried in a holster.

Having just come in from the darkness, Dorset was bothered by the strong lights in the office. He

squinted a few times and rubbed his eyes while he talked to Allen, but the effect soon wore off.

There certainly was nothing wrong with Dorset's vision, as he proved when he led the way downstairs.

The chief watchman had the eyes of a cat, for he picked out the dark stairs and warned the others when

they reached the bottom.

Outside, while Dorset was locking the steel door to the office stairway, Allen and the rest shook hands

with Cranston. They walked to their cars and Cranston entered a coupe of his own, for he was driving to

Palm Beach, a trip of considerable distance.

Promising to communicate with Allen later, Cranston let the other cars start first, to guide him through the

exit from the grounds.

With a last look back from his coupe, The Shadow saw Dorset starting on his rounds. Then, as the cars

ahead began to pick up speed along the highway, The Shadow piloted his own toward a side road that

cut off through the pine woods.

He was Cranston no longer; a whispered laugh told that a transformation was under way. The tone was

the laugh of The Shadow.

To complete the change, The Shadow picked a flat space at the side of the road and eased the coupe in

among the pine trees, extinguishing the lights as he did. In the darkness of the car, he drew garments from

behind the seat; there was a slight swish as he slid a black cloak over his shoulders. Settling a slouch hat

on his head, The Shadow emerged.

No longer could he have been mistaken for Cranston; indeed, he could have been mistaken for no one.

IN the shrouding night, The Shadow's figure was both silent and invisible. His course through the

darkness was untraceable, as he strode back toward the Citrite factory to begin a first-hand inspection of

the premises.

However capable and trustworthy Dorset might be, one thing was certain: Alden had imposed too great

a task upon his chief watchman.

This business of Dorset posting the other watchmen, and then making his rounds alone, did not make

allowance for any weak links in the chain. One treacherous watchman would be able to do a lot of

mischief between the times that Dorset checked on him. It was therefore The Shadow's intent to make

the rounds himself, unseen by the posted men, and do a little checking on his own.

As yet, The Shadow suspected no definite thrust against the Citrite factory, which had been functioning

for nearly a week without any signs of trouble. It was simply a freak of chance that this particular night

should be the one when a crooked watchman named Blink Halley should have given the word to Gabby

Tarcot, who, in turn, had carried it to Griff Perrick.

Ill luck, too, that Griff had found Professor Englemere eager to start on his first venture without delay, for

though Griff himself was an expert at crime, he couldn't make the first move on his own. Griff was

definitely taking orders from Englemere; and had merely paved the way for the professor's long-planned

raid upon the Citrite factory.

Another factor entered. It happened that the marauders, thanks to their early start, had arrived while The

Shadow was still in conference with Alden. Having seen the parked cars, they were waiting in

concealment when the procession drove out.

Naturally, The Shadow hadn't been able to turn into the woods too soon; he was nearly a quarter of a

mile from the factory when he left the road. But Englemere and the men with him were beginning their

advance the moment the last taillight twinkled from sight. Unwittingly, they were putting to use the very

minutes that The Shadow required to make his return!

Stealthily, in clustered fashion, the tribe crept toward the main building. Professor Englemere formed the

central figure in the group of "keepers" that he had brought from his endowed home for apes. Only Griff

Perrick was able to restrain the ardent professor, with low-voiced warnings. Griff was piloting the throng,

for he knew the set-up that awaited.

They reached the heavy gate that afforded entry to the storeroom. Griff tried it, found it unlocked, and

pressed the others through, voicing his satisfaction in an undertone.

"Blink did a quick job," Griff complimented. "I've got to hand that to him. I kind of expected he wouldn't

have time to open the gate so soon."

Holding the others back, Griff turned to clamp the gate from the inside, remarking that it wouldn't do for

some watchman to find it open while making his rounds. Then, pressing ahead, Griff found the inner

passage and entered it, with Englemere.

The others had some difficulty squeezing through, and the reason for their clustering was explained. They

were huddled together because they were lugging Englemere's curious Vapor Gun, mounted on its stand.

Hardly had the last crooks moved into the passage before The Shadow glided into the grounds. The first

place he made for was the gate that Englemere's band had found unlocked. Trying the gate, The Shadow

discovered it to be secure, as he expected. The clamp on the inside gave it the effect of being locked.

Skirting the building, The Shadow reached the door that led up to the office. It was tightly locked, as

Dorset had left it. Looking upward, The Shadow could see the barred windows of the office, which

could be reached by first scaling the door. Those bars had an inviting look, for they were crosswise and

formed a ladder, offering access to the roof above.

Deftly, The Shadow moved upward, the slight wavy motion of his cloak giving the effect of oily smoke

rising in a slow cloud. So vague, that shape, against the gloom of the doorway and the window above,

that the living smoke seemed to dispel itself as it reached the roof edge. There, The Shadow had

flattened, and performed an inward roll that placed him upon the roof itself, away from any chance of

observation.

There was a soft laugh from The Shadow's hidden lips as he saw exactly what he wanted: a trapdoor in

the roof. It was fastened, of course, from the inside, as The Shadow learned when he tried it; but its slight

yield was proof that he could pry it loose within a dozen minutes.

If nothing else made it profitable, a trip down into the office would at least serve as a lesson for Alden

and the others, when they arrived in the morning to find that the place had been entered. So The Shadow

began his work in smooth but silent style.

It seemed a race against time, nothing more. Actually, it was a race against crime. For, while The

Shadow was forcing his entry from the roof, men of evil were at work below under the guidance of

Professor Englemere.

They, too, were seeking a goal, with a purpose that only The Shadow could forestall, should he have the

good fortune to encounter them!

CHAPTER III. DEADLY MEASURES

THROUGH the passage leading in from the gate, Professor Englemere and his companions had come

squarely upon the steel door that barred the way to the storage room where the precious Citrite was

kept.

Again, it was Griff Perrick who pressed forward to try the door, as he had done with the gate. This time,

Griff turned with a disappointed shrug, to face the flashlights his men were cautiously using. With his left

hand, Griff peeled away a handkerchief that he had wrapped about his right in the fashion of a bandage.

"Blink didn't get this far," declared Griff. "Maybe he was afraid he'd be spotted. Anyway, the door is

locked, solid."

Professor Englemere stretched forward to try the door for himself. Savagely, Griff thrust Englemere's

hand away before it could reach the knob. Quickly, and in apologetic tone, Griff explained his action.

"We can't afford to leave fingerprints, prof," said Griff. "That's why I used the handkerchief. But don't

waste time wrapping your own hand for a try. The door is locked; and the only way to settle it is with

that Vapor Gun of yours."

Englemere's eyes gleamed. He was pleased with Griff's foresight regarding fingerprints; even more joyful

over his opportunity to put his brain child to a practical use. He had the men set up the device, with its

wide nozzle directed against the steel door, at a distance of about six feet.

The thugs exchanged glances that ended when Griff scowled. They thought that the professor was crazy,

but were willing to humor him, since Griff insisted. Had any of them guessed that while they were trying

silly experiments with a steel door The Shadow was using very effective measures at entry from an

opposite direction, Griff would have had a stampede on his hands.

They let grins play on their toughened faces as Englemere pressed a small lever beside the machine.

When a cloud of white smoke issued forth and spread itself against the door, their grins increased.

Then, as suddenly, the smirks vanished.

Something was happening amid that cloud of smoke, so incredible that it passed belief. Silent fireworks

were under way, producing darting sparks that acted uncannily.

Professor Englemere was giving that steel door the heat, the works, and everything else in the catalogue!

Sparks were biting, flames gnawing, and the smoke itself was working through fissures that its silent allies

produced. Literally, the door was melting under the power of the acid-bearing calcium compound.

Griff had told his followers something of this process, explaining simply by likening it to the formation of

powerful acetylene gas from the admixture of water with calcium carbide. But that was child's play,

compared to this.

Englemere's vaporizing system was devouring the steel with an acid bath, his calcium compound drilling,

hammering, in soundless fashion, to give the acids an amazing punch. Like ghostly lights, green flames had

taken over the scene, enveloping the entire door front. There was no more trace of smoke, except as a

vague gray beyond, for it was all filtering through the door.

As Englemere drew the lever back the flames subsided, and the observers, all but Griff, stared in

profound amazement.

The steel door was still there, but it had changed to a filigree. It hadn't any more substance than a wire

screen. Holding one hand up in warning, Englemere held the crew in abeyance. He was waiting for the

acids to evaporate, which required about two minutes.

It was a weird scene, that of the bearded professor standing like some alchemist of old before a throng of

superstitious followers. But Englemere had outdone the alchemists. His power stood proven.

Englemere's signal that the way was clear came when he thrust his own bulk forward and drove the

filigreed steel apart like tinsel. Others, following, saw the professor stumble and thought that he had

tripped over the lower edge of the door, which was still a rim of solid steel. They realized their mistake as

they paused.

A man's body lay beyond the door, and it had tripped Englemere when he shoved his way through.

RISING, the professor was staring at the dead man, when Griff came through to join him. In a low,

hollow tone, Englemere inquired:

"How did he come here?"

Griff told the others to turn the body over. They did, and shrank back at the sight. Though hardened to

death, and accustomed to delivering it, Griff's murderous companions did not like the look of what they

saw.

The body on the floor was horribly disfigured. Its chest had sagged, its throat was gone, bringing a

square-chinned face down to pitiful hands that were raised to clutch it. The flesh of those hands was

eaten, and from one set of withered fingers hung a mass of misshapen metal that had once been a ring of

keys.

Griff stared at the distorted face and shook his head, signifying that he didn't recognize it. Then an idea

struck him.

"No wonder the gate was open so soon!" exclaimed Griff. "This fellow must have come in here to inspect

the storeroom. He left the gate unlocked, but he was fool enough to lock this door - or unlucky enough.

We thought Blink opened the way for us. Instead, it was this guy."

There was a point to Griff's argument that he didn't know about. The man on the floor had good reason

to be in the storage room. He was Dorset, the head watchman, whose business it was to inspect every

part of the factory, inside and out.

Professor Englemere nodded solemnly.

"You are right," he told Griff. "Even to approach the door while the Vapor Gun was at work would mean

death, once the compound began to penetrate." He gave his head a shake. "It is unfortunate that this man

should have died."

The thugs made allowance for Englemere's qualms. They had been worried over such matters once.

Crime was one thing; standing for a murder rap another. It wasn't until after a second kill that a murderer

felt easy about it. But they could see that Griff looked pleased, and they knew why.

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CRIME'SSTRONGHOLDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ROADTOCRIME?CHAPTERII.PATHSINTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.DEADLYMEASURES?CHAPTERIV.THESHORTCUT?CHAPTERV.CRIMINALSCONFER?CHAPTERVI.ONEMOVEAHEAD?CHAPTERVII.CRIMEGOESRAMPANT?CHAPTERVIII.DOUBLEDEPARTURE?CHAPTERIX....

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 236 - Crime's Stronghold

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