Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 232 - Dictator of Crime

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DICTATOR OF CRIME
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A MATTER OF MILLIONS
? CHAPTER II. CRIME PREARRANGED
? CHAPTER III. DEATH GOES RAMPANT
? CHAPTER IV. WAYS OF FLIGHT
? CHAPTER V. VANISHED CRIMINALS
? CHAPTER VI. MARGO TAKES A TRIP
? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW'S COURSE
? CHAPTER VIII. FORCED LANDING
? CHAPTER IX. CASTENAGO'S BANQUET
? CHAPTER X. MAN FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER XI. FRIENDS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XII. THE COURSE AHEAD
? CHAPTER XIII. GONE WITH THE BLAST
? CHAPTER XIV. CASTENAGO'S COURTESY
? CHAPTER XV. GAME WITHIN GAME
? CHAPTER XVI. WELCOME - THE SHADOW!
? CHAPTER XVII. BEFORE DAWN
? CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH BY DAYLIGHT
? CHAPTER XIX. THE COUNTER-STROKE
? CHAPTER XX. PAID IN FULL
CHAPTER I. A MATTER OF MILLIONS
THE Clipper smacked the blue of Biscayne Bay and settled into a lazy squat, from which it taxied toward
a landing. An audible sigh of relief came from the roped-off crowd that lined the shore of Dinner Key.
Little wonder that the sigh was heard, for the throng was immense.
Seldom did the population of Miami, citizen and tourist, assemble en masse at the Marine Airways Base
to witness the arrival of a Clipper plane. But the winged ship just in from the Caribbean was worthy of a
huge turnout. Not only because its passengers were something of celebrities, but because of the cargo
that they brought.
The plane was in from Centralba, a Caribbean republic long established but recently renamed by its
dictator, Luis Castenago, a "strong man" who masqueraded under the title of president. The passengers
on the Clipper were the militant leaders of the anti-Castenago party: Colonel Jose Durez and a handful of
associates. What they were bringing with them was money, to the total of ten million dollars.
Only this afternoon had the news broken that the coming revolution in Centralba had been called off.
Remarkable was the fact that it had been settled on peaceful terms, with the iron-fisted Castenago
sending his opponents into banishment, instead of forcing them to meet the muzzle end of a firing squad.
Most extraordinary of all was the report, on positive authority, that Durez and his faction had sold their
holdings and concessions, at full price, to the government of Centralba - which, in two words, meant Luis
Castenago.
Singular that Castenago, of all persons, should have gone "genteel," for wholesale assassinations had long
been the Centralban substitute for politics, with Castenago always supreme. Naturally, the facts led to
rumors, of which there were two that carried a strong degree of truth.
The first was that Castenago, planning a merger of several Caribbean countries, with himself as head, felt
that a show of leniency to opponents in his own republic would win over adherents in neighboring
republics.
The other rumor was that Durez, while plotting revolution, had wisely gained the support of Francisco
Peridor, former president of Centralba and idol of the populace, whose friends - Durez now included -
had never been attacked by Castenago.
Of course, there was the fact that the United States was dickering for defense bases in Centralba, but
that had been no deterrent in Castenago's killing off the opposition in the past, and therefore could have
no bearing on the future.
The first rule of a good neighbor being to ignore all family squabbles in the house next door, gave
Castenago all the leeway he wanted in his own home without having even to pull down the shades,
though he was usually courteous enough to do so.
At any rate, live arrivals from Centralba were a novelty in Miami, and everyone had come to welcome
the heroes who had been paid off in gold instead of bullets. Particularly, the crowd wanted to see the
money, itself, which accounted for the presence of about fifty Miami police, with motorcycles, squad
cars, patrol boats, tear gas, and all the appurtenances.
From the moment they alighted, Durez and his companions were surrounded by a flood of khaki
uniforms. The spectators caught glimpses of some fair-sized coffers that other police took from the
Clipper; but those, too, were promptly lost from sight.
Then the procession was proceeding toward the Terminal Building, which had been blocked off to the
public. The only persons who remained were government inspectors, who piled into the Clipper with
fumigation apparatus, to make sure that Durez and his friends hadn't smuggled in some yellow fever
carriers along with their chests of funds.
NEAR the entrance to the balcony restaurant within the Terminal, Margo Lane watched the procession
arrive. She'd been smart enough to get into the building by buying a ticket for San Juan, which she
intended to redeem later. For Margo wasn't contemplating a trip to Puerto Rico. She was here on a
much more important mission.
Only a few hours ago, when the radio had begun to blast that Durez was coming, and newsboys had
started shouting special extras in the Miami streets, Margo had received a wire from Lamont Cranston,
telling her to get to the airways base and learn everything she could.
The wire had added that Cranston was leaving New York immediately, by plane, for Miami, in hope of
arriving before Durez did.
Unfortunately, the wind was strong from the south and it had sped the Clipper into Miami ahead of
schedule. Meanwhile, Cranston's southbound ship was meeting head winds, that retarded it. This worried
Margo, when she considered what Cranston's interest in Durez's affairs might be.
In private life - or perhaps the other way about - Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. He made it his
business to battle men of crime, and the bigger they came, the better. If certain crooks had aspirations to
acquire ten million dollars belonging to Durez Co., they would have to be very big, indeed.
In Margo's estimation, that made it all the more important that Cranston should have arrived first; which,
quite apparently, he hadn't.
They were crossing the broad floor of the Terminal, now, Durez and his band. Margo got a good view of
them as they passed the ten-foot revolving globe in the center of the concourse. A mosquito would
probably have crowded the Republic of Centralba on that huge spherical map; nevertheless, Durez and
the others paused to look for the little patch that they had hoped to wrest from Castenago.
By the time they had found Centralba, they were being pressed by the police who were carrying the ten
million dollar consolation prize, so Durez and his companions smiled politely and resumed their way.
During the pause, Margo identified Durez quite easily, by his thin, sharp-featured face and small nervous
eyes. As for the others, four of them, three looked very much alike, darkish men, who made good
stooges for Durez.
The fourth man was a pronounced exception.
His face was dark as the result of tan acquired by long residence in the tropics. At that, it was but a mild
shade of bronze, and he must have suffered sunburn during the tanning process, for his complexion wasn't
the sort to take tan well. His light hair, a real straw-yellow, indicated that his natural skin color should be
a very clear white.
He looked youthful, probably more so than he was, and his trim uniform enhanced his military bearing. In
fact, Margo was wondering if he'd be more handsome if he weren't tanned, when it suddenly came to her
who he was. She'd read about him in an extra, while riding to the airways base by cab.
This young man was Colin Nayre, until lately captain of the guard in Castenago's own palace. Margo had
expected Nayre to be a grizzled soldier of fortune; instead, he looked like a recent graduate from a
military college; which, indeed, he might be.
Somehow, for reasons not specified in the skimpy edition of the newspaper, Nayre had shifted from
Castenago and joined the Durez faction.
Nayre didn't seem the sort who would sell out anyone, even a double-dyed wolf like Castenago. It
struck Margo that the rise against Castenago must have reached the point of open demand, rather than
remaining a secret cabal; otherwise, a decent chap like Nayre wouldn't have had part in it.
MARGO'S reflections were promptly justified. Past the big globe, Nayre overtook Durez and plucked
his arm. In a voice that was pleasant, yet touched with an embarrassed tone, Nayre spoke:
"Perhaps I should leave you here, senor. You have important business to attend to, with your friends,
while I -"
"No no," interrupted Durez sharply. "You come with us, capitan. You are to be our guest, and we shall
remember you in that so important business."
"But we are no longer in Centralba -"
"Exactly! We are safer here than there. You come with us, capitan, to the Hotel Equator, where we have
one fine room reserved for you. We talk business with the bankers, and afterward -"
Margo heard no more. The party was nearing the main doorway leading out to the avenue of royal
palms, where cars awaited them. She saw the cavalcade roar away; it was paced by motorcycle police.
Then came the cars, and finally an armored truck, carrying the precious coffers. By the time another
motorcycle squad had closed behind the speedy caravan, Margo was on her way to a telephone booth.
The afternoon was late. Darkness would soon arrive in the sudden way it did in Miami's clime. As she
called the municipal airport, Margo was hopeful that Cranston's plane had arrived. She learned that it
hadn't, though it was expected any minute. So Margo left a message.
"Tell Mr. Cranston that Miss Lane called," she said. "I'm stopping at the Hotel Equator, in Miami Beach,
and will meet him there."
It happened that Margo wasn't stopping at the Equator. Some of her friends stayed there, and she had
guest privileges, but she considered the rates outlandish, even at times when she had money enough to
afford them. Cranston knew all that, and therefore would understand what her message really meant.
It told that Margo had learned the one thing that wasn't in the newspapers, and probably wouldn't be
made known for a few hours: namely, that Jose Durez and his party were the persons who would actually
be found at the Equator.
There wasn't any reason why Margo shouldn't be there, too. Hurrying from the airport, she took a cab
and managed to get started ahead of the departing sightseers. Her own car was in a parking lot in Miami,
and she was sure that she could get it and drive across the Venetian Way to Miami Beach ahead of
Cranston, even if his plane happened to land shortly at the municipal airport.
Perhaps, Margo felt, she might learn even more before Cranston arrived!
Margo was still considering that possibility when she transferred to her car at the parking lot. She turned
on the lights because darkness had actually begun to settle. However, by that time, her chances of
learning much more were becoming comparatively slim. A plane had just landed at the municipal airport.
Its pilot was Lamont Cranston.
Margo's message was given to him while his bags were being put into a cab. Cranston stopped the
process; he opened one bag, inside the cab, then closed it. He asked an attendant to keep the bags at the
airport. Then Cranston was in the cab, and away.
The attendant stood watching the departing cab. He'd never seen anyone who impressed him quite like
Cranston. Calm of manner, with an immobile face that had a hawkish expression, Cranston had shown
no signs of hurry, yet had left with surprising speed. The attendant wondered just what Cranston had
taken from the bag.
He'd have known, had not the cab sped away so rapidly on its long trip from the municipal airport over
to Miami Beach. In the rear seat, Lamont Cranston was undergoing a rapid transformation. He was
sliding his arms into a black cloak and clamping a slouch hat on his head. A pair of automatics,
unwrapped from the cloak, went into holsters under his coat.
Amid the thickening darkness, the cab's passenger had vanished, which meant that he had merged with
the gloom within the cab itself, for he was still there. A laugh, too low to be heard by the driver, came
whispered from unseen lips.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. CRIME PREARRANGED
SEATED by an unlighted window in the exclusive Hotel Equator, a bulky man with hard eyes and square
jaw was watching the procession that arrived outside. The bulky man was Murk Wessel, ace of con
men, and quite as much a leader as was Jose Durez, head of the recent opposition faction in Centralba.
Murk had stooges, too; a pair of them, right here in the room with him. There were more planted
throughout the hotel, guised as bellboys and servants. When Murk Wessel went after anything, he did it
in a big way. When he went after something as big as ten million dollars, he did it in a still bigger way.
The same cars that left the Clipper base were in the procession that arrived at the Hotel Equator, even to
the armored truck. The police, however, were wearing blue, and there were less of them. They
represented the Force of Miami Beach, and they had taken over duty from the Miami police at a halfway
point on the causeway across Biscayne Bay.
Murk watched Durez alight and gained a good look at him, because the hotel entrance caught the glow
from a brightly illuminated swimming pool beyond a hedge. The pool lay toward the beach, where rows
of cabanas awaited bathers, whether they chose pool or surf. For the ocean came next, and across it, an
early moon was promising one of the beautiful nights that made the Miamis famous.
Pool, ocean, and moon meant nothing to Murk. He watched the armored truck pull into the garage at the
rear of the hotel, until its contents had been removed. He counted the police who carried the coffers
inside, and decided there were too many of them - for the present.
From the window, Murk noted two men who looked like bankers, and were. They went upstairs with
the Durez party, and so did two others, who couldn't have been mistaken for anything other than private
detectives.
Waiting patiently, Murk counted the police who came out. He accounted for all of the escort except two.
The fact that some of the cops remained around outside, didn't trouble Murk in the least.
"Ten minutes more," said Murk to the men who waited with him. "Pass the word along to the boys and
we'll all be set. Time the garage job right to the minute we pull ours upstairs."
One of the lieutenants spoke.
"What about the private dicks, Murk?"
"They're fixed," returned Murk. "They know what they're supposed to do. They've got it easy."
"I don't trust them guys," put in Murk's other lieutenant. "The way I figure it, a guy wouldn't be in their
racket unless he was a double-crosser to start with."
"Which means they'll sell for the biggest price," assured Murk, "and nobody's able to talk bigger dough
than I am. Not when I'm figuring on taking over ten million bucks!"
The very size of the amount brought cautious whispers from the lieutenants as they started from the room.
Murk told them to quit acting foolish; that this job was just the same as any other. He added that it would
"go the limit," which was the only difference, but that the size of the prize made it worth it, to which the
other men agreed.
They went their way, and Murk struck a match to study his watch; used the flame to light a cigarette.
OUTSIDE the hotel, a trim roadster with lowered top pulled up beside the hedge. Its driver was an
attractive girl whose looks brought approving stares from the police, though their sense of duty prevailed.
One cop sauntered over. Rather pleasantly, he inquired:
"You're a guest here?"
"Why, no," the girl began to explain. "Only -"
"Sorry, then. You'll have to move along. Nobody but guests allowed to stop here, right now. Strict
orders."
"But I have a privilege card."
The girl showed the card, and the officer read it. He checked her driver's license, to make sure that she
was Margo Lane, whose name appeared on both cards.
Margo watched him read the back of the privilege card, which stated that it applied to use of beach and
swimming pool. She reached for an overnight bag behind the driver's seat, and opened it as the
policeman raised his head.
"I'm going for a swim in the pool," said Margo. "I've brought my bathing things along. See?"
The officer saw. He compared Margo's proportions with those of the bathing suit, and nodded.
"All right," he said. "But I'll be watching to make sure you take that swim."
Margo was fuming as she went through the lobby of the Equator and out by the front veranda, to a
cabana. He'd be watching, that cop would. What he needed was a transfer to beach duty, so he could
see all the bathing beauties he wanted. Right now, he was counting upon Margo as the sole attraction in
that line, which meant he'd have an eye on the pool.
It didn't fit with Margo's plans at all. She hadn't intended to change to bathing attire, let alone be under
surveillance. Her chances of learning anything more about the Durez crowd had gone absolutely nil, and
any opportunity to meet up with Cranston would be very slight, since he probably wouldn't come
anywhere near the swimming pool.
She was balking at the whole idea when she reached the cabana, until she convinced herself that a half
hour in a swimming pool would be better than a night in jail. Stalling a cop whose mind was made up
could prove bad policy.
So Margo decided to hurry through with the swim. She got out of her clothes and into the bathing suit as
fast as she could. She put on a pair of bathing slippers, threw a light robe across her arm, and came from
the cabana carrying a bathing cap. She strolled past the hedge, to make sure that the cop was still there.
He was, lounging by the largest space that he could find.
Reaching the deep end of the pool, Margo sat down on a marble bench, laid the robe aside, and
nonchalantly began to adjust her bathing cap. As she did, she looked up and saw above the hedge. Her
gaze was riveted by third-floor windows at the rear of the hotel, above an extension which formed a
garage.
Those windows were lighted, and through one of them Margo saw Colonel Jose Durez in ardent
conversation with a portly American who looked like a banker. Other faces passed the next window and
Margo recognized members of the Durez party. She'd located the suite where they were staying, and had
also learned that their business, as mentioned by Durez, had begun!
MARGO found a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her robe and lighted one since she could no longer
stall with the bathing cap. Her idea, now, was to linger, not to hurry, and she found plenty of chances to
glance up toward those windows. She calculated that the suite went the whole width of the hotel,
because the rear wing was comparatively narrow.
She saw the edge of a balcony, jutting at the rear, and remembered that it went the whole width, which
supported her conclusion. Moreover, she was wondering why she didn't see Colin Nayre. He wasn't
among those who moved about, so she surmised that he was in another room.
Durez and his friends were drinking Cuba Libres as a preliminary to business. From their slow sips at the
long glasses, they weren't in any hurry.
Margo was just about deciding on a swim, when the glare of headlights cut through the hedge, illuminating
the green brush and the officer beyond it. Margo saw other police come dashing up, as the lone cop
called to them. She hurried over to the hedge.
The lights were from a taxicab, and police were arguing with the driver. They wanted to know why he'd
come here, and what his hurry was. He was stuttering something about a passenger for the Equator,
when one of the officers yanked open the door and said:
"Oh, yeah?"
The others looked in the back. The cab was empty. They didn't appear surprised, but the driver was. He
couldn't remember where his passenger had dropped off, and he argued that he hadn't been paid.
That point struck home to Margo. She knew The Shadow's way of dropping out of cabs; but usually he
fluttered a bill into the front seat, to cover his fare, with a healthy tip besides.
This new wrinkle would only mean that The Shadow hoped to hold the cab for later use!
The plan, at least, was working, for police had ordered the cabby to park over near the back of the
garage. The cop who guarded the hedge was returning, so Margo had to scamper back to her bench. As
she reached it, she took a quick look over her shoulder and caught a chance glimpse of something that
stirred her even more.
A figure was scaling the wall of the garage. It had just rolled to the roof, away from view of the police.
The shape appeared again, below the third-floor balcony, and prepared for a farther climb.
A faint breeze stirred past the white coquina wall, and Margo saw a slight flutter of blackness that
represented the folds of a cloak.
The climber was The Shadow!
Boldly, almost openly, he was trying to reach the darkness of the balcony above, but to manage it, he
would have to swing outward, into plain sight, should anyone else stare upward. The police by the cab
might miss sight of him; they were close to the wall and still talking to the driver. But Margo's friend by
the hedge had a perfect angle from which he could spot The Shadow. Margo's own stare up to the
balcony certainly wasn't helping matters. If she kept it up a few moments longer, the cop would probably
wonder what she was looking at.
The one thing to do was get her mind off The Shadow, and carry the officer's attention, too. So Margo
tossed away the cigarette, kicked off her slippers, and tightened the bathing cap.
She walked to the springboard, stepped to the far end of it and poised, preparing for a swan dive. Her
eyes raised and automatically she saw the lighted windows, where Durez and his friends were entertaining
their guests. She even caught the sound of their rising voices.
Then!
Margo never took the swan dive. She was frozen where she was by the sudden thing that occurred in the
rooms above. Light and gaiety ended together. With a single blink, the windows were blotted with an
absolute darkness that seemed, by its very pall, to smother the babble which ceased as the blackness
came!
With that blot that foretold immediate crime, Margo lost her last chance to spot The Shadow, as he
swung out to pull himself up over the balcony rail!
CHAPTER III. DEATH GOES RAMPANT
THE last moment of light in the third-floor suite showed a scene that could not be viewed from below -
one which presaged the horror that was to be when the illumination ended.
On tables and chairs in the center of the room were the coffers that had come from the armored truck,
open for inspection by the bankers. The smaller coffers were by far the heavier, for they contained gold,
in coin. Gold from the treasury of Centralba, stored up through years: governmental proceeds from such
commodities as oil, bananas, and mahogany.
The former president, Francisco Peridor, who still called Centralba by its old name, had done well for his
people. All the results of his economics had reached the hands of Luis Castenago, the present dictator.
These funds in gold, plus the American currency that swelled from the larger chests, were payment from
Castenago to Durez, and others, who had fattened on private concessions, now the dictator's property.
But Durez and the rest were more than satisfied, as their laughter told. Their mirth had simply increased
when they saw the two American bankers stare in awe at so much wealth, particularly the gold.
Then the scene of pelf was vanished in a trice! Not even the gold could glitter in the blackness that came
when the lights went off. The blackout could mean but one thing: a threat that produced absolute silence.
Someone was after the spoils that Castenago had yielded!
In the pitch-darkness, men trembled. Durez and his associates, fresh from a land where death could
occur at the mere snap of a dictator's fingers, had thought themselves safe in this healthier clime where
law had prevailed.
True, they had heard that criminals could strike in such cities as Miami, or the Beach, but they had been
jesting on that very point when they mentioned the terrorism that prevailed in Centralba.
Jests were over. The menace was here.
A voice spoke from the doorway. Its rasp was crimeland's edition of a dictator's harsh demands. The
tone belonged to Murk Wessel, big con man, who had switched from his more subtle specialty to
outright banditry because of the profits involved.
"Anybody that moves gets croaked!" assured Murk. "That dough is going out of here, and nobody stops
it! Savvy?"
This wasn't like Centralba, where the military police stepped up in daylight and marched their victims off
to prison, with the promise of a mock trial that would mean a firing squad at dawn.
Here, things happened in the darkness, where accusers didn't even show their faces. Men of crime didn't
believe in trials, even of the mock variety. Death's promise was immediate.
The stir that followed made all hearers shudder, thinking that some of their fellows had foolishly moved.
But the motion came from Murk's confederates. They were groping for the coffers, and they reached
them. There were slams as the lids went shut. Lugging their burdens, the crooks started out.
Even then, Murk's raspy tone was adding reminders. There was no telling how many more of his tribe
stood present. Durez and his comrades still trembled, as did the bankers. Each felt sure that a gun had
been trained upon him just as the lights vanished, and that its muzzle still threatened death.
TWO men in the room were steady. They were two members of the Beach police force, the pair that
Murk hadn't seen go out. They weren't budging for the present, because the time wasn't quite right.
They wanted to get at the crooks when the exodus started, so they were gauging their wait for Murk's
voice. It wouldn't do to start shooting while helpless men were involved. Besides, the police felt they
could count on support.
They were thinking of the private dicks who had come with the bankers. They didn't guess that those two
supporters had already sold out to Murk, and had guns ready, not for the crooks, but for the police
themselves. This was a set-up made to crime's order, and it went even deeper.
Murk revealed its depths when he spoke again.
"Some light out there in the hall," he ordered. The light came, enough to show guns but not faces, for
Murk and the two men with him had their backs to the wall. "Now, let's look this over. Good!" Murk
turned, very slightly, muffling his face. "Come in, the rest of you. You're needed."
It wasn't a bluff. Two men eased in from the hallway, along which the precious coffers had departed.
They were experienced gunzels, these, for their crouch, the handling of their revolvers, proved it. If Murk
had shouted his intention, it couldn't have been more plain. He was doing things as they weren't done
even in Centralba.
Murk intended to follow up his gigantic robbery with an absolute massacre!
It drilled home to Durez and his compatriots. It even gripped the trembling bankers. Most of all, it stirred
the two local officers. Quickly, their hands went to their guns. They hadn't any idea that they were slated
to be shot in the back; that their own actions would be the signal for a complete slaughter.
That was recognized by only one person opposed to crime, and his response was singular.
He laughed.
Strange that a laugh should have changed the case entirely, but that was because the laugh itself was
strange. It came as a mocking challenge to all men of evil; a taunt that they recognized as a threat of
doom to themselves.
Sinister was that mirth from the doorway to the open balcony, where its author was visible only as a
wavering shape against the slight moonlight reflected into the room.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
Murk's rasp was the lead tone in a chorus of snarls as crooks, one and all, wheeled toward the spot
where The Shadow had entered. Even the traitorous private detectives betrayed their hands. They swung
from the officers they covered and aimed for the balcony, too.
Guns volleyed with a thunder that rattled the windows, blasting straight toward the weaving target that the
killers saw. Blackness swayed, but remained.
Again, The Shadow laughed!
The phenomenon produced a panic. Crooks were springing about, madly seeking the door, prepared to
bowl Murk Wessel from their path. The Shadow could have picked them off with rapid shots, right then,
if the two police officers hadn't flung themselves into the tide.
Durez and his comrades, revolutionists by choice, were flinging themselves forward, too. Yet The
Shadow could have overcome those handicaps. The real trouble came from another source.
A door slashed open, throwing a flood of light into the room. It was a connecting door, and the man who
flung it wide was Colin Nayre, the only person absent from the conference.
THAT path of glow across the room showed the target that Murk's crew had riddled, but hadn't hurt.
The thing was a hanging curtain at the balcony door. In entering, The Shadow had drawn it out so that
the wind could stir it. He had been moving from the doorway when he laughed.
At present, The Shadow lacked his former advantage. Nayre's opening of the connecting door caught the
cloaked fighter in the worst possible position. The Shadow was dodging across the room, hoping to
outflank crooks before they reached the hallway.
Murk's harsh shout was scarcely necessary, for the rest saw The Shadow, too. Madly, they aimed for
him as he wheeled back from the light.
The Shadow was gone, but guns were ripping, cutting a wide swath through the only area where he could
be, shots aimed from three to six feet from the floor, sure to catch a whirling target, wherever he might
be.
The throats of guns had shouted crimedom's cry, with bullets to back it:
Death to The Shadow!
CHAPTER IV. WAYS OF FLIGHT
THIS time, there was no responding laugh as the echoes of the volley faded. Instead, the bursts of guns
were everywhere.
The two policemen, relieved of the traitors who threatened them, were springing upon the crooks,
shooting as they came. They were yelling for others to get clear, and the bankers were heeding their
advice.
Durez and his compatriots were not. They were thinking of their gold, and forgetting something else:
namely, that Murk had given the order for their death. Grabbing for guns, the Centralbans were getting
them from the muzzle end, with bullets as stingers.
An odd thing was happening deep in the room. The two private-detective traitors had turned and were
looking at a figure on the floor. It should have been dead, but it wasn't. The Shadow was coming up,
alive, and they knew why. He hadn't whirled away; he had taken a headlong dive, ahead of the barrage!
Rolling on the floor, The Shadow had been below the range of bullets. He'd flung himself right out of the
battle because there had been no other way, but in a few seconds more he would be back in it, unless
these two prevented him. Maybe they had thoughts of a bonus, as they aimed for The Shadow. Extra
pay for treachery that they were never to collect.
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：78 页 大小：197.26KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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