Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 229 - Gems of Jeopardy

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GEMS OF JEOPARDY
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," September 1, 1941.
Somewhere along the Atlantic coast, crime was brewing - a ten million
dollar crime! - a crime The Shadow had to stop, but couldn't!
CHAPTER I
THE STATEN ISLAND FERRY
THE man on the Staten Island ferryboat didn't seem to mind the rain. He
was the only passenger who had ventured out into the windswept darkness of the
open deck.
He watched the lights of the ferryhouse at the Battery swing closer. His
coat collar was turned up. The brim of his felt hat was pulled low over his
eyes. The rain made this muffling of his face seem perfectly natural.
But the man had a more sinister reason for his caution. He had quitted
the
warm, lighted cabin of the ferry because he didn't want people noticing his
face.
The ferry ride was only the last lap of a grim journey. A private plane,
which he had piloted skillfully, had flown the man northward to Staten Island
from a desolate spot on the Atlantic coast.
He was a criminal, engaged in a desperate game.
When the boat docked, he was the first passenger to emerge from the
ferryhouse. His goal was not far from this Battery landing place.
He ignored a hopeful taxicab driver. He scowled at a frowzy sandwich man
who lurched closer and handed him a cheap advertising circular. It was a
throwaway advertising a Battery cafeteria. The man shoved the cheap circular
into his pocket and elbowed the bum aside.
"Don't bother me!"
There was a faint accent in his voice. It suggested that his origin might
be from one of the small Balkan countries of southeastern Europe. But the
accent was not too noticeable. The man had been in America for a long time.
But the man with the muffled face had no intention of quitting the
neighborhood of Battery Park. A few minutes' brisk walk took him to Bowling
Green. He was at the north end of the Battery now, close to the customhouse.
The sight of the customhouse made him grin. So did the black, rainy
appearance of State Street. The wet drizzle had cleared the pavement of
pedestrians.
The man with the muffled face walked quietly along, keeping close to the
dark fronts of the buildings. They were all pretty dilapidated after the man
had turned a corner. The building where he finally halted seemed the worst of
the lot.
He ducked into a cellar entry and fished for a key. The next instant, he
gasped. His hand dropped the key and clutched for a hidden gun.
A figure was plunging silently down the basement steps to attack him!
The muzzle of a pistol jammed hard into the stealthy visitors stomach.
His
hand was caught in a tight grip. He was thrust so hard against the stone
coping
of the basement doorway that his hat flew off.
The assailant was able to see his victim's face. He gave a short, nervous
laugh, stepped back, and put away his gun.
It was a queer ending to so murderous an attack. The man from the ferry
was chuckling, too. He and his assailant shook hands.
"I'm sorry, Boris," the assailant said. "One has to be careful."
"You are right, Ivan. One, indeed, has to be very careful."
"Is everything -"
"Everything is O.K.," Boris said quietly. "No one followed me from the
ferry. Of that, I am sure."
The two partners entered the basement. They ascended from the cellar into
what was obviously an empty house. There wasn't even a chair in the upper room
where they finally halted.
But there were two things about that room that drew an approving glance
from Boris. One was a metal door set in the face of the wall. It looked like
the door to a large vault of some kind. The other thing was a map of the
United
States tacked on the opposite wall.
Boris chuckled. He walked over to the map and scrawled a small cross on
it
with a pencil. He made the cross at a desolate spot on the coastline of New
Jersey.
"The small boat will land right here," he told Ivan. "The fishing
schooner
will lay off-shore in rain and darkness. Trucks will be waiting on the road
near
the swamp. The Colonel -"
MENTION of that last word made Boris' lips quiver. Ivan looked
frightened,
too. The Colonel was evidently someone whose name inspired fear. Ivan and
Boris
had cause to be worried. For tonight they intended to rob - and to murder -
this dangerous foe they called the Colonel!
Boris licked his lips nervously, said:
"The Colonel and Princess Zena will bring the stuff ashore in twelve
wooden boxes. Mr. X -"
Again the two crooks glanced at each other. This time, they smiled. Mr. X
was their boss, their brains, their guarantee against disaster.
"- Mr. X is all ready to highjack those twelve wooden boxes. A pleasant
thought, no? Approximately ten million dollars of loot - to be split three
ways! All that remains is to take care of John Selby."
"You're going to lure John Selby here?" Ivan growled.
"Yes."
They shook hands. Boris left the house by a rear exit. There was a car
waiting in an alley. He drove it quickly uptown.
John Selby was an investment broker. His reputation and his business
standing were excellent. But sometimes he handled highly confidential matters.
John Selby was the secret financial agent in America for the man whom Boris
had
called the Colonel.
The Colonel's name had been in the international news many times. He was
an army chieftain in a Balkan country. He had organized a ruthless following
of
Green Shirts, with them had systematically terrorized and looted his country.
He
had dropped out of sight a month or two ago. Some said he was dead.
Only John Selby was aware of the truth. The Colonel and Princess Zena,
his
wife, were coming to America, tonight, with a staggering fortune in twelve
wooden boxes!
There were even uglier developments that John Selby was unaware of. That
was why his mouth was to be closed forever tonight.
Boris drove slyly through the fashionable block in the East Sixties where
Selby lived. He noticed that Selby's car was parked across the street from his
massive residence. It was exactly the set-up that Boris wanted. He drove
around
the block. After parking, he rang a bell at the rear entrance of the mansion.
He was promptly admitted by John Selby himself.
Selby had no suspicion of treachery. He thought that Boris was an agent
in
the confidence of the Colonel. He was easily fooled by this cunning henchman
of
the unknown Mr. X.
Boris pretended fright. He persuaded John Selby that it was necessary to
transfer at once to a safer spot certain confidential papers relating to the
Colonel.
Boris' eyes gleamed as he watched Selby remove the documents from his
study safe and place them in a briefcase. His hand dropped into his pocket to
caress the butt of a hidden gun. Then Boris scowled. He felt the crumpled
restaurant circular that a bum had handed him at the ferry entrance.
Boris dropped the circular into Selby's wastebasket.
A moment later, the two men left the mansion. At Boris' suggestion, they
left by the rear door to avoid being seen by possible enemies. Boris drove his
victim back to the house near Battery Park.
There was no sign of Ivan when they entered. John Selby was surprised to
find himself led to a shabby room in an empty house.
"Isn't this a poor sort of place to keep valuable papers?" he murmured.
"Not at all," Boris replied smoothly. "It's perfect for our purposes."
He gestured toward the metal door opposite the map on the wall.
"Wait'll you examine the inside of that vault."
The door seemed to be massive steel. Actually it was faced with sheet
metal. There was a combination dial on it. Boris began to twist the dial with
slow care.
His action was completely phony. The dial had nothing to do with any
tumblers or locks on the inside. The sheet-metal door was protected by nothing
more formidable than a spring lock. The lock had been already released from
the
inside.
Boris swung the door open.
John Selby stared, then uttered a terrified cry. He was looking into the
darkness of what seemed to be a small bare room. In that darkness a murderous
face glared. It was the face of Ivan, the partner in crime of the sleek Boris.
SELBY'S cry was the last sound he uttered on earth. He was given a
vicious
shove by Boris. It sent him lurching into the tiny room. The door slammed. Not
a
murmur came from within. The chamber was completely soundproof.
Presently, Ivan opened the "vault" door from the inside. His eyes were
wide with triumph. He dragged out the corpse of John Selby.
Selby's neck was broken.
Ivan was a specialist in such matters. He had left not so much as a
bruise
or a fingerprint. He seemed proud of his vicious skill as he grinned at Boris
and said:
"The rest is up to you. Are you all set to fake a hit-and-run accident?"
Boris nodded.
"Selby's car is parked across the street from his residence. No one saw
him arrive. No one saw him leave by the rear entrance. Police will think that
Selby was hit as he crossed the street to get into his own parked car."
"They'll be doubly sure a car hit him, when they examine this fool's
broken neck," Ivan boasted.
"We can shake hands on that," Boris said.
He held out his hand and Ivan gripped it. Then, suddenly, Ivan gave a
startled yell. His smiling partner had pulled him quickly forward on his toes.
Yanked off balance, Ivan was easily twisted around.
A knife plunged into his back. The long blade was driven up to the hilt.
Its point penetrated Ivan's heart!
Boris uttered a cold laugh. He lowered his dead pal to the floor. He let
him lie face downward. The wound between Ivan's shoulder blades didn't bleed
profusely. The knife blade had been long and very narrow.
Boris darted to a rear window, lifted and lowered the shade twice. Then
he
waited to be congratulated for his treachery.
He didn't have to wait long. Steps sounded on the creaky stairs. A figure
glided swiftly into the room.
He was masked. He wore dark clothing. Everything about him seemed dark
except his eyes. They glowed like hot yellow coals from behind the slitted
mask.
"Very nice, Boris," the masked man said in a squeaky voice.
Boris grinned with twisted pride at the quiet praise of Mr. X.
"It's exactly as you wanted, no?"
"Not quite," Mr. X replied.
He turned toward the wall of the room. The map of the United States drew
his interest. On its coast line was the mark which Boris had made.
"Is this the place where the Colonel and Princess Zena will land?"
"Yes," Boris replied.
The masked man tore off the edge of the map. The part he tore away
contained the whole eastern shore line of the United States. Mr. X crumpled
the
torn strip and stowed it in his pocket.
"Where's Selby's briefcase?"
"In the soundproof room where Ivan strangled him."
"Get it. It must be destroyed."
Boris opened the fake "vault" door. He was still grinning when Mr. X gave
him a violent push. Mr. X sprang after his agent and slammed the door.
In the soundproof chamber a gun spat vengeful flame. The roar of the gun
was confined to the murder room. Not a single echo issued through the closed
door to alarm anyone in the neighborhood.
Then the door opened. Mr. X dragged out the corpse of Boris. He spoke
with
squeaky sarcasm to the dead ears of his victim.
"A dose of your own medicine, my friend! A moment ago I said, 'Not quite'
when you informed me everything had been done according to my wishes. I still
say, 'Not quite!'"
MR. X lugged the body of Boris down the stairs in the direction of the
cellar. Then he came back and get Ivan's body. He didn't touch the corpse of
John Selby. But he took Selby's briefcase away after he had made a swift,
interested appraisal of its contents.
From the cellar came clanging sounds. The heat in the empty room where
John Selby lay began to increase perceptibly.
Then Mr. X reappeared.
He was ready now to take care of Selby. But he didn't carry the corpse to
the cellar. Mr. X and his grisly burden moved stealthily out a back door to
the
darkness of an alley.
A car was parked close to the alley's exit. It wasn't the car Boris used.
This was a custom-built automobile that looked as if it had cost plenty. Mr. X
slid Selby's body in the back and covered it with a lap robe.
The car turned into the cobbled expanse of a narrow street. Rain made a
haze around the few street lamps. Not a single pedestrian was in sight.
The masked man drove slowly, until he approached the customhouse. He
swung
left to turn into the beginning of lower Broadway. Then he did a seemingly
imprudent thing.
He removed his mask.
An unexpectedly pleasant face was disclosed. Mr. X had sandy hair, mild
blue eyes, a clean-shaven, smiling mouth. He didn't seem worried about the
corpse with the broken neck that lay covered up in the rear.
Mr. X drove swiftly uptown.
When he passed Times Square, he ran into considerable more traffic. It
was
the dinner hour and restaurants were thronged. People jammed the sidewalks.
Mr.
X didn't seem to mind the risk he was taking in transporting a murder victim
through this noisy tangle of taxicabs and neon lights and traffic cops.
Mr. X halted at a red light. A cop stared, then walked promptly toward
the
car. For a moment, Mr. X's smile quivered - but only for a moment.
"Hello, Rafferty," he said. "Nasty night, eh?"
The policeman nodded. He touched his cap in a respectful salute. A moment
later, the traffic light changed to green. A taxicab started to cut in front
of
the custom sedan of Mr. X. But the cop didn't let it get very far. He blew his
whistle grimly and waved the offending hackman back.
"Go ahead, Mr. Linton," he said. "Good night, sir!"
"Good night, Rafferty."
Mr. X - or Mr. Linton - resumed his uptown trip. A few blocks onward, he
swung east and headed up Madison Avenue.
His goal was a quiet block in the Sixties, where the residence of John
Selby was located.
CHAPTER II
MR. JEROME LINTON
THE SHADOW was enjoying a good dinner in the company of a pretty
dark-haired girl. The presence of The Shadow in this exclusive restaurant
excited no attention. He was using his role of Lamont Cranston, socially
prominent man about town.
The girl was Margo Lane.
Margo and Cranston chatted pleasantly over their dessert and coffee. But
one topic was never mentioned. Margo was aware that Lamont Cranston was an
identity of The Shadow. But there was an unspoken pact between them never to
allude to this.
Margo wondered whether The Shadow's dinner invitation tonight had any
special purpose.
"How would you like to spend a short time this evening at the home of
John
Selby?" Cranston asked Margo.
"You mean the investment banker?"
"Yes. I have a small financial matter to discuss with him."
Margo made a bored face. "I'm not sure, Lamont. It sounds dull."
"Selby has some magnificent paintings in that stuffy old mansion of his.
I
think you'd enjoy seeing them."
Margo hesitated a moment, then nodded agreement. Cranston summoned a
waiter and had a portable telephone brought to his table. As soon as it was
plugged in, he called the Selby residence.
To his surprise, the phone bell at the other end kept ringing
monotonously. No one answered it.
There was an odd glint in Cranston's eye as he turned toward Margo.
"Queer," he said. "Selby isn't at home."
"Perhaps he made a previous appointment, Lamont. He may not have known
that you planned to visit him."
"No. Selby expected me. And he's a very punctual man. I don't know anyone
in New York who's more reliable in that respect than John Selby."
"He may be on his way home now," Margo suggested.
"It's possible. Suppose we go and see."
His remark was casually uttered. But Margo rose at once. A few minutes
later she was in Cranston's car, being driven swiftly toward the Selby home.
They halted in a quiet block among the East Sixties. Margo didn't notice
another parked car across the street until she saw Cranston's gaze. Then she
uttered a low exclamation.
"How peculiar! If Selby's car was there all evening, why didn't he answer
your telephone ring? If Selby has just returned, why is his home now in total
darkness?"
These were questions The Shadow had already considered. But he allowed
Margo to present them as if they were new.
He did a couple of things that puzzled Margo. He left his key in the
ignition. He didn't lock his car. From a compartment under the rear seat he
took a large briefcase.
Then he escorted Margo across the black, rainy sidewalk and up a small
flight of stone steps to the vestibule of Selby's home.
Cranston rang the doorbell. He waited, then rang it again. There was no
answer.
"Surely Rodman ought to be here," Margo said.
Rodman was Selby's butler. To Margo, this ignoring of the doorbell by
Rodman suggested trouble within. She was not surprised when Lamont Cranston
uttered a quiet order.
"Wait here! Keep out of sight from the sidewalk. In a few minutes, I'll
open the door from the inside. Before I do so I'll tap three times on the
inner
panel." His voice hardened. "If the door should open suddenly without a signal
-
use this!"
He passed a gun to Margo. It was a small weapon, not the usual .45
carried
by The Shadow. Margo slipped it into her muff.
Cranston went quietly down the stone stoop to the dark sidewalk. Turning,
he faded into a tradesmen's alleyway alongside the mansion.
The moment Cranston was out of sight from the street, a quick
transformation took place. When he straightened, he was practically invisible.
Only his face made a pale gleam. A slouch hat shielded the grim blaze of his
eyes. A black cloak muffled his body from mouth to toe.
The Shadow was ready to take a hand! He began to glide noiselessly along
the alley.
MARGO waited inside the blackness of the front vestibule. Presently, she
heard an ominous sound. It came from the street, not from the house.
Down at the corner of Madison Avenue an automobile was racing up the
block
at what seemed to be a dangerous rate of speed. The roar of the motor was
followed by a sound equally startling. Brakes squealed as they were suddenly
applied.
A sedan skidded abruptly to a halt. It stopped outside the home of John
Selby. A man sprang from it.
He glanced toward the house, but Margo was invisible in the black
vestibule. The man whirled toward the rear door of the sedan.
The turn of his face revealed his identity to Margo. She recognized both
the driver and the custom-built car. The man was Jerome Linton, well known in
business and society. Like Lamont Cranston, he was a familiar figure at
important social events.
The next instant, Margo repressed a gasp of horror.
Linton had wrenched open the rear door of his car. He flung aside a lap
robe and dragged out a limp body. With a single convulsive heave, Linton
hurled
the body across the rain-drenched asphalt. It struck the curb and lay there
motionless.
Margo saw the dead man's face. It was John Selby!
The whole brutal thing was done with appalling swiftness. Before Margo
could jerk her small gun from inside her muff, Linton was back in his sedan
and
racing away.
Linton's swift flight roused Margo to action. She sped down the front
steps of the Selby home. She was fiercely glad that Lamont Cranston had left
his car key in the ignition lock. In an instant she was under way, her
strained
eyes noting that the fugitive had headed toward Fifth Avenue.
Through the darkness on the sidewalk a deeper patch of blackness moved.
Margo was unaware of it until she felt the jar of feet leaping to the running
board. A hand wrenched open the door, a cloaked figure slid into the seat
alongside Margo.
The Shadow.
"Report!" It was a curt-lipped command.
Margo complied quickly as her car raced toward the corner. It was
dangerous to take the turn at high speed, but Margo was a clever driver. She
allowed the car's skid to help her make that almost instantaneous turn.
She was pressing her slippered foot harder on the gas pedal, when The
Shadow restrained her. The Shadow had noticed something not yet apparent to
the
excited Margo.
The fugitive car several blocks ahead had slowed its pace. It was
proceeding now at a speed well within the legal limit. The amazing boldness of
the maneuver brought a cold whisper of mirth from the tight lips of The
Shadow.
He lipped another order. Margo squirmed deftly aside, keeping one hand on
the wheel. The Shadow took her place.
It was just in time. Linton's sedan had made another deft turn. It was
headed eastward on one of the side streets near the northern end of Central
Park. The Shadow crowded on speed. He reached the corner in time to observe
where Linton's car was going.
The fugitive sedan was turning into the open entrance of a garage.
Margo nodded as The Shadow's lips moved. She opened the door and leaped
deftly to the wet pavement. She moved close to the building line and vanished
in a doorway.
Freed of her presence, The Shadow stepped on the gas. Danger lay ahead.
The presence of Margo might have complicated his task.
He was outside the entrance to the garage, only a minute after Linton's
car had vanished inside. He planned to request some gas and oil. He was
slouched well down behind the wheel.
A garage employee had raced to the doorway as soon as Linton's car had
sped within. The employee was swiftly lowering the huge metal door.
"Sorry, mister," he growled. "We're closing up for the night."
Then his mouth opened with a gasp of terror. He had seen blazing eyes and
a beaked nose under the black slouch hat. He caught a frightened glimpse of
the
cloak, the gloved hands on the wheel of the sedan.
"The Shadow!" he screamed.
The next instant, the heavy barrier crashed downward. It was locked on
the
inside.
But The Shadow had seen enough. Through that dwindling door space as the
steel barrier dropped, The Shadow had caught a glimpse of the fugitive car.
It was racing out a rear exit of the garage.
THE SHADOW drove at top speed around the block. But a taxi got in his
way.
He was forced to swerve and cut speed. By the time he reached the rear street,
there was no sign of the fleeing sedan. As he sped past the rear exit of the
garage, The Shadow laughed harshly. The exit was now sealed as tightly as the
front entrance.
A moment later, Margo Lane saw Lamont Cranston's car slide to a halt near
the doorway where she waited. She sprang inside. She showed no surprise when
she saw that the man behind the wheel was no longer The Shadow but the
well-dressed Lamont Cranston.
Cranston spoke as casually as if he had met Margo for the first time this
evening.
"Not much traffic tonight," he said. "A good time to test out my car's
speed, It might be an amusing idea to drop in on my old friend, Jerome Linton,
and say hello."
Margo made some banal comment. But inwardly her heart was thudding. She
realized that Linton had eluded The Shadow temporarily. He was heading for his
home at breakneck speed. The Shadow hoped to beat him there.
Linton's home was in the Inwood section near the upper tip of Manhattan.
Margo had been there several times. It was quite an estate, one of the few
left
in Manhattan, with wooded grounds, a riding stable, tennis courts and the
like.
Cranston drove with daring skill. Margo could tell from his taut smile
that he was certain he would win this strange race through the night.
The Shadow spoke in Lamont Cranston's bland tones when Linton's butler
opened the door.
"Good evening, Baxter. Miss Lane and I are on our way to town from
Westchester. We thought it would be jolly to drop in."
"Quite so. Good evening, Miss Lane." Baxter seemed to hesitate. He looked
slightly ill at ease. "Mr. Linton is having a dinner party. I... wondered if
you wished to disturb him."
Lamont Cranston smiled.
"I'm sure he won't mind. Come on, Margo. We'll just say hello and be on
our way."
He stepped swiftly to the big, dining-room doors and threw them open.
If The Shadow expected to see the dining room empty, he was rudely
surprised. Three couples and host were seated around an enormous table,
enjoying coffee and liqueurs after what had apparently been a lengthy and
satisfying meal.
The Shadow's eyes studied Linton's guests. They were all wealthy,
respectable, above reproach.
At the head of the table, nodding genially to Lamont Cranston and Margo,
was Jerome Linton himself!
"Nice to see you both. Won't you have some coffee and liqueurs? Sorry you
didn't arrive about two hours ago. I could have set extra places for you if I
had known you were coming."
The remark of one of Linton's guests corroborated his statement about the
length of the meal.
"A very fine dinner," the guest asserted. "Two hours at the table! I like
to take ample time to enjoy good food - eh, Linton?"
It was a complete alibi for the host. Margo glanced at Cranston. His face
was impossible to read.
Smiling, The Shadow excused Margo and himself on the grounds that they
both had appointments downtown.
"See you later," Cranston murmured.
"You better make it tomorrow. I'm sailing tomorrow for South America. A
nuisance, eh? But I had a cable from my representative in Brazil, and I've got
to make the trip."
Linton's tone was smooth as he continued.
"I'm throwing a little farewell party in my cabin aboard ship. It would
be
nice to have you and Miss Lane wish me bon voyage. Do you think you can make
it?"
"I'm sure we can."
"Good! Then I'll count on seeing you both before the ship sails."
The well-trained Baxter escorted Cranston and Margo to the door. He
watched the two visitors get into the sedan that waited in the private lane
outside the Linton mansion. Then he bowed and closed the door.
The car didn't start immediately. When it did, Margo was alone in it.
Cranston had utilized the brief delay to step out of the car on the side
hidden
from the house. But not as Lamont Cranston.
A black-cloaked figure melted silently into the screen of bushes that
lined the lane.
Margo, obedient to whispered orders, drove the sedan swiftly away. But
she
slowed as she approached the exit gate of the estate's long, winding lane. She
stopped the car and snapped off all its lights. In the drizzling darkness,
Margo waited.
THE SHADOW was already on the prowl.
Unseen, he skirted the house of Jerome Linton and approached the garage
at
the rear. It was a double garage, with upstairs quarters for Barry, Linton's
chauffeur. The Shadow was eager to discover if the custom-built sedan he had
pursued earlier tonight was now parked in that garage.
The doors were closed and the place locked. But The Shadow experienced no
difficulty about that.
A shining tool took care of the simple bolt arrangement on a side window
of the garage. The lifting sash made no noise. Nor did the feet of The Shadow
as he dropped softly inside the garage.
A pin-point beam of a flashlight darted through the darkness. There were
two cars in the garage. One was a station wagon. The other was the sedan from
which the body of John Selby had been hurled to a rainy pavement outside his
own home.
The Shadow rested a gloved hand on the sedan's hood. He lifted it
quickly.
The engine was still hot!
Faint laughter issued from The Shadow's lips.
Jerome Linton's alibi at dinner began to take on a new significance. The
problem of how Linton could be in two places at the same time suggested an
impersonation of some sort. But The Shadow left that possibility open in his
mind. The fugitive who had escaped The Shadow earlier was diabolically clever.
Was it his desire to make The Shadow think of him in terms of impersonation?
And what about that unexpected sea voyage of Jerome Linton to Brazil?
Suddenly, the thoughts of The Shadow were replaced by silent action. His
gloved finger doused the tiny beam of his exploring flashlight. He sank
noiselessly toward the garage floor, an invisible huddle of blackness in the
dark.
His sharp ears had detected a sound. The sound came from the quarters of
Barry, the chauffeur, who lived upstairs.
The Shadow vanished underneath the sedan whose hot motor he had just
tested with a gloved palm.
Furtive steps began to descend the dark staircase from Barry's apartment.
CHAPTER III
CHALLENGE OF EVIL
HIDDEN beneath the sedan, The Shadow sensed the slow approach of Linton's
chauffeur.
It was a matter of sensing Barry, rather than seeing or hearing him. He
moved with infinite stealth. It was only when he passed close to where The
Shadow lay concealed that The Shadow was able to catch a dim glimpse of the
fellow.
There was a wrench in Barry's hand. He was gripping it tightly, ready to
bash out the brains of anyone he caught in that quiet blackness.
Barry advanced with unerring instinct. He tiptoed straight toward the
garage window which The Shadow had so carefully closed after his entry.
The Shadow wanted to prevent this move. The window was close to the foot
of the dark stairs that led aloft toward Barry's quarters. The Shadow desired
free access to those stairs.
His hand vanished beneath his black cloak. When it emerged, it held a
small coin. Quietly, The Shadow flipped the coin toward the other side of the
garage. It landed with a faint plink.
Barry heard the sound. He thought what The Shadow intended him to think -
that someone on the far side of the sedan had stealthily cocked the hammer of
a
gun.
Barry had plenty of nerve. He waited a moment in utter silence. Then he
advanced again, this time toward the more distant spot where he had heard that
faint sound.
The Shadow was now in motion, too.
Screened from Barry, he slid from beneath the sedan and crawled unseen to
the foot of the stairs. His cloak blended with the blackness. His face was
bent
low, shielded by his hunched shoulders.
On hands and knees, The Shadow ascended the stairs. The door at the top
was slightly ajar. The Shadow crept along a darkened hall and found another
door. Opening it cautiously, he entered a room that dimly lighted by a small
table lamp.
His scrutiny told him at once an interesting fact about the murderous
chauffeur down below in the garage.
Barry was an ex-actor!
Pictures of him were tacked all over the walls of the bedroom. Most of
the
pictures showed Barry in character roles. It was amazing how different his
face
looked in each of those photographs. No two were alike. It would have been
difficult to believe that all these pictured men were Barry himself, except
that his own normal face was hung in the center of the group.
Another clue confirmed Barry's theatrical past.
On a shelf under a night table that stood close to his bed was a large
scrapbook. The Shadow leafed the pages swiftly. In the book were pasted dozens
of clippings. The clippings reported the doings of a Midwest theatrical stock
company in which Barry had played numerous roles.
Again the eyes of The Shadow circled the chauffeur's room. There were two
windows, one on each side. The one on the left was open to admit air. The one
摘要：

GEMSOFJEOPARDYbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"September1,1941.SomewherealongtheAtlanticcoast,crimewasbrewing-atenmilliondollarcrime!-acrimeTheShadowhadtostop,butcouldn't!CHAPTERITHESTATENISLANDFERRYTHEmanontheStatenIslandferryboatdidn'tseemtomindtherain.Hewastheonlypassenger...

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