Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 226 - The Blur

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THE BLUR
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. ODDS ON DEATH
? CHAPTER II. MURDER'S TWILIGHT
? CHAPTER III. BLURRED BATTLE
? CHAPTER IV. TRAIL OF THE BLUR
? CHAPTER V. ONE FROM THREE
? CHAPTER VI. CRIME TO COME
? CHAPTER VII. TWO - NOT OF A KIND
? CHAPTER VIII. FIGHTERS IN THE GLOOM
? CHAPTER IX. CHANCE MURDER
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER XI. TERRY CHANGES SIDES
? CHAPTER XII. NINE O'CLOCK STROKE
? CHAPTER XIII. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIV. THE WAY OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XV. THE BLUR DECIDES
? CHAPTER XVI. CRIME'S HOUR
? CHAPTER XVII. OUT OF THE TRAP
? CHAPTER XVIII. TWO FROM THREE
? CHAPTER XIX. THE FINAL CHALLENGE
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S REWARD
CHAPTER I. ODDS ON DEATH
TERRY RADNOR was down to his last chip.
One chip meant five dollars in the classy Century Casino where Terry was playing roulette. Newest and
most palatial of all the illicit gambling clubs in New York, the Century Casino was no place for pikers, as
Terry was finding out.
Harboring the lone chip, Terry watched the wheel spin. He wasn't taking the ride this trip; he'd had too
many rides. His only way to make up the few hundred dollars that he had lost would be to build up
slowly, taking even chances on the red or black.
The trouble was, Terry couldn't decide which he wanted, red or black; or, for that matter, odd or even
numbers, which the roulette board also offered. He found himself staring at the board, to learn which the
players preferred.
Sight of the board only bewildered him. At least a dozen players were putting larger sums than Terry's
original stake on a single turn of the wheel.
Looking at the players, Terry understood why.
Tex Winthorp, owner of the Century Casino, had been smart when he opened this gambling club deluxe,
in the heart of Manhattan, in defiance of the law. The place had attracted a clientele that was not only
wealthy, but inveterate in its gambling. The faces that Terry saw about him were those of persons to
whom the click of the roulette wheel carried the rhythm of pulse beats.
Here were dead-pan sophisticates, bejeweled dowagers, all strangers to each other; strangers almost to
themselves, as their eyes watched only the gyrations of the roulette ball. They weren't typical New
Yorkers; they were persons who had sojourned abroad, spending and gambling fortunes, until the war
had forced them to return to America.
One thing New York had lacked: the thrill that these expatriates had found at Monte Carlo and other
European gambling resorts. So Tex Winthorp had provided a Monte Carlo in miniature, with all the frills.
He'd seen to it, too, that the people accustomed to such thrills made up the bulk of the patronage.
Terry Radnor, coming to the Century Casino on a chance invitation, had unwisely climbed out of his
proper league. He couldn't stand the pace that these serious gamblers demanded. His losses were bad
enough, but the impressions these people gave him were much worse. They had begun to look like
creatures from another planet, machines timed to the whirl of the roulette wheel.
The croupier was raking in the loser's chips, and paying out to the winners. Still clutching his last token,
Terry stared about, hoping that he'd see at least one face that appeared human. Across the table, he saw
a tall young man with marcelled hair, who was weighing chips with one hand, while he used the other to
raise a lengthy cigarette holder to lips that wore a rather indulgent smile.
The young man shrugged, which was another human symptom, but as Terry caught his eye, the fellow
turned away and strolled in the direction of the faro table, as though preferring to try his luck elsewhere.
The wheel completed another spin. This time, Terry felt he had to bet. He edged forward, his hand
wavering with its last thin chip. Observing that the croupier did not notice him, Terry fisted the chip again
and started to withdraw his hand.
It was then that the voice purred smoothly in Terry's ear; a voice that made him stiffen, despite its oily
tone.
"Play your chip on any number," advised the voice. "Keep watching the wheel, but, meanwhile, listen.
You are going to win, but not at roulette. I'm letting you in on another game, where the odds are sure."
Mechanically, Terry placed his chip on number fifteen just as the wheel was about to spin. Remembering
the injunction to watch the wheel, he kept his eyes fixed in its direction, as he drew back, hoping to hear
the voice again. It came, and with it Terry felt a hand brush lightly against the side of his tuxedo jacket.
"I am putting an envelope in your pocket," undertoned the purring voice. "It is for Tex Winthorp. Take it
to him personally, and tell him that it is important. Wait until he has read the message, then ask him what it
is worth."
Terry waited for more, but there was none. The wheel stopped on number twenty-two, and Terry's last
bet went the way of all his chips. Sliding a hand to his pocket, he felt the envelope crinkle. Turning, he
glanced aside, hoping to see the man who had spoken. He was gone.
ELBOWING against Terry was a middle-aged woman who had just won a two-to-one bet on the first
twelve numbers. She couldn't have had anything to do with the mysterious voice. Gripping the envelope
as earnestly as he had previously clutched the final chip, Terry looked across the glittering casino to the
door of Tex's office. He decided to go there.
On the way, Terry passed the faro table and caught a passing glance from the marcelled man, who was
lolling there. It struck him that the chap could very possibly have been the "voice," but Terry decided to
look for other candidates. He promptly saw one.
At a little side table, a man was sitting down to rejoin a friend in a private game of ecarte. Terry caught a
full-face view of the man who had just returned. He saw a darkish face, with pointed mustache features
which had the look of a professional gambler's, even to the cold eyes that met Terry's glance.
Terry decided to remember those faces, and as he neared Tex's door, he saw a third countenance which
interested him. A stoop-shouldered man cut in ahead of him, threw a glance back at Terry, and quickly
entered the office.
In that glance, Terry observed a long, chinless face, colorless except for sharp, beady eyes. The man
might be the voice. He could certainly have reached the office ahead of Terry.
There was a bouncer inside Tex's door, but he let Terry through. Terry looked presentable and when he
showed the envelope, saying it contained a personal message for Mr. Winthorp, the bouncer believed
him.
At a desk Terry saw Tex Winthorp, a square-jawed, baldish man who looked tougher than the bruiser
who guarded his portal. Tex was busy talking to the stoopish man with the colorless face.
"Gadgets!" scoffed Tex, in a deep tone. "Everybody wants to sell me gadgets! They think I need ways to
keep the coppers out of here. Bah! Any time the police want to pay a visit, they'll be welcome. Sorry, I
don't need your gadgets whatever they are, Mr. -" He paused, studying the stoopish man suspiciously;
then queried: "What was your name?"
There was a flicker of beady eyes. The gadget-seller was hesitating because of Terry. Tex hadn't yet
noticed the second visitor, so his suspicion of the stoopish man increased. The fellow realized it.
"Dunvin is my name," he said wheezily. "Hector Dunvin. I'm an electrician -"
"I remember now," interrupted Tex. "You've been here before." Noting the direction of Dunvin's gaze,
Tex swiveled in his chair and saw Terry. Abruptly, he inquired: "And who are you?"
Terry supplied his name and handed Tex the envelope, stating that its contents were important. As Tex
opened the envelope, Terry folded his arms and waited patiently.
To resist the temptation of glancing at Dunvin, Terry focused his eyes on a big diamond that gleamed like
a miniature searchlight from the center of Tex Winthorp's tuxedo shirt. Anyone who could afford a shirt
stud the size of that one could certainly pay well for the valuable information which Terry hoped the
message really contained.
But Terry's mind kept reverting to the "voice."
Dunvin might be the "voice." The fellow's wheeze was so different from the smooth purr, that it roused
Terry's suspicion. Still, Terry couldn't forget those other candidates - the idler with the wavy hair and the
darkish-faced gambler. He remembered that both had looked his way. He wondered if they knew each
other.
They did.
OUTSIDE Tex's office, two persons among the chronic gamesters were thinking of something other than
the play. One was the young man at the faro table, the other, the mustached gambler who was dealing
two hands of ecarte.
From across the faro board, the first looked toward the second, at the side table. The young man used
his cigarette holder to gesture toward the door of Tex's office. The other man returned the gesture with a
nod.
It seemed that they were both thinking in terms of Terry Radnor - and perhaps of Hector Dunvin.
Neither happened to glance toward a decorative telephone booth in the far corner of the casino. There
was a girl in the booth, a brunette, whose face was as earnest as it was attractive. She was making a call
which she regarded as very important, for her tone was breathlessly subdued.
"Hello... Is this the Cobalt Club?" The girl's expression showed relief. "I want to speak to Mr. Cranston.
Tell him that Miss Lane is calling -"
During the brief interval that followed, the girl gazed from the booth, her eyes fixed upon the door of
Tex's office. When the expected tone came across the wire, she forgot that door for the moment.
"Hello, Lamont!" Though eager, the girl remembered to subdue her voice. "This is Margo... Yes at the
Century Casino. I think that something is due... No, I haven't seen Tex, but a young man just went into
his office -
"I don't know his name, but he had an envelope and it looked important... Yes, I had a good look at him.
I'll remember his face. When he comes out, I'll find out who he is, if I can... You'll be right over? Good!"
Margo Lane wore an expression of firm confidence, when she finished that call and came from the booth.
She was always confident when she knew that Lamont Cranston was due upon a scene where trouble
brewed. For Margo was quite convinced, through experience, that Lamont Cranston was a double
personality. In his other self, Cranston was The Shadow, arch-foe of all criminals.
Important though The Shadow's coming arrival might seem to Margo Lane, there was one person whose
affairs it could even more deeply concern. That person was Terry Radnor, who had followed the
promptings of a mysterious voice without identifying its owner.
The voice had told Terry that he was going to win in a game where the odds were sure. If the voice
proved right - and it had been positive enough - Terry would win something that he did not want.
The game was one of crime. Its odds were on death!
CHAPTER II. MURDER'S TWILIGHT
TEX WINTHORP finished reading the note for the third time, and turned his square-jawed face toward
Terry Radnor. Though he tried to meet Tex's eyes directly, Terry found it difficult. He'd stared so long at
the big diamond shirt stud, that it still captured his attention.
"Who gave you this?"
Tex was referring to the note, and his sharp tone jarred Terry out of his hypnotic mood. Truthfully, Terry
answered.
"I don't know."
He wondered if Tex believed him. Maybe the gambling king expected the answer and considered it the
proper policy on Terry's part. At any rate, Tex dropped the question. He merely snapped:
"All right. What are you waiting for?"
"To find out how much it's worth," Terry returned, thumbing toward the note. "I've already invested in
your roulette wheel, and I'm looking for a dividend."
Tex took it as a matter of course. He eyed Terry in appraising fashion before offering the price. Tex had
a way of estimating people and their ideas about big money. He gauged Terry as a man of about twenty
five, who had knocked around some without taking too many bumps. The sort who would spend it if he
had it, and might on occasion plunge.
Terry's face was squarish, like Tex's. Too, the young man had a steady eye, though he was still finding it
difficult to pull his gaze away from Tex's diamond stud. Tex noticed it, and the fact was in Terry's favor.
It was the beauty of the gem, not its value, that impressed Terry. He was admiring the diamond, not
coveting it. Terry lacked the attitude of a crook, so Tex put the final test.
"How much did you lose?"
"Not much, in proportion to the play," answered Terry honestly "Only about three and a half."
Tex pulled a wad of money from his pocket, counted off three one-hundred-dollar bills, added a fifty.
"That covers it," said Tex. "As for this" - he crinkled the note - "if what it says is right, I'll hand you a
grand. Only first, I'm going to make sure it's right."
Tex reached for the telephone with Terry still wondering what the note was about. It certainly had the
earmarks of importance, considering that Tex was willing to pay a thousand dollars to the man who had
delivered it.
While Terry waited, Dunvin turned as if to go. Tex told the stoop-shouldered man to remain.
"No special secret about this," declaimed Tex. "Stick around, Dunvin, and maybe you'll learn why I don't
need to buy any electrical gadgets."
Getting a response on the telephone, Tex asked if he had the Cobalt Club. Learning that he did he said
he wanted to speak to Police Commissioner Weston. Tex gave his name, and it worked like a charm, for
a minute later the police commissioner was on the line.
"Hello, commissioner." Tex spoke with a patronizing tone... "Yes this is Tex Winthorp... I just received a
tip-off that you're going to raid the Century Casino this evening. So, what about it?"
There was a pause, while Tex's square face flexed into a smile. Then:
"Why stall, commissioner? You wouldn't, if I hadn't called the turn... Come on over, and bring the boys
along. Only tell them to go light on the furniture because they won't find any gambling paraphernalia...
You think my place is a gambling joint? No, no, commissioner. It's just a friendly social club -"
Hanging up, Tex turned to Terry, with a nod.
"He'll be over," assured Tex. "Your tip was straight. You get your grand, and maybe a bonus. We'll settle
afterward. Meanwhile, come along - you too, Dunvin - and see how smooth my system works."
IN the grill room of the Cobalt Club, Commissioner Ralph Weston was undergoing a series of facial
contortions for the benefit of his ace inspector, Joe Cardona.
Weston had a broad face that could go purple, almost to the tips of its military mustache, and his
complexion was showing its chameleon traits. Cardona, however, showed no signs of emotion. The
stocky police inspector had a swarthy face that very seldom varied.
"Somebody has tipped off Tex!" stormed Weston. "We're going over there, inspector, to find out who
did, if we don't learn anything else!"
"They say Tex's joint is usually crowded," responded Cardona. "It won't be easy picking one guy out of a
crowd."
"Then you'd advise calling off the raid?"
Cardona shook his head.
"We're all set, commissioner," he said. "We can move in on Tex a lot faster than he thinks. Maybe fast
enough to catch him, yet. Besides, perhaps that call of his was a bluff."
"A bluff? How?"
"Maybe Tex isn't fixed to clear out the equipment in ten minutes flat," suggested Cardona. "That's all the
time it's going to take us to breeze in on him. The longer we talk it over, the better Tex may like it."
Commissioner Weston sprang to his feet, grabbing up a hat that lay on the chair beside him. In his hurry,
he overlooked his new alpaca overcoat, which was hanging on a wallhook behind his back. Cardona
didn't notice the omission, for he was picking up his own hat and wasn't wearing a coat.
On the way to the door, Weston halted abruptly.
"Where's Cranston?" he demanded. "I thought he said he'd be back."
Cardona shrugged. He'd long ago given up trying to keep tabs on Weston's rather eccentric friend,
Lamont Cranston.
"I wanted Cranston along," groused Weston. "He'd know the right names of some of those habitues at
the Century Casino. Where could he have gone?"
A clicking sound supplied a possible answer. It was the muffled impact of billiard balls, meeting one
another. It came from beyond a closed door that opened off the grill room. Weston took a step in that
direction.
"At billiards, maybe," Weston began. "Cranston plays frequently with that chap Kelford, who is always in
the billiard room." Then, halting, the commissioner added: "No. If Cranston came back, he would have
stopped here first. I know what happened. His telephone call must have come from that Lane girl, and
he's gone somewhere to meet her. Those two are always wasting time together."
"And we're wasting time, commissioner," Cardona reminded. "Want me to go ahead and start the squad
cars?"
Angrily, Weston responded in the negative. Still forgetful of his new alpaca overcoat, the commissioner
strode from the grill room by the usual door, expecting Cardona to follow, which Joe did, with a grin.
THOSE few minutes that the commissioner wasted were actually unimportant. Over at the Century
Casino, a rapid transformation was under way. Tex Winthorp had come from his office to stop the play
at the roulette and faro tables. He was standing in the center of the big gambling room, making an
announcement.
"We are going to call a recess," declared Tex. "There is not time to cash in the chips. Simply keep them
until later, while we entertain our friend the police commissioner."
There was merely a murmur from the listeners. Most of them were too well versed in the ways of
gambling parlors to be at all perturbed. To Terry Radnor, however, the scene was a novelty, and the
thing that fascinated him most was the way the attendants were handling the gambling equipment.
Large tables, even a drinking bar; were being pushed across the floor to conceal the faro layout and the
roulette wheels, along with other gambling devices. The place, as Tex had stated, was swiftly becoming a
social club. Terry wondered, momentarily, how that would solve the problem, since the police might tear
the furniture apart despite Tex's protest.
Then, as camouflaged equipment was rolled to the corners of the room, one object stopped near Terry,
who was standing just outside the door of Tex's office. Distinctly Terry heard a low thrum that other
patrons were not close enough to notice. He had his answer.
From beneath the shell furniture that covered them, the gambling devices were secretly descending
through the floor on trapdoor elevators!
Terry recalled that the Century Casino was over a garage that opened on another street, because he had
tried to park his car in the garage, only to find it full of trucks.
Those trucks, too, had a purpose. They were taking in the gambling equipment, and would be out of the
garage, off on a rapid journey elsewhere, before the police arrived!
Terry wondered if Dunvin had caught on to the trick. He looked for the stoop-shouldered man, but
Dunvin wasn't around. Remembering two more men - one wavy-haired, the other mustached - Terry
looked for them, too, but couldn't sight them in the throng.
His gaze returned to Tex Winthorp.
On an ordinary table in the center of the transformed room, Tex had opened a large suitcase and was
stuffing it with miniature mountains of currency, which the croupiers brought him. The money was the
evening's "take," and it certainly totaled into six figures. Indeed, considering the way that wealthy
customers had been tossing chips around, Terry felt sure that the cash must amount to a quarter million
dollars.
Tex was personally taking charge of the heavy funds, for safekeeping, and Terry wasn't the only person
intrigued by the ceremony. The fashionably-dressed patrons were watching in silence, all riveted where
they stood.
Among that throng was Margo Lane; she, perhaps, was the only one who stirred. The girl saw Terry
over by Tex's office, but that was not the cause of her restlessness. Margo's eyes turned the other way,
toward the main entrance of the casino, where a lookout stood on duty beside a wicket in the door.
Her expression eased as she saw the lookout turn to answer a knock from outside. Margo was sure that
Cranston had arrived.
He had.
Opening the wicket, the lookout peered at a calm, hawklike countenance. He recognized the arrival as
Lamont Cranston, an accepted patron at the Casino Club. What he did not see were the garments across
Cranston's arm.
They consisted of a black cloak and a slouch hat, the garb of The Shadow. Cranston was keeping them
below the wicket, and therefore below the lookout's range of vision.
About to open the door, the lookout hesitated.
"Sorry, Mr. Cranston," he confided through the wicket, "but we're making a quick change. I don't think
I'd better let you in until I've asked the boss."
He turned away from inside the door, leaving Cranston a view through the wicket, which wasn't much
larger than a loophole. It enabled Cranston to see the center of the gaming room, where Tex was busy
with the money, but most of the thronged customers were out of range. The Shadow saw enough to
know what was going on, and there was nothing ominous about the scene.
It simply fitted with the conclusion that The Shadow had formed from Margo's phone call: that someone
had tipped off Tex to the prospective raid by the police.
JUST as Tex Winthorp was about to close the suitcase with its hoard of tightly-packed cash, the stroke
came. It was a phenomenal thing, quite different from any event that The Shadow had previously
encountered in his career against crime.
The lights in the Century Casino began to blink.
Off - on - off - on - the rapid changes produced sharp flashes from sudden blots of darkness, producing
a blurred effect that was uncanny. Startled persons, suddenly springing about, were as weird to view as a
flock of stampeded ghosts. Tex Winthorp, grabbing for the suitcase, looked like a ghoul beginning a
slow-motion dance.
Tex's face was no longer recognizable, nor were those of any others present. The whole place was filled
with a man-made twilight that confused the human eye. The Shadow could still make out Tex's figure, but
only while the gambling king stood alone. That status was quickly changed.
Another figure looked into the intermittent glow. Blinking lights gave momentary glitters to a gun. As the
two forms met, the revolver muzzle knifed a dart of flame. One figure sprawled crazily, while the other
wheeled to snatch the suitcase from the table.
An unknown had fired that shot, but Tex Winthorp was the victim, amid a twilight expressly arranged for
murder and the escape which the killer intended to make!
CHAPTER III. BLURRED BATTLE
ALL was confusion in the Century Casino. The man who had murdered Tex Winthorp wasn't alone. He
had helpers, who, though few in number, made up for it by teamwork. They were hurling themselves
upon a knot of men who were trying to seize Tex's murderer; and the blurred killer and his pals were
gaining the upper hand.
The swift-blinking lights were to their liking, for they had arranged them. They were slugging down
croupiers and attendants, adding gunshots when the opposition became tough. Tex's faction had
revolvers, too, but they were disorganized, bewildered by the blurry light.
Patrons were diving for the corners, seeking shelter behind the hollow furniture that had been used to
hide the gambling equipment.
Had the lookout opened the outer door to admit Lamont Cranston, the battle might have taken a different
turn. Already, the last arrival at the Century Casino was undergoing a change as speedy as that of the
blobbing lights.
With a single sweep, Cranston had his cloak across his shoulders, the slouch hat on his head, rendering
himself a being in black: The Shadow!
The problem of reaching the battleground came next. Shots through the loophole wouldn't do, there was
no telling who might be tangled in the fray around the fallen body of Tex Winthorp. The flashing lights
were so rapid that faces could not be identified, while the figures themselves darted and jerked like
people in an old-fashioned movie reel. The Shadow, to enter, had to blast the door, and it was a
formidable task.
Tex Winthorp had designed that door to hold off attacks by the law. The Shadow's only chance of
cracking it lay in using bullets from an automatic that he had drawn. At that, he knew it would be useless
to try to demolish the lock. It was specially strengthened to withstand the effects of gun slugs.
The only way was to get at the hinges, which were hidden somewhere in the woodwork. Planting the gun
muzzle against the hinge side of the door, The Shadow probed it with bullets from his .45, choosing the
logical spots where the hinges would be. Thick wood splintered, baring steel that glinted in the blinking
light. Even out here, in the entry, the illumination was that of the peculiar flickering.
Hacking with the butt end of his gun, The Shadow wrecked the hinges that his bullets had revealed. He
shouldered hard, driving the door ahead of him, and plummeted into the main room of the Century
Casino, drawing a fresh automatic as he came.
By then, the whirling brawl had shifted toward the door of Tex's office.
A gun stabbed from the mass of kaleidoscopic figures. It sprawled a man squarely in The Shadow's path.
The victim was the lookout, who had so unwisely hesitated at admitting Cranston. Killers had been
expecting him, and dealt with him as planned. But they weren't expecting The Shadow.
With a long spring across the falling lookout, he came like a black cyclone into the midst of the
murderous tribe and the faltering men who struggled against them.
The blobby light helped The Shadow even more than his foeman. Though he couldn't see their faces well
enough to recognize them, they couldn't see him at all. He used his guns as cudgels, jarring men right and
left, in order to get at their chief, the blur-faced murderer who was starting into Tex's office with the bag
of cash.
BY then, the fray had reached Terry Radnor. Until it did, Terry had been too bewildered to take a hand;
but now he saw his opportunity.
He could tell the killer by the bag the man carried, and he made a grab for him. They locked, and as they
spun about, Terry heard a snarl in his ear. It was much like the voice that had told him to take the note to
Tex. It hadn't lost any of its disguise, but it was ugly instead of persuasive. The snarl was the blurred
man's call for his helpers to free him from a troublesome antagonist.
Hands gripped Terry in the unreal light. He wrested free from them with a roundabout twist. Encountering
a driving figure, he thought he had again found the killer. He was wrong. Terry had found The Shadow.
Swung hard, a gun skimmed past Terry's ear and landed heavily against his shoulder. The Shadow's
stroke only increased Terry's delusion that he had gripped the foe he wanted, and he tightened his clutch.
Hurled backward, Terry bounced hard against the wall beside the office door, and as he reeled, partly
losing his hold on the fighter in black, something cold pressed against his neck.
Luckily for Terry, The Shadow caught the glint of the object in the flickery light. It was a gun, that either
the blur-faced killer or an equally indistinguishable subordinate was shoving Terry's way.
These murderers had finished Tex and the lookout; now, it was to be Terry's turn, for he was the only
remaining man who might furnish damaging information concerning certain persons among the casino's
clientele.
The Shadow did not have to analyze that set-up. It was enough that Terry was threatened by one of the
escaping crew. Swiping another blow past Terry's face, The Shadow struck the gun, and the hand that
held it, so forcibly that their owner took a side stagger through the office door.
It was Terry who didn't recognize the situation. He made another lunge at The Shadow, and instead of
grappling with an adversary who had previously out-clinched him, he used his fists. Terry was hitting
hard, though blindly, and The Shadow had to wheel away to ward off the attack.
Other mistaken fighters fell upon him. They were the rallied croupiers. The Shadow went down in the
midst of a pile of men.
Exultant, Terry thought that he had settled one member of the murderous tribe. He figured, too, that he
was capable of doing it, not knowing that his life had been saved by the very fighter that he had so
foolishly attacked.
Knowing that killers had dived into Tex's office, Terry went after them. Lights was blinking in the office,
too, but in the intermittent glare, Terry made out a yawning block of blackness on the far side of the
room. He made for it.
On the way, he stumbled over desk drawers. They had been pulled from Tex's desk and their contents
dumped. Hands stretched ahead of him, Terry tried to catch his balance against the block of blackness as
it winked at him from the quick flashes of ever-changing light.
Instead of stopping, he went right through the blackness, took a long spill and went tumbling down a flight
of stairs.
Those crazy lights had made everything unreal, but this fall was even crazier, during the breath-taking
moments that it took Terry to reach the bottom, of the steps. He stopped with a sharp jar that knocked
some understanding into him. The black oblong hadn't been part of the wall; it was an open door,
probably a sliding one, that Tex used as a private exit from his office.
Killers had turned it to their own use, leaving it open when they fled. Chance had brought Terry along the
very route that the blur-makers had chosen!
On his feet, Terry groped and found another door. It led outside to an alleyway. He heard a car spurting
from the nearest street and hurried in that direction. By then the car was gone, and there wasn't a cab in
sight. But from the next street, Terry heard the blare of a police whistle. On sudden impulse, he hastened
off in the opposite direction.
UPSTAIRS, the huddled customers of the casino were watching the finish of a fantastic fray which left
them utterly aghast. Previous events had been illusive, like the happenings in a dream, but this present
scene took on a nightmarish quality.
Men were bouncing, diving to the floor in jerky, curious fashion, but no one could see what was sending
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THEBLURMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ODDSONDEATH?CHAPTERII.MURDER'STWILIGHT?CHAPTERIII.BLURREDBATTLE?CHAPTERIV.TRAILOFTHEBLUR?CHAPTERV.ONEFROMTHREE?CHAPTERVI.CRIMETOCOME?CHAPTERVII.TWO-NOTOFAKIND?CHAPTERVIII.FIGHTERSINTHEGLOOM?CHAPTERIX.CHANCEMUR...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：73 页 大小：185.39KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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