Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 217 - Mansion of Crime

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Mansion Of Crime
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE ON THE SOUND.
? CHAPTER II. WORD TO MANHATTAN.
? CHAPTER III. STRANGE ADVENTURE.
? CHAPTER IV. FLIGHT'S FINISH.
? CHAPTER V. NEW REFUGE.
? CHAPTER VI. STAN GETS ACQUAINTED.
? CHAPTER VII. THE OTHER ANGLE.
? CHAPTER VIII. EXIT THE SHADOW.
? CHAPTER IX. CRIME'S HIDDEN FACTS.
? CHAPTER X. DAYS OF DOUBT.
? CHAPTER XI. ACROSS THE SOUND.
? CHAPTER XII. CRIME'S SHOWDOWN.
? XIII. THE TRAIL TO COME.
? CHAPTER XIV. THE LAST NIGHT.
? CHAPTER XV. WAYS IN THE DARK.
? CHAPTER XVI. TWO MARKED MEN.
? CHAPTER XVII. A QUESTION OF TERMS.
? CHAPTER XVIII. A MATTER OF MURDER.
? CHAPTER XIX. OUT OF BLACKNESS.
? CHAPTER XX. CROSSED CROOKS.
CHAPTER I. THE HOUSE ON THE SOUND.
OLD Theodore Prendle stood at his study window and glared off into the dusk. His view took in a
sweep of lawn and shrubbery, well-kept woods and driveways, all part and parcel of his extensive Long
Island estate. Beyond that landscape gleamed the broad blue waters of Long Island Sound, some
portions clearly visible, others peeking through the trees that lined the shore.
Though increasing darkness lessened the beauty of the scene, Theodore Prendle was not disappointed.
In fact, his eyes were not noting the graceful features of the landscape at all. All that he saw, or could
ever see, when he gazed from that window was a double wall of high, dark hedges that flanked one edge
of the estate.
Beyond that double hedge, the distant tops of castlelike towers were outlined against the glooming sky,
indicating another mansion quite as large as Prendle's own residence.
That other house belonged to Victor Thorndon, for years Prendle's archrival in business. Even in
retirement, the two had continued their bloodless feud. The hedges had been built for spite; one by
Prendle, the other by Thorndon.
Usually, such hedges were clipped to a reasonable height; these had been allowed to flourish until they
had become as large as fair-sized trees, forming an almost impassable thicket. Only by dint of careful
search, could anyone have found a route to crawl through that twofold wall.
When Prendle glared at the hedges and Thorndon's domain beyond, his heavy face took on a squarish
look, which was increased by the straight, set lines of his lips. The expression gave Prendle's features a
hardness, which was not a true index to his nature. For Prendle was actually a friendly man, firm of way,
but not harsh.
Those who knew him well recognized that his bitterness toward Thorndon was the result of accumulated
experience. Prendle realized it, too, and usually curbed his emotion, except in the presence of trusted
friends who understood.
One such friend was Albert Carthwright, at present a visitor in Prendle's study. Also a resident of this
exclusive area, Carthwright was likewise a retired businessman. Though not so wealthy as either Prendle
or Thorndon, Carthwright had done quite well for himself, and furthermore, had withdrawn from active
work much earlier.
Hence, in contrast to Prendle, whose age was visible in lined face and white hair, Carthwright showed no
traces beyond those of middle age. He was a brisk man, Carthwright, with a lean, well-chiseled face and
hair which showed no more than streaks of gray.
"Thorndon! Bah!" Prendle always prefaced his criticisms of his rival with such words. "He's copied
everything I ever did, even to settling out here and growing a hedge. He'd still do anything he could to
spite me. That is why"--Prendle lowered his booming tone--"I want to talk with you, Carthwright."
Before sitting down at his desk, Prendle stepped to a side door of his study and opened it. He peered
cautiously into a fair-sized room that served as a library. It wasn't the only book room in the house, but it
was the one where Prendle kept his own private volumes.
Its main door, leading in from the large front hall, was permanently bolted, hence it could only be reached
from Prendle's study. There were windows, of course, but they were tightly latched. Nevertheless,
Prendle liked to look into that library on occasion, to make sure that it was empty.
Satisfied that such was the case at present, Prendle returned to his desk.
There, he rang the buzzer for Blair, who arrived promptly at the main door of the study, which led in from
the hall. Blair was Prendle's butler, an old and competent retainer, whose manner and tone were as dry
as his withered face.
"Tell me, Blair," requested Prendle casually, "has anyone come home yet?"
"No, sir," replied the butler. "I believe that Mr. Jack is still at the Beach Club, while Miss Helene is some
where with Mr. Exeter."
"Very well, Blair."
PRENDLE dismissed the butler with an approving nod. He waited until footfalls had died beyond the
door; then he turned to Carthwright. Though Prendle's tone was restrained, it still had traces of its
booming note, as he said:
"There are my two troubles, Carthwright: Jack and Helene. Having heard what Blair just said, you should
agree with me."
"I do, regarding Jack," conceded Carthwright, in his brisk way. "He does spend too much time at the
Beach Club--"
"And other places," inserted Prendle, "where stakes are higher than in bridge games, drinks more
frequent, and time more thoroughly wasted."
I suppose so," returned Carthwright. "Yes, it will take Jack a long time to settle down, if he ever does.
But I can't understand your criticism of Helene. Your daughter is a very lovely girl."
Prendle jarred the desk with his fist.
"That is not the issue!" he stormed. "Good or bad, bad or good, persons must show judgment. Jack can
hang around the Beach Club, or go the rounds in New York, if only he will get down to business first.
Similarly, all of Helene's good qualities are wasted, while she prefers the company of ne'er-do-wells like
Reggie Exeter.
"Sometimes, I think that there is only one person in this house who has any sense, besides myself. I'll tell
you who that person is: Blair!"
Prendle's voice had been booming higher and higher. It ended in a blaze that made the windows rattle.
Then, after the brief pause that followed, there came a cautious rap at the door. Prendle boomed for the
person to enter. Blair appeared, to question:
"Did you call me, sir?"
Carthwright held back a smile, realizing that Blair must have heard Prendle's final shout. Bluntly, Prendle
waved the butler away; but as soon as the servant had gone, Prendle began a deep laugh, in which
Carthwright joined. Prendle rather relished jokes at his own expense; this one rendered him quite
convulsive.
Contrarily, Blair lacked such a sense of humor. Out in the hall, he could hear Prendle's booming laugh
and Carthwright's accompanying chuckle. Stiffly, the butler strode off to the kitchen, too annoyed to
glance about the hall, as he usually did.
As soon as Blair was gone, a young man eased in from the front door and gave a chuckle of his own.
The newcomer was Jack Prendle. The son had enough of his father's appearance to prove the
relationship. He was of slighter build, however, and his lips had a way of turning down when they smiled.
Jack was pleased by Blair's departure and the stiff way in which the butler had gone. Pleased, too,
because he knew that his father was talking with Carthwright in the study.
From his shrewd look, his sneaky manner as he stole through the large hall to the study door, Jack was
following a preconceived design: namely, to listen in on the conference.
Close to the study door, in the shelter of its deep entrance, Jack could overhear the words that followed.
Old Prendle had taken it for granted that neither Jack nor Helene had yet returned, otherwise the fact
would have been mentioned by Blair. Hence, Prendle was talking a bit loudly, and Carthwright,
somewhat influenced, was doing the same.
"Getting back to Jack and Helene"--inside the study, Prendle folded his arms as he sat erect behind the
desk--"I am worried about their futures. Should I divide my fortune between them, they would become
babes in the woods, to be devoured by the wolf."
"You mean that Victor Thorndon is the wolf?"
"Precisely, Carthwright," returned Prendle. "If he lives longer than I do--and he may--he will assuredly try
to gratify his one ambition, of tearing down whatever I have built up."
"If you put your entire estate in trust--"
"I shall have to do that, Carthwright; in fact, I have already made such provisions. But I do not like it.
Living on trust funds, Jack and Helene will be jellyfish for the rest of their lives. No, I would prefer, if I
could, to start them off with fortunes of their own while I am still alive."
OUTSIDE the door, Jack's face, glum at first, had taken on an increasing gleam. Whatever his lack along
some lines of judgment, he was an opportunist, and his shrewdness was coming to the fore. He was
particularly attentive as he listened to the next words.
"Take Jack's case," boomed Prendle. "He wants money. I should like to give it to him and set him up in
business."
"You can't mean," exclaimed Carthwright, "that Jack wants money to start a business?"
"Of course not," snorted Prendle. "He wants cash to make up for all that he has spent. He is welcome to
it--a hundred thousand to start, and more as needed--if he will show the proper interest in things that
count."
"Will he ever?"
There was a pause after Carthwright's question; then Prendle spoke, slowly and speculatively.
"Jack might," he declared. "Perhaps what he needs is the proper example. That brings us to Helene's
case. If she would only meet the right man and marry him! I could set up my son-in-law in business, and
offer Jack the same opportunity."
"But would Jack profit by it?"
"I think he would. He might see the value of Helene's marriage and find the right girl for himself. Marriage
is what Jack needs, even more than Helene, in order to become stabilized."
Carthwright sat back in his chair and smiled. He looked at Prendle, as though trying to picture him as
Cupid in disguise. Prendle saw the reason for the smile.
"No, Carthwright," he said. "I can't force either of my children into marriage. I can only hope that they
will think of it themselves, and choose wisely. It may be that Jack will set the example in that respect.
"He seems to have no preferences at present, whereas Helene likes scatterbrains such as Reggie Exeter.
But when they are both married, and properly so, they shall have fortunes in their own right. But until
then--"
Prendle broke off, as a roar came from the drive, outside. A car with wide headlights wheeled past the
house and screeched to a sharp stop.
"Reggie Exeter," snorted Prendle, "bringing Helene home. Sometime, he'll bring her right into the living
room, car, wall and all! Bah! I'll speak to that young fellow."
Prendle strode from the study. By then, Jack had stolen to the front of the hall, where he stopped
abruptly at a telephone table. Picking up the telephone, he was half turned away when his father reached
a door that led out to the driveway. Prendle did not notice Jack, but the latter heard the door chatter
open. Still, Jack remained at the telephone.
It was Blair, coming from the kitchen, who noted Jack and stopped short. Catching the mutter of a voice,
the butler mistook it for Prendle's and supposed that his employer was still in the study, making a call
from his own telephone. Then, in the same glance that showed him that the study door was closed, Blair
observed Jack.
Discreetly, the butler stepped back into the kitchen, for he made it a point never to eavesdrop. That
virtue on Blair's part was, on this occasion, a failing.
If Blair had crossed the hallway and stopped in the shelter of the study door, which was not far from
where Jack stood, the butler would have heard some startling things and grasped facts which had an
important bearing on the future.
Facts which old Theodore Prendle would have thanked Blair for telling him. A scheme was in the
making; a scheme that was deep, though quickly formed, and one that threatened crime and violence.
It hinged upon the call that Blair did not overhear. The servant, by his very fidelity, was allowing a threat
of doom to grow upon his master, Theodore Prendle!
CHAPTER II. WORD TO MANHATTAN.
LOUNGING in an easy-chair in a fancy apartment, Roger Frack was dangling a cigarette in one hand
and holding a hand-set telephone in the other. He was wearing a dressing gown that suited his garish
surroundings, and his face, handsome in its dark way, was showing a very wise smile.
Frack's wisdom was more than superficial. He happened to be the smartest confidence man at present
operating in New York City. Whenever Frack was in Manhattan, he always fixed up his place in lavish
style. It went well with his business.
The telephone, in the opinion of Roger Frack, was the greatest of modern inventions. At present, it was
bringing him important news from Long Island, acquainting him with the plans of Theodore Prendle very
soon after the millionaire had propounded them.
Much was being said from the other end, though it came both rapidly and cautiously. Frack, in his turn,
was saying very little, except to acknowledge the things he heard. For Frack happened to have a visitor
who was concerned in the matter under discussion, though the visitor did not yet know it.
The visitor's name was Stanley Wilford. He was younger than Frack, and better-looking. In fact, Stanley
Wilford, with his serious face and frank gaze, seemed quite out of place in a confidence man's
apartment.
Frack settled the telephone on its stand, took a puff from his cigarette, and faced his visitor.
"A break for you, Stan," he informed. "I've just talked to the big-shot. He mentioned you, and said he'll
give you the chance he promised."
"Whatever the chance is," retorted Stan, "I don't want it. I've told you, Frack--"
"So why repeat it?" interrupted Frack. "Its out of our hands. The big-shot holds those phony checks of
yours, to the tune of two thousand dollars, and what he says goes."
Stan didn't agree.
"You know all about those checks," he insisted. "I thought I had five thousand dollars coming to me, on a
legitimate business deal. I gave the checks out, and then found I was framed; that the money wasn't
coming through. I was tricked and you know it!"
"But the judge won't," Frack mocked. "If that ever gets to court, Stan, you'll do five years work in a big
house up a big river. So why not play ball and clear yourself a lot easier."
"By putting myself in deeper," Stan brooded. "No, Frack, I don't like your racket. I'm all set to leave
town. If you want to go to the trouble of chasing the law after me, it's your privilege."
His jaw set, Stan Wilford stepped toward the door. With quick strides, Frack blocked him off.
"Why be a fool?" Frack snapped. "You'd never make a good con man. We want you for a front, that's
all. One job, and the boss will hand you back those bum checks. That is--Frack corrected himself--"I'll
hand them back for him.
"Pass up this chance and you're a dope. We've got others on the list, we always have. Somebody else
will take over if you don't. As for clearing out, it won't help. We can't afford to let guys like you clear out.
If you try, you may finish in the river, instead of up it!"
FRACK meant what he said. Never in his experience with this tool who was working for someone higher
up, had Stan seen Frack exhibit such determination. He let Frack shove him back to a chair; there, Stan
accepted the cigarette that his persecutor offered him.
"It's a cinch," declared Frack. "All you've got to do is go out to Long Island, to a place called
Longwood, and put on a good show. You'll draw money whenever you need it, so you can get in with
the right people, particularly a family named Prendle."
"And then?"
"You'll learn the rest later," Frack replied, studying Stan's sober face with careful approval. "And I
promise you this: you won't have to steal anything, slug anybody, or do anything that can incriminate you
in any way."
Stan was thinking it over. His bluish eyes had a sudden flash. He felt that he could rely upon Frack's
terms, though there would certainly be a catch later. But the catch, as Stan foresaw it, would apply to
Frack and the master crook that the con man represented. Perhaps, once when he had slipped the mesh,
Stan could use the net himself and trap the bigger fish.
"All right," said Stan firmly. "It's a deal. "When do I start?"
"Tonight," returned Frack. Then, cagily: "But you'll have company on the way out. I'm sending Skeet
along."
Stan merely shrugged. He knew Skeet by sight. The fellow was a small-fry member of the confidence
ring; he posed as a racetrack tout. But Skeet, with others of his ilk, formed a compact mob. They were
the sort that would be sent along to see that Stan "played ball," as Frack had termed it.
"Where do I go with Skeet?" inquired Stan, a trifle tartly. "Is he going to stay with me?"
"You stop at the Beach Club," informed Frack, "and Skeet comes back to town. Your job will be to
meet old Theodore Prendle, who has a son named Jack and a daughter named Helene. Jack is probably
the best bet, for a starter. He plays cards at the club. Lose to him, and he'll like you. We'll pay the
freight."
Stan reached for his hat again, and Frack did not stop him. With a smile of grim pleasure, as though the
coming adventure intrigued him, Stan strode from the apartment and gave a farewell wave, remarking that
he would stop off at his own apartment.
With Stan's departure, Frack picked up the telephone and dialed a number. Soon he was talking
cautiously with Skeet, smiling as he heard the things that his tool had to tell him.
"Wilford is going through with it," informed Frack. "Packed his stuff, you say?... You've been casing his
place, I take it. He left the luggage at Grand Central? Good enough. You can pick it up for him--
"Sure, you're going with him, but on the train.... Yes, take him in your car, out to Long Island... No, don't
dump him... Just let him off at the Beach Club, in Longwood... he's going through with it, I tell you... Yes,
meet him over at the apartment--"
Frack heard the thud of Skeet's receiver and could picture the fellow's disappointment. Skeet was
always hoping for a chance to dispose of persons like Stan Wilford, instead of convoying them to a safe
destination.
In fact, Frack could picture more. He could visualize Skeet, in the back room of the joint where he hung
out, mouthing that same disappointment to a group of surrounding thugs.
THE picture was correct. Skeet was at the back-room table where he always sat, and he had three men
with him. Like Skeet, they were undersized but tough, not the sort who looked like regular mobbies.
Their appearance, like their size, helped them a great deal, because the police regarded them as
somewhat harmless.
Judging by the bulges on their hips, however, they made a specialty of carrying lethal weapons. They
were careful to suppress those bulges, as they arose at Skeet's beckon.
"Frack says Wilford is coming along," undertoned Skeet, in the voice he used for giving racetrack tips.
"But you never can tell. The guy may pull a run-out. So when I go up to talk to him, you birds close in.
His joint is easy to reach; it's Apartment B6, over at the Marbleton."
Lounging at the next table, under the wary eye of an aproned waiter, was a long-limbed, ill-dressed
customer who evidently patronized this place because of its cheap prices. He was stretched half across
his table, apparently the victim of too many drinks, and the waiter was wondering whether the small
change that he fumbled was meant for another drink, or a tip.
Skeet and his pals didn't give that customer a further thought as they sidled out through the rear door.
Skeet, in particular, was quite sure that his voice hadn't reached the stranger's ears.
But as soon as the undersized mobbies had left, the wayward customer came to life. Pushing the change
in the waiter's direction, he reached his feet and shambled out through the front.
There, he practically stumbled against a cab that was parked in darkness. Its door swung wide as he
approached, released by the driver. It was the stumbling man, however, who pulled it shut as he gave the
whispered order:
"Marbleton Apartments."
The stumble-bum was The Shadow; this cab was his own. The driver, Moe Shrevnitz, knew that the
order called for speed. He whisked his chief the few blocks to the Marbleton at such a pace that The
Shadow had to use rapid action to match it. The Shadow's action concerned a special drawer set
beneath the rear seat of the cab.
From that drawer, The Shadow was whipping garments of black--a slouch hat, a cloak, and thin gloves.
With them, he usually brought automatics, but on this occasion none were in the drawer. They were
already parked in holsters beneath the shabby coat that The Shadow had worn when in the dive that
Skeet Co. patronized.
The law hadn't spotted Skeet and his crew for what they were, but The Shadow had, and therefore had
been ready for them.
The only thing that The Shadow had missed was the telephone call that Skeet received from Frack,
because Skeet had taken it in a booth. But The Shadow, hearing the name of Frack, had identified the
con man, and therefore had something of a line on Stanley Wilford.
This, however, was the first evidence that The Shadow had gotten regarding mob connections in the
racket with which Roger Frack was associated.
Cloaked in black as the cab slid up beside the old and squatty Marbleton Apartments, The Shadow
eased out into darkness and whispered a low laugh. His course was plain: by reaching Stan first, he could
wrench that young man from the racket and take proper measures against Roger Frack, who, for some
time, had been on The Shadow's future list.
Skeet and his crew could report that their bird had flown. Any efforts to retrieve Stan would simply bring
them up against The Shadow. Surprises would be due for men of crime, according to The Shadow's
coming schedule.
But it happened that The Shadow had not yet met Stan Wilford, whose own ways happened to be
distinctly individual.
The surprise that was coming shortly, was different from the sort that The Shadow would normally
expect. It was to be a surprise for The Shadow, himself!
CHAPTER III. STRANGE ADVENTURE.
THE front of the Marbleton was gloomy, as it always was at night, when Stan Wilford arrived there. He
had taken a cab from Frack's, but traffic had delayed him in the Times Square area. The time-lengthened
trip had given Stan an opportunity to think things out, and he had gradually reconciled himself to the
adventure that lay ahead.
The more hazards it might offer, the better Stan would like it. He had always looked for strange
adventure and was willing to start from the wrong side of the fence, since nothing better offered.
Things were quite to his liking, as he left the cab in front of the apartment house. Stan could see lurking
figures in the offing and knew that Skeet and others were on hand. For their benefit, he paused outside
the door, then strolled into the Marbleton, as though the choice were entirely his own.
In fact, Stan regarded himself as a free agent, despite the threats that Frack had broached. He intended
to act the part, even while taking orders that Frack relayed from higher up. It was just a case of gaining
leeway all along the line, until the time came to kick over the traces.
Meanwhile, he would play in with crime whenever necessary, not only to learn what it was all about, but
to satisfy a whim of his own.
Stan was thinking in terms of Theodore Prendle. He had recalled the name while riding in the cab.
It went back to Oklahoma, where Stan had tried his hand at oil, only to be frozen out, along with some
other small independents, by certain large corporations. True, the big ones had been wrangling among
themselves, but that hadn't helped Stan's case. They had raised money when they needed it, and had
finally fattened through their feud.
The money had come from New York, supplied by a banking house of which Theodore Prendle was a
director. The bankers had received interest for their money, Prendle among them.
It was easy enough for Stan to argue, mentally, that others had a right to wrest such funds from Prendle.
Remembering his own prospects in oil, and how they had been squashed, Stan conveniently decided that
it was his money at stake, not Prendle's.
Prendle had a family: a son named Jack, and a daughter, Helene. But why should that change Stan's
attitude? He pictured Jack as the typical rich man's son, who would either squander a fortune, or, worse,
push himself into a high position through his father's backing and crowd out men of greater competence.
Toward Helene, Stan had even less sympathy. He had seen plenty of her sort, out West. They came to
the oil fields in airplanes and private cars and looked at the derricks hungrily, regarding them as the
producers of fur coats, imported limousines, French maids, and Sealyham terriers.
These daughters of the rich had no sympathy for the men who sweated in the fields; no regard for the
ambitions of toilers. So Stan could see no reason why he should hold sympathy for them. His contempt
for Helene Prendle, the girl that he had never met, was quite complete when he entered his apartment.
Except for the furniture, the little apartment was empty. Stan had packed everything that afternoon. His
trunk and suitcases were at Grand Central Station, the checks in his pocket, along with a ticket for the
West.
He had agreed to return to the apartment, simply so that Frack would not suspect how far he had gone
with his plan for departure to an unstated destination. Taking the ticket from his wallet, Stan looked at it
and laughed. He folded it away, intending to redeem it later.
Longwood, fashionable suburb on Long Island, would be just as golden a spot as somewhere in the
West. There, if he could withstand his dislike for surrounding luxury, Stan would redeem himself in his
own way. He'd worked himself into a mood where he detested persons like the Prendles as much as he
hated Roger Frack and the unknown big-shot behind the confidence ring.
Stan's eyes had at least been wide open when Frack had tricked him. It had happened after Stan came
East to invest his savings in a retail oil business. Through Frack, Stan had been promised five thousand
dollars, to be supplied by a silent partner, cash on the line, provided all debts were clear. So Stan had
paid off the debts of his newly acquired business by overdrawing his bank account.
Then the storm had struck. There weren't any debts, no silent partner. It had all been a frame-up, and
Stan's checks were in the hands of the man behind the confidence ring. It was just a case of putting them
into circulation and letting Stan take the rap.
Frack had put the case quite coolly, along with his promise that there would be a way out, if Stan chose
to accept it. The way out was for Stan to serve as wedge in a bigger game involving Prendle.
So what?
STAN asked himself the question, as he nosed around the apartment to make sure that he hadn't left
anything important. He opened a closet door, gave the interior a glance, without bothering to look
deeper. Then, as he was closing the door, Stan did remember something.
He stepped to a small table, which had a slightly opened drawer. Pulling the drawer out, Stan tilted the
table forward. There was a clatter, as a .32 revolver slid forward into his waiting hand.
Stan had brought the gun to New York with him, and had stowed it behind the table drawer as a good
hiding place. At times, he'd regretted that he had kept it, since revolvers were taboo in New York.
But he was glad, now, that he had it; pleased, too, that it was fully loaded, a fact which he proved by
cracking the gun open. Even if he did intend to play along with crooks, it wouldn't do to trust them too
far.
Stan, at that moment, was thinking in terms of Skeet, the man who was to convoy him to Long Island.
Closing the gun, he listened, and heard a creep from the hall. It was probably Skeet, and the idea struck
Stan that the gun would make the right impression on that sneaky crook.
Yes, he'd show Skeet the revolver, muzzle foremost, then put the gun away. Skeet would then know,
and report back to Frack, that Stan had gone to Long Island of his own volition.
Moving toward the door, his own steps stealthy, Stan unwittingly made a progressive picture of a hunted
man, ready for a last stand against odds. He was practically deceiving himself, hence it wasn't surprising
that he should deceive an observer whose presence Stan did not suspect.
The closet door swung wide noiselessly. From the depths that Stan had mistaken for mere darkness
came a cloaked shape, advancing with swift, silent glide. First, to reach the apartment, The Shadow had
witnessed Stan's arrival. Knowing that a real threat lay over the young man, The Shadow was taking
steps to balk it.
First indication of The Shadow's presence became evident to Stan when the latter gained the door. One
hand reaching for the knob, Stan was holding the gun in his other fist, when blackness intervened. The
blackness wasn't solid; it was The Shadow's own shadow, thrust ahead of the cloaked figure. It
produced the anticipated result.
Seeing the silhouette that spread against the whiteness of the door, Stan turned. He gave his gun hand a
natural sweep, twisting slightly backward as he did. However quick he might have been with the trigger,
the swing was needed first. It came right where The Shadow wanted it: into a clamping trap.
Stan, halting, startled, found his wrist in the grip of a gloved hand that had the power of a vise; a strength
so numbing that it paralyzed Stan's fingers. He couldn't have pulled the gun trigger had he wished.
Besides, a shot from Stan's gun would have been doubly useless. The Shadow had stopped the weapon
far short; it wasn't even aimed at the cloaked intruder. But The Shadow's .45 was aimed straight between
Stan's eyes.
Sight of the big muzzle made Stan quail. The Shadow could feel the young man go limp. Coolly, The
Shadow lowered his leveled weapon, though still keeping his restraining grip on Stan's gun hand.
Then came whispered words--The Shadow's promise of co-operation against crime. He was declaring
himself a friend, and backing the statement with the glow of burning eyes. He was offering Stan a way
out, while he, The Shadow remained to combat Skeet and the crew, should they offer trouble.
With sweeping gesture, The Shadow indicated a window which led to an outside roof, the proper route
for Stan to take.
TEN minutes before, Stan Wilford would have snapped at the invitation. Even at this moment, his eyes
showed interest. His lips were tightening, as though fighting to curb a fear. Actually, Stan was striving to
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MansionOfCrimeMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEHOUSEONTHESOUND.?CHAPTERII.WORDTOMANHATTAN.?CHAPTERIII.STRANGEADVENTURE.?CHAPTERIV.FLIGHT'SFINISH.?CHAPTERV.NEWREFUGE.?CHAPTERVI.STANGETSACQUAINTED.?CHAPTERVII.THEOTHERANGLE.?CHAPTERVIII.EXITTHESHADO...

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