Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 207 - The Wasp

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THE WASP
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE WASP'S NEST
? CHAPTER II. STRANGE FOEMEN
? CHAPTER III. CROSSED CRIME
? CHAPTER IV. CRIME RETRACED
? CHAPTER V. THE CLOSED TRAIL
? CHAPTER VI. THE WASP'S TOKEN
? CHAPTER VII. CRIME MOVES AFIELD
? CHAPTER VIII. STEPS AGAINST CRIME
? CHAPTER IX. FIGURES FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER X. THE LAW'S MISTAKE
? CHAPTER XI. GLENN'S ADVICE
? CHAPTER XII. IN NEW YORK
? CHAPTER XIII. THE WAY OF THE WASP
? CHAPTER XIV. CROSSED SCHEMES
? CHAPTER XV. DOUBLE CAPTURE
? CHAPTER XVI. CRIME'S TERMS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE WEB INFOLDS
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW MOVES
? CHAPTER XIX. CRIME RIDES WIDE
? CHAPTER XX. THE WASP'S THREAT
? CHAPTER XXI. WITHIN THE LAIR
? CHAPTER XXII. FLIGHT OF THE WASP
CHAPTER I. THE WASP'S NEST
CRIME was rampant in Manhattan. The fact was evident everywhere. George Ambril noted the
symptoms as he rode in the subway, where he watched passengers reading newspaper headlines over
each other's shoulders. The same was true when he took a taxicab from the subway to his apartment
house.
Every traffic cop along the line gave the cab a thorough scrutiny, as though expecting to find it filled with
thuggish men armed with machine guns. The cabby, in his turn, was wary. He looked nervously at every
car that passed him, fearing that such vehicles might contain marauders.
The cops became apologetic when they saw George Ambril. He was a sleek, well-groomed young man,
with a thin mustache and a bland smile; certainly not the sort who would defy the law. As for the cabby,
he was worried because he had such an elegant passenger. He felt it his duty to protect such a rider, and
he pictured Ambril as the type of target that crooks would choose.
When jitters gripped traffic officers and cab drivers in broad daylight, it was quite obvious that the
present crime wave had reached an unprecedented height. Anything might happen, anywhere, at any
time, and the one man who seemed unaware of it was George Ambril.
The bland young man had a very good reason to preserve his pose of unconcern. He happened to know
a great deal about the crimes that had so far baffled the law. He knew the stories in back of the
newspaper headlines.
There weren't any mobbies with machine guns; no big-shots who snarled orders at ugly hordes. Such
stuff belonged in the days of prohibition. Crime had gone streamlined, although the police did not know it.
The men who were doing the dirty work were smart-looking chaps like George Ambril, and their leader
dealt in crime as a highly profitable, big-scale business.
As yet, the law had not even heard of crime's greatest profiteer, the Wasp.
There was money in crime. The Wasp had proven it; not for himself alone, but for all who served him.
George Ambril could testify to that fact, for he had made his share by serving his hidden master.
As the cab swung from the avenue and pulled up in front of a pretentious apartment house, Ambril gave a
contemptuous smile which expressed his opinion of all Manhattan.
Ambril wasn't even a New Yorker, nor were any of the others who served the Wasp. That was why
their chief was clever. He imported his workers, like Ambril, and showed them opportunities of which
they made the most. They were a bold lot, who could pull anything from stick-ups to murder, in
first-class style.
The Wasp told them how; they did the rest. For weeks, the police had been rounding up racketeers and
hoodlums and overlooking gentlemanly strangers of Ambril's ilk. By the time a worker had done his
quota of crooked jobs, the Wasp sent him out of New York. For the Wasp was too smart to miss a
trick.
Like a giant octopus, he had Manhattan in his clutch and was extending his long tentacles to the distant
towns where his workers came from, showing those communities what crime could be when done in
expert style.
As the cab halted in front of the apartment house, Ambril regretfully tossed aside a newspaper. He would
have liked to clip a front-page story from that sheet; one that told of a recent bank robbery, where
masked men had begun in the cashier's office and worked outward.
Ambril had been one of the bank robbers. The police were still looking for the mob around the Bowery
and other parts of the city that Ambril had heard about, but had never visited.
Entering his apartment, Ambril scanned the place with approval. It wasn't the sort of hideaway where
police would expect to find a member of the bank mob. In fact, it wasn't a hideaway at all.
Ambril had been living here for six months, finishing out a lease. He expected to stay another month,
because he was doing well as a cigar salesman, handling a high-priced brand which he placed at
exclusive clubs and hotels.
There was a letter from the cigar company under the door. Ambril opened it, and frowned. It contained
news that the usual salesman would have liked. Ambril had been given a new territory, operating out of
Cincinnati. But he hadn't expected the appointment quite so soon. Still frowning, he wondered if the
Wasp had heard about it.
Very probably. The Wasp heard about everything, usually before it happened. Nervously, Ambril
yanked open a desk drawer and began to thumb through stacks of bills. He'd wanted another month to
pay these up. It wouldn't do to leave town with a lot of debts. Then, as Ambril's forehead relieved itself
of wrinkles; his lips resumed their former smile.
Reaching for the telephone, he dialed a number. He gave his name when someone answered, and
inquired if Mr. Warrendon had returned to New York. Learning that Mr. Warrendon would be back this
evening, Ambril hung up the receiver and turned to the door, to answer a steady knock.
THE man who entered was of lighter build than Ambril, and younger in appearance. His manner was
suave, though a trifle forced. He introduced himself, rather formally, as Jack Prenter, and Ambril nodded
when he heard the name.
As the two faced each other, they looked very much alike; if they had been actors, Prenter could have
served as Ambril's understudy.
"Have a drink, Prenter," suggested Ambril, as he opened a closet that contained a variety of bottles.
"We're old friends. We've met before, even though we were masked."
Ambril paused, as Prenter glanced nervously toward the door. Then, in the same tone, he continued:
"Don't worry, Prenter. I always keep my voice low enough so that it won't be heard in the hall. I was
phoning when you arrived. You didn't hear me, did you?"
Prenter shook his head.
"I'm going out of town," he said. "To Cleveland, to work in a branch office of the advertising agency. I
heard that you were going to Cincinnati, so I thought maybe we could travel along together."
"I get it," returned Ambril, smoothly. "You've heard from the Wasp. We're to do some road work on the
way."
"At a town called Richmont," nodded Prenter. "I'll show you where the place is" - he pulled a road map
from his pocket - "because we're to go in your new car."
Ambril whistled softly. He hadn't told anyone that he had bought a new car. How word had reached the
Wasp so soon was a real mystery to Ambril, as well as new proof that the Wasp knew everything. While
Prenter was spreading the road map on the table, Ambril shoved the stack of bills in the drawer.
He was wondering if the Wasp had learned how far he had overdrawn his account. Such things didn't go
well with the Wasp. Ambril's dilemma was becoming more than a mild one.
"We can start tonight," Prenter was saying, "and stop over in New Jersey. Of course, if you want me to
take the car ahead, so you can meet me later -"
"Who said I'd want you to go ahead?" interrupted Ambril. "For that matter, what if I don't want to go at
all?"
"It's all provided for," returned Prenter, smoothly. "I can wait until tomorrow noon. If you don't show up,
someone else will join me."
"If I don't show up -"
The words dropped from Ambril's lips like the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead. Doubt as
to where he would be tomorrow meant further doubt regarding Ambril's entire future. He wondered if the
Wasp had crossed him off the list and was breaking the news gently, through Prenter. Ambril didn't want
to be crossed from the list.
When names were crossed from the Wasp's list, their owners were usually rubbed out. Ambril knew. He
had helped erase a few workers that the Wasp no longer wanted.
"I'll... I'll probably meet you tomorrow, Prenter," began Ambril, nervously. "I've a social matter to attend
to before I go. I have to see a chap named Herbert Warrendon. He's a wealthy man, Warrendon, the
sort of contact that the Wasp likes us to make. I wouldn't want to leave town without seeing him."
Prenter gave a half-doubtful nod. Watching him carefully, Ambril was trying to analyze the fellow's actual
thoughts, when another knock came from the door. Ambril hesitated; then answered it. A telegraph
messenger handed him an envelope.
"Probably from Warrendon," remarked Ambril, after he closed the door. "I phoned him awhile ago -"
The telegram had come from the envelope as Ambril tugged it. His eyes toward the yellow paper, Ambril
was riveted by what he saw. Instead of a usual telegram, the paper was plain yellow. In large typed
letters, it bore the message:
COME TO SUITE 810 HOTEL TRENTINE AT ONCE.
The message had no signature. Attached to it was a filmy thing that fluttered loose as Ambril eyed it. He
reached to pick up the tiny object. It was a wasp's wing.
Stuffing the message in his pocket, Ambril walked from the apartment, with Prenter following him. When
they reached the street, Ambril beckoned stiffly to a cab; then, turning to Prenter, he said jerkily:
"Here's the check for my car. You'd better take it from the garage. I may meet you tomorrow, Prenter."
"I hope so," replied Prenter, suavely. "Good luck, Ambril, wherever you're going!"
THOSE parting words were an encouragement to George Ambril, as he rode to the Hotel Trentine. He
felt that there had been a touch of envy in Prenter's tone.
The message that Ambril had received was a summons to meet the Wasp in person, a privilege that came
to few. Until he received the fake telegram, Ambril had never even guessed where the Wasp's lair was.
Probably Prenter didn't know, but would like to learn. To Ambril, it meant that the Wasp still considered
him as useful, and would give him a chance to redeem himself for violating the strict rule of keeping within
his budget. Nevertheless, he was shaky when he alighted from the cab at the Hotel Trentine.
Old-fashioned, conservative, the Trentine impressed most visitors as a place of calm. Not so with
George Ambril.
From the moment that he entered the lobby, he felt himself under the surveillance of watchful clerks and
bellboys. Riding to the eighth floor, Ambril noticed that the elevator operator was burly, powerful enough
to settle him with a single punch.
Along the eighth floor were doorways lining the corridor that led to Suite 810. Behind any of those doors
might be watchers, ready to close in upon the hapless man who was answering the summons of the
Wasp.
At the door of 810, Ambril hesitated; then realized that the mere act might produce suspicion.
Summoning his nerve, he knocked, hopeful that his deed was for the best.
Automatically, the door swung inward. As Ambril stepped into a sumptuous living room, the portal
closed behind him. Ahead was another door; he approached it, his footsteps hesitant. The door opened
as he neared it; mechanically, Ambril continued through, to a smaller room, that ended in a curtained
alcove.
There were no lights in the room. Only the gloom of dusk pervaded it; an ominous glow, like the fading of
human hope. Halfway across the room, Ambril halted, fascinated by a stir of the dark-purple curtains.
He was in the lair of the Wasp, that fearful abode where few but the owner had ever entered.
What happened to those who came here was a mystery. The thought was fearful, even to George
Ambril, who had answered the Wasp's own summons.
Then, as the very silence of the lair drove him almost to the point of frenzy, Ambril saw the curtains part.
From between them stepped the strangest human creature that the visitor had ever beheld.
George Ambril, tool of crime, was face to face with his evil master, the Wasp!
CHAPTER II. STRANGE FOEMEN
PERHAPS the dusk, coupled with Ambril's fear-distorted vision, made the Wasp appear more
grotesque than he actually was. One thing was certain: as Ambril stared, he understood why the Wasp
had chosen his strange title.
Crime's overlord was a human wasp. His body was long, thin at the waist. His legs were long, like an
insect's; his arms, folded across his stooped chest, looked like feelers.
For all that Ambril knew, those bent shoulders might have hidden a pair of transparent wings, completing
the illusion that here was a gigantic wasp prepared to pounce upon a human prey.
As for a head, the Wasp had a large one that actually dwarfed his long, lean frame. His vision blurred at
first, Ambril saw this monster only as a wasp; then, as the Wasp approached, he discerned a face which
was actually human, if a devil's could be classed as such.
Distorted into a grimace that seemed permanent, the Wasp's features wore a livid gloat that impressed
Ambril with their evil menace. The expression told why the Wasp had dealt unmercifully with those whom
he chose to class as prey or enemies. The contortion of the face made it coarse and ugly - a shock, even
to the visitor who had long served the Wasp's bidding.
When he spoke, the Wasp's tone sounded like a drone, a basso rumble that might well have been an
insect's buzz magnified a thousandfold. Yet every word drilled home to Ambril, particularly as the tone
carried accusation.
"You knew my rules," droned the Wasp. "All who serve me must be ready for whatever duty I
command. They cannot afford to jeopardize the positions which they occupy in the eyes of the world. By
placing your self in debt, you are not ready for the service which I have arranged. What excuse have you
to offer?"
It was several seconds before Ambril could find his voice. In those seconds, he did some quick thinking.
He settled the matter of excuses with a single word:
"None!"
The terse reply won the Wasp's approval. His rolling drone turned to a low-buzzed laugh. Advancing, he
clamped a hand upon Ambril's shoulder. At the touch, the bland man shrank away, stifling an involuntary
gasp.
That touch had the sharpness of a sting!
Perhaps the Wasp was using some electric gadget to produce the sensation; possibly it was a product of
Ambril's own imagination. One thing was certain: Ambril was impressed. He shrank from the sting, and
the Wasp seemed pleased.
Purposely, the Wasp had turned his back toward the window, which was shaded with a slatted Venetian
blind. Marred by the blind, the sunset produced an eerie twilight which made the Wasp's leering face
appear monstrous.
Straining to make out those distorted features, Ambril realized that his own countenance, turned toward
the light, was revealing every flicker of its expression.
"Might I inquire" - the Wasp's tone had a probing buzz - "just how you intended to pay your present
debts?"
"I was going to borrow some cash," admitted Ambril. "This evening... from a friend -"
He halted, without naming the friend. The Wasp supplied the name in a sharp tone:
"Herbert Warrendon!"
Ambril nodded, more nonplused than ever. There was no use trying to hide anything from the Wasp.
Apparently, the criminal overlord kept tabs on all who served him. It might be that he had heard from
Prenter, to whom Ambril had expressed himself quite freely a short while ago.
Still, Ambril felt relieved. He had told the Wasp the truth. He hoped that it would count for something, for
Ambril had a sinking feeling that he and the Wasp were not alone in the gloom of this room. It seemed
that watchers were close, prying from nooks and alcoves, ready to snatch Ambril as a victim should the
Wasp buzz the order.
Evidently, truth did count with the Wasp; not as a matter of principle, but merely as a gauge to determine
the reliability of his workers.
THE big-headed man sidled away, to stop, his thin body crouched, while he rubbed his hands together in
an insect's fashion. Ambril guessed right when he took the gesture for approval.
"Herbert Warrendon!" The Wasp pronounced the name with a sneer. "Why borrow money from a man
so wealthy? Since you know him well, Ambril, you can follow a better course. Visit Warrendon this
evening, but say nothing about money.
"Instead" - the Wasp whisked his hand into the dim glow, displaying a bright object at his fingertips -
"take this! It is a duplicate key to Warrendon's wall safe, behind the hunting picture in his den.
"There, you will find a sealed envelope marked 'Options.' Take the envelope, but nothing else. Go to
dinner with Warrendon, and after you leave him, bring the envelope here. Wait!" The Wasp raised a
pointing finger, before Ambril could speak. "There is just one point more."
He laid his hand upon Ambril's shoulder. This time, the Wasp's touch carried no sting. Piloting his visitor
through the outer room, the Wasp stopped at the outside door and buzzed his final words close to
Ambril's ear.
"If you get the envelope," spoke the Wasp, "pause to light a cigarette when you leave the house with
Warrendon. It will be a signal to others. They will enter later, break open the wall safe and rifle it. Do you
understand?"
Ambril understood. He was still nodding when the door dosed behind him. The robbery, happening while
he was with Warrendon, would be a perfect alibi for Ambril. But the Wasp was not willing to trust the
precious options to an ordinary crew of workers.
Tonight meant promotion for George Ambril. He probably would not have to join Jack Prenter
tomorrow. Ambril had met the Wasp; that was enough to place him in the select circle. Henceforth, he
would rate as one of the crime master's lieutenants. He would be among the chosen few who received
orders directly from their chief.
Ambril was smiling congratulations to himself when he reached the street. He might have lost his smile,
had he known what was happening in the Wasp's eight-story nest.
In the thick gloom of the inner room, the Wasp was making a telephone call. His eyes had a catlike gleam
that enabled them to see the phone dial, despite the dusk.
"Hello." The Wasp's buzzing tone was modified. "Is this Miss Velma Corl?" Then there was a moment's
pause; the eyes shone brighter and the tone sharpened. "I am sending Ambril to Warrendon's, as
planned... Yes, Velma, you can post the others. And remember, they are to watch for any false moves
on Ambril's part... Yes, follow him yourself. We are testing him tonight -"
In speaking to Ambril and Velma, the Wasp had not mentioned the nature of the options that he wanted
from Warrendon's. That was a matter that the Wasp considered his own concern; but there were other
men who classed those options as vitally important.
THOSE others were a group seated at a table in the grillroom of the exclusive Cobalt Club. They were
the directors of Consolidation Metals, a corporation on the verge of bankruptcy, a fact that they were not
attempting to hide.
"If Herbert Warrendon has those options," spoke one, "we can pull through. Provided, of course, that he
will sell them. I talked to Basil Gannaford today. He says that he can refinance our corporation if we can
show new assets."
"Warrendon will sell," put in another. "He'll want a real profit, of course, because that's his business. He
specializes in quick buys. They say he never has less than fifty thousand dollars on hand at his home."
The voices carried to a corner table, where two men were dining. One was New York's police
commissioner, Ralph Weston, whose squarish face wore a short-clipped mustache. The other was the
commissioner's friend, Lamont Cranston; his features were hawklike, so calm that they resembled a
mask.
Mention of fifty thousand dollars brought a brisk gesture from Weston. The commissioner nudged his
friend across the table, but the result was merely a leisurely response on Cranston's part.
"Hear that, Cranston?" undertoned Weston. "Such gossip is the sort that criminals overhear, to their
advantage."
Cranston's expression became quizzical. Evidently he hadn't caught the conversation from the other
table.
"They're talking about Herbert Warrendon," continued the commissioner. "They say he keeps fifty
thousand dollars at his house, right along."
"More than that, generally," responded Cranston, in a bored tone. "Fifty thousand dollars is small change
for Warrendon."
"You know Warrendon?"
"Of course." Cranston gave a slow glance at his watch. "I was thinking about dropping in on him later. I
understand that he has just returned home from a trip."
Commissioner Weston became very earnest, as he leaned across the table.
"If I could talk to men like Warrendon," he said, "it would help our battle against crime. Warrendon and
his sort are natural targets for criminals. Rumors of easy money have been responsible for recent crimes.
This present wave is baffling, Cranston. Crooks come and go almost like ghosts -"
Cranston interrupted the commissioner's harangue with an appropriate suggestion.
"I'll drop in on Warrendon," he proposed. "I can tell him that I expect a friend in half an hour. You will be
the friend, and when I introduce you to Warrendon, you can express your opinions, commissioner."
Weston accepted the offer eagerly. He urged Cranston to start at once. As the leisurely man strolled
from the grillroom, the commissioner could hardly curb his impatience. He had reached the point where
he actually believed that Herbert Warrendon was already threatened by criminals.
So had Lamont Cranston. He knew how far talk of wealth could carry in New York. Like Weston, he
was looking for the perpetrators of the huge crime wave that had swept Manhattan; but in a different
way. Cranston had a system of his own.
Outside the Cobalt Club, he stepped into a waiting limousine. Calm-toned, he gave the chauffeur an
address near Warrendon's house. The chauffeur did not notice that a taxicab followed as soon as they set
out. Nor did he observe Cranston in the rear of the limousine. The chauffeur was paid to keep his eyes
ahead.
Cranston's leisurely pose was gone. With smooth speed, the hawk-faced passenger was sliding a secret
drawer from beneath the rear seat. From the drawer he extracted a black cloak, a slouch hat, thin gloves,
and a pair of formidable automatics.
Soon, Cranston was blotted from sight. The cloak was over his shoulders, the hat on his head. The
automatics were stowed in special holsters; he was drawing on the gloves. His new garb practically
rendered him invisible in the depths of the big car.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow, master of darkness. Forth on a chance trail, The Shadow
would soon be meeting minions of the Wasp. Strange foemen, The Shadow and the Wasp!
Tonight's events might lead to a further crossing of their paths; to a time when they would come face to
face in a duel of justice against crime!
CHAPTER III. CROSSED CRIME
IN his most dapper style, George Ambril stepped from a cab and approached the front door of Herbert
Warrendon's pretentious brownstone home. Ringing the bell, he glanced about and smiled into the
darkness, as though greeting hidden friends.
They were there, those friends. They were watching from cars parked along the street. The cars that they
had brought were old ones; the sort that thugs would use. The occupants, too, were roughly dressed, but
their tones were by no means uncouth.
One man noted the discrepancy and reminded the others of it, soon after Ambril had entered
Warrendon's house.
"We're supposed to be hoodlums, for the benefit of Warrendon's servants," the spokesman said.
"Remember: when we encounter them, speak roughly. We must not harm them -"
"Hey, guy!" interrupted a voice in back. "If we're going to act tough, why don't you talk that way?"
"You can depend on me," chuckled the spokesman, "in due time. For the present, we can be ourselves.
As I was saying, our task is merely to overpower the servants, so that they can testify later that hoodlums
were responsible for the burglary. Of course, circumstances can alter our policy."
A blotch of darkness had moved between a street lamp and the parked car. None of the disguised
crooks observed it. If they had, they would not have classed it as a human form. The blotch was scarcely
more than a shadow.
Beyond it, however, was a cloaked shape that blended with the darkness of a house wall. The Shadow,
arriving on foot, had stopped by the car where he heard the voices. Talk was ended, but The Shadow
had heard enough to form specific conclusions.
Here was a key to recent crimes.
Vanished thugs fitted with The Shadow's own theory. Police roundups had failed because crooks were
of a new and unsuspected ilk. Not thugs but persons who passed as gentlemen were the members of the
masked mobs that had torn Manhattan wide apart. The Shadow suspected that these workers had been
imported; but that fact still remained unproven.
From the conversation in the car, The Shadow could gain no clue to the actual identity of the criminals;
but he decided to let that matter wait. What he had learned, was that these men intended to invade
Warrendon's premises and make trouble there.
The Shadow's natural course was to be on hand to greet them in his superb and unique style. Finding out
who they were, could come later.
As yet, The Shadow had not heard of a master crook who called himself the Wasp. Nor had he heard of
George Ambril. At the present moment, the latter fact was more important. Unless The Shadow moved
swiftly, the real crime would be under way before he entered Warrendon's house.
The Shadow did move swiftly, but with certain necessary detours. He kept to the gloom, which forced a
roundabout course; furthermore, he stopped to check on another car, which contained a second load of
silent men, who were awaiting a signal that The Shadow had not heard about.
After that, The Shadow headed for the rear street, where he contacted the cab that had followed the
limousine from the Cobalt Club. Having sent the limousine home, The Shadow intended to use the cab in
an emergency.
He owned the cab, as well as the limousine; the cab driver, Moe Shrevnitz, was one of The Shadow's
secret agents. Unlike Stanley, Cranston's chauffeur, Moe figured often in running battles against crooks.
Moe had parked near a corner, as any hopeful cabby would, looking for a fare. From his vantage point,
he had noted the absence of any lurkers along the rear street.
That settled, The Shadow undertook to enter Warrendon's house. The task proved simple enough. An
unlocked window at the back of the basement served the required purpose.
MEANWHILE, a slow, but tense, drama was unfolding within the Warrendon mansion. Seated in a
small reception room, George Ambril was receiving the apologies of a polite servant named Hector.
It appeared that Mr. Warrendon had not expected Mr. Ambril so soon, but Hector promised to go
upstairs and inform Mr. Warrendon that Mr. Ambril had arrived.
Hector had hardly started up the stairs before Ambril was at the door of the reception room, peering
avidly into the hall. He knew where Warrendon's den was - at the back of the library on the ground floor.
Gauging the time that it would take him to go there and return, Ambril set himself an extra task.
On the other side of the hall was a side door leading into the house, an excellent route for the crew to use
later; in fact, the very way that they would surely try. Ambril decided that an open door would help
matters as the Wasp wanted them.
Instead of darting for the den as soon as Hector was out of sight, Ambril made for the side door and
carefully unbolted it.
That done, Ambril moved across to the den. He turned on the light and closed the door behind him,
leaving it very slightly ajar. Glancing at the pictures that lined the paneled walls, he tried to pick out the
hunting scene the Wasp had mentioned. The thing was something of a problem.
One picture showed some hunting dogs; another, two men trudging along a road, with guns. A third
depicted a fox hunt in active progress. It was probably the one that the Wasp meant, but when Ambril
tried to move the picture, it didn't budge. So he tried the other two, which cost him valuable time, since
they were tightly fixed, also.
Returning to the fox hunt, Ambril used new tactics. Instead of tugging at the picture, he used a sliding
process. It finally slithered upward under pressure, and showed the door of a little wall safe; stout, but
not formidable.
Fumbling in his pockets, Ambril found the key. It fitted the lock. He was turning the key triumphantly
when he heard a sound behind him.
Wheeling, Ambril saw Hector on the threshold. The servant had returned; not finding Ambril in the
reception room, he had noted the light from the crack of the den door. Hector was more than a faithful
servant: he was a wary one. He had armed himself with one of Warrendon's canes before coming in to
accost Ambril.
Sight of Ambril's face, with its gloss changed to an ugly expression, was all that Hector needed. With a
shout that carried through the house, the servant made a lunge into the den. He turned his head as he
shouted, hoping that Warrendon would hear. In that moment, Ambril drove in, to meet Hector's lunge.
The swinging cane missed Ambril's head, but Hector made up for the slip. He was thwacking hard, as
they reeled out into the hall. The blows that Ambril partly warded knocked the confusion from the
crook's brain. He was beset with the sudden thought that overpowering Hector wouldn't be enough. The
servant could still tell what he had seen.
Dodging wide of Hector's strongest stroke, Ambril yanked a revolver from his pocket and jabbed a shot
straight for Hector's heart. It was luck, not good aim, that felled the servant.
摘要：

THEWASPMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEWASP'SNEST?CHAPTERII.STRANGEFOEMEN?CHAPTERIII.CROSSEDCRIME?CHAPTERIV.CRIMERETRACED?CHAPTERV.THECLOSEDTRAIL?CHAPTERVI.THEWASP'STOKEN?CHAPTERVII.CRIMEMOVESAFIELD?CHAPTERVIII.STEPSAGAINSTCRIME?CHAPTERIX.FIGURE...

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