Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 201 - The Murder Genius

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MURDER GENIUS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," July 1, 1940.
The warped brain of the Prince of Evil, murder genius, matches wits with
The Shadow, master over crime - as The Shadow attempts the rescue of one of
his
secret agents! What will be The Shadow's fate?
CHAPTER I
A PERFECT CRIME
ON the secluded beach of a privately owned tropic island in the Bermudas,
an incredibly ugly middle-aged man was dictating correspondence to a
dazzlingly
beautiful girl. A young man was stretched lazily on the sand a few feet away.
The young man was pretending to watch the pink coral sand he was sifting
idly through his bronzed fingers. Actually, he was staring at the girl.
Whenever
their glances met, she flushed faintly.
They were in love, those two. They were trying to conceal it from the
ugly-faced man who kept so calmly dictating letters on the subject of business
and finance.
The younger man's name was Howard Paxton. He was a British scientist, an
authority on tropical fish and coral formations. He had been invited to the
island as a guest and had fallen promptly in love with Millicent Whitney, the
lovely secretary of his millionaire host.
The host's name was Benedict Stark. He was one of the richest men in
America. The private yacht that had brought him from New York lay at anchor in
a
secluded cove nearby. This island in the warm tropics was only one of a dozen
places at Stark's disposal whenever he decided to mix work with play.
Stark was grimly suspicious that young Paxton was in love with Millicent.
That didn't bother him. The thing that enraged Stark under the mask of his
indifference was the fact that Millicent loved Paxton. Stark had trained this
girl carefully. He paid her a tremendous salary. He had no intention of losing
her to a lovesick young Britisher.
Stark was merely waiting for proof of his suspicions. When he had that
proof, he would solve his problem with a cold-blooded and carefully planned
murder!
Benedict Stark was a supercriminal! Wealth and social position protected
him from discovery. The police of New York would have clapped into a lunatic
asylum anyone who accused Stark of crime.
But The Shadow knew!
The Shadow, in the past, had engaged in a titanic struggle with an
unknown
criminal who called himself the Prince of Evil. The Shadow had won that
struggle. He had saved an innocent boy and girl from a maze of intrigue and
murder. (Note: See "Prince of Evil," Vol. XXXIII, No. 4.) But the most
dangerous
foe in the history of The Shadow's career had escaped capture. The Prince of
Evil had vanished!
With him had vanished Rutledge Mann, one of The Shadow's secret agents.
Mann had been kidnapped. He was being held a helpless prisoner in some
unknown rat-hole in New York, while the vicious thugs of a master criminal
worked slow torture on him, to force him to reveal the secrets of The Shadow's
organization for suppressing crime.
The very day that Rutledge Mann had vanished, Benedict Stark had sailed
in
his palatial yacht for his private island in the Bermudas. The Shadow was
certain that Stark and the Prince of Evil were the same man! But he had no
shred
of proof.
Perhaps it was the thought of this that crinkled the corners of Stark's
lips in a cruel and fleeting smile.
Millicent, his lovely secretary, had no knowledge of Stark's real
personality. Nor did young Howard Paxton. Stark was icily amused by the fact
that the British scientist had fallen in love with Millicent. He would remove
this threat to his comfort and convenience as soon as he made certain that his
suspicions were true.
Once again, he would experience the supreme thrill of murder!
Benedict Stark's bathing suit emphasized his physical ugliness, His body
was barrel-chested, like a gorilla's. A malformation at birth had made one of
his arms shorter than the other. His head was enormously large on a short
neck.
He had a jutting lower lip and eyes like bright marbles.
Behind those gleaming eyes was a magnificently trained brain. It was his
cunning brain that made Benedict Stark so dangerous.
Suddenly, Stark's eyes narrowed. He glanced up the length of the private
beach.
An unkempt figure was shambling along the sand. He carried in one hand a
string of freshly caught tropical fish. He was unshaven and barefooted. His
only garment was a pair of tattered overalls. He looked more like a scarecrow
than a man.
STARK clipped out an oath of anger as he saw the trespasser. He sprang
from
his beach chair, his powerful fist clenched.
"Of all the infernal impudence! What do you mean by coming ashore on my
private property? Get out damn you, before I -"
Millicent was aware of her millionaire employer's ugly temper. She was
afraid he might injure a simple-minded fisherman who meant no harm.
"It's only Portuguese Joe. I've seen his sailboat often in the cove. The
poor devil wants to sell us some fresh fish."
Paxton, who looked disgusted at Stark's show of temper, added quietly:
"Very nice fish, too, by Jove."
Portuguese Joe's teeth gleamed in a friendly grin. "Catch heem thees
morning. You want to buy heem, eh?"
"I want you to get off my island and take your damned fish with you!"
Stark
roared.
Joe was so frightened by his unexpected reception that he stood rooted in
his barefooted tracks on the sand. With a bound, Benedict Stark sprang toward
him. He snatched the string of fish from Joe's hand and tossed them with a
splash into the sea.
The next moment, he had Joe's arm in a tight hold. He twisted the arm
cruelly behind the fisherman's back.
Portuguese Joe uttered a shrill cry of pain. A docile man, he made no
effort to fight back. He dropped to his knees, writhing with the agony of
Stark's torturing clutch.
Millicent's gasp of concern brought young Paxton to his feet. He cried:
"Stop it, Stark! Are you mad? You'll break his arm!"
"I'll break his blasted neck, if he doesn't keep off my property!" Stark
snarled.
His face was flushed. But it was a faked display of temper. Inwardly,
Stark
was cool, had full control of himself. He was using this show of anger for a
very definite purpose. It told him things.
He noted that Paxton's arm had slipped reassuringly around the waist of
the
trembling Millicent. Millicent made no effort to avoid that protective
embrace.
These two were in love, damn them!
Benedict Stark hauled his whimpering victim to his feet and started him
up
the beach with a brutal kick.
"Get back to your scarecrow boat and don't let me catch you here again!"
He waited until Portuguese Joe's boat faded around a green headland. Then
he drew a deep breath.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper. I really didn't have any intention of
breaking
the fool's arm. I just wanted to teach him a lesson. Please accept my
apologies.
Are you ready for more dictation, Millicent?"
She nodded, and picked up her dropped notebook from the sand. Stark sat
back in his canopy-covered chair and began to dictate as if nothing had
happened. He reached for his highball glass on a nearby beach table and sipped
it with slow relish.
Paxton, thoroughly disgusted, made a polite excuse to leave.
"See you later," he said, his eyes lingering on Millicent. "I think I'll
stroll up the beach and examine some coral specimens I spotted yesterday."
His tall figure moved off toward a jutting headland that came almost down
to the blue glitter of the sea. He vanished from sight.
A crafty expression crept into Benedict Stark's eyes. He continued
dictating for ten minutes longer. Then he stopped.
"That'll be all for a while," he told Millicent. "I've got a business
problem that requires a little thought. Suppose you amuse yourself on the
beach
a half-hour or so. I'll call you when I need you."
STARK sat back and closed his eyes. Millicent walked slowly away, as if
she
had no particular interest except to kill time. But Stark noticed under
watchful
eyelids that his beautiful secretary moved toward the same headland behind
which
Howard Paxton had vanished a few minutes earlier.
Stark followed her, presently, moving with infinite precaution.
He didn't walk along the pink sand. On that sand Paxton and Millicent had
left a double line of footprints. Stark did not intend to betray, his
surveillance by making a third set of prints.
He veered close to the shore line of the island, stepping on smooth
stones
that left no betraying sign.
When he reached the headland, he dropped flat on his stomach. He crawled
behind a bush that grew at the foot of the seaward slope. Peering through its
thorny branches, Stark was able to get a good look at Millicent and Paxton
without himself being seen.
The good-looking young British scientist had evidently waited for
Millicent
to follow him. They were standing close together in the warm sunlight, talking
earnestly. Suddenly, Paxton took the girl in his arms and kissed her. She made
no effort to resist him.
Stark's breath hissed in his throat. He had seen all he needed to know.
He
crawled backward from the bush. Silently, he retreated along the boulders to
his
canopy-covered beach chair.
He sat down and mixed himself a tall highball, cooling it with ice cubes
from a silver vacuum jar. There was a devilish look on his face, but it faded
swiftly. Stark was used to concealing his feelings, even when he was alone.
He stared at the white foam of the breaking waves at the edge of the
beach.
Part of the beach at this point was fenced in with an enclosure of steel mesh.
It made sea bathing safer. Sharks were not uncommon in these waters.
Farther out on the surface of the cove, Stark saw a quick movement for an
instant. It was a black, triangular fin. It left a thin streak of foam on the
surface, then it vanished.
Stark uttered a brief laugh. It was an unpleasant sound, as cold as the
clink of the ice cubes in the frosted highball glass.
That black fin of a shark fitted in very nicely with the plans of
Benedict
Stark!
STARK'S mansion stood on a green knoll in the center of the island. It
was
surrounded by gorgeous tropical gardens. It was high enough to afford a
glimpse
of Stark's yacht, at anchor far out in the cove.
A cool, steady trade wind blew in from the sea. It made the house and
gardens a pleasant place for a millionaire to take his ease.
But Stark's face looked strained as he sat, late that afternoon, in his
high-ceilinged bedroom. He could hear the steady click of a typewriter from
somewhere in the back of the house. The sound came from a room equipped as an
office.
Purposely, Stark had given Millicent plenty of work to keep her busy in
that office. Howard Paxton was somewhere on the beach, still hunting for coral
specimens.
Stark stared at two typewritten notes that lay on the small desk at which
he was sitting. Both notes were unsigned. Both were identical in their
wording.
They read as follows:
DARLING: I've got to see you tonight. It's terribly important.
I'll wait for you at the usual place. Don't fail to meet me.
The "usual place" to which the notes referred was a tiny stretch of beach
almost entirely screened from the land side by a dense growth of palms.
Benedict
Stark was aware that Millicent and Paxton used this spot for some of their
secret meetings.
Millicent was afraid of Stark's anger if he learned that she was planning
to marry Paxton and leave his employ. She had become more and more afraid of
her
strange employer in these last few months. But she had no idea that a spying
employee of Stark's had already discovered her romantic secret.
The spy was Millicent's personal maid, Marie. The press of a button would
summon Marie from Millicent's room. But Stark waited until he performed an
important task.
Using two specimen signatures as a guide, he signed the names of
Millicent
and Paxton to the identical notes he had prepared. It was a clever job of
forgery. Each of the victims would think that the other desired a meeting that
evening.
The only danger was to keep them apart beforehand, lest they discover the
trick. Stark intended to take care of that part himself.
He pressed a button on his desk. After a while, Marie entered the room.
She
was a rather pretty French girl, with dark hair and sharp black eyes. Stark
explained in a low voice what he wanted done. Marie nodded. She slipped the
two
forged notes into her bosom.
Marie had long since wormed her way into Millicent's confidence.
Millicent
herself had already given Marie one or two love messages to take to Paxton.
That
made the deception easier to accomplish.
Benedict Stark chuckled, as he dressed leisurely for dinner.
During the meal in the ornate dining room, he could tell from the flushed
faces of Paxton and his secretary that Marie had performed her part of the
scheme perfectly. Paxton was nervous and restive. So was Millicent. But they
had
no chance to talk alone. Stark saw to that.
"Will you need me for any typing tonight?" Millicent asked, toward the
close of the meal.
"Unfortunately, yes," Stark replied. His tone was bland. "There are one
or
two things I want to get out. You can type them in your own room, if you like.
It's cooler there."
"Thank you."
Stark could see relief flood the girl's face. He knew what Millicent was
thinking. It would be an easy matter later on for her to leave through her
bedroom window to keep the tryst with young Paxton. Stark meant her to leave
that way!
An hour later, Stark stepped to the cool darkness of a balcony outside
his
own window. He tiptoed silently along the balcony toward the window of
Paxton's
room. He had no fear of discovery. He had watched Paxton leave the house
shortly
after dinner.
Stark remained in the Englishman's room only a few moments. When he
reappeared, he had stolen what he had gone in for - Paxton's bathing suit.
With the bathing suit stuffed under his coat, Stark lowered himself from
the shadowy balcony. He dropped noiselessly to the turf below. Then he melted
across the dim gardens and vanished into the tropic night.
IN a tiny glade near the water's edge, Howard Paxton waited impatiently
for
Millicent.
He had begged her to marry him, but up to now she had been afraid to
incur
the millionaire's wrath by announcing her engagement to Paxton. Perhaps she
had
finally made up her mind. That might be the reason for her urgent note.
Suddenly, Paxton heard a light step in the shrubbery. He turned with a
quick cry of delight.
"Millicent! Darling! Is that you?"
Impatiently, he parted the branches and reached forward to take the girl
he
loved into his arms. His eagerness cost him his life.
A heavy weapon crashed against Paxton's head. It was a fearful blow. It
crushed his skull like an eggshell. He fell bleeding to the ground.
When the murderer bent over his victim in the darkness, Paxton was dead!
The killer moved with terrific speed. He drew off Paxton's coat and
wadded
it under his smashed skull to sop up the blood. Then he stripped the dead
man's
body. He made a neat bundle of the clothing and shoes, weighted it with a
chunk
of heavy coral.
A moment later he disappeared through the bushes.
When the killer returned, he came by water in a motorboat. He beached the
craft on the sandy shore and leaped out. Hurrying to a nearby thicket, he
propped a sheet of paper in a thorny opening among the branches. The paper
made
a white blur in the gloom. Millicent couldn't miss it when she arrived later
to
keep her date with Paxton.
The killer chuckled as he read it. It was a cold-blooded and cruel
forgery,
the sort of thing that appealed to his instinct for evil.
Turning away from the planted message in the bush, the killer continued
his
swift plan to cover up a brutal crime. He dressed Paxton's stripped body in
the
dead man's own bathing suit. He placed the corpse and the weighted bundle of
clothes in the motorboat.
A moment later, the boat headed out across the blackness of the water. As
the boat slowed, the killer got rid of the weighted bundle of the dead
Englishman's clothes. The blood-smeared murder weapon followed.
The disposal of the telltale clues made two quick splashes. Leaning over
the gunwale of the slowly moving boat, the killer watched the dark surface of
the water. Suddenly, he saw a ripple. A black fin cut the water in a lazy
circle
about the boat. A shark had been attracted by the splashes!
The final act in a cowardly murder was now almost ready.
A chuckle came from the killer. He knew that Millicent would say nothing
about the sheet of paper she would find in the bush. She'd be too heartbroken
and humiliated by its contents. Stark would get hold of it later and destroy
it.
If any talk arose about Paxton's absence, the fact that his bathing suit
was missing from his room would indicate that the Englishman had been rash
enough to go for a night swim in shark-infested waters.
A killer had enjoyed a supreme thrill without any danger to himself. He
had
committed a perfect crime!
The motorboat slipped stealthily through the darkness toward deeper
water.
Behind it, like a tiny black sail cutting the surface, moved the triangular
fin
of a shark.
CHAPTER II
A CRUEL DECEPTION
THE sleek, seaworthy yacht of Benedict Stark lay at anchor near the outer
rim of the cove. No light glowed from any of its portholes. But there was a
faint spot of illumination from the window of a deck-house near the stern of
the
vessel. This was the wireless room.
The fact that wireless activity was going on aboard the anchored yacht
was
of great interest to Portuguese Joe.
The tattered fisherman's blunt-nosed little sailboat was an invisible
speck
on the dark water, not too far from the yacht.
Night after night, Portuguese Joe had dropped anchor here. His daylight
fishing was merely a blind. He was interested in listening to certain coded
wireless messages that came to Stark's yacht at the same hour every night on a
directed radio beam from Florida.
Portuguese Joe was The Shadow!
He sat crouched below the dark rail of his craft, with a pair of
earphones
clamped over his head. He was listening to every dot and dash that came
whizzing
through the ether to the wireless room aboard Stark's yacht. His keen ears
missed nothing.
The fishing boat's sail was as black as the hull that lay like a dark
patch
on the water. A secret panel had been opened. Within that panel was a powerful
radio receiving set. Huge storage batteries made The Shadow's problem of
listening to those elusive dots and dashes an easy one.
He was no longer a ragged scarecrow. A black robe covered him from throat
to foot. A slouch hat shaded his burning eyes. There was no timidity in those
eyes.
The Shadow had endured torture from the ugly-tempered Stark earlier that
afternoon in the role of Portuguese Joe, merely because it did not suit him to
betray his real identity too soon. He had come secretly to this tropic island
on
a tremendously important mission.
He hoped to get some definite clue to the fate of Rutledge Mann!
Rutledge Mann was one of The Shadow's trusted agents. He had come within
a
hairbreadth of proving that Benedict Stark and an unknown supercriminal who
called himself the Price of Evil were one and the same individual.
But Mann had failed almost at the moment of triumph. He had been seized
and
kidnapped. Somewhere in New York he lay a helpless prisoner, doomed to torture
and death unless he betrayed the secrets of The Shadow's organization.
Mann had vanished the same day that Benedict Stark had sailed in his
yacht
for a short vacation on his private island in the Bermuda group. It was like
Stark to postpone Mann's death. He loved cruelty. And it flattered his vanity
to
live in tropic luxury while a doomed prisoner waited in terror for his return
to
New York.
The Shadow realized grimly that unless he moved swiftly to locate and
rescue Mann, his loyal agent would die!
Suddenly, The Shadow stiffened. Another coded message was coming over the
radio that linked Stark's yacht to some unknown sender in Florida. The
Shadow's
hand moved steadily with a pencil. He jotted down disconnected words as he
listened to the scrambled dots and dashes in his headphones.
The fact that the message was in code didn't worry him. The Shadow was
one
of the world's foremost authorities on cryptograms. He had found the code a
relatively simple one to crack. His worry arose from the decoded messages
themselves.
So far, they had all been legitimate. Some were reports on business
transactions. Others were acknowledgments of orders to buy and sell in Wall
Street. Nothing unusual or sinister.
Tonight, however, The Shadow's aerial fishing landed a puzzling prize.
All
the other messages had been unsigned. This one ended with a man's name;
somebody
named Clifton. The communication read as follows:
Serious trouble has developed about Andrew Marshall. He intends
to exercise the option in his contract with the Herndale bank.
Insists upon paying off bank and assuming complete control of
business. See no way to persuade Marshall except by strong
measures. Advise you to return at once!
CLIFTON
The Shadow had no time to ponder the meaning of this strange warning to
Stark. Another message was coming through. The Shadow's calm hand trembled as
he
decoded it. It began with two initials: "R. M."
Rutledge Mann! The Shadow guessed it before he set down the rest of the
grim radio flash. It was a brutal confirmation of his worst fears concerning
his
missing agent:
R. M. is very weak. Still refuses to talk, despite daily
torture. Suggest you return to New York at once to question
him personally before he dies.
As though conscious that The Shadow might somehow be listening, the
mysterious radio sender in Florida ended his nightly report. The steady hum of
the radio ended.
With a quick gesture, The Shadow removed the headphones. He closed the
panel in the fishing boat that guarded the secret of his powerful receiving
set.
He sat up, stretching his cramped muscles.
It was then that he heard the faint cry.
IT was a very faint cry. It seemed to come from a tiny indentation on the
wooded shore of the island. It was not repeated.
The Shadow picked up a pair of binoculars. He stared steadily at the
distant spot from which that brief cry had come. He could see nothing.
He laid down the night glasses and busied himself with the homemade
anchor
that moored his clumsy sailing boat. It was a chunk of coral tied to a stout
rope, the sort of thing most fitted to the shiftless role of Portuguese Joe.
When the dripping rock was safely on board, The Shadow let his boat drift
in the light breeze. Again he used his glasses.
This time he could see something moving. It left the shore from the spot
where he had heard that faint cry. It seemed to be a motorboat judging from
its
low hum. Its engine was well muffled.
The Shadow bent every effort to intercept the mysterious craft. It was
hopeless. The breeze over the black cove was so light it was almost a calm.
And
the fishing boat was sluggish in a light air. The Shadow tacked. Desperately
he
tried to find a capful of wind for his sail.
He had only one consolation. The man in the motorboat had no suspicion
that
he was under observation from a distance. The Shadow was able to see him now
through the powerful lenses of his binoculars.
He was unable to identify the man. A cloth mask covered his head like a
helmet. Glittering eyes gleamed through narrow slits in the mask. They were
staring at the body of a dead man.
Even across the distance that separated the two boats The Shadow was able
to recognize the corpse. It was Howard Paxton. He had been horribly murdered.
The skull was crushed in.
The Shadow saw the killer throw the weighted bundle of Paxton's clothes
overboard. He wondered why the murderer had dressed the victim in a bathing
suit. Then he tensed.
The masked man had produced a knife. He began to slash at the bare flesh
of
the dead man's legs and arms. Blood oozed from the victim. With his legs and
arms a red smear he was picked up by the killer and poised over the gunwale of
the motorboat.
A circling shark's fin was visible a few yards away from the boat.
No opportunity was presented The Shadow for gunfire. The distance was too
great.
He knew that the moment he removed his gaze from the lenses of his
binoculars the far-off boat with its killer and corpse would merge with the
blackness of the water. And the echo of a useless pistol shot would advertise
the presence of a witness to the masked murderer.
Besides, Paxton was already dead.
Helpless to interfere, The Shadow saw a plume of distant spray as the
body
struck the water. A moment later there was a swirl as the exposed fin of the
shark vanished.
The engine of the motorboat made a faint hum. The craft wheeled about in
a
tight circle and headed back toward the island. It was gone presently, like an
evil dream behind a jutting headland.
A name glowed like flame in the mind of The Shadow. Benedict Stark! And
yet
the situation was exactly as it had always been. No proof. Long before The
Shadow could reach Stark's island mansion the millionaire whom The Shadow
suspected of being the Prince of Evil would be suavely at ease in his own
home!
The Shadow's only chance to pin the proof of murder on a master criminal
was to examine the spot on the shore line where Paxton had uttered his brief
cry. It was there that the murder had occurred. Perhaps some damaging bit of
evidence had been overlooked by the masked killer.
Grimly, The Shadow pointed the blunt bow of the sailboat toward the
shore.
The sail flapped limply in the light breeze. The boat moved with maddening
slowness.
MILLICENT'S heart was thumping excitedly as she tiptoed to the open
window
at the rear of her room in the Stark mansion. The typing assignment Stark had
given her was finished. Millicent was free to keep her tryst with the man she
loved.
It was easy to descend to the ground. A thick tropical vine offered a
convenient ladder. Millicent vanished without a sound into the underbrush
beyond
the rear of the lawn.
The note from Paxton, which her maid, Marie, had smuggled to her shortly
before dinner, was tucked under the bodice of her gown, close to her beating
heart. She had no suspicion that Marie was a spy or that the message was a
forgery. She anticipated the happiest moment of her life.
Millicent sped eagerly along the tiny path that led to the palm-enclosed
clearing, near the shore.
But she was dismayed when she arrived. The clearing was empty.
For an instant, Millicent felt a quick stab of dread. She remembered
Paxton's strange nervousness that afternoon. He had hinted vaguely at danger.
He
had told her that he didn't want to expose her to any unpleasantness.
Then why had he sent for her tonight? And where was he?
Millicent was pondering these questions when she saw the white gleam of a
paper propped in the thorny branches of a bush. Eagerly, she seized the
message
that had been slyly left there for her to see. She read it with unbelieving
horror:
DEAR MILLICENT: Tonight I intended to explain, but I didn't have
the courage to face you. I had no idea that you'd take my little
flirtation so seriously. Darling, I'm sorry, but I'm already
married. I have a wife in England. I'm leaving the island at
once. Please forgive me - and forget I ever lived.
HOWARD PAXTON
A moan came from Millicent's lips. Every sentence in that message was
like
a knife in her heart. It explained Paxton's nervousness earlier that
afternoon.
It explained why he had asked Millicent to come here tonight - and why he had
fled like a coward, leaving her to take the bitter blow alone.
Scarcely realizing what she was doing, Millicent folded the fake
confession
and slipped it into her bosom. The agony she felt was too deep for tears. She
felt dead inside. She left the clearing and started back toward the mansion,
moving with the slow stiffness of a sleepwalker.
She had suffered a cruel blow, but she had plenty of courage. By the time
she had reached the rear of the house, she had regained a measure of
self-control. She climbed the vines to her room and undressed in the cool
darkness.
Before she got into bed she folded Paxton's last message into a tiny
square
and laid it in a place where it would always be available to her - and to no
one
else.
She wanted to keep that message as a tragic reminder of her own folly.
Never again would she put her trust in the kisses of a good-looking young man.
Millicent didn't realize it, but in hiding that note so securely, she was
putting a cunning murderer in dire peril!
She had not been in bed very long, when there came a knock at her door.
She
sat up, puzzled by this unexpected visitor at so late an hour.
"Who is it, please?"
"It is I - Benedict Stark. May I see you, please? I've just made a rather
important decision."
"Just a minute."
Millicent donned her dressing gown and slippers. Stark smiled suavely as
he
entered.
"Nothing to worry about, my dear," he said smoothly. "The only annoyance
my
decision will cause you is lack of sleep. I'll send Marie in to help you dress
摘要：

MURDERGENIUSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"July1,1940.ThewarpedbrainofthePrinceofEvil,murdergenius,matcheswitswithTheShadow,masterovercrime-asTheShadowattemptstherescueofoneofhissecretagents!WhatwillbeTheShadow'sfate?CHAPTERIAPERFECTCRIMEONthesecludedbeachofaprivatelyownedt...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：82 页 大小：198.08KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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