Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 199 - The Scent of Death

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THE SCENT OF DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. QUEST OF GOLD
? CHAPTER II. CROOKS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. CRIME'S INTERIM
? CHAPTER IV. AT THE FLOWER SHOP
? CHAPTER V. CLUES TO COME
? CHAPTER VI. DEATH'S RIDDLE
? CHAPTER VII. THE WHEELS MOVE
? CHAPTER VIII. FADED EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER IX. DEATH LIES BELOW
? CHAPTER X. DEALS AND DOUBLE DEALS
? CHAPTER XI. JOURNEY'S END
? CHAPTER XII. CRIME MOVES AHEAD
? CHAPTER XIII. DEATH AFTER DARK
? CHAPTER XIV. CROSSED BATTLE
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW'S MOVES
? CHAPTER XVI. NIGHT BRINGS SHADOWS
? CHAPTER XVII. DEATH STALKS ANEW
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME'S METHOD
? CHAPTER XIX. MURDERER'S LAIR
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME COMES HOME
CHAPTER I. QUEST OF GOLD
THOUGH dusk was settling in Manhattan's streets, the setting sun still cast its rays into the offices of
Angew Co., importers, situated high up in the building they occupied.
There, Wilfred Angew, president of the importing company, sat in conference with two late-afternoon
visitors: Preston Marr, an automobile manufacturer, and Hugo Brydan, a retired investment broker. The
sun's glow cast a golden light upon that thirtieth-story scene, and the burnished tint was appropriate.
Those three men had gathered to discuss a single subject: gold.
It was difficult to determine which man dominated the conference, Angew or Marr. The office belonged
to Angew, and the importer was accustomed to ruling his own preserves. Angew was a long-faced,
baldish man with steely eyes, and when he rapped his knuckles on his big desk, it meant for people to
listen.
But Angew was going light on the raps, with Marr present. Marr had a way of compelling silence without
becoming excited. His grizzled hair gave him dignity; his square jaw marked him as forceful. Most
people—even Angew— preferred to let Marr do his share of the talking, so as to learn what was in his
keen mind.
It happened that Wilfred Angew and Preston Marr thought alike on this occasion; hence each was
carrying part of the discussion. Their remarks were directed to Hugo Brydan, who drank in everything
they said, with nods.
Drab and dreary-faced, with listless manner and hesitant speech, Brydan looked outclassed beside
Angew and Marr. When the forceful man talked in terms of millions, Brydan brightened somewhat, but
always shrank back into a phase of timid doubt.
"We three represent a group of five," announced Angew, rapping the desk for Brydan's benefit, not
Marr's, "who hold equal claims, or options, on the North Star Mine. For a payment of sixty thousand
dollars, one month from today, we can own that property outright."
"Should anyone fail to provide his share of the cash," added Marr, "the privilege will pass to the others.
Of course"—his eyes were steady on Brydan —"any man could agree to exercise his option, and then
transfer his share to someone else."
Brydan nodded, very wisely.
"Exactly what Philip Kreft told me!" he exclaimed. "Why, he actually offered to double my money, if I
would sell out to him. He said he would advance the purchase money, if I needed it."
Angew and Marr exchanged prompt glances. Nods passed between them. Angew started to say
something, then decided to let Marr be the spokesman. The grizzled man became emphatic.
"Angew and I have learned something important, Brydan," declared Marr. "The North Star Mine is
worth millions! We want you to share in its full development."
MARR looked to Angew, who took up the tale from that point.
"You must work with us," insisted Angew. "Three of us, holding a majority of the stock when it is issued,
can proceed without interference from Kreft."
Brydan stroked his sloping chin.
"Kreft said nothing about millions," he mused, aloud. "He simply stated that the North Star looked like a
good speculation. He's always been a plunger, Kreft has, ever since he inherited his uncle's fortune."
By another exchange of glances, Angew and Marr decided it would be good policy to deal lightly with
Kreft.
"Perhaps he plunged too much," observed Angew, sympathetically. "He saw North Star as his one
chance to make a clean-up. Perhaps he thought he was being generous to you, Brydan."
"Maybe he doesn't realize how valuable the mine really is," soft-toned Marr. "If so, that is one reason
why he should not control it. We need you, Brydan, on our side, because we feel quite sure that Kreft
has already won over old Austin Delmont."
Again, Brydan nodded. There was a very good reason why Kreft might have influenced Delmont, the
fifth of the option holders. During Brydan's nods, Angew and Marr mentioned the reason themselves.
"Kreft is engaged to Delmont's granddaughter Patricia," declared Angew. "It seems that all women,
especially young ones, become infatuated over Kreft."
"In her turn, Patricia can influence her grandfather," added Marr, "which is probably why Kreft has paid
so much attention to the girl."
Having settled the status of the other camp, both Angew and Marr returned to their policy of establishing
Brydan on their side. They showed him reports and surveys that they had been accumulating during the
past few months, indicating that the North Star Mine would bring at least a half million dollars to each
investor.
They assured the drab man that he would share equally with them; that any spiteful efforts on the part of
Kreft would be rendered nil, with Angew, Marr and Brydan holding control.
That argument was a valuable one, because Philip Kreft, already wealthy, was also quite eccentric. He
was just the sort who might spoil something for others who could not see things his way.
Nevertheless, Angew and Marr gave honest assurance that Kreft and old Delmont would be treated
fairly and would receive their proper shares of the profits. As the conference concluded, Brydan was
satisfied that his friends, Angew and Marr, were men of integrity.
"We have shown that honesty is our policy," asserted Angew, when Brydan had gone. "Therefore, we
can depend upon Brydan to work with us."
"Success in any business venture," observed Marr, "depends upon giving an associate as much as you
demand for yourself. We have done that with Brydan."
The two were going toward the door that Brydan had used, when a troubled thought struck Angew.
"Brydan does not look very healthy," said Angew. "If anything should happen to him, our plans would be
ruined. The claims are not transferable, you know, until after the final date. Perhaps we should have had
Brydan sign an agreement in our favor."
"Quite useless," objected Marr. "If anything should happen to Brydan, there would simply be four claims,
instead of five. You and I would still be equal to Kreft and Delmont."
"But we would not hold control—"
"I'm not so sure about that." Marr's squarish face wore a confident smile. "I think there is a chance that
we can win old Austin Delmont. He is very conservative, you know, and I doubt that he fully approves of
Philip Kreft as a husband for his granddaughter."
ANGEW'S eyes flashed with new interest, but his voice was undertoned, for they had reached the
elevator.
"Can't someone press that point with Delmont?" he queried. "He ought to know that Kreft is nothing but
a fop; that the fellow walks around like a living fashion plate, simply to gain the admiration of women.
"You've seen Kreft, Marr, wearing his top hat and fancy waistcoat, always with a little golden flower in
his buttonhole. That walking stick of his and the swagger that goes with it—bah! Kreft is nothing but a
man about town, an habitue of the night clubs!"
Marr's squarish face showed a confident smile, as the elevator halted on the ground floor.
"Those facts have already reached Delmont," he confided, as they walked out to the street. "He and his
granddaughter will be at the reception which is being held at my home tonight."
"And Kreft?"
"When we sent out the invitations," smiled Marr, "I saw to it that Kreft's name was not included. Tonight,
Angew, I intend to chat with Delmont, and you will have a chance to do the same."
The two stepped into a waiting limousine. As they did, another man alighted from a taxicab, and paused
as he saw both Angew and Marr. He was close enough to hear their chuckles, although they did not
notice him. He caught Marr's words to Angew:
"We are already sure of Brydan, and as for Delmont, I am positive that—"
The slam of the limousine door rut off the rest. The big car pulled away with its passengers, Marr and
Angew. Neither looked back through the dusk; hence they failed to see the man who had arrived too late
to pay them a visit before they left Angew's office.
He was a youngish man, that late arrival, but older, probably, then he looked. His smooth-shaven face
was handsome, friendly in its smile. There was something suave, however, in his expression, that
betokened craftiness behind his carefree attitude.
His attire, though immaculate, was too conspicuous. He was a modern version of a dude, a streamlined
Beau Brummel, with his fancy waistcoat crossed by a heavy gold watch chain; his gray spats and topper,
to match.
The cane that he carried was slender, pliable as he leaned lightly upon it. His necktie, broad and fancy,
was of the species properly termed a cravat. The detail that completed his fastidious garb was a tiny
flower in the buttonhole of his coat lapel.
It was a golden-hued flower, that looked like a miniature carnation. It seemed to symbolize wealth, as
well as individuality. Many persons could have identified the man by that flower, for it was a unique
species that he alone wore.
The golden flower stood for Philip Kreft.
STANDING on the sidewalk, Kreft let his wise smile broaden, while he watched the limousine swing the
corner. Then, turning back to the taxicab, he replaced a drawn wallet in his inside pocket, re-entered the
cab and gave the driver another address.
Unlike Marr and Angew, Kreft had no one to whom he could confide his thoughts as he rode along in the
dusk. But the occasional mutters that came from his lips told that he was considering the same subject
that Marr and Angew had discussed with Brydan: the matter of the North Star Mine.
Words that Kreft had heard were conclusive proof that the present set-up was three to two against him,
with the chance that it might later become four to one. Such opposition made it seem impossible for Philip
Kreft to ever obtain the North Star Mine as a speculative venture all his own.
Kreft, with all his carefree habits, was a man who sometimes fought to the limit for the things he wanted.
Often, though, he was canny enough to toss certain schemes overboard when the opposition was strong.
Whether Philip Kreft intended to fight or quit on this occasion, was a question so debatable that only
future events could answer it. But such events would have to be drastic as well as rapid, to serve the man
who wore the golden flower!
CHAPTER II. CROOKS IN THE DARK
THE taxicab carrying Philip Kreft came to a stop in front of an uptown flower shop which bore the
impressive title: INTERSTATE FLORISTS INCORPORATED. Alighting, Kreft paid the taxi driver,
added a dollar tip, and strolled into the florist shop, where he was greeted with affable bows by a very
polite clerk.
"Hello, Oswald," returned Kreft, in a smooth yet casual tone. "Have the flowers arrived yet for Miss
Delmont?"
"Not yet, Mr. Kreft," replied Oswald, "but they will be here in an hour. Positively, sir, within an hour. I
just had a call from the greenery in New Jersey. They said that the truck had started."
Kreft stepped to a table, where a pile of order slips lay beside the telephone.
"The order is there, Mr. Kreft," insisted Oswald. "One dozen of our new Arden Bloom roses, to be sent
with your card. I am leaving very shortly"— Oswald glanced at his watch—"but Talbot will attend to it.
The roses will go by special messenger."
Mention of Talbot brought a smile from Kreft.
"Poor old Talbot," he remarked. "Pinch-hitting for Herkshire. By the way, how is Herkshire getting along
after that operation of his?"
"He is still in the hospital," replied Oswald, "but we expect him back within a few days, at most."
With that, Oswald excused himself and went into a little office. Kreft glanced about at banks of flowers,
eyeing some approvingly, others with disdain. Then, picking up the telephone, he dialed a number and
began a conversation.
When Kreft talked on the telephone, he had a way of purring words into the mouthpiece, so that his
voice could not be heard more than a few feet away. It was just another characteristic that showed him
to be an extremist.
Usually quite talkative in ordinary conversation, Kreft always became guarded during telephone calls.
Even unimportant chats that he held across the wire impressed witnesses as being something of great
moment.
Kreft had finished his call when Oswald returned from the office. The clerk began to check over the
order slips, nodding while Kreft remarked:
"If anyone should phone me here, Oswald, tell them that I am on my way to the Club Cabana."
Jauntily swinging his light walking stick, Kreft departed for his favorite hang-out. He had been gone for
fully five minutes, when Oswald, anxious to get off duty, gave a welcoming gasp to a dapper but
tired-looking man who entered.
"Herkshire!" exclaimed Oswald. "When did you leave the hospital?"
"An hour ago," replied the arriving clerk, with an attempt at a smile. "They told me not to work for a few
days, but I preferred to come here. I called Talbot to tell him he would not be needed."
Before Oswald could protest, he saw that Herkshire's smile was becoming real. The sight of the flowers,
their fragrance, were bringing back the man's spirits. Herkshire's heart belonged to the florist shop; for
years, he had refused vacations, because he hated to be away from floral surroundings.
Oswald, leaving, decided that Mr. Kreft would be pleased to know that Herkshire was back. Herkshire
was far more efficient that his doddering substitute Talbot.
Many customers—Kreft included—relied greatly upon Herkshire's judgment. But Oswald did not
consider it necessary to telephone the Club Cabana and inform Kreft that Herkshire was again on the
job.
The departing clerk simply told Herkshire that the greenery truck had left New Jersey and could be
expected in three-quarters of an hour. Herkshire accepted the information with a matter-of-fact nod.
Nothing ever delayed that truck long enough to cause complications in the florist shop.
In fact, Herkshire could picture the truck approaching the Holland Tunnel on its way to Manhattan, with
a clear path uptown after it entered the limits of New York City. But it happened that the mental image
did not include all factors.
NEAR the Holland Tunnel, on the Manhattan side, five men were clustered in a long, low-built touring
car. Two, in the front seat, were holding a terse conversation, to which the others listened.
The men in the back seat had the look of thugs, and they always listened to the pair in front, on the
chance of learning a great deal.
The front-seat men were a brace of highjackers, as capable as any in New York. Koko Yandel and
Morry Cathlan had teamed together during the beer-running days. Later, they had highjacked cigarette
trucks, and had even specialized in waylaying shipments of artichokes, along with various other odd
commodities.
Their pals always said that Koko had the head, and Morry the brain, which made them excellent running
mates. Koko had a head, certainly enough: a big one, with a skull guaranteed to bend a lead pipe. His
features, too, were oversized, and ugly.
In contrast, Morry was small-headed, with a thin face and sharp-pointed nose. When he spoke, Morry
scarcely moved his lips at all, whereas Koko went through a lot of snarling motions whenever he opened
his big face.
Morry was doing the talking at present.
"That truck is due in a few minutes," he declared. "Get moving, Koko, as soon as I give the word. We'll
have to show some speed to overhaul it."
Koko snorted as he shifted behind the wheel.
"Them armored vans is slow movers," he mouthed. "We ain't going to gain nothing by shoving along too
fast. They'll only suspicion us."
"This isn't an armored truck we're after, Koko."
"How come? You said there was going to be big dough in it."
"There will be," assured Morry, "but it won't come from the cargo. The two grand that we divvy for the
job will be paid by the guy that wants it done."
Shifting toward the rear seat, Morry still managed to keep an eye toward the avenue ahead, so he could
identify the truck if it passed.
"Koko goes after the driver," he told the attentive thugs, "and you birds go with him. Don't put the slug on
him; just scare the hell out of him. I'll take the back, see. When I get through—and I'm going to handle it
quick— I'll give you the high sign to lam."
While Morry was talking, Koko was counting on his fingers, muttering: "Beer, cigarettes, artichokes—"
The big-headed man was trying to guess what the job would be tonight. Morry did not interrupt Koko's
mumbles. Morry had other things to talk about.
"Watch for a wheeler that's going to tail us," he told the men in back. "It's bringing a cover-up crew, just
in case. You'll know the car easy, because —"
Morry cut himself off, as he saw a truck whizz past the crossing. Punching Koko in the ribs, he ordered:
"Get going! That's it, that just went past!"
Koko hadn't looked up in time to see what kind of a truck it was, but he had noticed the vehicle's speed.
Swinging the touring car out to the avenue, Koko learned that Morry was right about the chase proving a
fast one.
They pursued for a dozen blocks, before they were close enough to read the sign on the back of the
fast-moving truck.
The thugs in back had been watching for the car with the cover-up crew. They noted that a taxicab was
close behind them. One said to another:
"Wait'll I ask Morry if a hack is supposed to be tailing us." Then leaning to the front, he began: "Say,
Morry, about that buggy in back of us—"
The thug didn't complete the question that he started. Koko had read the sign on the back of the truck.
His big mouth opened to eject a contemptuous bellow that drowned all other voices.
"Cripes!" howled Koko. "Flowers!"
"Yeah," returned Morry, crisply. "Flowers. What about it? Artichokes meant dough, didn't they? Why
not flowers?"
RAUCOUS in his chuckles, Koko added a burst of speed to the pursuing car. His laughter caused the
men in back to drop their questions about the cover-up crew.
"Four of us!" continued Koko, gleefully, "all piling on one poor simp that runs a flower truck. So you can
crack the back all by yourself. Whatcha going to do, Morry?" Koko's laughter became convulsive. "Pick
buttercups and violets while nobody's watching you -"
"Quit the clowning," snapped Morry. "What I said still goes!"
"O. K.," growled Koko, becoming serious. "But get it over with quick, Morry. I don't like flowers. They
smell!"
Hurling the touring car past the truck, Koko sliced over in front of the other vehicle. Brakes screeched,
as the truck was forced to the curb Koko had passed the truck on the right and cut toward to the left, a
rather unethical procedure, even among highjackers.
The occurrence left the truck driver shaky and astonished. He didn't even realize what was coming when
he saw Koko and three other hoodlums pile out from the left side of the touring car. Then they had the
truck door open on the right, and were taking long reaches to grab the stupefied driver, when Morry's
yell warned them:
"Look out!"
Guns in their fists, the clustered crooks took dives in various directions, as a cab came slashing through
the space between the truck and the touring car. The space was narrow, and set at a sharp angle, but the
cab driver took it with inches to spare.
The cab was the one that the thugs had seen but failed to mention to Morry. Only their shrewd leader's
yell prevented them from being mowed down en masse.
Koko managed to flatten on the truck step; another crook went under the truck itself. As for the other
two, one climbed the hood of the touring car, while the last scrambled halfway in through the flapping
rear door.
Finishing its swerve, the taxi skewed half about. Its rear door flew open before any of the scattered thugs
could aim. They knew, instinctively, that they were pressed by a foe, but in those hectic moments they
did not realize how formidable he was to prove.
Only Morry recognized the black-cloaked figure that bobbed suddenly from the cab. Through the
windshield of the touring car, he saw burning eyes beneath a slouch hat brim. Then, as a pair of .45
automatics pointed their muzzles in the direction of Koko and the rising thugs, Morry shouted again.
His tone was almost a shriek, as he voiced the identity of the challenger who had arrived to battle crime:
"The Shadow!"
CHAPTER III. CRIME'S INTERIM
MORRY'S wild-voiced announcement was quite unnecessary. Drowning the mob leader's frenzied cry
came a mocking laugh that was a proclamation of its own.
Crooks knew that mirth—the taunting challenge of The Shadow!
Master fighter who hunted down men of crime, The Shadow had uncanny ways of picking up the trails of
crooks, especially when they were bound on deeds of evil. Though their mission might be unknown to
him, he invariably followed them and broke up their plans at the crucial moment.
He had done it again, The Shadow had. The cab that the thugs had supposed to be the cover-up car was
The Shadow's own vehicle, hot on the trail, driven by Moe Shrevnitz, the speediest hackie in Manhattan
- and a secret agent of The Shadow.
As he sprang from the cab, to aid the helpless driver of the beleaguered greenhouse truck, The Shadow
saw the proper way to deal with the thugs who had scattered at Moe's juggernaut tactics.
Too spread to be covered by The Shadow's guns, the four crooks were at least temporarily helpless,
bewildered by their scramble. The thing for The Shadow to do was to take them in his stride while
making for the touring car, which might hold a hidden marksman.
With zigzag course, The Shadow bowled over the crooks as he met them. He was sledging with the big
guns that he carried, reserving bullets for later battle. His blows felled the dodging crooks, as they blasted
messages with their revolvers. They might just as well have said it with flowers, of which there were
plenty close at hand.
The Shadow was swifter than their aim. His gun strokes sagged the highjackers before they could bring
their guns about. The shots that spoke from thug-handled weapons were wide of the cloaked target.
One man, the last, offered real fight. That battler was Koko. Having lost his revolver underneath the
truck, the bulky highjacker went for The Shadow with hands that were bare, but big.
A lucky lunge brought Koko under the swing of a cloaked arm. The glancing blow that stroked Koko's
head would have damaged an average hoodlum, but it didn't jar the highjacker's thick skull.
Grappling, Koko bowled The Shadow toward the touring car, roaring for aid.
"I've got The Shadow!" he bellowed. "Plug him, Morry!"
The howl was useless. In the first place, Koko did not have The Shadow. The real grip was the one that
The Shadow had gotten on Koko. Twisted full about, Koko's big body was between The Shadow and
the touring car. Had shots come from that quarter, Koko would have received them.
There was another reason why no shots were fired. Morry was no longer in the touring car. He had
ducked out by the door on the other side. At the back of the car, he was yanking open a trunk, to haul
out a long, light cardboard box.
Big headlights loomed up, revealing Morry. It was the cover-up car. He recognized it by the glare from
the high-powered headlights. Pointing to the space between the touring car and the truck, Morry yelled:
"The Shadow's there! Go get him!"
WHINING in second gear, the car followed the indicated course. The Shadow saw it coming; he hurled
Koko into the path, and made a headlong dive over the hood of the stalled touring car. He knew that the
crooks would gladly run Koko down, if they could get him at the same time.
But Koko, alone, was a different proposition.
The car jolted to a stop as it thumped the big man. Though pitched headlong against the side of the florist
truck, Koko was preserved for future action in behalf of crime. Leaping from their car, a rickety sedan,
the cover-up crew went after The Shadow.
Swinging to meet the new attack The Shadow was firing across the touring car's hood with both
automatics. Five crooks were ducking through the car, around the front of it, one even yanking up a side
of the hood, to thrust a gun through the slats on the other side.
The Shadow's nipping fire was the sort that would nullify revolver aim, particularly because any hurried
shots from opponents would mark their location. But these crooks were equipped to shoot in a hurry,
and get results.
Morry had armed the cover-up crew with sawed-off shotguns, deadliest of weapons at close-range fire.
A single blast from such a gun, delivered in the general direction of The Shadow, would cripple him. His
present shelter, close to the far side of the touring car, could not serve him in case of a mass attack.
To leave that shelter, even with a rapid whirl, would also prove fatal, for the avenue was well lighted,
enough for the crooks to spot him when he wheeled away.
It didn't occur to those mobbies that The Shadow would have originally headed for more distant shelter,
if he had not held aces in reserve. He knew the kind of weapons that these murderous fighters carried.
Proof of The Shadow's foresight came with a rapid fire from automatics that took the crooks in the flank.
Two of The Shadow's most capable secret agents, Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, were in Moe's
cab. They winged the thugs from longer range. When the staggering crooks responded with the shotguns,
the spreading slugs merely scarred the cab's painted side.
Then The Shadow was over the top of the touring car's hood, taunting his foemen with his challenging
laugh as he withered them with fire in their very midst!
During that delayed reversal, Morry Cathlan was busy at the back of the greenery truck. It was
unlocked, and Morry wasted no time in yanking the handle that opened it. He didn't stop to pluck
daisies, nor sniff the flowery aroma that greeted his nostrils.
Morry simply tossed his cardboard box in with the rest of the shipment and slammed the door.
His job was done, and with it came a luckier break than he expected. The truck driver had come to his
senses and was starting to drive away. Morry leaped for the stalled sedan that the cover-up crew had
left.
On the way, he ran squarely into the blundering figure of Koko Yandel, who was coming up from hands
and knees after a crawl out of the danger zone.
Shoving Koko into the rear of the sedan, along with a couple of thugs who had already managed to crawl
in there, Morry leaped to the wheel. The motor was still running, he yanked the car into gear. With a
wide veer, he overtook the truck on its left, the side away from The Shadow, who was just settling the
last of his antagonists.
With the truck as a moving shelter, Morry also managed to escape fire from The Shadow's agents in
Moe's cab. Spurting ahead of the truck, he kept out of sight beyond it, even when the angle increased.
Then, spying a convenient street to the left, Morry took it, nearly wrecking the sedan on a curb as he
rounded the corner.
BY then, The Shadow was back in Moe's cab. The sharp-eyed taxi driver had spotted Morry's turn. The
Shadow ordered prompt pursuit; he and his agents were ready with their guns. The few blocks that
Morry had gained were not enough to serve him, even in a twisty chase.
Odds favored The Shadow and his agents in their effort to overhaul the fleeing crooks. Once overtaken,
Morry, Koko, and their cowering pals would be easily subdued, for all fight was gone from them. But
again, luck favored the highjackers.
As the cab followed the sedan northward on an avenue, a patrol car wheeled in between. Coming from a
side street, the police made a bad mistake. They thought that Moe's cab was in flight, along with the
sedan up ahead. They decided to block the cab's escape.
There was only one order that The Shadow could give. To avoid a clash with the misguided police, he
instructed Moe to wheel full about and head southward. Moe did so, almost skimming the front of the
police car. Zigzagging to avoid a barrage of police bullets, he sped the cab into the clear.
Other police cars harried The Shadow and his agents later, but Moe was used to dodging such pursuers.
In half a dozen minutes, he was slackening his speed in the seclusion of a side street, while fading sirens
told that the police were traveling elsewhere.
Though many blocks south, The Shadow did not consider the chase as entirely ended. Crime had gained
an interim, but when the agents heard The Shadow voice a low, sibilant laugh, they caught the prophecy
in the tone. The Shadow had obtained one important clue: the name on the truck that the highjackers had
tried to waylay.
All that he needed was that truck's destination, something that could be easily gotten through proper
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：71 页 大小：441.2KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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