Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 192 - Voice of Death

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VOICE OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. PATH TO CRIME
? CHAPTER II. FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER III. CRIME'S HALF-HOUR
? CHAPTER IV. HALF PAST EIGHT
? CHAPTER V. THE LAW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER VI. CRIME'S SNARE
? CHAPTER VII. TRAILS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER VIII. CRIME'S RETURN
? CHAPTER IX. THE LAW DECIDES
? CHAPTER X. THE HIDE-AWAY
? CHAPTER XI. HANDS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XII. CASH IN ADVANCE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE DOUBLE RIDDLE
? CHAPTER XIV. TRAILS CONVERGE
? CHAPTER XV. DIVIDED BATTLE
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW'S VISIT
? CHAPTER XVII. MESSAGE OF DARKNESS
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE VOICE FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER XIX. CRIME IN DUPLICATE
? CHAPTER XX. WITNESSED MURDER
? CHAPTER XXI. WHERE CRIME FAILED
CHAPTER I. PATH TO CRIME
The man in the phone booth was talking very earnestly, and in emphatic fashion. He was a young man,
handsome in a rough-molded way, with his blunt profile and bulldog jaw. A fighter, too, of the
hot-tempered variety, as evidenced by the stretch of reddish hair at the side of his tilted hat.
His words passed unheard by persons who were waiting impatiently outside the drugstore telephone
booth, but they were witnesses to the young man's change of manner. As his conversation became more
abrupt, his lips took on a savage look, his eyes displayed a glare.
Concluding his talk, he slammed the receiver on its hook, slashed open the door of the booth, and
shouldered out so angrily that everyone sprang away to give him room.
Stopping at the cigar counter, the red-haired chap thwacked down a half dollar and demanded two
packs of cigarettes. The clerk didn't ask the brand; he knew them. Providing the cigarettes, the clerk
tried to make conversation along with the change:
"It's a nice day, Mr. Lycombe."
"Yeah?" Lycombe's fist came up as it scooped the change. "What's nice about it?"
"Nothing - nothing!"
The clerk was shrinking away as he made the apology; he seemed to fear that the fist was meant for his
jaw. But Lycombe simply pocketed the change, turned on his heel and strode from the store.
"Nice fellow," observed another customer, to the clerk. "Does he get that way often?"
The clerk nodded. Leaning across the counter, he said in a confidential tone:
"Ever hear of Ted Lycombe? The big-time polo player? That's him. You wouldn't think he was a society
guy, though. The way he's been acting lately" - the clerk shook his head - "you'd think he was out to
murder somebody!"
Outside the store, Ted Lycombe had cooled a bit. It wasn't that his angry mood had changed; he was
merely taking pains to suppress the visible signs. This street was close to the financial district, where Ted
had many friends. He was deciding that it would be good policy to behave affably, should he meet up
with acquaintances.
Ted wasn't anxious for such meetings, however. Pausing to light a cigarette, he glanced in both directions,
to make sure that no one noticed him when he stepped into a parked coupe. Once in the car, Ted
sidelonged a look at the driver and said:
"All right, Griff. Let's go."
There was a contrast between Ted and the driver; yet, in a sense, they matched each other. Griff was
sallow, crafty of eye, straight of lip. He had a smooth surface quite the opposite of Ted's irked
expression. But in actual hardness, Griff was Ted's equal. As fighters, they were two of a kind, from
opposite walks of life.
Ted Lycombe was known for his two-fisted tactics among society's upper crust. Griff Conlad bore a
similar reputation in the underworld. Where Ted had gained fame by throwing punches against
aristocratic jaws, Griff was noted for his skill at tossing slugs from a .38 revolver at persons who lacked
refinement.
Just how much each admired the other's tactics was a question that only time would prove. It was
apparent, however, that in their brief acquaintance the two had come to see many things from a very
similar viewpoint.
IT was Griff who opened conversation, as he piloted the coupe into traffic and chose an uptown
direction.
"How did you make out with Gern?" queried Griff. "Did he hand you the same stall?"
"Just about," growled Ted. "Except that he promises the money within a week."
"Did you tell him" - Griff's tone was hardening - "that it would be too late, then?"
"No. I'm going to talk to Barstead first."
Griff noted that Ted's tone had eased. But a side glance showed that his companion's chiseled face had
lost none of its firmness.
"In my opinion," affirmed Ted, bluntly, "Sherwood Gern is a first-rate swindler. The mining stock that I
bought from him was too sure a bet not to come through. The only answer is that Gern is holding back on
the profits."
Griff gave a knowing grunt.
"Twenty-five grand is a lot of potatoes," he said. "Plenty of guys have lammed for that much dough."
"I'm counting on you to see that Gern stays in town," reminded Ted. "But I'll give him the week he says
he needs."
"And then put the heap on him?"
Ted nodded. There was a merciless expression on his lips, the sort of smile that Griff liked to see. In
Griff's opinion, Ted had the making of a big shot in the realm of crime. He was willing, too, to bet that
Ted Lycombe would acquire such a reputation on very little provocation.
All he needed was the first step; with that red-hot disposition of his, Ted would go a long way. Griff was
counting on it, for he could foresee great profits to himself, through his acquaintance with Ted, should the
society man desert the stuffed-shirt class and wear the brand of a public enemy.
Such a decision wasn't likely with a man like Ted, if he had a lot to lose. But matters were shaping
definitely in the direction that Griff wanted.
"I've got to have money," insisted Ted, abruptly, "to pay off Frank Barstead. There's a chap who would
take a blue ribbon at a rat show! I've found out why he loaned me the five thousand that I needed to
carry me over."
"On account of the dame?" inquired Griff.
"That's it," nodded Ted. "As soon as he had my signed note, he let me know that he was interested in
Marian Farris."
"Why didn't you clip him one? That's your specialty, ain't it?"
"Barstead is due for a haymaker, all right. But I'd rather give it to him after I pay up. Unless -"
A sharp glint came to Ted's eyes; his lips showed more than contempt for Barstead. Then, in his blunt
manner, he spoke an order to Griff.
"Let me out of here at the corner. I'll walk over to Barstead's place. You drive to the bookie's and find
out how we did on the fifth race at Santa Anita. I'll call you there."
"You want me to case Gern's joint?"
"Yes. But not until after dark. He never leaves his place before then."
WALKING a few twisted blocks, Ted Lycombe came to an old house that had been converted into an
apartment building. It was a relic of Manhattan common to this section of Greenwich Village.
High steps ran above the entrance to a tea room. The steps ended in a vestibule, where four push buttons
had name plates attached.
Two of those, the first-floor apartments, were blank. They had been occupied by artists, whose ideas of
back-rent payments had not satisfied new owners of the building. The buttons that signified the
second-floor apartments bore two names:
FRANK BARSTEAD
GUY WINROW
Pressing both buttons, Ted waited. He knew that the automatic door was probably out of order. His
assumption proved correct, when the door was opened by a frail young man with tired face, who gave a
nervous smile, then said:
"Oh, hello, Lycombe!"
Ted returned the smile. The fellow was Archie Freer, one of Barstead's set. Ted had once threatened
Archie with a needed poke on the chin, which had worried the chap ever since. Inquiring if Barstead
happened to be at home, Ted received a reluctant nod from Archie.
"Yes," admitted Archie. "Frank's upstairs in Winrow's apartment. But -"
"But he doesn't want to see me?" interrupted Ted. "Come along, Archie, and see the fun."
They reached Winrow's apartment, the rear one at the end of a long hallway on the second floor. Frank
Barstead, swarthy and dark-haired, met Ted with a scowl that turned into a rather nasty smile. He swung
to a pale man, who wore glasses.
"Go right ahead, Winrow," ordered Barstead. "I'd like to see the pictures, with the sound effects. I'll be
through with this business in a few minutes."
Guy Winrow went ahead. His apartment was something of a studio, cluttered with movie projectors,
phonographs and radio cabinets, along with filing cabinets, boxes, and a variety of junk. It resembled a
broadcasting studio more than anything else, inasmuch as Winrow was a radio technician.
"Well, how about it, Ted?" queried Barstead, coldly. "That note is due tomorrow. Are you prepared to
lift it?"
"I need a week more," returned Ted, holding his temper. "Gern has promised me -"
"I've had enough of Gern's promises," broke in Barstead, angrily. "I'm giving you a last chance! I want my
money!"
"Or you'll talk to Marian!" snapped Ted. "If you do, I'll give you this!"
He shoved a fist in front of Barstead's face. Winrow, turning from a recording machine, saw the gesture
and sprang in between. Ted thrust him aside, spilling an armful of records that the fellow carried.
Barstead interjected an excited plea.
"No, no, Ted! Leave Winrow out of this. He doesn't figure in the thing at all."
"No?" queried Ted, "I happen to know more than you think. Marian says that you're backing Winrow in
some crackpot radio deal. She thinks you're big-hearted. Just part of the build-up, I suppose, so you can
blast me as a chap who doesn't pay his debts."
"Leave Marian out of this!"
"You brought her into it. On a cash basis. You were willing to take a chance on five thousand dollars, if
you could shake her belief in me!"
FISTS clenched, Barstead heard the accusation; then he strode from the room. Archie hurried out ahead
of him; the door was suddenly slammed in Ted's face.
His own fists tightening, Ted gave an ugly laugh; then relaxed. Cooling, he helped Winrow gather up the
big disk records.
"Sorry, Guy," said Ted. "I guess you're tired of hearing all these arguments."
"I'm sorry, too," assured Winrow, "if I've made trouble for you. When Frank offered me financial aid, I
didn't know that he would have to press you for money owing him."
"He doesn't. Frank's got cash to burn. Say, Winrow" - he slapped the pale man on the back - "mind if I
use your telephone?"
Winrow had no objections. Ted called Marian, arranged to meet her at eight o'clock that evening. While
Ted was talking, Winrow left and went to Barstead's apartment.
Coming out through the long hall, Ted stopped; looking through the open door, he faced Barstead, who
rewarded him with a scowl.
"I'll see you later, Frank," suggested Ted. "When we're both in a better mood, we can talk this over."
"Only money talks," retorted Barstead. "Bring the cash, and I'll return your note. I'll be here until eight
thirty this evening. If you don't show up, I'll give you till noon tomorrow."
Leaving Archie and Winrow as a background, Barstead stepped forward and slammed the door in Ted's
face. Angrily, Ted grabbed for the knob, only to hear a well-oiled latch click shut.
Dusk was gathering when Ted reached the street. His face was wrinkled in thought.
Ted Lycombe liked risks. He was considering a path to crime, but in a light that made it a game.
Crime, Ted Lycombe was to learn, could prove a far greater problem than his present one, when it was
pinned upon a person. Before this night was ended, he would find that such a path promised a one-way
journey, without a return trail!
CHAPTER II. FROM THE DARK
AT a quarter of eight, a cab swung into a side street in the Seventies and stopped at a secluded hotel
called the Wessex. The man who alighted was tall, of imposing build and manner. His face was broad
and florid, a countenance that added to his self-importance.
Along with dignity, however, he possessed shrewdness, evidenced by the way he glanced along the
street as he paid the cab driver. The florid man was noting a low-built sedan, that had pulled into the
same street and parked across the way. It was odd that such a car should be haunting this secluded
neighborhood.
A cab came into sight, stopped in the hack stand that fronted the Wessex. Its driver lolled back, to await
a customer. The florid man eyed the cab suspiciously, as he had the sedan; then, satisfied that it was
empty, he went into the Wessex.
Men were crouched in the sedan across the way. The one behind the wheel was Griff Conlad. His
reason for being in this vicinity was simple. The man who had gone into the Hotel Wessex was Sherwood
Gern. Griff and his crew were tailing the promoter.
"Slide out, Peeper," undertoned Griff, to a little man beside him. "Get across and take a gander into the
lobby. Spot Gern, and watch where he goes. And steer wide of that hack that just pulled in. Don't let the
jockey lamp you."
Like Gern, Griff took it for granted that the cab was empty. He was wrong. It contained a passenger that
even the sharp-eyed Peeper could not detect; a strange figure clad entirely in black.
The cab's passenger was The Shadow.
Mysterious fighter who battled crime, The Shadow was always on the lookout for undercover evil. He
had agents who patrolled the underworld; they brought him facts that never reached the grapevine, that
word-of-mouth telegraph system that carried news through the badlands.
So well did The Shadow keep tabs on such developments that crooks seldom realized how early he had
learned their game. They usually took it that The Shadow's arrival on scenes of crime was a matter of
sheer luck.
Such circumstance applied to Griff Conlad.
Recently, Griff had begun to assemble a small, hand-picked mob. The men he selected were taciturn, like
himself. With connections of their own, they formed a nucleus that could be built into a powerful
organization.
Learning of the mob's existence, The Shadow had undertaken to observe its development. This evening,
he had followed the crooks, and had already learned their present motive. Griff and his mob were trailing
a man that The Shadow recognized: Sherwood Gern.
When it came to such tactics, The Shadow was far ahead of specialists like Peeper. While the little man
was giving the cab a wide berth, a door opened on the curb side. Into a stretch of darkness, just short of
the lights from the lobby, glided a black-cloaked shape that seemed immediately swallowed by the dingy
walls of the old hotel.
Gliding under the grimy shelter, The Shadow followed the wall as effectually as a creeping cloud of
smoke. Like a puff dispersed by a gust of wind, he was gone when the lights of a passing car happened
to sweep along the sidewalk. The Shadow had picked a darkened passage beyond the side wall of the
Wessex.
Surprisingly soon, the cloaked investigator was entering a little-used doorway on the rear street. From an
alcove past the elevators, he was surveying the lobby of the Wessex from a far better viewpoint than any
that Peeper could gain outside the front door.
The lobby was gloomy, almost deserted. Gern was seated in a corner, unobtrusively smoking a cigar; a
clerk was drowsing behind the desk. An operator was standing patiently in the elevator.
The Shadow noticed that Gern glanced occasionally in that direction. There were intervals, though, when
the florid man looked toward an obscure stairway in another corner.
OBVIOUSLY, Gern was waiting for someone to come down to the lobby. His surprise was apparent,
when he heard the clatter of high heels coming in from the front entrance and turned to see a very
attractive girl approach the desk.
She was slim and shapely; a pert brunette, whose sparkling blue eyes and serious lips told that she had
self-possession, along with looks.
The girl stopped at the desk, asked for the key to 816. The sleepy clerk was giving her the key, when
Gern approached.
"Good evening, Miss Farris," said the promoter. "You may not remember me. My name is Sherwood
Gern."
Turning at the first words, Marian Farris was forming a winsome smile of greeting, when she heard Gern's
name and recognized him. Instantly, her lips straightened. Her eyes were as cold as her tone.
"Yes," she said. "I remember you, Mr. Gern."
"I should like to talk with you," insisted Gern, in an earnest voice, as he drew a bundle of papers from his
pockets. "It is about the investment made by your friend, Ted Lycombe."
"If you have business with Mr. Lycombe," returned Marian, "I suggest that you discuss it with him."
"But you know how Ted is," argued Gern. "He will never listen to reason, when he telephones me. I
cannot invite him to my office, for fear he will break up the furniture. He wants money -"
"I can hardly blame him," put in Marian, icily. "I understand, Mr. Gern, that many persons have lost
money through your promotion schemes."
Gern shook his head, as he followed Marian toward the elevator. He began a most persuasive speech.
"Some customers lose on speculations, yes," he declared, "but the stock that Ted bought is good. If you
will only wait, Miss Farris, while I go over the full details and all the correspondence, you can convince
Ted for me that his money is quite safe."
"How long will our talk take?"
"Not more than thirty minutes."
Marian shook her head.
"I've given you thirty seconds," she declared. "That's all the time I can spare. I'm to meet Ted for dinner,
and I'm likely to be late, since I still have to dress. I shall tell him that I met you. Good evening, Mr.
Gern."
The girl entered the elevator; the operator closed the door. Gern gave a shrug; glanced hopelessly at the
grinning clerk. Then, noting that he was near an exit to the rear street, Gern's cautious look returned.
Remembering the suspicious sedan that he had seen out front, he left by the rear way.
Gern didn't see the blackness that glided to the street ahead of him. Reversing his course through the
passage, The Shadow reached the cab in the front street. No one saw him enter, but the driver heard his
whisper and came slowly from a pretended doze.
The driver was Moe Shrevnitz, one of The Shadow's secret agents. The cab belonged to The Shadow,
and was always at his service. With the cloaked passenger on board, Moe acted as though tired of
waiting for fares that did not come. Abandoning the Hotel Wessex as a parking place, he started away.
From the cab window, The Shadow saw Peeper sneak back across the street to tell Griff that Gern had
left the lobby. The sedan was in motion when the cab swung the next corner.
THE SHADOW was prepared to drop from Moe's cab and let it pick up Gern, when the florid man
came into sight. With Moe at the wheel, The Shadow could not only learn exactly where Gern went; he
was confident that Moe could dodge Griff's mob, if they tried to overtake their prey.
But Gern had already found a cab; he had stopped one at the corner of the rear street as it came along
the avenue.
Remaining in Moe's cab, The Shadow told his speedy driver to follow. After a dozen blocks, it became
apparent that Griff had lost the trail, for his sedan did not appear. The Shadow decided to learn Gern's
destination.
In her room back at the Wessex, Marian was hastening to keep her date with Ted. Laying fresh clothes
upon the bed, she undressed rapidly and took a hurried shower. Returning, wrapped in a large bath
towel, Marian put on her wrist watch, gave a surprised gasp when she noticed it was almost eight
o'clock.
Ted liked her to be punctual; she had been late too often recently. Putting on stockings and shoes, she
slid gracefully into pinkish step-ins. She was adjusting flimsy shoulder straps of a long slip, when she
heard a click from the door.
Before Marian could think about screaming, a man was inside the room. He had spotted the girl instantly,
was covering her with a revolver. His eyes were hard, his sallow lips snarly, as he gave a command for
silence.
This was Marian's first meeting with Griff Conlad. She started to raise her hands, then clutched at the
silken slip that began to slide from her shoulders.
Griff relieved the embarrassing situation. He had turned to peer around the room, as if looking for another
doorway. Chancing to notice the girl's dilemma, Griff growled:
"Never mind hoisting the mitts. Just stay as you are, and answer questions. Where did that guy Gern go,
after he came upstairs?"
"Why... why" - Marian was stammering - "he didn't come up at all!"
"He was talking to you down in the lobby."
"Yes. But I left him when I entered the elevator."
Griff paused beside the window, glanced downward, to make sure there was no roof below. Realizing
that Griff might actually be looking for Gern, Marian put a question:
"Who... who sent you here?"
Turning, Griff lowered his gun, grinned wisely.
"Since you want to know," he said, "I'll tell you. The guy that sent me was your boy friend, Ted
Lycombe!"
CHAPTER III. CRIME'S HALF-HOUR
THE smoothness of Griff's tone made Marian half believe him. She knew Ted's mistrust of Gern;
moreover, she wasn't surprised that Ted should have a friend like Griff. Ted judged men by their brawn
and nerve; whatever his shortcomings, Griff possessed both those qualifications.
To clinch his argument, Griff introduced himself.
"My name is Griff Conlad," he told Marian, in the frankest tone that he could summon. "You ask Ted
about me; he'll tell you I'm a right guy. He put me on the job, to make sure that Gern don't clear town."
"Then why not look for Gern?" queried Marian, her calm restored. "If you're supposed to watch him -"
She broke off. The door was opening again; Peeper's leering face came through the opening. Seeing
Marian, the lookout widened his grin and peered toward Griff, who stepped promptly to the door.
"Outside, Peeper," Griff ordered, "and douse those lights in the hall. Keep the other guys out of sight,
until I call you."
While Griff was closing the door, Marian slid her arms into the shoulder straps. She was reaching for
other clothes, When Griff turned about. The crook gave a prompt gesture with his gun.
"Sorry, lady," he said, "but there's no use of getting dressed up, until I find out where you're going."
Marian's eyes showed an indignant flash.
"Why, I'm having dinner with Ted!"
"He didn't tell me so," returned Griff, pocketing the revolver and lighting a cigarette. "That's why you're
going to wait."
"But I'll be late!"
"Good enough," inserted Griff. "Then Ted will call up and find out what's keeping you. I'll help you
explain things, when he does."
Deciding that it was best to humor Griff, Marian coiled herself in an armchair and lighted a cigarette of
her own. Seating himself on the window ledge, Griff began some pointed comments.
"Ted and I see things alike," he said. "We don't like two-timers. Peeper says you weren't talking to Gern
long; maybe you told the guy off, like you ought to. But there's a chance that Gern is the guy you made
the date with. If he is" - Griff's tone hardened - "you'll be hearing from him instead of Ted."
Marian began to understand. She eyed Griff rather sympathetically. In his crude way, he had merit;
stubbornly, he was protecting Ted's interest.
Lighting another cigarette, Marian glanced at her watch, saw that it was nearing quarter past eight. She
could picture Ted pacing near the subway entrance, where she was to meet him.
The telephone bell rang. Griff tilted his revolver from his pocket, pointed across the room.
"Answer it."
Gladly, Marian obeyed; but she had hardly spoken a hello into the telephone, before her face reddened.
Firming her lips, she tried to brave out the unexpected situation that confronted her.
The voice on the wire belonged neither to Ted Lycombe nor Gern. The speaker was Frank Barstead!
IN a half-drunken, but persuasive, tone, Barstead was suggesting that he and Marian go out together. He
was tired waiting for some friends, he said, and he could call for Marian in about fifteen minutes. As
Barstead paused to insert a hiccup, Marian broke into his harangue.
"Sorry, Frank," she said coldly, "but I have a date tonight... Yes, with Ted, of course... That's quite
enough, Frank. I want you to understand that Ted and I are friends..."
Marian cut off the rest of Frank's epithets by slamming down the receiver. Then, close to her ear, came
another voice, harder than Barstead's. Griff was putting in his say, his gun raised from his hip.
"Did I call you a two-timer?" queried Griff. "I ought to have said triple-timer! Knowing Gern is bad
enough, but Barstead is even worse. I ought to pump you full of lead, and tell Ted about it afterward."
For a moment, Marian shrank from the cold steel of the gun muzzle that pressed against her midriff. Then,
with a sneer, Griff whipped away the gun and swung about to thrust his free hand forward. Clamping
fingers found Marian's bare left arm.
With a quick wrench, the girl wheeled away, swung her right hand forcibly at Griff's head and launched
the telephone for his skull.
Griff saw the missile coming and dived in the opposite direction. It wasn't his own quickness that saved
him; it was the telephone cord. The wire stopped the heavy instrument, inches short of its mark.
Coming to hands and knees, Griff aimed savagely, as Marian scrambled across the room, giving her first
shriek. Griff fired a shot, wide.
Then, hard upon both shriek and shot, came the inswinging clatter of the door, accompanied by a sound
that made all others seem puny. It was a laugh, mocking, challenging, that came from the open doorway.
Fierce mirth meant for Griff Conlad.
Only Griff's lips managed to move, as his eyes saw the figure in the doorway - a tall intruder cloaked in
black, whose burning eyes, peering from beneath a slouch hat brim, had the same glint as his leveled
automatic.
Griff's moving lips gulped the name: "The Shadow!"
Slowly, steadily, the tall rescuer advanced. With each pace that The Shadow made, Griff's smoking gun
jogged downward. Angling across the room as though pivoting on the gun that he kept aimed toward
Griff, The Shadow was coming between the crook and the girl, when Marian gave another scream.
It wasn't a frightened shriek; it was a warning. Unnecessary, for already The Shadow had turned. Still
keeping his gun toward Griff, he had produced another, aiming it toward the doorway. A finger pressed
its trigger, as a surge of mobbies came through the portal.
The foremost attacker sprawled, his gun leaving his hand as he tried to fire. Others, spreading inward,
would have met the same disaster, if Peeper, in the midst of the throng, hadn't pressed the light switch.
As sudden darkness filled the room, there was the clatter of furniture, the blasting of guns.
Marian could hear The Shadow's laugh, triumphant in the blackness. Darkness made the type of
battleground that The Shadow relished. With Marian's life at stake, the cloaked fighter was using
close-up tactics, to keep the fire from the girl's side of the room.
Not realizing that The Shadow was trying to clear the room and send the crooks along their way, Marian
followed a bold inspiration of her own.
Knowing that she could be of no assistance while in the room, the girl came up beside the bed, gathered
up her laid-out clothes in one quick swoop, and dashed for the door.
摘要：

VOICEOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.PATHTOCRIME?CHAPTERII.FROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERIII.CRIME'SHALF-HOUR?CHAPTERIV.HALFPASTEIGHT?CHAPTERV.THELAW'STRAIL?CHAPTERVI.CRIME'SSNARE?CHAPTERVII.TRAILSINTHENIGHT?CHAPTERVIII.CRIME'SRETURN?CHAPTERIX.THELAWDE...

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