Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 190 - The Hooded Circle

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THE HOODED CIRCLE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER II. VANISHED FOEMEN
? CHAPTER III. CARDONA'S PROGRESS
? CHAPTER IV. DEEDS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER V. CRIME MYSTERIOUS
? CHAPTER VI. DEATH BREAKS THE TRAIL
? CHAPTER VII. THE CHANCE TRAIL
? CHAPTER VIII. THE DRUID GLEN
? CHAPTER IX. THE LONE HOOD
? CHAPTER X. SCHEMES REVERSED
? CHAPTER XI. CRIME'S NEW QUEST
? CHAPTER XII. VOICE OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XIII. DEATH'S TROPHIES
? CHAPTER XVI. THE STRONG ROOM
? CHAPTER XV. HOODS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST LINKS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE GOLDEN BOUGH
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE BROKEN CIRCLE
? CHAPTER XIX. DEATH BEFORE DEATH
? CHAPTER XX. THE HIDDEN HOODS
CHAPTER I. CRIME'S MESSAGE
NORTON RUDLER halted his trim open-topped roadster in the middle of the dingy block. He looked
toward the mouth of a darkish, squalid alley and shook his head. Then gazing up to the dim lights that
shone from the third floor of a dilapidated brick building, he asked:
"Is that Hayde's studio?"
Nodding, Marjorie Merton gave a light, rippling laugh. She was amused by the worried expression that
appeared on Rudler's handsome face. Keen-eyed, square-jawed, Rudler looked very much a man of the
world. It was rather intriguing to find him in an environment that made him nervous.
"It's perfectly safe," assured Marjorie in a bantering tone. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have let you drive me in
from Pinewood, Mr. Rudler. Somehow, I thought that all places were alike to you, including the dismal
sections of Manhattan Island."
Rudler smiled. Marjorie's tone reassured him. He glanced at the girl, studying the charming roundness of
her face against its background of golden hair.
"Since you're not worried," he said, "I don't need to be. I was thinking of you, Miss Merton, not myself."
"But I've come here often before."
"At night?" queried Rudler anxiously. "Alone?"
"Usually in the daytime," admitted Marjorie. "It's been dark though, when I've left. Of course, Mr. Hayde
always calls a cab and sees me down to the street."
"In this case," decided Rudler. "I'd better see you up to the studio."
They alighted from the roadster. Marjorie led the way along the alley, to a door that gave access to a
poorly lighted stairway. On the way up, the girl was chatting about the artist, Hayde.
"He's eccentric," she explained, "but that's to be expected. Dustin Hayde is a real genius."
"Odd, that I've never heard about his work," mused Rudler. "Of course, I've spent the last five years
abroad. Perhaps Hayde's fame hasn't yet reached Europe."
"Probably not," agreed Marjorie. "In fact, he was unknown a year ago. His work came into prominence
very suddenly. He will become more famous, now that his 'Seven Hells' have been completed."
"Are those the paintings that Humphrey Benholme commissioned Hayde to do?"
"Yes. You will see them tomorrow night at the reception that the Benholmes are holding in Pinewood."
Marjorie knocked at the studio door. There was a pause, then the grating sound of a bolt being
withdrawn. The door opened slightly then swung wide, to disclose a thin man who wore an artist's
smock.
Facially, Dustin Hayde was an interesting study. His features were sallow, gaunt, with a bulging forehead
half hidden in a shock of jet-black hair. His eyes were beady and restless, like his lips.
Recognizing Marjorie, Hayde gave a courteous bow; then stared, glaringly at Rudler. Marjorie
remembered that Hayde did not like strangers. She hastened to introduce her companion.
Hayde's challenging manner relaxed when he learned that Norton Rudler was a new resident of
Pinewood, the exclusive suburb where Marjorie lived. It went without saying that Rudler was wealthy,
and might be a patron of the arts. Hayde, it appeared, was only too glad to make the acquaintance of
prospective customers.
AMBLING across a studio that was stacked with easels, canvases, frames, and a hodgepodge of other
articles, Hayde drew aside a cloth to reveal a half-finished painting of a girl in Grecian costume, holding
spear and shield.
Rudler recognized the face as Marjorie's.
"How do you like me?" queried Marjorie. "I'm Lysistrata, the famous Grecian lady."
Rudler's nods showed admiration of the painting. While he was still gazing at it, Marjorie turned to
Hayde.
"Where are the 'Seven Hells'?" she asked. "They were all framed, the last time I was here, and you had
crates ready for them. I thought you were going to take them out to the Benholmes."
"I sent them ahead," explained Hayde. "The truckmen took them this afternoon. They happened to be
going out to Pinewood."
Hayde was staring at Rudler, as if wondering whether the visitor intended to stay. Rudler settled that
problem by turning toward the door.
"Call me when you're ready to leave," he told Marjorie. "I'll be at the Cobalt Club, where they are
holding a banquet for the police commissioner. I can get away at any time."
Mention of the police commissioner brought a nervous glance from Hayde. As soon as Rudler was gone,
Hayde suggested that Marjorie change to the Grecian costume, so that he could resume work on the
painting. Usually deliberate in procedure, Hayde seemed governed by haste this evening.
Entering a little dressing room, Marjorie closed the door and found her costume on a chair. It consisted
of a short-skirted, sleeveless robe, and a pair of sandals, which required an entire change from the
modern attire she was wearing.
Though she had gone through the process before, in this same dressing room, the girl began to feel
nervous. Rudler's dislike of the neighborhood, Hayde's suspicion of strangers were elements that made
her ill at ease.
Moreover, as Marjorie drew the shade of the dressing-room window, she noticed that the sash had no
lock. Remembering that the window opened directly to a low roof, she was swept by a sudden fear of
possible intruders.
After a few hesitant moments, Marjorie withdrew toward the door at the front of the dressing room,
feeling safer there. Her nerve returning, she began to undress much more rapidly than usual. All the while,
an increasing chill swept over her, until she sank to the chair, shivering so violently that she could scarcely
clutch the Grecian robe when it slid toward the floor.
The dressing room wasn't cool enough to give Marjorie such shivers, even though she was almost
unclothed. Nor had anything occurred at the window to produce her increased alarm. Nevertheless, she
sensed that something more than imagination was responsible.
Analyzing her fear, Marjorie fancied that she heard a voice. Holding her breath, she pressed her hands
against her breast and listened.
It was a voice!
Hayde's voice, coming from beyond the door in a low-throated rumble. The words could not be
distinguished, but there were pauses, as if Hayde had waited for someone to reply.
Marjorie failed to hear another voice, but she did not like the tone of Hayde's. It seemed to betoken
madness, but she could not guess the exact emotion. Then, in the midst of Marjorie's stress, Hayde's
voice ceased.
Starting to resume her own attire, Marjorie paused. It wouldn't do to arouse Hayde's suspicion. If she
came out fully dressed, stating that she did not care to pose this evening, he would know that she had
overheard him. Her nerve returned, Marjorie tossed aside the remnants of her modern garb and put on
the Grecian costume.
Helmet, shield, and spear were in the corner. Equipped with those instruments of ancient warfare,
Marjorie opened the door and strode out bravely. Hayde was mixing paints. He gave her a sharp look,
then went back to his paints.
Marjorie assumed the Lysistrata pose. Hayde began to paint, and Marjorie soon was sure that he had
become himself again. That seemed proven at the end of five minutes, when the telephone bell rang.
Hayde did not appear to notice it. He never did when he was busy at the canvas.
Smiling, Marjorie lowered the shield and gestured with the spear, As Hayde began an irritated protest,
she told him:
"The telephone -"
Hayde's angry look faded as he finally heard the phone bell. But while he was on his way across the
room, Marjorie observed a nervous twist of his face. The look increased while he was at the phone.
"Hello, hello." Hayde's tone became low-throated. "Yes, I can hear you... Who is it?... Hello -"
Suddenly clanking the receiver on the hook, Hayde sat down and mopped his forehead. His eyes lost
their sharpness; they were pitiful, as he turned his face toward Marjorie.
"Another of those calls!" he bleated. "They're driving me mad, Miss Merton! What can they be up to?"
"Who are they?"
"I don't know," returned Hayde. "Someone calls, starts a conversation, then hangs up. They never make
sense, except for one thing" - he was clenching his fists restlessly - "and that is the threatening tone the
speaker always uses."
Marjorie pondered a moment, then asked suddenly:
"Was there a call just a little while ago? When I was in the dressing room?"
Hayde stared, then nodded.
"I heard you talking," explained Marjorie, "and your voice sounded very odd. But why should anyone be
threatening you, Mr. Hayde?"
"They might want my paintings," replied Hayde, pacing back and forth across the studio. "The ones you
mentioned: the 'Seven Hells.' Benholme is paying a high price for them, you know. Unfortunately, certain
crooks have learned that fact."
"How?"
"Because I hired them as models. They were the types that I needed. I'm glad I shipped the paintings
today. Still, I ought to report these calls to the police. But unless I talked to someone high up, they would
probably regard the case as unimportant."
Marjorie had an immediate inspiration. Laying aside shield and spear, she went to the telephone and
called the Cobalt Club. Learning that Norton Rudler had not yet reached there, she left word for him to
call back.
Returning to the platform, Marjorie was reaching for the spear, when she spoke to Hayde.
"When Norton calls," she said. "I'll ask him to speak to the police commissioner personally. After that -"
AN interruption came. It was gargly sound from Hayde, a cross between a shriek and a groan. Turning
toward the artist, Marjorie saw the dressing-room door before she was full about. It was open; on the
threshold stood a figure in dark-gray.
The man's costume was a long robe that trailed the floor. It was topped by a hood that came clear across
his face and below his chin. Eyes were glinting through holes in the cloth mask; the man's hand was
visible, and it held a gun.
The revolver wasn't pointed toward Marjorie. Its angle told that it was aimed at Hayde. With sudden
impulse, Marjorie flung herself about, intending to dash for the main door of the studio, to reach the
doorway beyond it. She was too late.
Another hooded foe was on the threshold. Hayde had neglected to bolt the door after Rudler left.
Invaders had found easy entry by that route, as well as the unlocked dressing-room window. The second
Hood also had a gun; he was covering Marjorie.
As the girl shrank back, the man moved inward. He was making room for more of his ilk, a pair of them.
So was the Hood at the dressing-room door. Approaching Hayde, he was followed by two more of the
mysterious gray-clad crew.
One Hood pressed the light switch. The studio went dark, but only for an instant. The play of flashlights
illuminated the premises, keeping Hayde and Marjorie in separate circles. Thick, ugly voices warned
against any outcry.
Turned toward Hayde, Marjorie saw two revolvers press the artist's temple. Hayde winced. He tried to
plead with his captors. They were telling him that they wanted his famous set of paintings, the "Seven
Hells."
Hayde was pleading that he didn't have them. Before Marjorie could offer testimony in his behalf, a
growled voice commanded her to keep silent. The order was emphasized by the pressure of a gun
muzzle against the girl's ribs.
Marjorie could feel its coldness through the thin cloth of the scant Grecian robe. It sent new chills along
her spine, chills that reached her lips and froze them.
Crime's messengers were at hand. They had captured Dustin Hayde; and, like the trembling artist,
Marjorie Merton was a prisoner of the Hooded Circle!
CHAPTER II. VANISHED FOEMEN
CONTRASTED to the sinister scene at Hayde's studio, the foyer of the swanky Cobalt Club was a
convivial spot. A throng was gathered there, and the center of the group was Ralph Weston, New
York's police commissioner, a brisk-mannered man whose broad, beaming face was featured by a
short-clipped military mustache.
Spying Norton Rudler among the group, Weston thrust himself forward to shake hands. He knew that
Rudler was a resident of Pinewood, where Weston had many friends; he was also interested in the fact
that Rudler was a world-wide traveler.
"Good news, Rudler," announced Weston. "I've just heard that Lamont Cranston will be with us this
evening. He's the chap I want you to meet. You two will have a lot in common. He's a globe-trotter, like
yourself."
"You flatter me, commissioner," returned Rudler, with a smile. "My journeying has been trivial, compared
with Cranston's. I am only too pleased at this opportunity to meet him."
An attendant approached while Rudler was speaking. Courteously, the man informed him:
"A message for you, Mr. Rudler. Miss Merton asks that you call this number. She phoned only five
minutes ago."
Rudler went to a telephone booth. Returning, he wore the same serious expression that Marjorie had
seen him display earlier. Catching Weston's eye, Rudler managed to draw him aside.
"I'm worried, commissioner," said Rudler. "I left Miss Merton at an artist's studio. She wasn't to call me
until after the banquet. But she has phoned already, asking me to call back. I can't get an answer from the
number."
"Miss Merton?" repeated Weston. "Do you mean Marjorie Merton, the daughter of Wilmer Merton, the
banker?"
Rudler nodded.
"I drove her in from Pinewood," he explained. "I told her I didn't like the looks of the neighborhood
around the studio. The artist, Dustin Hayde, is an odd sort of character -"
"I've heard of him," interrupted Weston, briskly. "Come with me, Rudler. I'll call headquarters and have
Inspector Cardona go to the studio at once."
Turning toward the phone booth, neither Weston nor Rudler observed a tall, calm-faced personage who
had just entered the foyer. Keen ears had overheard their conversation, steady eyes were watching them
from a singularly masklike countenance.
The arrival was Lamont Cranston. It was not surprising that he had passed notice. Cranston had a way of
remaining quietly in the background, when he came upon a situation such as this. Turning in the opposite
direction, he had strolled from the club by the time Weston began his phone call.
Stepping into a sumptuous limousine, Cranston gave the chauffeur a destination in the neighborhood of
Hayde's studio some twenty blocks away. As the big car rolled along, its passenger drew out a secret
drawer from beneath the rear seat.
A black cloak slid over Cranston's shoulders, a slouch hat settled on his head. He was a thing invisible as
he leaned back in the gloom, tucking a brace of automatics beneath the enveloping cloak.
Almost in a trice, Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow, foe of all the underworld!
Where crime threatened, The Shadow followed. Rudler's report of an unanswered telephone call
indicated the very sort of situation that intrigued this master of the night. Calculating that he could reach
Hayde's well ahead of Inspector Cardona, The Shadow was on his way.
THE limousine stopped on an isolated street. Gliding out into the darkness, The Shadow threaded a
rapid, untraceable course that brought him to a building at the rear of Hayde's.
Hooking with a hand the sliding ladder of a fire escape, he drew it down and began an upward trip that
brought him to a curious area of slanted roofs.
He saw flickering lights from low windows, noted the little roof beside Hayde's studio. He saw another
path of entry, however, that suited him better. It was a skylight almost at the top of a slanted roof,
probably above the middle of the studio.
Reaching his objective, The Shadow gave the skylight needed pressure with a short, steel jimmy that
made an excellent lever when attached to the end of an automatic. The frame yielded silently; inched
open, the skylight enabled The Shadow to look down upon a remarkable scene.
He saw a haggard man, wearing an artist's smock, pleading earnestly with two captors who prodded him
with guns. Bathed in the glow of flashlights, Dustin Hayde was a pitiable sight. His tone was plaintive as it
drifted upward.
"I sent the paintings out to Pinewood," Hayde insisted. "I swear they aren't hidden anywhere around here
-"
A growled voice interrupted with threats of torture if Hayde wouldn't admit where the paintings really
were. Meanwhile, probing lights were moving about the studio, searching every cranny. The Shadow saw
those lights, but there was one that interested him more.
It was centered squarely upon a very lovely girl, whose filmy Grecian costume did credit to her shapely
figure. The Shadow could see the sparkle of clear blue eyes as Marjorie Merton turned her
golden-haired head from side to side, glaring defiance at her captors.
Probing flashlights were moving in. Vaguely, The Shadow could make out the robed figures of the men
who formed the Hooded Circle. Identifying the criminals was impossible, but it made no difference to
The Shadow. When it came to such marauders, he dealt with all alike, regardless of what grotesque guise
they might choose as an aide to crime.
Boldly, The Shadow chose his own course. It was one that depended upon surprise, plus certain
co-operation which he was sure he could obtain. A harassed man like Hayde would generally seize upon
any chance that came his way, a girl with Marjorie's apparent bravery would prove even better in the
pinch.
Working the skylight higher, The Shadow slid his legs through the space, let his body follow into an
eight-foot drop to the center of the studio floor!
The thump of the closing skylight came just ahead of the sound that The Shadow made in landing.
Striking in a darkened space, the cloaked invader bounded upward as though his legs were rubberized to
take the shock. As he rose, he uttered a challenging laugh that came like the mirth of a living ghost.
Such strident mockery, rising from the very center of the Hooded Circle, created instant consternation.
Crooks spun about, boring their flashlights upon the cloaked fighter in their midst. To their startled gaze, it
seemed that The Shadow had risen from the floor. Guns unaimed, they chose the very tactics that The
Shadow anticipated.
Forgetting their prisoners, the half dozen Hoods flung themselves upon the black-clad challenger,
swinging their guns as they came!
METAL clashed metal. The Shadow's arms were slashing in wide circles. His heavy guns not only beat
off blows, but they staggered the men who tried to slug him with downward strokes. The circle was
scattering, except for two Hoods who managed to start to grapple with their foe.
Out of that whirl, a gun blasted. The Shadow was opening fire with a .45 across the shoulders of the
grapplers. He was aiming for more distant Hoods, who were trying to take aim with revolvers as they
turned their lights upon The Shadow.
Foemen were lucky. The grapplers disturbed The Shadow's aim; moreover, he deliberately delayed his
shots knowing that Hayde or Marjorie might suddenly come into their path. His fire, however,
accomplished its main purpose.
The Hoods hurled their flashlights away and dived for opposite doors. The grapplers, a gun roaring in
their ears, suddenly wrenched away and followed the others in flight.
The Shadow's laugh rose with a peal of triumph. Both guns drawn, he was ready to bag a few members
of the stampeded crew. His system was to circle the studio, picking each door as a target when he
approached it. Darkness was no handicap to that process. Unfortunately, darkness did not remain.
Marjorie grabbed one of the rolling flashlights and swung it across the studio, hoping to outline hooded
targets for The Shadow. Knowing nothing of his circling course, the girl gave a startled gasp when the
cloaked fighter himself swung momentarily into the glow.
An instant later, he had reversed his course, too late. Dustin Hayde, free at last, saw a gun swing in his
direction. A gloved hand gripped the gun; it was a dark-metal automatic, not a shiny revolver. But such
details did not deter the frenzied artist. Flinging himself upon The Shadow, Hayde bowled the
black-coated fighter to the floor.
An automatic bounced across the floor. Marjorie saw it, sprang forward with the flashlight. One of the
hooded crooks dived for her from the stairway door. The girl screamed as he clutched her and dragged
her toward the stairs.
Again came The Shadow's laugh. Its very tone inspired Marjorie to a valiant struggle. Wrenching hard,
she slipped the Hood's grasp, except for the single shoulder buckle of her costume, which snapped under
the strain.
Rolling across the floor, clutching at the falling folds of the silken robe, Marjorie heard the fleeing Hoods
dash down the stairway.
The Shadow followed that route long enough to spur them on with bullets. Then he was back again,
blazing shots toward the dressing room. A few spasmodic bursts responded; then other Hoods were on
their way, out through the window to the little roof.
A tiny flashlight cut a swath around the studio. It showed Marjorie seated on the floor, her ruined
costume drawn up beneath her elbows. Hayde was on one hand and knees; his other hand was rubbing
the side of his jaw, which had received a punch from a gun-weighted fist as a rebuke for his mistake.
The light licked the length of a ladder that lay along the wall, then the torch was extinguished. There were
footsteps pounding from the stairway; Marjorie thought that enemies were coming back, but The
Shadow knew otherwise.
Hooded crooks were gone. Luck had given them too good a start for pursuit. The Shadow was thinking
in terms of his own departure.
There were vague sounds in the darkness, while the thump of footsteps came nearer. A man flashed a
light from the doorway, keeping it gingerly along the wall. Finding a light switch, he pressed it.
The studio was illuminated. Marjorie saw a stocky, swarthy man whose turned-back coat disclosed a
badge affixed to his vest.
As the swarthy man stared toward the center of the studio, an object came toppling downward, to clatter
on the floor. It was a ladder, loosed by the person who had used it. As the ladder flattened, a skylight
thumped into place. With that sound from above came the fading echoes of a departing laugh.
THE swarthy arrival was Police Inspector Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force. He knew the signs
that marked defeated crime. He could tell that menacing invaders had met with trouble during their brief
visit. Moreover, Joe recognized the laugh that certified the result.
The laugh of The Shadow!
As testimony of The Shadow's prowess, both Marjorie and Hayde were alive and unharmed. The
Shadow had accomplished what the law had hoped to do. He had rescued two endangered persons, and
had routed a band of desperate crooks.
Like his foemen, The Shadow had vanished. Cardona hoped that The Shadow had taken up the trail that
the law was too late to follow. Aided by two detectives who had come with him, Cardona decided to
investigate the scene before him and learn all that had happened in the studio. He intended to send a full
report to Commissioner Weston.
Oddly, that report would reach The Shadow, too.
The cloaked fighter had reached the waiting limousine. Finding no traces of crooks along the way, The
Shadow promptly entered the car and spoke an order to the chauffeur in a quiet, even tone that went
with the personality of Cranston.
The Shadow was again on his way to the banquet at the Cobalt Club. There, as Lamont Cranston, he
would greet his friend, Commissioner Weston, and, later, learn all about the startling events at Hayde's
studio.
But that would merely be an interlude. The Shadow was looking forward to another meeting with the
members of the Hooded Circle, who had so luckily escaped his wrath upon this first encounter.
CHAPTER III. CARDONA'S PROGRESS
LATE the next afternoon, Lamont Cranston paid a visit to Commissioner Ralph Weston at the latter's
office. He went there at the commissioner's request. In making the appointment by telephone, Weston
had acted quite mysteriously, a fact that interested The Shadow, even though he could guess what it was
about.
With Weston, The Shadow found Inspector Joe Cardona. The two were mulling over copious reports
concerning the thwarted robbery at Hayde's studio. There had been earlier reports the previous evening,
but the stack had grown much larger.
"Regarding that trouble last night, Cranston," began the commissioner. "I think we've gotten to the nub of
it. You know what the crooks were after, of course."
"Hayde's seven paintings, I suppose," returned The Shadow. "The newspapers have a lot to say about
them."
Weston nodded. His desk was stacked with newspapers. Big headlines told of the "Seven Hells," which
one newspaper had dubbed "Hayde's Hades." But Weston acted as though he saw beyond the
headlines.
"Benholme is paying fifteen thousand for those paintings," said the commissioner. "Do you think they
could bring a higher price, Cranston?"
"Eventually, yes," returned The Shadow. "Dustin Hayde is rapidly becoming famous. In a year or so -"
"That's just it!" interrupted Weston, giving the desk a triumphant, broad-handed thump. "But why should
crooks wait a year or more holding paintings that would have to be shipped abroad before they could be
sold. Why didn't they wait until Hayde became famous, then stage a robbery, when a single painting
would bring a huge price?"
"Poor judgment, I suppose."
"On the contrary, it was good judgment," affirmed Weston. "The thieves were after more than cash.
Inspector Cardona has guessed their real game. Hear what he has to say."
Swinging about in his swivel chair, Weston gestured to Cardona, who promptly expressed his theory.
"When Hayde painted those hell pictures," explained Joe, "he got a lot of tough guys to pose for him.
They got a laugh out of it, from what Hayde tells me, but, later, they must have decided that it wasn't so
funny. They kind of realized they'd been mugged. Get it?
"Too many people are going to see those paintings and remember the faces. Important people - the kind
that smart crooks might start out to swindle. Suppose some yegg gets spotted cracking a rich guy's safe.
Maybe the rich guy would recognize him as the third devil from the left in the painting of the Fourth Hell.
"The mob that blew in on Hayde wore hoods. That was so he wouldn't know who they were. The idea
struck me when I was talking with Hayde, after the robbery. He sort of remembered voices, but wasn't
sure whose they were."
Before Cardona could continue, Weston reached to the stack of reports, drew out a list of names and
handed it to Cranston.
"These are the names the men gave Hayde when he hired them as models," said the commissioner.
"None of them are in our files. The crooks, apparently, were loath to give their right names. The matter of
their faces occurred to them later."
"Phony monikers," snorted Cardona, referring to the list. "I asked Hayde what some of these fellows
looked like, and he drew a few sketches from memory. That was a help."
PRODUCING the sketches, Joe passed them to Cranston. One showed a coarse face, with thick lip,
and heavy brows below a sloping forehead.
"It looks like Cleek Dargo," declared Cardona. "He used to run a mob, back in the days when the
rackets were going strong. He's on the lam, right now, trying to dodge a murder rap. A couple of these
other mugs look like they were a pair of Cleek's gorillas."
Studying the sketches, The Shadow calmly complimented Cardona on his progress; but Joe wasn't in a
mood to take much credit. He said that he wasn't sure about the sketches; tough guys like Cleek had a
habit of looking very much alike.
"This is where you can help us, Cranston," said Weston, sagely. "Pinewood is beyond my jurisdiction,
and it happens that I was overlooked when Humphrey Benholme sent out invitations to his reception this
evening, where he intends to show the 'Seven Hells.' I understand, however, that you are going to the
reception."
The Shadow nodded, rather reluctantly. Matters were shaping as he expected, but not the way he
wanted. He had hoped to look over Hayde's paintings entirely on his own.
"If you would call Benholme," insisted Weston, "and ask if you could bring a friend along, Inspector
Cardona could go with you. He wants to look at the actual paintings."
摘要：

THEHOODEDCIRCLEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CRIME'SMESSAGE?CHAPTERII.VANISHEDFOEMEN?CHAPTERIII.CARDONA'SPROGRESS?CHAPTERIV.DEEDSINTHEDARK?CHAPTERV.CRIMEMYSTERIOUS?CHAPTERVI.DEATHBREAKSTHETRAIL?CHAPTERVII.THECHANCETRAIL?CHAPTERVIII.THEDRUIDGLEN?C...

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