Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 189 - Death's Premium

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DEATH'S PREMIUM
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. KEYS TO CRIME
? CHAPTER II. MEN OF MURDER
? CHAPTER III. THE LAW'S TURN
? CHAPTER IV. TEN O'CLOCK
? CHAPTER V. CLUES TO CRIME
? CHAPTER VI. THE MAN FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER VII. WITHIN THE CORDON
? CHAPTER VIII. THE FINGER POINTS
? CHAPTER IX. DEATH FINDS A WAY
? CHAPTER X. CRIME'S MOTIVE
? CHAPTER XI. CROOKS OBLIGE
? CHAPTER XII. CRIME'S NEW CLIENT
? CHAPTER XIII. THE HUNTED MAN
? CHAPTER XIV. CRIME OVERPLAYED
? CHAPTER XV. CRIME TRIES AGAIN
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SIXTH DAY
? CHAPTER XVII. DEATH REVERSED
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME'S DOUBLE TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIX. CRIME FROM WITHIN
? CHAPTER XX. THE MASTER HAND
? CHAPTER XXI. CRIME'S FULL PROOF
CHAPTER I. KEYS TO CRIME
EARLY dusk was deepening the grimy front of the old Hotel Thurmont when Ronald Parron sidled in
from the front street. With quick, nervous eyes he darted a look about the lobby, then approached the
desk and asked for the key to Room 312.
Parron was still glancing about after he received the key. The clerk took another look into the box, then
told him:
"No messages, Mr. Hotchkiss."
At the mention of the name, Parron gave a jumpy start. He forced a smile to his twitchy lips, managed to
mutter a thanks. Parron had just remembered that he was registered at this hotel under the name of
Hotchkiss.
Entering the elevator, Parron gave the operator a suspicious stare. Turned half about, Parron had his
hand thrust to a hip pocket, where a revolver bulged. He regarded the elevator operator as a possible
enemy, who might make trouble during the short ride.
The trip proved a safe one. On the third floor, Parron nervously unlocked the door of 312 and sprang
into the room, his revolver drawn. He pawed for the light switch; failing to find it, he darted across the
room.
Stumbling against a chair, he blundered into a bureau, where he halted, panting, at sight of a face that
rose from the gloom.
It was a haggard face, pale in the dusk; a well-formed face that showed a trim mustache and sleek black
hair. The face was Parron's own.
Sight of himself in the bureau mirror brought a laugh from Parron's lips. He fumbled for a lamp. His face
looked less hunted when the lamp glow filled the room.
Drawing the window shades, the dark-haired man looked about him. Deciding that no intruders had been
in the place, Parron tiptoed to a closet door and yanked it open.
With the same move, he covered the closet with his .32 revolver. Another laugh drifted from his lips
when he saw that the closet was empty. Stretching, Parron reached eagerly to the shelf, brought down an
oblong dispatch box of thin tinny metal.
The box was locked. Parron made no attempt to open it. He simply laid it on the bureau, then looked
toward the telephone. He hesitated at making a call from the hotel room, but finally decided to do so.
The number that he called had a Long Island exchange.
Parron recognized the voice that answered; but, in his turn, he used a tone that was different from his
own. He spoke in quick, clipped fashion, and to complete the vocal disguise, he asked:
"Am I speaking to Mr. Renstrom? To Mr. Albert Renstrom?"
Receiving the affirmative reply that he actually expected, Parron pretended to doubt the other speaker's
identity. Finally ending the bluff, he came down to business.
"All right, Mr. Renstrom," announced Parron rapidly. "I'm the man who sent you the letter that contained
the key. I'm willing to send the box, too, if you're interested."
A low, earnest voice reached Parron's ear. Renstrom was interested; deeply so. He was ready to
cooperate in any way possible. He had read the letter thoroughly, and would abide by its terms.
"It's a deal, Mr. Renstrom," decided Parron. "You'll have the box inside an hour. But remember - you're
to hold it until ten o'clock, as I specified in my letter -"
RENSTROM was interrupting with assurances. Smiling as he listened, Parron ended the phone call,
tucked the dispatch box under his arm and stole from the hotel room.
He used the stairway instead of the elevator, and took a rear exit from the lobby. Spying a cab on the
rear street, Parron hailed it and gave the driver Renstrom's address.
As the cab swung along, Parron studied an airplane schedule, choosing a plane that left Newark Airport
at half past eight. If he missed that one, he could take another at nine fifteen. Where they went didn't
matter to Parron. He was tapping a well-filled wallet in his inside pocket. His trip was going to be a long
one.
It took the cab about half an hour to reach the Renstrom residence on Long Island. Telling the driver to
wait, Parron alighted and went through a gate between high hedges. The porch light was on; as he neared
its glow, Parron suddenly remembered a needed precaution. He paused, pulled the collar of his overcoat
about his chin.
Peering upward, Parron squinted suspiciously at a window on the second floor. He thought he saw a face
there; then, fancying that his imagination had tricked him, he hastened to the front door and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a white-haired servant who blinked at sight of the muffled visitor.
"For Mr. Renstrom," gruffed Parron, thrusting the metal box into the servant's hands. "Take it to him,
right away."
With that, Parron was heading back along the walk. He took a quick glance over his shoulder as he
reached the gate. The servant was staring stupidly at the box; there was no one at the upstairs window.
Jumping into the cab, Parron told the driver to take him back to town.
During the ride the taxi driver became talkative. His head inclined toward the connecting window, he
remarked:
"Tough about that polo player getting killed this afternoon. Read about it, did you?"
Parron winced; stared nervously.
"What polo player?"
"Young Reggie Chitterton," replied the driver. "Here's his picture" - the driver was thrusting a newspaper
through the window - "but you won't be able to read it until we reach the bridge lights. Throwed off his
horse, Chitterton was, and they found his skull fractured after they lugged him to the clubhouse.
Dangerous game, that polo."
Stifling a groan, Parron managed to grasp the newspaper. He knew what had happened to Chitterton,
though the cab driver didn't. Parron could picture the whole case, and sum it up in one word:
Murder!
ELSEWHERE, keen eyes were studying the item that Parron did not have to read. Cut from the latest
newspaper, the clipping lay beneath the glow of a bluish lamp. From darkness above the glare came a
grim, whispered laugh, uttered by hidden lips.
The Shadow, master crime tracker, was in his sanctum, a black-walled room sequestered somewhere in
Manhattan. To the clipping that told of recent death, he was adding others, of a similar variety.
All pertained to so-called accidents - the sort that would be checked by the law and classed as
unavoidable. But behind such cases could lie the insidious hand of crime.
The Shadow knew!
He was visualizing what might have happened at the polo field, where Chitterton had suffered a fall during
the second chukker. A felled player, carried to the clubhouse, would be in the hands of various
attendants before a physician could arrive.
During that interval, much could happen, particularly if ghoulish killers were in wait, hoping for any break.
Chitterton's death could have been murder - for a very definite reason. There had been too many others
like it.
A hand moved from the light. There was a sparkle of a flame-colored gem: The Shadow's girasol. That
rare stone, a magnificent fire opal, was The Shadow's only jewel. Returning to the light, the hand brought
a square sheet of glossy paper.
The sheet bore a chart, with double lines. Graphically, those lines told their story. One traced the course
of murder during the past year; it showed a slight decline when compared to previous periods of twelve
months.
Crisscrossing murder's graph, the second line indicated cases of technical manslaughter. They had shown
a surprising jump. From that, The Shadow had formed a definite conclusion; one which, so far, had not
been noticed by the law.
Grouped together, the two styles of death did more than indicate a serious total. These statistics applied
to New York City alone, and they were worse than any other, though the death wave was noticeable
elsewhere. It was time that this particular chart reached the right man.
Forming his hands into an interlocking pattern, The Shadow held them between the light and the paper on
the table. Supple fingers cast a silhouette upon the sheet. It was a hawkish profile, topped by a slouch
hat, in miniature.
When The Shadow withdrew his hands the silhouette remained, shaded upon sensitized paper.
Approaching the paper from the sides, The Shadow folded it and placed it into an envelope, which was
already addressed to Ralph Weston, New York's police commissioner.
Sealing the envelope, the mysterious master reached for earphones that hung from the sanctum wall.
Before his hand had touched the instruments, a tiny light gleamed from the darkness. A call was coming
through, from the man with whom The Shadow intended to communicate.
Raising the earphones, The Shadow heard a steady, mechanical voice:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report!"
WITH that whisper, The Shadow pronounced his identity to Burbank, the contact man who kept in
touch with active agents. For the past week, ever since The Shadow had learned of crime's increase,
ardent workers had been aiding their chief in searching for men who might be murderers by trade.
Results had come at last. Burbank was relaying a report from Clyde Burke, one of the active agents.
Clyde was on the staff of a tabloid newspaper, the New York Classic. It had been Clyde's job to visit
night clubs, gambling houses, and other places of a sporting reputation.
Other agents had prowled the underworld, without results. The fact that Clyde was coming through with
information fitted with The Shadow's own conclusions; namely, that murder was being conducted on a
deluxe basis, rather than through the hiring of ordinary mobsmen.
Killing meant thugs. Of that, The Shadow was certain; but he doubted that the lesser hands engaged in
this game of supercrime would be found in the usual underworld dives. Through Burbank, he had
instructed Clyde to be on the lookout for any man of better connections who held any converse with
hoodlums.
Clyde had found such a man - one who did not visit thugs, but who had them come to him. At present,
the man in question was at the Moonlight Club. He had just talked to a pair of tough-looking customers
who had drifted to the bar. Apparently, the suspected man was awaiting the arrival of more followers.
The bluish light clicked off. Somber walls were stirred by a whispered laugh. Echoes faded, bringing
silence to pitch blackness. The Shadow had departed by the sanctum's hidden exit. Real echoes, those,
but they stood for imaginary ones.
Echoes like the clank of keys!
Ronald Parron held one key - to his hotel room. Albert Renstrom had another key - to a mysterious
metal box. The Shadow owned a third key, more potent than the other two.
It was the name of a man bent upon evil design.
A key to coming murder!
CHAPTER II. MEN OF MURDER
ARRIVING again at the Hotel Thurmont, Ronald Parron entered by the front door. Riding up in the
elevator, he did not bother to keep a hand on his revolver.
If crooks had learned his moves, so Parron reasoned, they would have attempted to block him long
before this. As matters now stood, his work was accomplished. He was entering Room 312 for the last
time, which was something that pleased him immensely.
Parron's enthusiasm waned when he pressed the light switch. Stiffening, he stared across the room
toward a man who had been waiting in the darkness beside the bureau. Of their own accord, Parron's
lips phrased the intruder's name:
"Rudy Waygart!"
The waiting man chuckled. His tone wasn't pleasant. It was an ugly tone, the sort that fitted Rudy
Waygart. Sallow, lean-faced, with small gimlet eyes and sharp, bulging teeth, Rudy habitually wore a
nasty expression that suited his disposition.
"Hello, Parron!" Rudy's voice was raspy. "I've been wondering where you've been keeping yourself. Up
with those dukes of yours" - with a quick gesture, Rudy produced a revolver - "while I take care of that
rod that's poking from your hip!"
Disarmed, Parron let Rudy shove him to a corner. Nervously, he was thinking how he could square
himself with this unwanted visitor. His hands half raised, Parron nudged a thumb toward his inside
pocket.
"I've got the cash right here, Rudy," he argued. "I was going to look you up, to pay off that poker debt. I
was carrying a gun because I had so much money with me."
Rudy gave a satisfied grin, then glanced casually across the room, toward a suitcase. His tone became
friendly as be asked:
"Going on a trip?"
Parron started to nod, then halted, horrified. Gimlet eyes, fangish teeth were combining in a leer. Chilled
by a horrifying thought, Parron could find no words. It was Rudy who spoke.
"Thought that gambling was my racket, didn't you?" sneered Rudy. "Never figured I was in the same
game you were. While you've been handling one end of it, I've been taking care of the other. You know
what that means, don't you?"
Parron's lips moved as though trying to hold back the single word that summed the answer.
Murder!
It flashed through Parron's brain, an electrifying thought, and Rudy understood it. Pocketing Parron's gun,
Rudy jammed his own revolver against the trembling man's ribs and rasped the prophecy:
"You're going on a trip, all right. A one-way ride, without a return ticket! You're the first double-crosser
I've had to handle, but it's going to be a quick job!"
Prodded by Rudy's gun, Parron turned numbly toward the door. With a mock bow, Rudy reached
left-handed for the knob, keeping Parron covered with his right, which held the revolver.
The door was ajar, something that Rudy didn't realize until he grasped the knob. Before he had time to
guess the significance behind the fact, the door smashed inward.
Struck by the barrier, Rudy was lifted from his feet, hurled half across the room. His gun went off in the
air.
As he finished his backward sprawl, Rudy saw Parron tossed aside by an insurging shape of black
moving with the speed and power of an avalanche.
The Shadow!
CRIME'S superfoe had trailed Rudy from the Moonlight Club. Outside the door he had overheard the
killer's chat with Parron. Picking the timeliest moment, The Shadow had performed a move of twofold
consequence: He had rescued Parron from doom's threat and had flattened Rudy, rendering the killer
helpless.
The taunt of a shivery laugh came from lips that were concealed by the upturned collar of a black cloak.
Below eyes that blazed from beneath a slouch hat brim was The Shadow's counterthreat, the muzzle of a
.45 automatic swinging toward Rudy Waygart.
At that instant came a clatter that sounded like an echo of The Shadow's incoming crash. Two window
shades went whipping upward; as The Shadow wheeled, he saw forms lunging in from a fire escape.
Coarse faces came into the light; tough fists were brandishing glittering revolvers.
Rudy's mobbies!
They hadn't been with the sallow killer when he left the Moonlight Club.
Rudy had sent the crew ahead, had posted them at the least expected spot. Rudy's plan, apparently, was
to cut off any mad dash that Parron might make toward the windows. His cute idea had turned out bigger
than he thought.
Murderous mobbies had the opportunity of a lifetime - a chance to bag The Shadow!
They overlooked one point.
Just as The Shadow's smashing entry and mocking laugh had revealed his presence, so did the crooks
betray themselves by the noisy way in which they had disposed of the window shades. As they thrust gun
muzzles into the room, The Shadow was wheeling toward the door. By the time they aimed, he was
fading sideward, staying in the room instead of making toward the hall.
Tricked crooks changed aim. By then Rudy was coming to his feet, trying to block The Shadow's
spinning course. Almost from the floor The Shadow bobbed upward under Rudy's outthrust arm. He
chucked the killer over his shoulders; flung forward in a sudden somersault, Rudy hit the floor again, half
dazed.
Thugs held their trigger fingers, rather than riddle their leader. The brief delay was too long for their own
benefit.
Two guns blasted. The first was the automatic that The Shadow had ready when he entered. The second
shot came from the fringe of his cloak, where he had produced another gun. One clipped thug sprawled
inward from the window; the other sank back to the fire escape.
The Shadow had aimed while on the move. He didn't need to pick out his thuggish foemen; he simply
fired at the window centers, and his method brought results.
Launching across the room, The Shadow reached the window that had disgorged a writhing crook. The
Shadow suspected that there would be more than two and he was right.
Gun to gun, he met another thug who was coming through the emptied window, and beat the fellow to
the shot. Thrusting head and arm out through the window, The Shadow saw a fourth crook swinging
from the far end of the platform.
The last mobbie was quick with his trigger; too quick. His revolver spurted a leaden slug that whined past
The Shadow's slouch hat. The crook wasn't equal to the task of clipping a target three inches in width.
Gun muzzle close to the wall, one eye peering above it, The Shadow answered that blast. The impact of
a .45 bullet jolted the last thug back across the rail.
Arms clawed, feet kicked high. The next token of that final fighter was the dull sound of a cracking skull
that struck the cement alleyway, three floors below.
THE SHADOW heard the sound from midway in the room. He had spun about to look for Rudy
Waygart. He saw the sallow murderer diving out into the hallway; from farther along came the fading
clatter of running feet that belonged to Ronald Parron.
Fleeing, the rescued victim was showing maddened haste, thinking that Rudy was after him; but Rudy had
forgotten Parron. The crook's sole reason for taking the same route was to escape The Shadow.
The chase led to the stairway, then down into the lobby. Rudy was twisting toward the rear route. The
Shadow let the killer go, for a very important reason. Two loungers at the front of the lobby were
springing up from chairs, to close in on Parron.
One glimpse of their faces told The Shadow what they were: trigger men that Rudy had ordered here as
reserves. They didn't know that Rudy was dodging The Shadow; they thought that he was leaving the
final work to them. Their guns were out, they were aiming, when The Shadow delivered withering shots.
The pair sprawled toward the front doorway. They were shooting as they fell; their shots were wide.
Parron heard their shrieks. In response to some mental quirk, the hunted man paused at the sidewalk to
look back.
A slumped thug fired, almost blindly, from the lobby floor. There was an echoing howl from the sidewalk
as Parron staggered.
Speeding across the lobby, where all noncombatants had dived from sight, The Shadow reached the
street, gathered Parron up and thrust him into the open door of a taxicab that had wheeled into sight as if
summoned.
The cab was away with its wounded burden. Turned about, The Shadow looked back into the lobby.
There was no more fight in the pair who had made that final thrust; both thugs were lying still. But
Waygart was gone, to the rear street, and he had closed the trail behind him.
Two police officers were coming through from the back. Evidently Rudy had reached the street before
they arrived. Seeing a cloaked figure on the lighted sidewalk of the front street, the two patrolmen raised
a shout. It was answered from two directions along the front street.
The police were on the job. Too late to corner Rudy Waygart, they were in time to find The Shadow.
They didn't stop to reason whether he was friend or foe. The cops had heard shots; they saw a fighter
who held two guns. They opened fire.
Springing from the curb, The Shadow sought darkness across the street. Noting his course, the officers
followed.
When they converged, they found themselves staring at a blank wall. Above was the sliding ladder of a
fire escape against a dilapidated building; but it was beyond their reach. They decided that the man with
the guns couldn't have gone by that route.
They were wrong. The Shadow had gauged the distance better than they had. He had reached the
bottom rung with a high leap, and hauled himself to the floor above. The reason that flashlights didn't
show him was because he was no longer there.
The Shadow had swung past the corner of the building. Away from sight of the police, he was crossing
the low roof of a one-story garage, to reach the next street.
Two blocks from where Rudy Waygart had gotten in the clear, The Shadow knew that further pursuit of
the crafty murderer would be useless, since a squad of police had come between. However, The
Shadow had marked Rudy as a killer; and he had also started Ronald Parron on a route to safety.
Parron would talk, unless too seriously wounded. The fellow was anxious to get out of the murder racket
represented by Rudy Waygart. What Parron knew might be sufficient to forestall all future crime.
There was a whispered laugh as The Shadow merged with darkness. Unfortunately, that mirth was
premature. Crime's finish was not to be an early matter.
A long and arduous campaign lay ahead. More death was due before The Shadow could possibly trap
Rudy Waygart and other men of murder!
CHAPTER III. THE LAW'S TURN
COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON was at the Cobalt Club, his favorite place during evening hours.
Swankiest of exclusive Manhattan clubs, the Cobalt boasted many wealthy members, who liked the
special privacy it offered.
In fact, Weston had experienced some difficulty in joining the Cobalt Club. He had been accepted only
through the efforts of Lamont Cranston, one of the most influential members. Behind that fact lay an
important secret.
The man who posed as Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.
Knowing that constant contact with the police commissioner would prove valuable, The Shadow had
pressed the point of Weston's membership. As Cranston, he had naturally gained Weston's full friendship
and confidence. Whenever Weston was at the club, which was often, he welcomed Cranston's arrival.
Tonight was a case in point.
Commissioner Weston was busy in a telephone booth making a series of calls. He had received news of
a gang raid at the Hotel Thurmont, and was alternately receiving reports and giving orders. When he
emerged from the booth, Weston spied Cranston strolling in from the street.
Tall, easy-mannered, with a calm expression on his masklike face, Cranston approached Weston with
outstretched hand.
"Good evening, commissioner," he said in even tones. "You appear to be quite busy."
"I was busy," returned Weston briskly, "but my work is finished for a while. Suppose we go to the
grillroom, Cranston."
"I shall meet you there, commissioner. It happens" - Cranston's lips showed the faintest of smiles - "that I
have a phone call to make, myself."
From the phone booth, Cranston watched the commissioner turn toward the stairs that led down to the
grillroom. An attendant overtook the commissioner and handed him an envelope, which Weston
pocketed somewhat mechanically.
By that time The Shadow was listening to a report from Burbank. The news was disappointing. Parron
was dead.
Moe Shrevnitz, one of The Shadow's secret agents, was the driver of the cab that had carried Parron
away from the Hotel Thurmont. Moe had headed directly to the office of Dr. Rupert Sayre - a friend of
The Shadow. By then Parron was unconscious from loss of blood. Sayre had attempted an immediate
transfusion, but the victim was beyond hope.
No papers had been found on Parron, other than the bank notes that filled his bulging wallet. Crime's
victim had failed to utter a single word before he died.
The Shadow told Burbank to arrange the further details. Sayre, of course, would report the case to the
law. Moe's story would be that he had picked up Parron as a chance passenger; that upon noting the
man's condition, he had stopped at the first physician's office he saw.
WITH the Parron angle temporarily closed, The Shadow went down to the grillroom. He found Weston
alone there, for the place was being redecorated and there was only one table, in a corner.
"It looked like we'd run into a murder case," began Weston. "There was some shooting over at the Hotel
Thurmont. But Inspector Cardona just phoned that it was merely a mob fight. We've cut down murder" -
Weston was chuckling - "to the point where crooks are so badly off, they're killing one another -"
Interrupting himself, the commissioner stared at a sheet of paper that he had unfolded from an envelope.
Clutching Cranston's arm, he found words:
"Look at this paper, Cranston!"
The Shadow leaned forward, gazed at the charted lines on the sheet. He remarked that they looked quite
interesting, but not enough so to cause excitement or consternation. The commissioner stared at the
paper again.
"It's gone!" he exclaimed. "But I saw it, Cranston! The outline of a hawkish silhouette, with a slouch hat
above it!"
Cranston's eyes sparkled with interest. He took the paper, studied it in the light, then handed it back to
Weston with a smile.
"It wasn't my imagination," argued Weston. "This is a message from The Shadow!"
Still smiling, Cranston lighted a thin cigar. His profile intervened between the match flare and the wall.
Against the wall appeared the same silhouette that had faded when light struck the sensitized paper. It
lasted for flickery moments, but Weston did not see the full-sized outline that marked Cranston's actual
identity. The commissioner was studying the paper again.
For a two full minutes, Weston frowned, twitched at the tips of his pointed mustache. Then, flinging the
paper to the table, the commissioner clenched his fists.
"Gad, Cranston!" he exclaimed. "The Shadow may be right. He usually is, you know."
Cranston shrugged. He was gazing idly at the sheet of paper, but did not seem to infer anything from it.
"Look how that secondary line has risen!" insisted Weston. "Like fools, we've been congratulating
ourselves on the decline of the murder rate without checking the increase in cases that could come under
the general head of homicide.
"If a tenth of those are actually murder, we're up against a huge problem. It would mean that the murder
rate has almost doubled without our knowledge!"
Weston experienced a sudden change. He realized that The Shadow was doing more than merely helping
the law. He was giving Weston a chance to actually carve the murder rate before the public realized that
the police had been deceived.
Always impetuous, Commissioner Weston was seized with sudden desire for action, even though it might
prove of a blind sort. Rising from the table, he strode out of the grillroom. Returning a few minutes later,
he sat down with a triumphant smile.
"I just called headquarters," declared Weston. "Inspector Cardona isn't back there yet; but when he
arrives he's to call me right away. Do you know what's coming next, Cranston?
"I'll tell you. I'm going to have Cardona bring full reports on every case of chance manslaughter or
accidental death that might, by the least shade of suspicion, be considered murder. We'll spend the rest
of the night sifting those cases to the bottom.
"You're welcome to remain, Cranston, as long as you want, to see how the law operates. Too bad we
can't have The Shadow here. He might enjoy it, also."
CASUALLY, The Shadow remarked that he would stay awhile, but that he was expecting a call from a
friend that might take him elsewhere. Cranston frequently expected such calls. The commissioner had
come to regard them as a common matter.
Actually, they were calls from Burbank, relaying reports of agents. Always, on a night when crime had
struck, The Shadow had to be ready for quick countermoves. In this instance the chance seemed
unlikely.
Tonight, Rudy Waygart and a band of henchmen had set out to finish a double-crosser. With Ronald
摘要：

DEATH'SPREMIUMMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.KEYSTOCRIME?CHAPTERII.MENOFMURDER?CHAPTERIII.THELAW'STURN?CHAPTERIV.TENO'CLOCK?CHAPTERV.CLUESTOCRIME?CHAPTERVI.THEMANFROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERVII.WITHINTHECORDON?CHAPTERVIII.THEFINGERPOINTS?CHAPTERIX.DEATHFIN...

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