Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 188 - House of Shadows

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HOUSE OF SHADOWS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. KING OF THE ROAD
? CHAPTER II. SOMEWHERE IN JERSEY
? CHAPTER III. ALIAS KID PELL
? CHAPTER IV. THE OLD HOUSE
? CHAPTER V. TURK'S TERMS
? CHAPTER VI. BLASTED BATTLE
? CHAPTER VII. HANDS IN THE GAME
? CHAPTER VIII. THE WAYS OF MR. HEBLER
? CHAPTER IX. CRIME'S NEW RECRUIT
? CHAPTER X. EYES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XI. VANISHED BATTLERS
? CHAPTER XII. DENRY'S DILEMMA
? CHAPTER XIII. DENRY'S SUBSTITUTE
? CHAPTER XIV. DENRY'S CONFESSION
? CHAPTER XV. MOVES REVERSED
? CHAPTER XVI. CRIME'S HOUR
? CHAPTER XVII. BELATED STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XVIII. DEATHS INTERLUDE
? CHAPTER XIX. THE WRONG SHADOW
? CHAPTER XX. WANTED EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER XXI. PROOF OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XXII. THE FINAL GUILT
CHAPTER I. KING OF THE ROAD
THE great, sleek motor coach pulled from the ramp leading out of the Manhattan bus terminal and swung
into the glare of avenue lights. It was heading southward, leaving New York after a one-week stay.
King of the road, the streamlined supercoach had attracted much attention on its arrival in Manhattan.
Not only was it the last word in deluxe highway travel; its gray sides bore the red-lettered statement:
"Hollywood on Tour."
Its passengers were movie stars; not topnotchers, but persons with recognized names, good enough to
help swell receipts at theater box offices. They were making personal appearances during their tour of the
entire country; publicizing the supercoach as they went along.
But New York had become apathetic to the sight of the highway limited and its freight of human stars.
No crowds were on hand to watch the great bus make its departure for Atlantic City. The Hollywood
barnstormers were no longer news.
The reason was Kid Pell, America's new claimant for the title of Public Enemy No. 1. In a mere three
days, Kid Pell had blasted all other news from the front pages, to make room for the accounts of his own
exploits.
Glum press agents were explaining the situation to disgruntled movie stars, as the bus rolled toward the
Holland Tunnel. The lack of cheering throngs along the curbs proved that the press agents were telling the
truth, for once. They were spreading newspapers to emphasize their arguments.
There wasn't a doubt about it; Kid Pell was more than the man of the hour. He was the man of the
week.
The Kid had crashed into prominence by raiding a large Manhattan bank, with a mob at his heels. They
had actually gotten to the vault, when someone had let loose a flow of tear gas. The robbers had
retreated; but on the way out they had shot three bank tellers, killing one.
While police were trying to round up the murderous mob, Kid Pell had coolly attacked an armored truck
carrying funds to the subtreasury. Again, he had failed to acquire any swag, but one of the truck guards
had been slain in the running battle.
The Kid had fled to New Jersey with a depleted mob, only to bob up again when he blew his way into a
suburban bank at three in the morning. He and his mob had souped the vault, but State police had shown
up in time to overtake a fleeing car that carried the stolen funds.
They had captured two of the mob, but not the Kid himself. He and two companions had escaped in
another car. All traces of them had been lost. From latest reports, he was still at large in New Jersey.
MYSTERY surrounded the notorious Kid Pell. Forgetful of their own disappointments, the movie stars
were engrossed in the subject by the time the bus was through the Holland Tunnel and streaking along the
Skyway above the darkened New Jersey meadows.
They were interested chiefly in what Kid Pell looked like. No newspaper had managed to get a
photograph of him, but artists had made sketches, and faked them to look like photos. Peering from the
front pages, those pictures showed Kid Pell as broad-faced, with straight lips, slitted eyes, and light curly
hair.
They had tried to give him the ugly look that befitted a public enemy, yet there was something handsome
in the murderer's features; probably the fact that they were youthful, in deference to the Kid's nickname.
A chuckling press agent ordered a drink at the bar that the deluxe coach boasted. Finishing the drink with
a gulp, he went back to a lounge at the rear, where he joined some movie producers who were talking
with a guest passenger.
"Too bad that the cops are after Kid Pell," declared the press agent. "He'd be a good bet for pictures.
With all the publicity he's gotten, he'd go over big in Westerns."
The producers smiled; one of them made a silencing gesture, then introduced the gentleman who was
riding with them. His name was Lamont Cranston; and the press agent, when he shook hands with him,
decided that Cranston would do for pictures, too.
His features were the sort that seemed molded for effectiveness. Cranston's face had a hawkish
expression that was masklike. His eyes were calm, but keenness lay in then depths. His thin lips carried
the faintest of smiles.
Obviously, the producers were trying to induce Cranston to back some new pictures; otherwise, he
wouldn't have been invited on this trip.
"Where did Kid Pell come from?" queried a portly producer. "What's he going to do next?"
"He's from somewhere out West," replied the press agent, "and he's supposed to be a pretty foxy
gambler. According to the newspapers, though, he didn't make out well in the joints around New York.
"So he recruited a mob and went into the stick-up business. Right there, he made another mistake: he
picked things too tough to handle. He lost about half his mob, and the ones that were captured told what
little they knew about him.
"With all his nerve, Kid Pell has proven himself one hundred percent flop when it comes to cash results.
In technical parlance, the only thing he can do for himself right now is take it on the lam."
THE producers appeared impressed. The press agent looked to Cranston, to see what effect he had
made. To his surprise, he was met by a calm-mannered headshake.
"I do not agree with you," declared Cranston, in an even tone. "Though little is known about Kid Pell,
one fact is certain: he needs money. He will proceed with crime until he obtains it."
"Or gets a bellyful of lead," argued the press agent. "They've got extra guards an every bank in New
Jersey. It will go tough with Kid Pell if he tries to crack another vault."
"With all his daring," observed Cranston, quietly, "Kid Pell has used intelligence. We may assume,
therefore, that he reads papers."
"If he does, he'll stay away from banks -"
"Precisely," interposed Cranston. He reached for the press agent's newspaper. "He will look for some
better opportunity, and may find one."
Fingering the pages, Cranston folded one back and pointed to a photograph, as he added:
"This, for example."
The other men stared. Cranston was pointing to a picture of the bus in which they were riding. With the
photo was a story that made the press agent chew his lips, even though the details were those that he
himself had given to the newspapers.
Along with an exaggerated description of the costly bus, were figures totaling the salaries of the stars who
made up the passenger list. The story stated that the Hollywood travelers were spending great sums in
every town along the route during this good-will tour. It referred to the bus passengers as a "million-dollar
cargo."
Cranston pointed out a paragraph covering the present trip from New York to Atlantic City. It gave the
exact time of the departure from New York, with the route that the bus was to follow.
"Kid Pell is quite ingenious," remarked Cranston, casually. "He might decide to stop this highway special
and find out what percentage of a million dollars the passengers carry with them."
Uneasiness gripped the few passengers who were listening to Cranston. This bus was termed the "King
of the Road"; they could recall that highwaymen once gave themselves that title. If that thought had
occurred to Kid Pell!
Their own thoughts were jerked severely as the bus gave a sudden jolt. Thrown forward, the movie
producers scrambled to their feet.
The bus was coming to a halt; they wondered why. Forgetting Cranston, they started forward, the press
agent with them, toward the compartments where the actors lolled.
Calmly, Lamont Cranston reached for a brief case that rested beside the seat. He could hear excited
voices demanding why the bus was stopping. The reply came from the driver's seat, that some
road-repair men were signaling them to a detour.
Its speed reduced to fifteen miles an hour, the bus jounced over a stretch of rough road. It veered to the
left, took a series of thumps and came to a dead stop.
By that time, Cranston's brief case was open. From it, he had drawn a black cloak, which he slipped
over his shoulders. Clamping a slouch hat to his head, he used his other hand to pull the lever of an
emergency door. With a single step, he left the bus, blending instantly with the outside darkness.
Then; invisible against the darkened gray of the big motor coach's canted side, he was moving forward to
a block of light - the front door of the bus, which the driver had opened.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. Master of darkness, foe to crime, he had arranged passage
on the luxury bus for the very reasons that he had stated to a group of astonished listeners. The Shadow
knew that crime was due.
The Shadow was anticipating a prompt meeting with Kid Pell, the modern King of the Road!
CHAPTER II. SOMEWHERE IN JERSEY
BEFORE The Shadow could reach the front door of the lengthy motorbus, a flashlight sparkled from the
ground outside. A voice spoke, easily, in the tone of a practiced gambler.
"It's all right, driver," the speaker assured. "The men are coming up with the lanterns, to show you the
detour. I'll step aboard and guide you through."
Two red lanterns came around in front of the bus. As they drew close, the man with the flashlight stepped
into the doorway. Only a dozen feet away, The Shadow veered off into the darkness, at the same time
observing the self-appointed guide.
The man who was entering the bus answered the description of Kid Pell; but he was more handsome,
less youthful, than the sketches portrayed him. Below the face of Kid Pell, The Shadow saw the collar
and jacket of a Tuxedo - very odd attire for a road superintendent.
A sharp challenge told that the bus driver had noticed the discrepancy. By then, it was too late. Kid Pell
was in the bus; he had the driver covered with a quick-drawn revolver.
The red lanterns had dropped; shouldering in behind Kid Pell were two rough-clad men whose thuggish
faces disclosed them as the Kid's remaining mobbies.
Moved to a position right behind them, The Shadow could see into the bus. Kid Pell was facing the
passengers; his face had a genial smile, as he waggled his revolver in the general direction of astounded
movie stars.
"Only cash accepted," informed the Kid. "The gentlemen will kindly keep their arms raised; ladies can roll
down their stockings. My assistants will keep you covered, while I gather the wallets and bank rolls.
"Careful, boys" - Kid Pell was pocketing his own gun, as he turned to the two mobsters - "with those hair
triggers. Some of these hams are insured for a lot more than they're worth, so why should we do them a
favor by killing them?"
Kid Pell wasn't expecting intervention from outside the bus, nor did he include The Shadow in his
calculations. The Kid's game took a stumble, the moment that he left the gun business with the thugs.
A weird laugh came from darkness only a few yards beyond the open bus door. It was mirth that
quivered with a challenge, a peal of strident mockery that only one living person could utter in such
outlandish style.
The Shadow!
Where Kid Pell would have remembered the persons in the bus and handled them with a few gun shots,
the mobbies did just the opposite. They obeyed the call of gangland. They strove to deliver the stroke
that hundreds of others had failed to clinch.
Death to The Shadow!
WHEELING together, the two gunners blasted shots ahead of them as they drove out into the darkness.
They were shooting at The Shadow's laugh, as others had so often done.
As the crooks fired off into the darkness, two guns answered at close range. The Shadow had faded
inward, not outward. His laugh, toned in ventriloquial style, was a masterpiece of deception. Coming in
under the jabbing guns, and below them, he answered with bullets blasted from close range.
Lunging upward, The Shadow warded aside the staggering thugs as they stumbled against his shoulders.
He was making a drive for the door, to reach Kid Pell.
The handsome highwayman had taken the only course still open. The moment that his assistants snapped
The Shadow's bait, Kid Pell had to follow them. He didn't know the details of their mistake, but he
guessed the results before they happened. His pals were finished, but in their unwitting suicide they were
giving Kid Pell a chance to handle The Shadow.
His gun drawn as he reached the door, the Kid saw blackness loom up at him, a living mass of it. Kid
Pell was slated for death right then, before he even had a chance to swing his gun toward that
black-cloaked surging swirl. The thing that saved Kid Pell was the charge of a light-brained brigade: the
movie heroes who no longer faced the threat of guns.
They hit him in a solid surge, six of them, bowling him away from The Shadow's path of aim. Out to the
darkened ground, where each of the six could later claim the honor of having overpowered him. With no
camera to record who landed the telling blows, the situation seemed quite lovely - until Kid Pell got
busy.
Blocking punches with his left hand; swinging his gun with his right, it was the Kid who put over the
haymakers. Twisting past the front of the bus, he left a strew of dazed stars behind him. Fortunately for
the unwise attackers, Kid Pell fired no shots. He knew that he would need them for The Shadow.
As the fleeing highwayman cut away from the direction of the bus lights, The Shadow actually picked his
path in the darkness. Big automatics tongued bullets that whistled past Pell's ears.
The last of his mobbies gone; Kid Pell had become a lone wolf, using tactics much like The Shadow's.
Close shots were exchanged in that shifting duel; until one scored a hit.
A sharp cry told that Kid Pell had dodged in the wrong direction.
The Shadow's shot did not drop him. Scrambling sounds became vague in the darkness. The Shadow's
next shots brought back sharp echoes, telling that the bullets had encountered rocks. Then came the glare
of headlights beyond a chunky knoll, followed by the roar of a motor. Kid Pell was making a getaway in
the mob car.
Blinking a flashlight, The Shadow found a level stretch of ground. Pointing the torch off to the rear of the
bus, he changed its glimmer to green.
A coupe wheeled up from the fake detour, its lights blazing into sight. The driver was Harry Vincent, one
of The Shadow's secret agents. He slowed when the flashlight gleamed red.
Swinging in beside Harry, The Shadow pointed out Pell's route. The coupe took up the chase along a
bad dirt road, following a taillight that gleamed like a pin point, well ahead. A jolt told that Pell's car had
reached the main highway. As it swerved, The Shadow heard the rattle of guns.
Patrolling State police had reached the scene. As The Shadow's car reached the highway, the police car
became the one that guided it. Kid Pell had managed to grab the lead.
THE chase covered miles, with shots continuing ahead. At last, with the police car only a hundred yards
ahead, The Shadow saw a fork in the road. The police car wavered, picked the road to the right. The
Shadow pointed Harry to the left.
Possibly The Shadow was simply trying to make the chase a sure one, but Harry had an idea that his
chief had made a better guess than the police car. Whatever the case, it was The Shadow who had found
the trail.
He saw auto lights halted ahead, told Harry to extinguish his headlamps. The coupe crept close, guided
by the glow. Pointing to a dirt road, The Shadow told Harry to ease from the highway.
Dropping off, The Shadow approached a curious scene. Kid Pell was leaning against the radiator of his
own car, pointing a gun at a frightened man who stood beside an old sedan.
"Get back in that buggy," panted Kid Pell, "and get started when I say go. Remember... I'll be on the
running board... with this gun. When cops show up... shake them!"
The scared man was hardly in his car before the police car came wheeling into sight, back on the right
trail. The Shadow heard Pell cough the word "Go!" and the old sedan rattled away. Dropping to the side
of the road, The Shadow blinked his flashlight. The color that he showed Harry was red.
Whizzing up, the State police spotted Pell's abandoned car and also sighted the taillight of the fleeing
sedan. They took up the chase, a difficult one, for roads formed a network in this vicinity. Chances were
that the driver of the sedan would actually shake the police, as Pell had ordered.
Again, The Shadow's flashlight glimmered red, the ray well shrouded in the folds of his cloak, so that only
Harry caught the gleam. The Shadow had guessed Kid Pell's latest ruse. Listening, the cloaked avenger
could hear stumbling sounds from a pathway leading up a high bank beside the road.
Kid Pell hadn't departed on the running board of the old sedan. This was Pell's actual goal; he had been
lucky enough to meet the other car, and had staged his trick to misguide the pursuing police. He had
saved valuable time, since he hadn't needed to hide his own car.
THE SHADOW moved silently toward the path. He did not have to look for Kid Pell. The Shadow
could still hear him, although they were separated by more than a hundred feet.
The real wonder was that Kid Pell made as little noise as he did. The Shadow had clipped him with a
bullet; the police had scored two hits during the chase. It was nerve alone that was dragging the crook
forward.
As the hill steepened, Kid Pell sagged to hands and knees, crawled a dozen yards, and slumped against a
rock. His hands scraped the surface, noted the stone's conical shape. Kid Pell gritted a laugh. Crawling
off to his left, he pressed through a clump of bushes.
A solid obstacle blocked him in the darkness. It was like a smooth wall, tilted back at a slight angle.
Sliding his hand upward, the mobster found a knob, tugged it as he drew himself to his feet. With surging
effort, he pulled the door open and pitched through to a bare floor, where he groped along at a
descending angle.
With his fumbly hands, The Kid found an electric lantern, pressed its switch. The glow showed that he
was in an old trailer, parked off a wood road that led along the hill brow. In the light, Kid Pell's face
showed very pale.
The front of his Tuxedo jacket fell open, to show a white shirt dyed with blood. As Pell pressed his
fingers to the wounds, a crimson trickle oozed across his hands. Laying his head against the slanting inner
wall of the trailer, Kid Pell gave a tired laugh.
It might have been the echoes of that feeble tone that made him think he heard another sound. Lips
tightening, eyes staring, Pell slid his hand to his pocket and drew his gun. He steadied himself by using his
free hand to grip a brake lever that jutted from the floor beside him.
The lantern glow was turned toward the door of the trailer. Pell had pulled the door wide open, and it
had not closed. Bleary-eyed, the dying crook watched the blackness of the doorway, until he fancied that
its gloom became solid. Still, he merely clutched his gun and watched.
Blackness traced itself along the trailer's inner wall. It formed a hawkish profile, a sinister silhouette
creeping inward like a beckoning specter of approaching death. Above that profile, Kid Pell saw the
outlined shade of a slouch hat.
Again, the dying man looked toward the door, the direction in which his gun was pointed. There was no
longer any doubt about the blackness. It moved like the solid figure that had lunged in from the darkness
outside the bus.
Kid Pell licked his dying lips, clenched his teeth and gritted another laugh. This time, it was answered, not
by a mere echo but by a whispered summons that seemed to certify the deserved doom of a murderer.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. ALIAS KID PELL
PELL'S next move was genuinely performed. As he saw The Shadow's gun muzzle look straight toward
his eyes, the Kid neither quailed nor tried to fire. Instead, he smiled and let his gun fall from his fingers.
He had yielded neither to fear nor to thought of revenge. He was welcoming The Shadow, a thing
unprecedented in any of the cloaked fighter's previous dealings with murderous men of crime!
It might mean a trap. The Shadow was watching Pell's other hand, the one that rested on the brake lever.
Instead of tightening, it withdrew. Fingers tried to beckon. The Shadow approached the dying man.
"You got me, Shadow," spoke Pell, wearily. "I had it coming. I'm not sorry. Only, I want to talk to you."
The Shadow seated himself on a camp stool, close beside Kid Pell. Meeting the steady gaze of boring
eyes, the dying man believed that he saw sympathy in their gleam.
"They called me a public enemy," declared Pell. "What else could I be, after my first kill? You know what
it is to be quick on the trigger. That's the way I am" - he hesitated, his smile dwindling - "or was."
There was a pause. Off in the distance came the throb of a motor, that finally faded. Pell's smile
returned.
"I tried crime," said the Kid. "It didn't pay. But I was in it - deep. So I stayed. I've got no excuses. I'm
not even blaming the fellow that started me in it. What I did was on my own. Understand?"
The Shadow understood. Pell's eyes showed an eager gleam. He was prompted to say more, and did.
"I'm not blaming Turk Gorlon," declared Kid Pell. "Not for what's happened to me. But I'm telling you
this: Turk is a rat! He'd hurt anybody - people that really count - if he could show a nickel of profit from
it.
"He's in on something big, Turk is." Pell closed his eyes, letting his voice slacken. "Something big - and
ratty. Some bigger man is running it, but what it is I don't know. Only; it ought to be stopped.
"Yes, stopped, like I was stopped. Go after it, Shadow. Maybe you wonder why I'm talking this way.
You won't, when you find out who I am. Those letters, in the box - they'll tell you. Take them with you,
Shadow."
The Shadow saw the box that Pell meant. It was just inside the door of the trailer. The Kid's speech had
become a mumble; The Shadow drew closer to make out the words. Gradually, they showed
coherence.
"Do me a favor," muttered the dying man. "Let me be forgotten - as Kid Pell. I rigged this hideout, so I
could close accounts. Let me go through with it the way I want."
THE SHADOW'S whispered tone gave agreement. Pell's face relaxed. In the glow of the lantern, his
features lost their forced hardness. It was easy to see why he had been nicknamed the Kid. His age
couldn't have been more than twenty-two.
Even his surroundings spoke a pathetic story. The shelves of the trailer were provisioned for a long stay;
and among the canned goods were a few jars of homemade jam; probably the very sort that he had
swiped from his mother's pantry only a few years ago.
There were books, too, that dated back to boyhood. Even when he had embarked on his career as a
public enemy, Kid Pell had taken these along. He was looking at them, eyes open, the jam jars and the
books, and he was smiling again, Kid Pell was. But the dampness from his dying eyes was forming into
little beads, like raindrops. Suddenly, the Kid's lips stiffened.
"You'll keep it mum," he pleaded, "who I really am? It will help out, if Turk thinks I'm still alive. Let me
go through with what I planned and -"
A hand was resting on the Kid's shoulder. He could feel the power of its grip: the hand of The Shadow,
merciless to men of crime. To this dying youth, murderer though he was, the pressure of that hand had
the warmth of friendship.
"Maybe, Shadow" - The Kid was choking the words - "I ought to have met you before. Maybe... if I had
-"
The grip tightened. It brought an end to regrets that could not be remedied. It steeled the Kid for what
lay ahead.
"Better get... the box," panted the Kid. "Things... are going to happen... fast. There's a letter from Turk...
telling where I'm supposed to go... from here. Fix Turk... like he ought to be fixed, Shadow.
"And if you see Denry" - eyes open, the Kid watched The Shadow pick up the box - "give him back his
letters. Tell him... some day that I said he was right, all along. If I'd listened to Denry... I'd be -"
A spasm racked Kid Pell. His eyes bulged, as his shoulders lifted. His whole shirt front was reddened; so
was the hand that he lifted to point to the door.
"Get outside!" he gasped. "Go quick! I've only got a few seconds... more!"
The Kid's eyes went shut as his hand clamped down upon the brake lever. His blood-drenched fingers
slipped, losing their grip. He gave a plaintive, hopeless gasp. A moment later, The Shadow was beside
him.
Lifting the limp hand, The Shadow tightened it on the lever, actually started it in motion. He was wheeling
away, when he saw the smile re-fix itself on the Kid's lips. As the lever slid, the trailer stirred. The Kid's
lips, frozen in their happy smile, emitted the death gasp.
There was a rumble beneath The Shadow's feet as he flung himself through the doorway, to land on solid
ground, clutching the box of letters. There was a sharp slam as the trailer door went shut. The rumble
ending in a crash of underbrush, the trailer was gone!
Long, slow seconds seemed to count themselves; then, from far below, came a terrific splash that sent
hollow echoes reverberating from cliffs, to die in the night air.
MOVING to the brink, The Shadow looked below. Trickles of moonlight, pressing through clouds,
showed the depths of a water-filled quarry.
Kid Pell had parked that old trailer on the quarry edge, so that he could plunge himself and his
improvised hide-out into oblivion, there to remain forgotten. At least, forgotten as himself, though the
name of Kid Pell would remain in the annals of crime.
Who he really was, The Shadow would learn from the letters that the Kid had placed in his custody. By
that deed, and the statements that he made, The Kid had atoned in the small measure possible for his
brief but murderous career of crime.
The Shadow had learned much through The Kid's mention of Turk Gorlon. Long known as a slick
racketeer, Turk had dodged the law too many times. His influence was the sort that had thrust many men
into vicious crime, where they enmeshed themselves, while Turk stayed in the clear.
As for Denry, the other person that the Kid had mentioned, he represented the opposite influence. If the
Kid had followed Denry's advice, he would never have gone crooked. The letters would tell of Denry's
identity, and thereby determine the policy best suited to his interest.
Reaching the coupe, where Harry Vincent was waiting, The Shadow placed his cloak and hat beneath
the seat in a special drawer fitted there. It was a wise procedure, for they were stopped often by police
cars on the way into Manhattan.
As Cranston, The Shadow explained how he had been on the bus, but had escaped through an
emergency exit while Kid Pell was staging the frustrated holdup. Harry Vincent posed as a motorist who
had met Cranston on the highway. They had set out to give the alarm, only to learn that Kid Pell and the
other bandits had been repulsed.
Reaching his sanctum, a black-walled room hidden near the heart of Manhattan, The Shadow read the
letters and other data that went with them. Placing them aside, he extinguished the bluish light that hung in
a corner of the sanctum. Solid blackness filled the hidden room.
Then came the tone of a strange, quivering laugh - a prophetic tone, that echoed from black-curtained
walls as though repeated from invisible corridors of time and space. That mirth did not mark the end of
crime; it signified its beginning, the start of a new campaign to meet the coming menace.
Much needed to be learned. As yet, The Shadow had obtained but a single thread to crime. But that,
alone, justified The Shadow's granting of a dying request. It was well for the world to think that Kid Pell
still lived, particularly as that belief, if held by Turk Gorlon, would aid The Shadow in frustrating future
evil.
As for the secret of a trailer hideout, sunk with its owner deep in the muggy waters of a quarry, that
would remain The Shadow's own. Upon the hillside stood a conical rock, a tombstone marking the
unknown grave; likewise, a secret that The Shadow intended to preserve.
Should ever the strange tomb be discovered, its occupant would be identified only by his alias, Kid Pell.
Of his other history, nothing would be known.
Such was the last wish of a youthful and repentant public enemy; a wish fulfilled by The Shadow's
decree.
CHAPTER IV. THE OLD HOUSE
RIDING in a Manhattan subway local, Denry Melwin frowned at newspaper headlines which told of
recent crime. Two nights had passed since the attempted holdup of the Hollywood movie star bus, and
the law was still looking for the notorious Kid Pell.
Descriptions of the fugitive public enemy bothered Denry. They reminded him too much of someone else
- a person who couldn't possibly be Kid Pell, yet who at times had shown signs of getting close to that
category.
Denry couldn't understand why any intelligent young man would turn to crime. The promise of easy
money certainly was not worth the hazard. Nevertheless, the lure continued to attract chaps like Kid Pell;
a fact that was most unfortunate.
The train stopped at Denry's station. Tightening his hat, raising the collar of his raincoat, he started along
the street through a sweeping, blinding rain.
Soon, Denry was walking along a lonely, forgotten block. An old house loomed up just ahead. It was the
residence of Miss Prudence Ralcott, wealthiest woman in New York.
Few persons were ever admitted through the portals of that mansion, but Denry was one of the chosen.
This was his third visit to the place, yet it still gave him a shuddery sensation when he stood on the high
brownstone steps waiting for someone to answer his ring.
Always, on those steps, Denry felt that he was being watched. Glancing across the street, he was sure
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：77 页 大小：191.28KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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