Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 172 - Battle of Greed

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BATTLE OF GREED
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. FORBIDDEN CRIME
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW'S TERMS
? CHAPTER III. MASTER OF MILLIONS
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
? CHAPTER V. CROSSED STRATEGY
? CHAPTER VI. ONE RAT DESERTS
? CHAPTER VII. MEN NOT FORGOTTEN
? CHAPTER VIII. TWO GIRLS MEET
? CHAPTER IX. AT THE SKY-HIGH CLUB
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER XI. THE OPPORTUNITY
? CHAPTER XII. THE GAME TURNS
? CHAPTER XIII. SLICK LOOKS FORWARD
? CHAPTER XIV. DEATH BY PROXY
? CHAPTER XV. DUEL OF DOOM
? CHAPTER XVI. SLICK TELLS HALF
? CHAPTER XVII. BARBARA ACCEPTS
? CHAPTER XVIII. DELAYED PURSUIT
? CHAPTER XIX. THE FINAL VERDICT
? CHAPTER XX. LIVING AND DEAD
CHAPTER I. FORBIDDEN CRIME
GEORGE ELLERBY gave a final adjustment to the black bow tie that completed his Tuxedo
outfit. He placed a derby on his head. Carefully withdrawing a gold-mounted cigarette case
from an inside pocket, he inserted a cigarette in a holder, ignited it from an expensive
lighter. Taking a deep inhale, he decided to be on his way.
To all appearance, George Ellerby was a gentleman; and he was actually qualified to prove
such a claim. But tonight, he was to be a gentleman of crime.
One of his well-smoothed pockets held a small, stub-nosed automatic; the other, a flat
flashlight. The few picks and skeleton keys he needed were neatly fixed between the loose
lining and the top of his derby hat.
Anyone might carry a flashlight; even a gun—if he had a police permit, as George did. But
no gentleman would run the risk of being found with burglar's tools upon his person,
particularly in the exclusive section of Manhattan where George intended to roam tonight.
Strolling to the avenue, George stepped into a parked cab and gave the driver an address.
Observing his passenger, the cabby wasn't at all surprised. George looked as though he
belonged somewhere around Algrave Square, a restricted area populated only by
millionaires.
George was feeling in his vest pockets as the cab started. The police permit was in one; the
other held the folded slip of paper that was so important to this night's venture. Confidence
registered itself upon his handsome, youthful face. When he removed the cigarette holder, a
suave smile lifted his lips and raised his trim mustache with it.
The mustache helped his appearance. George had found that it made some people regard
him as important, as well as convivial.
The large tip that George handed the cab driver convinced the man that his fare was actually
a resident of Algrave Square, arriving home at midnight. The cabby didn't wait to see if
George went into the house where they had stopped. The young man had paused to light
another cigarette, and was taking his time about it.
Nor did the cop who patrolled that beat consider it surprising when he saw George stroll in
from the avenue. Residents of Algrave Square frequently left cabs at the avenue, rather than
have them rattle along the one-way street. Neighborly consideration actually existed among
the elite whose houses bordered the square.
Passing the front of a grim but pretentious house, George turned as if to cross the street. He
stopped long enough to take his cigarette from the holder and toss it away. That gave him a
chance to glance back along his route and observe that the patrolman was gone.
George had rehearsed that procedure on this very spot, earlier in the evening, while the cop
had been elsewhere. He had been particularly desirous to have the light just right: enough of
a glow from the nearest street lamp to show his Tuxedo attire but not his face.
There was blackness across the street; gloom that stirred as George noticed it. But those
darkened streaks along the opposite sidewalk were nothing but shadows, cast by the
wavering boughs of trees that were the pride of Algrave Square. Turning casually, George
stepped toward the gloom of the house that he had just passed, looked up to take a survey
of the windows.
Rupert Sandersham was away from home. George Ellerby knew that; otherwise, he would
not have come here tonight. Apparently, most of the family were absent also, or else asleep.
The only lights that George noticed on the second floor were those that probably came from
hallways.
The servant quarters on the third floor were darkened, which added the final touch.
TIPTOEING through a passage that led beside the house, George reached a side door in
the blackness. He had his hat off when he arrived there. Producing the picks and keys, he
replaced the derby on his head, not worrying about its angle. He didn't need the flashlight -
yet.
Either the door was over-difficult, or Ellerby's desire for darkness a handicap. Whichever the
case, it was more than ten minutes before he entered the house. He picked up the door key
from the inside mat, where it had fallen when he had pushed it from the keyhole with a pick.
He replaced the key where it belonged, but did not lock the door, as it was to be his
departing route.
Tools of entry replaced in the derby, the gentleman burglar sneaked through dim halls to a
rear stairway. Ascending, he moved forward along the second floor until he came to the
door he wanted. Huddling away from the hall light, George tested the knob. The door, to his
great satisfaction, was unlocked.
Entering the room, he closed the door behind him. That was when his flashlight came into
play. Its narrow beam pointed him to a fair-sized safe that occupied a niche in the wall
across the room. This was Sandersham's study, as its furnishings testified. Swinging the
flashlight, George saw a handy chair close by. He drew it close to the safe; tilted the
flashlight slightly upward, as he set it on the chair seat.
The light was not quite high enough to suit the gentleman cracksman. The derby hat made
up the difference, when George rested it on the chair and placed the flashlight on the
headpiece. Producing the folded slip of paper from his vest pocket, the young man opened
it and studied its symbols.
He had carefully worked out several combinations, any one of which might logically belong
to Sandersham's safe. With deft, steady fingers, George worked the dial. It was at the end of
his second test that the door yielded.
Coolly restraining his eagerness, the young man drew his handkerchief from his breast
pocket, polished all possible finger traces from the dial, and used the kerchief as a glove
when he drew the door open.
George Ellerby had been conscious of occasional flickers of light that waveringly found the
room. He had attributed them to cars, swinging through Algrave Square; cars with
passengers less considerate than himself, when it came to disturbing the sleeping wealthy.
But he wasn't sure that he had heard a car with the last fleeting drift of light.
Turning off his flashlight, George glanced over his shoulder, at the same time listening
intently. The room was as silent as it was dark. Satisfied, he again turned on the flashlight;
his lips gave a subdued chuckle when he saw the contents of the safe.
There, as he expected, was a tall bundle of currency. Cash, to the extent of a few thousand
dollars, that Rupert Sandersham had left for his secretary, Atlee, to pay household bills and
disburse among the various servants. Like all of Sandersham's business employees, Atlee
was bonded; therefore, he had been trusted with the combination of this safe.
In fact—as George Ellerby happened to know—Rupert Sandersham did not regard the
contents of this safe as important enough to attract burglars. There was no value to the
personal papers that the millionaire kept here; and money up to five thousand dollars was
merely petty cash, in Sandersham's estimation.
To George, however, the boodle that lay in sight was quite a satisfactory return for this
evening's effort. As he discarded the handkerchief, he reached for the cash. His fingers
gripped the pile of money and froze there.
A jarring sound had struck the cracksman's ears; a weird whisper that was certainly real, yet
incredible in its manifestation. It issued from the interior of the safe itself; yet the space into
which George Ellerby had thrust his head and shoulders was not large enough to contain a
full-sized human being!
It came again, a whispered laugh laden with sinister mockery. The very walls of the safe
seemed to voice that mirth.
SWAYING in sudden terror, George gripped the side of the safe. Shivers chilled his body. A
frantic gasp escaped his strained lips; his numbed hand couldn't find the pocket that
contained his gun.
He was ready to shriek for aid, to surrender himself gladly to the first of Sandersham's
servants who arrived, when, like a clamp of doom, a strong hand fell upon his shoulder. It did
not come from the safe, that hand. It came from behind George's shivering back; and,
simultaneously, another hand pulled the cord of a floor lamp near the chair.
Brought to his feet by a clasp that held him like an iron claw, George Ellerby was whipped
full about. He couldn't voice the shriek that he had intended; his only articulation was the
chatter of his teeth.
The voice from the safe was explained. The whispered mockery had been delivered by
George's captor, for the balked crook heard the tone again, this time from hidden lips.
Trained past George's shoulder, the laugh had stirred the confines of the safe, the walls
magnifying the taunt in the fashion of a sounding box.
George Ellerby was facing the being who had laughed. In the modified glow of the shaded
lamplight, he saw a figure cloaked in black; solid, yet spectral, because of its remarkable
arrival. Solid, too, was the automatic that a black-gloved hand had drawn—a big .45 that
could have swallowed the puny weapon in George's pocket.
Above the looming gun were eyes that burned, as they reflected the lamp's glow. Those
eyes, alone, were visible features; the rest were obscured by another portion of the cloaked
person's attire—a slouch hat—black, like the cloak—with broad brim down-turned at the
front.
George Ellerby, engaged in crime de luxe, had been "rapped" by the mysterious avenger
who was feared by all crookdom, from bigshots who posed as men of repute, to the skulking
hordes of the underworld.
There was no mistaking the identity of George's captor.
He was The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW'S TERMS
CROOKS displayed varying modes of behavior, when confronted by The Shadow under a
situation such as this. Though all showed fear, some went sullen, others whined for mercy,
while the most desperate of their ilk turned berserk and offered maddened fight.
George Ellerby was terrified; but that was all. From the man's whole look, The Shadow
recognized that this was George's first attempt at crime. The facts that he carried a gun
along with his flashlight, that he had used picks and skeleton keys to force an entry below,
were evidence of calculated preparation for this initial venture, not of previous experience at
housebreaking.
The Shadow had forbidden this young man to continue with his crime; had drawn him from
the brink of a committed robbery.
Shame was the expression that clouded George's face, as his terror abated. All his forced
bravado was gone. He neither asked for mercy, nor expected it. He knew that he had gone
beyond the limit of right behavior, and would deserve whatever The Shadow decreed. His
whole game was known, for George was hearing it detailed.
In steady, sibilant tones, The Shadow reviewed the steps by which George Ellerby had
reached his present status. He told how George had visited Rupert Sandersham; had
guessed the combination of the safe through carelessness on the part of Atlee, the
secretary. He described George's earlier trip here, when the young man had studied the
house from the outside.
To George, all that was as totally amazing as if his own conscience had spoken aloud. It
seemed that The Shadow must be possessed of a clairvoyant gift that enabled him not only
to see hidden scenes, but to probe the workings of another man's brain. It didn't occur to
George that The Shadow, in some other guise, might once have visited Sandersham and
noted Atlee open the safe.
Nor did George recognize that if The Shadow had observed him, perhaps by chance, earlier
this evening, the rest of the story could have been pieced by sheer deduction. George's one
impression was that he had encountered a being of vastly superior intelligence, whose ways
were as near all-powerful as any human's could be.
There was only one thing that The Shadow omitted; that was mention of the primary motive
that had inspired George Ellerby to adopt the role of gentleman crook. In justice to himself,
George felt that the fact should be included in the indictment.
"I came here to steal," he admitted, "but only to get back a portion of what belongs to me."
"Not to you," reminded The Shadow, "but to your father."
"Granted," returned George. The Shadow's words had encouraged him. "But I didn't want
the money for myself. I want it for others in my family, who would have received money after
my father's death, if all he owned had not been stolen."
"Not 'stolen'," corrected The Shadow. "Your father's wealth was legally acquired by Rupert
Sandersham."
George's teeth had lost their chatter. They were tightening on his lips. What The Shadow
said, was true. Sandersham, man of millions, drove rivals into bankruptcy through sheer
power of wealth. There was no way—so far as George Ellerby knew—to end the
money-mad tactics of Rupert Sandersham, whose greatest joy, it seemed, was the ruthless
game of bringing ruin to other people's fortunes.
"Your deed tonight," pronounced The Shadow, "is one of intended theft. If completed, it will
mark you a criminal. My task is twofold: to thwart those who engage in crime; to see that
justice is gained by those who have been wronged. You are using crime as a means to
obtain justice. In this case, I render no decision. The choice is yours."
THE gun muzzle lowered. The Shadow reached out and extinguished the lamp. From the
small area illuminated by his own flashlight, George Ellerby stared at blackness. He fancied
that he heard the swish of a cloak in the darkness, but was not sure. He was certain, though,
that the door of the room opened, then closed again, allowing a tiny trickle of light from the
hallway.
Had his experience been real, or was it some fantasy of his strained imagination?
Whichever the case, George's decision was made the moment that the door had closed.
The Shadow's words had driven home the bitter truth: that a man who employed crime as a
medium of justice was staining his hands as much as any crook.
When George turned toward the open safe again, the money that he saw there attracted him
no more than worthless bundles of paper.
Deliberately, George closed the heavy door. He twirled the combination; then, almost
mechanically, he wiped the safe front and the dial with his handkerchief. He intended to
leave no trace of the fact that he had been here.
Pocketing the flashlight, George picked up his derby and started to grope toward the closed
door.
The fact that the door began to open, did not immediately disturb him. He rather expected
that The Shadow would look in on him again, to learn what choice he had made. But it
wasn't The Shadow who had opened the door again. George learned that to his utter
dismay, when he heard a light switch click and found himself suddenly exposed to a glare
that came from ceiling sockets.
Standing on the threshold was a girl whose identity leaped instantly to George's brain. He
knew that Sandersham had a daughter, Barbara, whose life of luxury had, for the most part,
been spent abroad.
Protected by the Sandersham millions, Bab—as her few intimates called her—had shown
constant disdain for newspaper photographers. As a result, she had remained somewhat of
a mystery and a very beautiful one, so George had heard.
He was viewing the proof, at present. Barbara Sandersham was wearing a garment that she
probably termed a dressing gown. But the high collar, long sleeves, and sweeping skirt gave
the fur-bordered creation the appearance of a coronation robe. It suited Barbara's poise
and beauty, for she was queenly in her air.
The uptilt of her face caused the light to reflect from blue eyes that were lovely in hue, but
cold in their gaze. Her nose was shapely; beneath it, delicate lips formed an expression of
disdain. Her chin showed a firmness as she lifted it, and never had George seen such a
display of haughtiness.
To Barbara Sandersham, the sight of an intruder on these premises caused her to regard
that person with contempt.
George realized that his own well-groomed appearance meant nothing, under the present
circumstances.
Men could probably adore this girl and be entirely ignored. Others, irked by Barbara's
haughtiness, might overlook her beauty and actually hate her; such persons would also gain
her disregard. But with that blending of loveliness and pride, Barbara had one quality that
George could recognize. It was courage.
In her hand, the girl was holding a toylike automatic, tinier than the one in George's pocket.
Her finger was steady on the trigger, and it was plain that she would not hesitate to use the
gun, should occasion require.
"STAND where you are!" Barbara's tone had a contralto touch, probably lower than her
natural voice. "I shall tolerate no effort to escape!"
The girl stepped farther into the light. George saw that her hair, which he had taken for a light
brown, had a distinct auburn shade. Then he was thinking of his own predicament, for he
saw that Barbara was moving toward the desk, where, by the mere pressure of a button, she
could summon a squad of servants.
"I should like to explain something," began George, in a polite tone. "If you knew why I came
here -"
"The reason is evident," snapped Barbara. "You are a burglar, and I shall treat you
accordingly."
"But I have stolen nothing!"
"The police will decide that, after they search you."
The derby, held in George's left hand, became very heavy. Yes, the police would search him
properly. His permit would account for his gun, but when they found the picks and keys, he
would not be able to claim that he had strolled in here to pay a social call.
Barbara pressed the button. George heard sounds from the floor above, then footsteps on
the stairs. Added lights were flashing on along the hallways. From the desk, Barbara called:
"There is a burglar in here! Come at once!"
There was no excitement in the girl's tone. Its pitch had been raised, but only so the call
would carry. Bitterly, George saw the irony of his situation. He wondered what The Shadow
would think of it. It was The Shadow who had talked him out of turning crook; but George had
only put himself into a plight where even The Shadow could not aid him.
So George Ellerby thought, only to learn that he was wrong.
At the very moment when the first of the servants arrived outside the door of the study, every
light in the house went black! In the midst of sudden shouts, that included an angered cry
from Barbara, George understood. The Shadow must have learned of George's dilemma.
Reaching the cellar, The Shadow had pulled the main switch.
There was nothing slow-witted about George—as The Shadow had recognized. George
made the first move, a dive to the floor, which he followed with a crawling scramble toward
the study door. Barbara's gun began to spurt, but the girl was shooting at the spot where
George had been and she was at least three seconds behind time.
Bounding through the doorway, George yanked out his flashlight and used it to find the rear
stairs. Shouting servants drove for him; reaching the steps ahead of them, he hurried
downward. But some of the servants had flashlights, too. They took the front stairway and cut
in upon his path.
George saw a revolver glimmer in the light; heard a servant shout for him to halt. Then the
fellow was sprawling, tripped by an invisible hand. The next servant, one who also had a
flashlight, was suddenly smothered by a blackened shape that sent him spinning, as his
flashlight rattled along the floor.
Bolting for the side door, George heard the pound of footsteps from the rear stairs; then
startled cries, accompanied by the thump of bodies. The Shadow was sprawling those
pursuers in the same effective fashion.
George reached the sidewalk; halted, wondering which way to go, until there was a swish
beside him. Turning, he saw The Shadow pointing him along the street.
Though he didn't know where he was heading, George took that direction, muttering thanks
as he went. Past the next street lamp, he stumbled squarely into the open door of a waiting
cab. The driver had the door shut and was speeding away, almost before George realized
that he was actually in a taxi. Half bewildered, the young man reached to the floor and
picked up his precious derby hat.
From the street behind him, George Ellerby thought that he heard a strange peal of parting
laughter, wishing him a safe return to the walks of ordinary life.
Perhaps the mirth was actually George's imagination; for the Sandersham servants didn't
hear it, when they pounded out to the street. They stood there, half a dozen of them, puzzled,
wondering where the fugitive burglar had gone.
They did not glimpse the cab as it rounded the next corner, nor did Barbara Sandersham,
as she gazed from the front window of the second floor, where she had hurried. But the girl
did observe something which, though momentary, caused amazement to replace her
haughty expression.
Across the street, Barbara saw the outline of a tall, cloaked shape; that of a being who could
not possibly have been the man that she had trapped. Yet Barbara wondered if the sight
were real; for as she stared, the figure vanished against the blackness beneath the trees of
the parklike square.
The girl had witnessed the departure of The Shadow.
CHAPTER III. MASTER OF MILLIONS
BARBARA SANDERSHAM never thought of herself as snobbish. In fact, Barbara felt that
she was democratic. The condescending air that she adopted toward such persons as
Atlee, her father's secretary, and Pelwin, the chief chauffeur, and other servants, was her
idea of something very nice. She didn't realize that it was very much like the way that she
had fed bread crumbs to the sparrows, when a child.
Although she did not realize it, Barbara was quite unfortunate. She was stiffened constantly
by a reserve that she had adopted in childhood; and the fact that she liked to drop that
attitude was truly proof that it did not belong to her real nature.
At present, however, there was but one person in whose presence she could act naturally.
That person was her father.
When Rupert Sandersham arrived at his town home in the afternoon of the next day, he
found a very eager young lady waiting to see him. Joining her father in his study, Barbara
began an eager account of the episode of the night before, a story which her father heard
with a pleased smile throughout. Sandersham was proud of his daughter; he was glad that
she had shown her nerve.
From behind his desk, Sandersham appeared to be a very genial person. He was a trifle
portly; his full face had a smile that descended to his double chin. His eyes could be friendly
when he wanted them to be; for they were clear eyes, like Barbara's. His gray hair, too, gave
him a fatherly look that the girl appreciated.
"So you talked to the police," said Sandersham. "How did you like them?"
"They were a bit forward," admitted Barbara. "That is, at first. But after I had talked a while,
they seemed to recognize their proper place."
"Good! But just how"—Sandersham's eyes held a twinkle—"did you regard them as
forward?"
"Because of their questions. They wanted me to tell them what the burglar looked like."
"So you did?"
Barbara shook her head.
"I couldn't very well. I said he looked like a gentleman, but that I knew he wasn't a gentleman
or he would not have been a burglar. I could not say that he was handsome, for that would
have been an expression of opinion; not a description."
"In other words," smiled Sandersham, "you didn't describe him."
Barbara thought a moment; then admitted: "No. Not very well."
Sandersham leaned his elbow on the desk, stroked the wrinkles of his chin. In his deep
voice, he asked:
"Tell me; did this chap have a mustache?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Barbara. "How stupid of me! I should have mentioned it."
"I am glad you did not. I know the fellow. He must have been young George Ellerby."
BARBARA was rather amazed by the statement. Gradually, she formed the conclusion that
George could not have been a burglar after all. Her father certainly did not have burglars as
friends. From that opinion, she decided that George must have spoken the truth when he
said that he had stolen nothing. Yet Barbara was keen enough to check up that very point, by
questioning:
"Tell me, father, did the man take anything?"
"No," replied Sandersham. "If he had, it would only have been pin money. I suppose, though,
that he would be satisfied with that, the way he stands at present."
"You mean that he was once wealthy?"
"His father was. But young Ellerby is broke and blames me for it. Just because I put his
father out of business."
"You did?"
There was a bit of horror in Barbara's tone. To her, business was a privilege that belong to
all men of her father's age; a stimulus, it seemed, that kept them alive much longer than
anything else.
"Old Ellerby put himself out of business," gruffed Sandersham. "He belonged with the
dinosaur and a lot of those other prehistoric monsters. He called himself a financier, and that
was about the only funny thing he ever said in his life.
"All he did was fatten up on railroads and things like that. When the grass grew up between
the tracks, he didn't even have sense enough to mow it. He was loaded with stocks that
weren't worth a quarter of what he paid for them. He was a push-over!"
Barbara laughed when her father chuckled. Rupert Sandersham often mentioned
"push-overs" when he talked about business. No wonder business kept men alive; it was
probably a lot of fun, walking around in offices and knocking over human things that served
as push-overs. Still, Barbara was sorry that George's father had turned out to be a
push-over, instead of a business man.
"Young Ellerby asked me for a job," said Sandersham. "I didn't have one for him. As I said
before, he blamed me because he is broke, so he probably came here hoping to steal a few
thousand dollars. He didn't get away with it, so we can forget the matter. That is, unless
Krengle wants to push it."
By Krengle, Sandersham meant his principal attorney, James Krengle, who often came to
the house. Barbara did not care for Krengle, but tolerated him because he was important to
her father's business.
She wanted to ask more questions, however, regarding George, but the talk was interrupted
by the entrance of her father's secretary, Atlee.
Immediately, Rupert Sandersham became a wild bull. He began roaring orders that had the
puny, pale-faced secretary dashing all about the room. So Barbara calmly promenaded
from the room.
The last thing she heard was her father ordering Atlee to call Pelwin and have the chauffeur
bring the new limousine. Though it was well along in the afternoon, Sandersham still had
time to get over to the office.
TEN minutes later, a sleek limousine pulled up in front of the Sandersham mansion. With
Atlee following him, toting a huge brief case, Rupert Sandersham stepped into the car, while
the dapper chauffeur tipped his hat and bowed.
Sandersham never rode with any chauffeur except Pelwin, which proved wise when the car
reached the corner, for only an expert could have swung a car of that immense wheel base
out from the narrow one-way street.
A taxi slashed across the limousine's path, just as the big car reached the avenue. Pelwin
jammed the brakes momentarily.
The cab whipped by the limousine, and its driver shouted something that Pelwin stiffly
ignored. Sandersham, meanwhile, sat with his folded chin resting in his hand, his lips
wearing a smile quite different from the one that he had shown to Barbara. When Rupert
Sandersham wore his present smile, it meant business; sometimes with a vengeance.
Seldom did Sandersham notice anything which happened outside of the limousine, but he
was to do so this afternoon; partly because the car became involved. As they swung another
corner, Pelwin rammed the brakes so hard that Sandersham was jolted five inches forward,
as the car stopped. The financier delivered an indignant bellow.
"Sorry, sir," spoke the chauffeur. "I was afraid I'd hit that man who stumbled in front of us."
"What one?" demanded Sandersham.
"The beggar from the corner." Pelwin was opening the door, as he spoke. "I guess Atlee
can testify that the man fell before I stopped. I didn't strike him."
Atlee nodded vehemently. He hadn't seen the man stumble, but he would testify to it, if
needed. In fact, Atlee hadn't seen the man at all, until Pelwin helped him up and started to
bring him around the car.
Sandersham nudged the secretary.
"Tell the fellow we're insured," said the millionaire. "Attend to the details, Atlee. I can't be
annoyed with such trifles."
"There he is, sir."
摘要：

BATTLEOFGREEDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.FORBIDDENCRIME?CHAPTERII.THESHADOW'STERMS?CHAPTERIII.MASTEROFMILLIONS?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWSPEAKS?CHAPTERV.CROSSEDSTRATEGY?CHAPTERVI.ONERATDESERTS?CHAPTERVII.MENNOTFORGOTTEN?CHAPTERVIII.TWOGIRLSMEET?CHAPTE...

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