Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 170 - The Vindicator

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THE VINDICATOR

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. PRICE OF SILENCE

? CHAPTER II. CRIME'S PENALTY

? CHAPTER III. THE VANISHED MURDERER

? CHAPTER IV. GATHERED EVIDENCE

? CHAPTER V. CROSSED PATHS

? CHAPTER VI. THE RUBBER KING

? CHAPTER VII. CRIME DELAYED

? CHAPTER VIII. VREEKILL CASTLE

? CHAPTER IX. THE QUEST THAT FAILED

? CHAPTER X. WALLS OF DOOM

? CHAPTER XI. TRIGGER SEES THE SHADOW

? CHAPTER XII. PATHS IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER XIII. DUEL OF DARKNESS

? CHAPTER XIV. CRIMELESS MYSTERY

? CHAPTER XV. AGAIN THE VINDICATOR

? CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST SHAKEDOWN

? CHAPTER XVII. DEATH LEAVES A TRAIL

? CHAPTER XVIII. SHIFTED EVIDENCE

? CHAPTER XIX. BACK FROM DEATH

? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S TRUE TALE

CHAPTER I. PRICE OF SILENCE

THE man in the limousine was nervous, fearful, as the big car swung into the narrow tree-fringed lane.

His hands tightened on the metal box that rested in his lap; his eyes had a twitch as they peered through

the car window.

In the front seat, the chauffeur calmly turned the car into a driveway between high box hedges. The

passenger gave a last look along the lane, then settled back with a comfortable sigh. He was home at last;

after a drive fraught with imaginary terror.

Ahead glowed the lights of the big mansion; the car was rolling to a stop on a side drive, quite close to a

large veranda. There were lights on the porch, and people too. The strains of dance music wafted from

the open windows of the house. All that brought new confidence.

Alighting from the car, the passenger was no longer shaky. He told the chauffeur to take the limousine to

the garage. Then, with the metal box tucked beneath his arm, the man produced a key and unlocked his

own side door.

He was smiling at his own fears. Odd that he, Thomas Grennel, man of finance, whose wealth exceeded

a million dollars, should be worried by a short ride in the dark, from the station to his home.

True, this section of Westchester County was isolated; the roads the sort where enemies might lie in

ambush. True, too, that the box which Grennel carried contained much that would attract men of crime.

But no one, except Grennel and one other man, was acquainted with the contents of that box; and that

other man, even though Grennel mistrusted him, was not the sort who would resort to highway robbery;

at least, not upon this occasion.

Inside the mansion, none was aware that Thomas Grennel was at that moment unlocking his own side

door, hoping to steal into the house unnoticed. Most of the guests, some fifty or more, were dancing,

except for the small group that Grennel had seen on the veranda.

There were two, however, who stood near the rear door of the large ballroom chatting as they watched

the dancers. One was Grennel's daughter, Dorothy; the other, a guest, Ross Bland.

THOUGH vivacious, Dorothy Grennel was not attractive. She was overly tall and awkward. Her evening

gown, though as tasteful as it was expensive, was too fluffy for her type. It made her arms and neck look

skinny, rather than slender; and it would have suited a demure girl, rather than Dorothy, whose long,

haughty face looked its best when she wore a mannish riding habit.

Never a good dancer, Dorothy preferred to watch the others perform the Lambeth Walk. She knew that

her feminine guests were envying her. For Dorothy, by her charm alone, she thought, was keeping Ross

Bland from the dance floor.

Bland was tall, handsome, his curly hair and well-pointed mustache matching in a light-brown hue. His

well-tailored evening clothes added to his natural poise. Dorothy could count nearly two dozen girls who

would have preferred Bland to their present dance partners.

There was one exception, and that was why Dorothy mentioned her.

"Cute, isn't she?" questioned Dorothy. "The little blonde in green, the one at whom you are staring,

Ross."

Bland smiled, offered Dorothy a cigarette. He had been thinking that the little blonde was more than

graceful. Her sparkling blue eyes and saucy smiling lips were the sort that he would like to meet at closer

range. But he did not mention that to his present companion.

"I was looking at her partner," he parried. "An odd-looking chap, with his wide, dark eyes and long,

serious face. Reminds me of a polo pony I used to own. I've been expecting him to whinny, any

moment."

"You'd better not let Margaret Brye hear that," laughed Dorothy. "She's in love with the fellow. His name

is Larry Chandler, and personally, I think he is rather handsome."

"So was my polo pony," chuckled Bland. Then, as he flicked his cigarette lighter: "Is the girl any relation

to Dana Brye, the old chap who designs all those elaborate time locks and other contraptions?"

"He is her father," replied Dorothy, "and Larry Chandler is secretary to Roger Marquin, who controls all

those rubber plantations in South America. You've heard of him, of course?"

Bland's eyebrows lifted. Everyone had heard of Roger Marquin, since his return from South America a

few years ago. Marquin's connections were of an international sort; no one knew just how heavily he

profited from rises in the price of rubber, but his wealth was estimated at a million dollars.

Then, his gaze turned toward the hall. Bland forgot the persons mentioned, at sight of someone else. It

was Thomas Grennel, coming in from the side door. He had locked that door behind him and was

making quick steps toward his study, on the other side of the hall.

PUFFING his cigarette, Bland was heedless of Dorothy's further conversation. He had observed the box

that Grennel carried and it roused his curiosity. He was anxious to talk with Grennel.

Bland's first problem was to get away from Dorothy; and that was suddenly settled for him. A servant

approached, to say that she was wanted on the telephone. Bland waited until she had passed a corner of

the hall, then began to stroll toward Grennel's study.

As he went, a pause in the dance music enabled him to catch Dorothy's words:

"Mr. Cranston?... You're coming out here? Marvelous!... Father? Why, he was to be at the office

tonight... No; wait! One of the servants is telling me that he just arrived... Yes, his chauffeur just brought

him from the station..."

The music had begun again, but Bland's knock on the study door was audible within, for a voice called to

enter. As he stepped in, closing the door behind him, Bland was startled to see Grennel half risen from his

chair, hands clamped to the metal box that lay upon the desk.

Then, seeing it was Bland, the financier sank back, ran his fingers weakly through his thin gray hair.

Grennel had the high cheeks, the large, aristocratic nose that his daughter had inherited. Usually, his

expression was one of importance; tonight, worry made him look shriveled. He pointed Bland to a chair,

then spoke in a hoarse whisper:

"I'm glad to see you, Ross, but I don't know whether you should have come here. I thought" - Grennel

hesitated - "I thought it was someone else who knocked."

Bland gave an apologetic shrug.

"We've been going to discuss that mining deal," he said. "The option won't hold much longer, Mr.

Grennel. I still think I can swing you a controlling interest in the silver mine for twenty thousand dollars.

But it may not wait."

"It will have to wait!"

Grennel opened the box, began to take out stacks of currency, one hundred thousand dollars in all.

Bland's eyes opened wide; he was wondering why a twenty-thousand-dollar proposition had to be

postponed, when Grennel was exhibiting five times that amount in actual cash.

"I am taking you into my confidence!" Grennel's tone again was hoarse. "You must promise, Ross, that

you will breathe no word of what I am about to tell you!"

Ross nodded his promise. Grennel brought a letter from his desk, passed it across to Bland, groaning:

"Read it."

The letter was typewritten, in italics, evidently done on a special machine.

Mr. Thomas Grennel:

Seven years ago, you were involved in the failure of the

People's Trust Co. You never sent the notes to cover the loans

granted to you privately by your friend Clayton Witherby, although

you intended to do so.

Perhaps you would be willing to pay $100,000 for the sealed

envelope which contains those undelivered notes, the sum to be

disbursed among depositors who lost through the bank failure. If

not, they will be made public.

The Vindicator

Other letters were phrased more strongly. They teemed with actual demands for Grennel's payment to

the writer who called himself the Vindicator. The final one specified that the hundred thousand dollars

was to be paid in cash, setting this night - Bland checked it by the date on Grennel's desk calendar - as

the time limit.

"Witherby was president of the People's Trust," spoke Grennel, hopelessly. "I actually sent him the notes,

for a paltry fifteen thousand dollars, in the sealed envelope mentioned. I dated them ahead, so I would

have a chance to pay; for I, myself, was in a predicament at the time.

"Poor Witherby! His plight was worse than I thought. He burned all his personal papers and committed

suicide. I thought that my envelope had gone with the rest; but evidently I was wrong. Foolishly, I let the

matter go until now -"

"WHAT about the Vindicator?" questioned Bland. "Do you think that he intends to reimburse persons

who lost money in the bank crash?"

"He does not!" Grennel forgot his hoarse whisper, in his indignation. "This is blackmail, Ross! Sheer

blackmail! The man himself has been bold enough to call me over the telephone and admit it, at the same

time reminding me that I must pay. I can tell you much about this crook who calls himself the Vindicator,

and his sham hypocrisy, because I know who he is -"

Grennel interrupted himself. The sharp gleam of his eyes showed that he was not yet willing to take

anyone into his entire confidence. He admitted the fact a few moments later.

"This money," declared Grennel, tapping the bills that he had replaced in the metal box, "is marked. I

have sent the list, with the numbers of the bills and their markings, to the New York police. Once I have

reclaimed my envelope, I shall do more than seek the Vindicator. I shall expose him and the game that he

has worked on others before me!"

Gathering the letters, Grennel replaced them in the desk drawer. There was a safe near one corner;

picking up the money box, Grennel stepped spryly in that direction. He turned the dials, swung the safe

door half open.

"I want you to be here," he told Bland, in a whisper, "in case the man himself arrives. Your description of

him may be valuable when I denounce him. But you must remain concealed, no matter who arrives.

Remember: the final letter stated that if any witnesses were present, I would suffer -"

Words dying on his lips, Grennel fairly shoved Bland into a niche between the safe and the wall, then

swung the metal door fully open to cover the hiding place. There was reason for Grennel's hurry.

A knock had sounded at the study door; a sharp, imperative rap that carried an expected summons.

The time had come for Thomas Grennel to pay his tribute to the Vindicator!

CHAPTER II. CRIME'S PENALTY

THROUGH a narrow, but ample, space at the edge of the safe door, Ross Bland saw the visitor who

entered Grennel's study. It took the crouched witness only a few seconds to decide that the arrival could

not be the Vindicator in person.

The fellow was rangy, but slightly stooped of build. His face, somewhat sharp of feature, could have been

presentable had he so chosen; but inclination, plus habit, had produced an opposite result. The man wore

a leer that seemed fixed to his ugly-cornered lips; the glint of his eyes was wolfish.

He was dressed in an ill-fitting waiter's uniform, and it was plain that the man had never had training as a

servant. Added up, the fellow was a thug.

"Hello, Grennel!" gruffed the rangy visitor. "Let's get acquainted. My name's Kobin - Trigger Kobin, they

call me, and it's a moniker that's got sense. If you ain't convinced, start something!"

Trigger patted his hip pocket. Bland could see the outline of a heavy gun.

Either Grennel had steeled himself for this test, or felt that he could depend upon Bland. At any rate, the

financier's accustomed dignity had returned. He acted as though unimpressed by Trigger Kobin. The

thug, in turn, widened his smirk.

"We're in the same boat, Grennel," he informed. "I don't know nothing more than you do. The big-shot

wants the dough and sent me to get it. I never met him: I've only heard him talk over the telephone,

funnylike, the same as you have.

"He's got plenty on me, like he has on you. I gotta deliver, that's all. I planted myself out here along with

the extra waiters that you hired for tonight, and I brought some other guys along. We don't want trouble,

no more than you do. So let's get it over with."

Bland could see Trigger's crafty eyes rove the room. The blinds were drawn at the windows; against

them, Trigger could see the dark lines of steel bars that protected the room against burglary. Trigger's

glance seemed to consider the bars unnecessary, for he had given the safe a careful scrutiny and had

admired it.

Good reason for that. The safe, like many of the latest and best design, had been installed by the expert,

Dana Brye, whose daughter was a guest at Dorothy Grennel's party.

"I have the money here," declared Grennel, suddenly. "As you state, trouble would be bad for both of us.

But I must see the envelope and be sure that it is intact."

Obligingly, Trigger produced the envelope and laid it on the desk, letting his hand go to his hip as soon as

Grennel raised the envelope to the light. To Bland, the envelope looked intact; moreover, it was stamped

with a wax seal that Grennel apparently recognized. With a nod, the financier turned toward the safe.

"Leave the envelope here," gruffed Trigger.

Grennel obeyed. He went to the safe brought the metal box to the desk, and let Trigger count the

money.

"I must open the envelope," warned Grennel, "before you go. That was the understanding -"

"Sure thing!" interrupted Trigger "Why the squawk?"

"Because the arrangements were changed tonight. This transfer was supposed to have taken place in my

office until the Vindicator" - Grennel pronounced the name contemptuously - "called up and made new

arrangements."

TRIGGER came to his feet, snarled:

"The big-shot said to mention that. Listen, Grennel; if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your

trap buttoned tight! Lay off the wise stuff - and I'll tell you why. The big-shot got leery that something

was phony down at your office. That's why he chased you out here.

"He knows you've been squawking to the coppers. Sometimes stool pigeons work two ways. Get it?

There's a police inspector that thinks he's hot stuff - a guy name Joe Cardona - and you've been talking

to him. Whatever you've spilled so far, don't matter. It ain't been too much. But all the big-shot says is:

one more squawk -"

Trigger finished the sentence graphically. He brought his hand from his hip, made a motion as if slicing his

throat, then gestured his thumb at Grennel.

Rigid, the financier made no reply. Bland thought for a moment that the threat had put Grennel on the

verge of a collapse. It was Trigger who revived him, with the sharp reminder:

"Well, there's your envelope. Open it, and find out if the goods ain't the real stuff!"

With hands that could scarcely pluck the paper, Grennel finally managed to tear open the envelope. He

was feverish as he brought out slips of paper, studying them in the light. Then, with an eager bound, he

crossed the room to a huge fireplace, where a small fire was burning, even though the night was warm.

With a pleased gulp, Grennel flung the reclaimed notes into the embers, watched the papers flare up and

turn to ashes, carrying his incriminating signatures with them.

Trigger, leaning against the desk, watched the scene with relish. Then, remembering that he had closed

the bargain, he grabbed the metal box, made for the door and sidled out into the hallway.

The closing of the door awoke Grennel to sudden activity. Forgetful of Bland behind the safe, the

gray-haired man bounded to the door, made certain that Trigger had gone toward the kitchen on the

other side of the house.

Satisfied that the emissary was on his way, Grennel pounced back to the desk. He snatched the hand

telephone from its cradle and called for a connection with New York City police headquarters.

Grennel's eagerness caused Bland to remain where he was. Thoroughly intrigued by the recent scene, the

young man had no desire to interrupt it. It would be best, he thought, to let Grennel finish his call

undisturbed. After that, they could talk over the whole affair.

In a moment, Grennel's voice rose excitedly over the distant dance music. He was talking to the very man

he wanted: Inspector Joe Cardona.

"I'm at home," announced Grennel. "I had to come here... A call from the Vindicator... Yes, the

Vindicator; that's what the blackmailer calls himself. I have his letters here to prove it...

"Yes, I delivered the marked money... No, not to the crook himself. He sent a man for it. A rogue called

Trigger Kobin... You've heard of him? Good!... Yes, I received what I expected... No, I don't care to

mention that part of it. You understand, of course..."

THERE was a pause. Evidently Cardona was asking questions. Bland could see perplexity show on

Grennel's face. He repeated a name that Cardona must have put.

"The Shadow?" asked Grennel. "No, there was no call from such a person... A friend, you say? I

expected a friend to drop in at the office. A man named Lamont Cranston... No, he isn't here. I left

before he arrived. But I have a witness present... His name? Ross Bland..."

Grennel had said something previously about knowing who the Vindicator was. Bland wondered why he

didn't get to the point. Grennel did come to it, after Cardona had finished a few more questions. His lips

moving eagerly, the financier finally found his chance to speak.

"I can tell you more, inspector!" he exclaimed. "I know who the Vindicator is... Yes; positively! He gave

himself away by something he said when he phoned my office. I was afraid to call you then..."

There was a click, that Bland took for an interrupted connection on the telephone. He hoped that

Cardona had not been cut off. But Grennel was talking again, and the police inspector was evidently

listening, although the click was repeated in the midst of Grennel's speech.

"He gave himself away," repeated Grennel, with a chuckle. "There's only one man that he could possibly

be. He calls himself the Vindicator, but I recognized his voice. The Vindicator is -"

Grennel stopped himself. He was staring toward a window. He had forgotten that a listener was on the

wire, waiting for the all-important name that Grennel was about to utter. He was riveted only by what he

saw.

It was something that explained the clicks heard by Bland. Those sounds had been the raising of a

window that the hidden witness could not see. Though barred, the window had an ordinary sash inside

the metal cross-braces. The sash had raised two inches and was about even with the down-pulled

shade.

Sharp, emphatic, flashing a tongue of reflected flame, a revolver shot spurted through the scant-raised

window. Coolly delivered, the bullet knifed straight to the victim's heart.

Ross Bland, sole witness to the tragedy, saw the telephone leave Grennel's hand, strike the desk and

slide to the floor, carrying the stand with it. But the fall of the instrument was drowned by a louder thud;

that of Grennel's body.

Collapsing like a dummy figure, the gray-haired man struck the floor like a thing of waxwork. The name

that Grennel had been about to utter was locked within his closed lips by the very man whose identity

was at stake.

For the thrust through the window, delivered from the direction opposite the route that Trigger Kobin had

taken, could only have been given by a lurker previously in wait.

Death had become the final price. Death delivered by the master criminal who called himself the

Vindicator!

CHAPTER III. THE VANISHED MURDERER

THE shot that killed Thomas Grennel was timely, from the standpoint of the man that fired it. But the

murderer had overlooked two factors that definitely concerned him.

First, the night was warm; hence there were persons on the side veranda. Second, with a loud blare of

sound, the orchestra finished the piece it was playing. An emphatic silence had resulted; and that sudden

stillness was ruined by the gun's report, so startling that it cleaved the night air with its echoes.

Instantly, there were shouts from the veranda. Like the gunshot, they were heard by the lone passenger in

a big car that was rolling in along the front driveway. Through the blackness, that arriving guest had also

seen the spurt of flame outside Grennel's study window.

As men in evening clothes piled from the veranda, to spread across the lawn, the passenger in the arriving

car spoke calmly to his chauffeur:

"Drive past the front door, Stanley. Stop beyond the house."

In the dozen seconds that Stanley required to complete the order, the passenger in the back seat

underwent a remarkable transformation. As Lamont Cranston, a newly arriving guest, he had been a

figure in evening clothes, when he saw the gun spurt from across the angle of the long lawn. But while

men were springing from the veranda, Cranston had begun to lose that identity.

His hands were drawing a black cloak over his shoulders; as his arms flung themselves into the sleeves,

he twisted to scoop a black slouch hat from the seat beside him. As one hand clamped the hat on his

head, his other hand went for the handle of the door.

The moment that the car stopped, a figure slid out into the darkness of the driveway - a shape that went

so swiftly, so silently, that Stanley still thought Cranston was in the car and sat back patiently to await

further orders.

Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow.

A variety of matters were explained by his quick change. Cardona's question over the telephone

regarding The Shadow, was prompted by the police inspector's hunch that such a crime hunter would

certainly be seeking the trail of so cunning a criminal as the Vindicator.

Grennel's answer, that he had expected his friend Cranston, showed that Cardona's hunch was right,

even though the inspector did not know it. Finding Grennel gone from the office, The Shadow had called

his home. Learning of Grennel's return, he had headed directly there.

SPREADING out from the veranda, the excited guests were naturally forming a fanwise cordon across

the lawn as they closed in toward the darkened wall outside of Grennel's study. In so doing, they were

gaining the advantage of light that streamed from the windows on the veranda.

No crook, however willing he was to fight, would be foolish enough to fling himself into the light. His only

chance to avoid exposure was to circle the rear of the mansion and take to the smaller lawn on the far

side, unless he found a chance to duck through the hedges at the rear. In either case, the quickest, surest

way to overtake him was by cutting in from the far lawn.

That was the route The Shadow took. As he neared the rear of the house, he could hear the shouts of the

pursuers coming from beyond the corner. Driving swiftly, silently through the darkness, The Shadow had

heard no scurry from the murderer. He was in time to trap the fellow, whether he rounded the house or

darted for the hedges.

It was up to The Shadow, an automatic already in his fist, to waylay the killer before the others did.

Otherwise, those unarmed pursuers would be on the spot.

It happened that the bad spot was The Shadow's.

As he clipped five yards by cutting close to low-roofed steps outside the kitchen door, a sudden clatter

interrupted him. The door was flung outward; with it came a flood of light. A man lunged from the

kitchen, a drawn revolver in one fist, a metal box tucked beneath his other arm.

His hurtle carried him across The Shadow's path; as he struck the ground, the fellow turned to shout

back at other men, who were using guns to slug their way free from the kitchen. The fellow was Trigger

Kobin, and as he wheeled about, the lighted doorway formed a background for a sight that startled him.

Against that glow was a black-cloaked human figure; a head that wore a black slouch hat. Trigger

glimpsed a hawkish profile that disappeared as its owner twisted away to regain the darkness. In that

instant, Trigger changed the shout that was coming to his lips. His cry was raucous-toned:

"The Shadow!"

With that, Trigger fired - at blankness. The Shadow had whirled back again into darkness, and Trigger

took to the same sort of blanket. It was lucky that he didn't shoot again, as he dived into the dark, for

The Shadow would have surely picked him off if given a revolver flash as target.

It chanced, therefore, that The Shadow's shot went wide. As he shifted, totally deceiving Trigger, the

fellow made the mistake of returning a shot from a spot farther away. By all logic, the duel should have

ended with The Shadow's next gun stab; but the tide had turned in Trigger's favor.

The thugs at the doorway had heard his shout; they had seen The Shadow's shots. They were flinging

themselves from the sides of the steps, shooting wildly as they came. The Shadow, whipping away, had

to use his next bullet for the nearest of those foemen.

Sprawling, the first comer hit the ground, but the others, three in all, were bounding across his prostrate

form, shooting toward the deeper darkness. There was only one direction that The Shadow could have

taken: toward the house wall, and they expected to riddle him against that background.

They were spraying their shots high and low, driving in to fall upon their prey. Whether he flattened on the

ground, or tried to scale the wall, The Shadow would be prostrate by the time they reached him.

THEN, like a stab from nowhere, came an answer that dropped another of the thugs. It was repeated;

this time, a crook located it - a volcanic gun spurt that seemed to issue from the ground beside the wall.

The discovery did the man no good, for he received the bullet also.

The final hoodlum, lunging onward, stumbled. He grabbed at the wall, to save himself from a plunge into

an open place in the ground beside the wall.

He had reached The Shadow's protective covering. The cellar windows had stone-walled wells outside

them, for they were below the ground level. Those stone pits were scarcely ever noticed, because they

were covered with hinged gratings. The Shadow, finding one against the wall, had yanked the grating up

and dropped below it.

The grating had not fallen back into place. That was why the last thug stumbled in the pitfall. Before he

could recover his balance, hands had caught him and were dragging him down. Wildly, the mobster tried

to slug his invisible opponent. His blow was warded off by The Shadow's arm; and with a reverse stroke,

the cloaked fighter let his own gun reach the thug's skull.

The shallow pit retained an occupant, but its inmate was no longer The Shadow. He was out from that

temporary shelter, leaving the stunned crook below the grating that The Shadow dropped back into

place.

Quick, probing shots were The Shadow's next move; he dispatched them in an effort to locate Trigger

Kobin. There was an answer from a line of trees along the drive, beyond where Stanley had parked the

limousine. Trigger's one shot was so hasty that it whined harmlessly off into the darkness.

Trigger's bad aim did not deter The Shadow. He knew how poor such marksmen could be at long range.

His own aim was the sort that could drop Trigger before the fellow fled out through the front drive, which

was his obvious direction to escape. But The Shadow's fire was thwarted.

More men were upon him, a shouting frantic crowd whose faces were blurs above the sharp white of

their shirt fronts. The guests had lost the murderer's trail when they heard the commotion by the kitchen.

They thought that whoever was shooting would be the man to get.

All that they clutched was empty darkness; but amid it was a swishing form that bowled them in several

directions. The Shadow, finally forgetting Trigger Kobin, had become a human whirlwind. The blows that

he delivered were straight-armed shoves, rather than punches; but they carried a power that strewed the

lawn with a bewildered array of well-dressed young men.

He was past the kitchen steps, The Shadow, still hoping to regain the murderer's trail, when he was met

by the last of the guests, a man who sprang in suddenly. In the gloom, The Shadow saw a gleam which

told that the fellow had a gun and was swinging it to aim.

There was a clang, as The Shadow's automatic stroked the revolver. That hard slash numbed the

attacker's hand. He lost the gun and grappled, only to be flung into the light by the kitchen steps.

As his opponent sprawled, The Shadow heard a girl's shriek. A blonde, clad in an evening dress of

green, dashed into view. She stooped to aid the sprawled man to rise groggily upon the steps.

THE girl was Margaret Brye, the blonde that Ross Bland had noticed on the dance floor. Her whole

expression showed concern, for the man she aided was her fiancee, Larry Chandler. He had been first in

the chase around the house, and his long face was solemn now, as he ruefully rubbed his head.

Margaret's lips tightened as she stared into the darkness, hoping to sight Larry's opponent. But The

Shadow was gone and, as a token that no one could trace him, a strange laugh quivered from the

darkness. Sinister, mocking, that tone certified that he had done his part in battle against men of crime.

Elusive, the laugh left others guessing as to its precise location. Even Stanley was puzzled; staring from

the front seat of the limousine, the chauffeur scratched his head. That laugh might have come from

anywhere.

Not so with the voice that Stanley suddenly heard. It was Cranston's quiet tone, ordering him to start the

car, drive out from the grounds, turn around, and come back to the front door of the mansion.

Chance of pursuing either the murderer or Trigger was ended. The Shadow, having accomplished the

utmost under the circumstances, had again become Lamont Cranston. Playing that part, he intended to

learn what had happened in the mansion prior to his arrival.

Such details would be vital to his quest. For The Shadow was sure of one important fact. He knew,

although he had not viewed the result, that Thomas Grennel had been murdered; that an unknown killer

was the man responsible.

He had heard, too, of a master criminal who styled himself the Vindicator. Other facts testified that the

crook in question must be the murderer. The killer's escape, therefore, marked the beginning of a new

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THEVINDICATORMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.PRICEOFSILENCE?CHAPTERII.CRIME'SPENALTY?CHAPTERIII.THEVANISHEDMURDERER?CHAPTERIV.GATHEREDEVIDENCE?CHAPTERV.CROSSEDPATHS?CHAPTERVI.THERUBBERKING?CHAPTERVII.CRIMEDELAYED?CHAPTERVIII.VREEKILLCASTLE?CHAPTERI...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 170 - The Vindicator.pdf

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 170 - The Vindicator

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