Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 164 - Double Death

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DOUBLE DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," December 15, 1938.
They each died twice - and now it was The Shadow's turn to face double
death.
CHAPTER I
THE MASKED MAN
THE crook on the rooming-house roof lay flat on his stomach. So rigidly
quiet was he that he seemed like a corpse.
But Bump Wilson was very much alive.
According to New York underworld whispers, Bump was a free lance - a
cunning and resourceful trigger-man who sold his services to the highest
bidder.
Bump peered over the dark edge of the roof, his lips curved in an evil
grin. This was the queerest murder job he had ever pulled in his entire
wolfish
career.
Bump Wilson had been hired, by a man whose identity he did not know, to
assist in the killing of a man who already had been dead for twenty-four
hours!
The alley in the rear of the rooming house was a narrow ribbon of night
darkness. It lay four stories below Bump's watchful eyes. Across the alley was
the towering brick wall of a warehouse. Every window was dark. But Bump kept
his eyes riveted on one of the warehouse windows.
It was lifting. No visible hand moved it. Yet Bump knew that a human
being
was framed invisibly above the blackness of the narrow rear alley.
Bump descended the ladder that led downward from the roof to the rear
fire
escape of the rooming house. He was now directly opposite the opened warehouse
window. Darkness seemed to swirl forward against the sill. A figure was
disclosed.
It was a man without a face. He was black from head to foot. His eyes
glared through the slits of a mask that completely covered his face and head.
Gloves concealed his hands. His clothing was black. So were his rubber-soled
shoes.
He uttered a complacent chuckle as he watched Bump's swift movement. Bump
had turned toward the fire escape window behind him. It was unlocked; he
raised
it without sound.
The masked man across the alley had expected that. The room had been
hired
a week earlier by a shapely, red-haired girl who called herself Peggy Madison.
She had described herself to the landlady as an actress.
Peggy Madison had sneaked quietly away earlier that evening, taking with
her a small suitcase that contained her few belongings. She would never
return.
Her name was as phony as her red hair. She was the third angle in a grim
murder
triangle conceived by the masked supercriminal at the warehouse window.
THE man in black had vanished briefly from sight. Now, he reappeared. He
was holding a long wooden plank in his gloved hands. He slid the plank outward
over the deserted rear alley, tilted it forward until its quivering end
dropped
noiselessly toward Bump's grasp.
The plank exactly bridged the narrow gulf between the two buildings.
A moment later, a grisly-looking object appeared through the warehouse
window. It was a stuffed sack almost six feet long. The masked man grunted
with
exertion as he slid the sack to the plank. It bulged at either end, as if
something stiff and angular were crammed inside.
With monkeylike agility, the masked man crawled over it. He seized the
end
of the sack and began to inch forward along the plank. He dragged the inert
sack
behind him. It moved easily. Its bottom surface had been greased beforehand.
Bump Wilson helped his sinister employer lift the sack over the
fire-escape railing. It vanished into the apartment that had been hired by the
shapely Peggy Madison. Then Bump crawled across the plank.
As soon as he was safely inside the warehouse, he drew the plank after
him, closed and locked the warehouse window.
Across the narrow alley, the shade was now drawn on the top-floor window
of the rooming house. Light gleamed behind the shade. Inside the lighted room,
the masked man was working swiftly. He had pulled a zipper in the sack,
splitting it open from one end to the other.
A layer of smaller rubberized bags became visible, each one crammed full
and icy cold to the touch. When they were removed, they revealed the body of a
dead man.
The corpse was a tall, rather thin man. He had been shot to death. There
was a small blue hole in his forehead and a larger, uglier wound in the back
of
his head. He had long since stopped bleeding.
The masked man lifted the body from the sack and laid it on the floor.
Then he removed an under layer of waterproof bags that had been underneath the
corpse.
All the containers were filled with chunks of ice. The masked man emptied
them into a wash basin in the corner of the room. He knew the ice would melt
down the drain, leaving no trace. He gathered up the empty ice bags and the
sack that had contained the corpse. Snapping out the light, he slid like a
black wraith to the fire escape outside and dropped the stuff to the alley.
Bump Wilson was waiting. He picked up the discarded bags and vanished
toward a side street. The sound of an automobile motor was briefly audible.
Then it faded into silence. Bump had finished his part in one of the easiest
criminal jobs of his career.
The masked man in the top-floor furnished room still had grim work to do.
He had successfully planted the dead man where he planned for the police to
find him. But there were two more things to accomplish before the job would be
a perfect crime.
CHUCKLING, the masked man approached a cabinet of polished wood that
stood
close against the wall of the room. It was an expensive combination
radio-and-phonograph. The shapely Peggy Madison had installed it there.
There was a record lying on the turntable of the phonograph half of the
set. The masked man examined it and made sure that it was the record he had
prepared. The title was that of a hot jazz number. But there was something
grimmer than swing music recorded on this apparently innocent disk. It was the
counterfeit voice of murder!
The masked man drew from his pocket two long lengths of thin wire. He
made
a double connection with a tiny metal lever in the front panel of the cabinet.
The lever controlled the playing of the machine. A click to the left turned on
the radio. A click to the right switched off the radio and turned on the
phonograph.
Testing, the masked man found his two attached wires worked as perfectly
as he had anticipated.
Part 2 of the perfect crime was now ready.
The masked man turned on the radio half of the set. He controlled the
volume so that the music was not too loud. But the masked man knew that the
sound would easily pierce the thin wall that separated this room from the one
adjoining.
Dance music welled softly from the loud-speaker. Its hot rhythm
contrasted
grotesquely with the sprawled figure of the cold corpse on the floor.
Holding in one gloved hand the two wires that were still attached to the
control lever of the radio set, the masked man backed to the door of the room
and unlocked it. He stepped into the dim corridor outside and relocked the
door. Music was faintly audible through the panel.
The wires from the set extended through the frame of the badly hung door
without any difficulty. The crack was large enough to permit the criminal to
manipulate his control of the machine inside. His hand pulled steadily.
Suddenly, the radio music ceased.
For nearly a minute, there was silence. Then, abruptly, voices echoed
inside the apartment where the corpse lay. Two men were apparently quarreling.
Their voices rose higher and higher. A threat was uttered. It was followed by
an oath. Then, with a sudden muffled impact, came the bark of a pistol shot.
There was a faint cry, the dull impact of a falling body - then utter silence.
Outside the door, the masked man's wrists pulled gently. The machine
inside switched back to the radio. Once more, dance music took up its slow,
rhythmic beat.
The killer, crouched against the door frame, raised both hands with a
sudden, quick jerk. The wires inside came loose from their anchorage. They
were
drawn swiftly through the door crack.
Noiselessly, the killer tiptoed along the darkened hall to the top of a
flight of stairs. The electric light bulb in the ceiling had been unscrewed.
In
the darkness, the masked man waited.
A MOMENT later, the door next to the murder apartment opened with a quick
thrust. A young man emerged, eyes staring with excitement. His name was Arthur
Drake. He had heard the sound of a grim quarrel and the bark of a pistol shot
through the wall of his room.
He darted to the adjoining door and listened. All he could hear was the
rhythm of radio dance music. His knock at the door went unanswered.
"Miss Madison! Are you all right?"
No reply came. Arthur Drake hesitated, wondering if he had imagined the
quarrel and the pistol shot. But he knew he hadn't. And the thought that the
pretty red-haired Miss Madison might be in peril spurred him to action.
He had barely moved forward, when a figure bounded from concealment to
confront him. Arthur Drake had a momentary glimpse of a tall, menacing figure
dressed entirely in black. He saw the mask, the gloved hands, the glitter of a
gun that swung, clublike, toward his skull.
Something else, he saw in that split-second of peril: One of the gloved
fingers on the left hand of the masked man flapped as if it were empty. The
index finger of the killer was maimed!
Before Drake could yell, the clubbed gun struck with grim impact. One
blow
was enough; Drake fell to the floor, unconscious.
WHEN Drake recovered consciousness, he was in an automobile speeding
through the darkness. His head ached horribly. A gag distended his jaws and
there was adhesive tape bound tightly across his lips. His hands were tied
behind his back. But his legs were not bound.
He was lying on the floor of the car. The car stopped presently, and
Drake
heard a faint chuckle. Cold with the fear of death, he tried to pretend
unconsciousness; but his masked captor prodded him brutally to his feet.
The car had halted in a weed-grown driveway inside a high board fence.
Peering dazedly about him in the darkness, Drake saw that he was in a deserted
junkyard. It was evidently some place near a river, for the dank smell of
water
was strong in his quivering nostrils. He could hear boat whistles, too.
Piles of rusted scrap iron rose in the darkness like man-made mountains.
Drake was prodded ruthlessly forward by his armed captor.
"All right - far enough! Stand still!"
Drake obeyed. A thump sounded against the earth just behind him. Then:
"Get down that ladder!"
A square hole yawned in the earth. A trapdoor had been opened. The thump
of its lid against the ground was the sound Drake had heard.
It was impossible for Drake to descend with his hands tightly tied. He
lost his footing and pitched headlong into darkness. A moment later, his
ankles
were seized in a powerful grip. There was a click, and steel leg-irons clamped
on his ankles. He heard a faint chuckle in the darkness, as his captor climbed
the ladder from the pit. The trapdoor dropped closed.
That was the last sound Arthur Drake heard for twenty-four hours! That
was
the length of time that elapsed before his captor returned.
He brought with him neither food nor water. His laughter was mocking. He
leaned over Drake and the young man felt the sharp prick of a needle in the
flesh of his throat.
"I have decided to turn you loose," his captor said, in a harsh, grating
voice. "If the cops want to know who I am, tell 'em all you know - which will
be nothing!"
Drake's senses were fading from the sharp prick of the drugged needle.
But
with a last effort, his gaze swung toward the gloved hands of the masked
crook.
Again he noticed that one finger of the left glove was partly empty. The
killer
was maimed; his left index finger was cut off at the second joint.
It was Drake's only clue to the man's identity. Then, abruptly, his
drugged brain went blank. He lapsed into unconsciousness.
THE killer picked Drake up, carried him out of the pit. The trapdoor
dropped flat. It was camouflaged on the outside with a cunningly cemented
layer
of earth and pebbles.
Dumping Drake into a sedan, the masked man removed his disguise, drove
away through a gate in the junkyard fence.
He turned into upper Park Avenue and headed south under the gloomy
overhang of the railroad structure. Behind him, the smell of the river faded.
The killer was coolly certain that his victim would never be able to identify
the junkyard, near the Harlem River, in which he had been held prisoner for
twenty-four hours.
The sedan sped through the darkness toward a slum neighborhood far
downtown near the East River. Slowing as he passed the gloom of a vacant lot,
the kidnaper opened the car door and pitched his limp victim to the pavement.
Then he sped away.
His entire scheme had worked like a charm. Hours earlier, he had removed
the telltale phonograph disk from the music cabinet in the rooming house. A
corpse had been "murdered" twenty-four hours after his actual death. Alibis
would be without value. But only the killer knew that!
Ten minutes after the fleeing sedan had vanished from the East Side, a
policeman found the moaning figure of Arthur Drake.
Drake was already coming out of his drugged stupor. The injection he had
received had been deliberately diluted to produce only a temporary effect. He
gasped out feeble words that sent the cop darting to a call box. Presently,
there was a wail of sirens in the darkness. Squad cars rolled up.
Under the guidance of Arthur Drake, police sped swiftly toward the
rooming
house from which he had been kidnapped the night before.
The radio in the locked rear room was still monotonously playing.
Blue-coated shoulders crashed the door in. The sprawled body of the dead man
was on the floor. A cop darted to the window. It was locked on the inside.
No attempt had been made to hide the identity of the corpse. A tailor's
label in his coat revealed that he was George Clifford. Instantly, the case
took on a more important aspect. George Clifford was a prominent and wealthy
man. He was a well-known capitalist and investor.
"How long has he been dead?" a police voice rasped.
"Impossible to say," the medical examiner replied. "After rigor mortis
ends, my opinion of the time would be mere guesswork. He probably was killed
late last night, when your witness heard the quarrel and the shot."
A phone call whizzed over the wires to police headquarters. It brought
Acting Inspector Joe Cardona to the scene.
But Joe was going to find this case hard sledding. A criminal of superior
intelligence had committed a perfect murder. There was only one man in New
York
capable of accepting this challenge to the law:
The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
THE BLACK RAY
EARLY the next morning, a long, expensive chauffeur-driven sedan halted
in
front of police headquarters.
The man who alighted was tall, distinguished-looking. Lamont Cranston
passed into the spacious lobby. He had come to make a call on his friend,
Police Commissioner Weston. They met often at the Cobalt Club, where Cranston
lived when he was in New York.
Weston was the soldierly, masculine type. Cranston, a millionaire
sportsman, was one of the best known big-game hunters in the world.
This morning, Lamont Cranston suspected crime! The queer disappearance of
a friend of his puzzled him. He had decided to bring the matter to the
attention of the police.
He was admitted promptly to the office of Commissioner Weston. Weston, a
shrewd man, guessed at once that something was wrong. There was a tightness to
Cranston's cheery smile. His handshake was hurried. He refused a cigar, and
plunged at once into the reason for his early morning visit.
"I'm worried about a man named George Clifford."
"George Clifford!"
Cranston didn't seem to notice the commissioner's quick ejaculation.
"Mr. Clifford had an appointment to meet me, two nights ago. He didn't
keep that appointment. In fact, he seems to have disappeared."
"Wait just a moment," Commissioner Weston said abruptly.
He pressed a buzzer on his desk and murmured a crisp order into a square,
black annunciator. In less than a minute, a stocky, dark-featured man hurried
into the room. This was Acting Inspector Joe Cardona. the ace detective of the
police department. He knew Lamont Cranston and shook hands genially with him.
"Mr. Cranston suspects that something may have happened to a man named
George Clifford," Weston said, with a sharp, warning glance at his assistant.
Joe's reply was a grunt. But his eyes narrowed under his black brows.
Lamont Cranston explained. George Clifford had been uneasy about an
investment he had made recently. He had sunk $25,000 into the ambitious scheme
of an inventor named Doctor Jasper Logan. The device was a machine on which
Doctor Logan had been working for more than five years.
Logan expected it to revolutionize modern warfare. But he ran out of
funds
before he could complete his experiments. He appealed to investors, and George
Clifford loaned him $25,000 for a quarter interest in Logan's device. The
experiment had failed.
Clifford suspected fraud. He had made an appointment forty-eight hours
earlier with Lamont Cranston, to seek advice about what to do.
"Why should Clifford ask you about it?" Cardona inquired.
Cranston explained. He, too, had been asked to invest in the scheme, but
had declined. So he readily agreed to meet Clifford at the Cobalt Club.
Clifford never appeared. Cranston telephoned his apartment the next day.
Clifford was still missing and his valet sounded worried. So Cranston had
decided that he ought to visit police headquarters and have a quiet alarm sent
out to locate the missing man.
"Perhaps I'm acting foolishly," he said. "Mr. Clifford may be perfectly
safe. But I thought -"
"You thought right," Cardona rasped. "George Clifford is dead - murdered!
He was shot to death, the night before last, in a cheap rooming house!"
AT Cardona's crisp words, Cranston's face underwent an amazing, momentary
change. His eyes held a piercing flame; the nostrils of his strong, beaklike
nose quivered like a hound's on a fresh scent. His hand moved quickly to
conceal this involuntary exposure of his real personality. Neither Weston nor
Cardona realized that they had unwittingly flung a challenge into the very
face
of The Shadow.
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!
The Shadow never appeared in sunlight. He was a creature of darkness and
mystery, his life dedicated to ceaseless warfare against crime - the sort of
crime that baffled the police and defied ordinary methods of detection.
Commissioner Weston had often discussed the mystery of The Shadow's
identity with Lamont Cranston. Never, however, had an inkling of the truth
ever
crossed Weston's mind - that, at times, The Shadow adopted the identity of the
millionaire sportsman, Lamont Cranston.
Cranston's polite voice sounded dismayed.
"Clifford murdered! But, really, that's ridiculous! There wasn't a thing
about it in my morning paper."
"The killing was discovered too late last night to make the morning
papers," Cardona explained.
He continued brusquely. He told about young Arthur Drake, who had heard a
quarrel and a shot. He described the appearance of the masked killer who had
kidnapped Drake and held him prisoner for twenty-four hours. He mentioned the
red-haired actress named Peggy Madison, who had rented the murder room. The
police had been unable to find any trace of her. The whole thing was obviously
a perfectly planned crime.
"Tell me about this guy Doctor Logan," Cardona growled. "Do you happen to
know if he has a finger missing on his left hand?"
Cranston nodded.
"Part of his left index finger is missing. I noticed that the only time I
ever talked with him, although I have never actually seen his hands. Logan
always wears gloves. I think he wears the gloves because he is conscious of
his
deformity and wants to hide it."
"That settles it," Cardona snapped. "I'm gonna pick up this crooked
inventor and sweat the truth out of him!"
"Wait a minute," Commissioner Weston said. "We haven't a shred of proof
to
justify an arrest of Logan. Let's hear first what Mr. Cranston knows about
him."
CRANSTON'S knowledge of the inventor proved to be favorable, rather than
unfavorable. Doctor Logan had not claimed that his new war invention would
work. He had been absolutely honest in his proposition to Cranston. He was
working on light rays. He had discovered a ray of cold-black light which he
believed could be made to melt steel. If it worked, it would mean the end of
battleships, fortresses, tanks - all the modern means of defense in warfare.
But Logan had used up all his own money. That was why he had approached
investors.
"Sounds phony," Weston said.
"Not the way he presented his proposition," Cranston replied. "I must
admit that Doctor Logan laid his cards honestly on the table, when he offered
me a quarter interest in his invention for $25,000. Logan warned me there was
more than an even chance that his invention would fail. In that case, my money
would be lost. That was why Logan was approaching only rich men - men who
could
afford to gamble for big stakes.
"For Doctor Logan claimed that if his black ray worked, every nation in
the world would bid high to buy it. A quarter interest for $25,000 would
return
literally millions in profit. I turned the offer down because I never
speculate.
George Clifford, however, invested."
"What did Clifford say when he telephoned you for an appointment?" Weston
asked.
"He had an idea that Logan had secretly succeeded in his experiments and
was trying to freeze Clifford out of the profits. He said Logan had threatened
him with death, if he made any trouble. That's why I became worried when
Clifford disappeared."
Commissioner Weston's mouth tightened. Cardona looked grim as he arose.
He
asked Cranston to accompany him to the inventor's home.
"Surely, you're not going to arrest Doctor Logan on such flimsy
evidence?"
Cranston said.
Joe grinned. "Not yet. I expect to get a phone call from the detectives I
sent out with young Arthur Drake. Drake is my ace in the hole! Let's go."
JASPER LOGAN'S home was a brownstone house in a decayed neighborhood on
the west side of Harlem. The door was opened by a tall, good-looking young man
who smiled pleasantly at Cranston. But the sight of Joe Cardona's grim face
and
the uniform of the policeman who accompanied Joe made the young man frown.
"This is Walter Starr," Cranston said, quietly. "He's Doctor Logan's
technical assistant. We'd like to see Doctor Logan, if we may."
"I'm sorry. He's very busy."
"Yeah?" Cardona flashed his badge. He shoved through the doorway. "Go
tell
this Doc Logan it's a police call, and we got no time to waste!"
The inventor emerged presently from the rear of the house. He was tall
and
lean, like his assistant. But that was the only resemblance between them.
Logan's face was seamed and old. The smile on his lips was a mere grimace. His
eyes were cold, with a hint of mockery in their cloudy depths.
But Joe Cardona was used to handling tough birds like this. His voice was
deliberately harsh.
"Take off your gloves! I like to see the hands of the guys I shake with!"
There was quick fury in Logan's eyes. Then caution conquered his rage.
Bowing sardonically, he removed his gloves.
The index finger of his left hand was maimed. It had been cut off at the
second joint.
"I presume it's not a crime to be crippled," he said, suavely.
"Where were you last night, doctor?"
"In this house. Working in my laboratory."
He glanced at Starr, his assistant, and the young man confirmed the
alibi.
Starr had been working in the front room. Logan couldn't have gone without
passing him. But on further questioning, the alibi weakened. Starr, obviously
loyal to his employer, was forced to admit that there was a rear basement
exit.
"When did you last see George Clifford?" Cardona asked Logan.
Logan readily admitted that Clifford had called on him two nights
earlier.
He admitted that Clifford had denounced him as a swindler. But he insisted
that
he had placated the angry investor. Clifford, he said, had left convinced that
his suspicion of fraud was unfounded. That was the last that Logan had seen or
heard of him.
"As I understand it," Lamont Cranston said mildly, "you sold a quarter
interest in your invention to three investors at $25,000 apiece."
Cardona took the cue.
"Let's have the names of those other two men, doctor."
Logan's grin vanished.
"You can go to hell before I'll tell you! If you think I have broken the
law, it's your privilege to arrest me. But there's such a thing as false
arrest, don't forget that!"
"I'm not forgetting anything," Cardona said shortly. He shot the next
question with abrupt suddenness.
"Do you own any real estate?"
The query caught Logan unprepared. His eyes blinked.
"Why - I own this house, of course."
"How about other property?"
"No."
Logan had regained his poise. But Cardona had questioned enough suspects
in his career to know when a man was lying.
The telephone bell rang suddenly. Walter Starr answered the call. It was
from headquarters, for Cardona.
JOE strode across the room. He talked a moment, then hung up with a
jubilant bang. He turned toward the uniformed policeman who had accompanied
him
to the inventor's home.
"Mr. Cranston and I are leaving, Rafferty. You stay right here. Doctor
Logan is not under arrest. But if he attempts to leave this house" - Cardona's
voice crackled - "pinch him and bring him straight to police headquarters. The
charge is first-degree murder!"
The inventor's face flushed red. His mouth opened, but he made no
comment.
Cardona and Cranston departed. Joe explained the reason for his hasty
departure, as Cranston's car sped northward.
"That phone call came from Detective Spence. He's the guy I sent out with
Arthur Drake to try and locate the spot where Drake was held while he was
kidnapped. And they've found it! The killer made a bad mistake when he didn't
bandage Drake's eyes. The young fellow remembered that the gate in the
junkyard
fence was painted black and had a rusted tin cigarette ad tacked on the wood.
"The junkyard is at the upper end of Park Avenue, right smack on the
Harlem River. Detective Spence says he's found the pit in the ground where the
marked guy held Drake a prisoner for twenty-four hours!"
The pit was open when they got there. The camouflaged trapdoor had been
located, after a patient search by Drake and the detective. The owner of the
junkyard, a swarthy little Italian in torn overalls, was almost tearful in his
protests that he knew nothing of the trapdoor or the hidden prison
underground.
"What's your name?"
"Tony Garfaldo."
"You own this joint?"
"No. Ees cost too mucha money. I joost paya da rent."
"Who's your landlord?"
Tony Garfaldo suddenly lost his fear. A look of grim pleasure came over
his swarthy face.
"I hope you putta da bum in jail! He raise da rent, he make me pay da
month in advance, he make me pay da tax, he no fixa up notheeng."
"What's his name? Doctor Jasper Logan?"
Tony Garfaldo shook his head.
"Heesa name Julius Herzog. A leetle guy weeth a long nose and a bald
head."
Cardona looked baffled at the news that Doctor Logan didn't own the
junkyard property. But Lamont Cranston, who had been listening quietly, made a
low-toned suggestion.
"Perhaps this Julius Herzog is merely an agent. Of course, I'm no
detective, but it might be a good idea to locate Herzog's business address and
question him."
Tony Garfaldo hunted through his office shack until he found the greasy
business card of his landlord.
A HALF hour later, Julius Herzog was peering foxily through horn-rimmed
glasses at his two callers. He was bald, thin-nosed, ferret-eyed as Tony
Garfaldo had said.
At first, he refused to talk. But a flash of Cardona's police badge and
the threat of jail changed Herzog's tune. He was not a fool. He knew that the
identity of his unknown real-estate client could not be kept secret in the
face
of police investigation.
He admitted reluctantly that the junkyard property was owned by Doctor
Jasper Logan.
That was all Cardona wanted to know. He gave a growl of pleasure as he
picked up Herzog's phone. He called the home of the inventor. He had ample
evidence now to make an arrest. Logan's missing forefinger, his ownership of
the junkyard, the testimony of his kidnapped victim, was enough to secure a
grand jury indictment for murder.
Cardona's confident bellow changed to shrill disbelief, as he heard the
reply to his phone call. When he hung up, his dark face was as hard as
granite.
Herzog was smiling faintly, as if at some inner joke. Lamont Cranston
listened to Cardona's swift explanation of what he had just heard on the wire.
But eyes watched the bald-headed Mr. Herzog.
"Logan pulled a fast one," Cardona growled. "He slugged Patrolman
Rafferty
over the head and made a getaway. Rafferty is in the hospital with a fractured
skull. Starr, the doe's assistant, is in jail as a material witness. The
brownstone house is overrun with cops now - but it's too late to do anything
about arresting Logan."
"That's too bad!" Julius Herzog said.
His laughter purred with unmistakable triumph.
CHAPTER III
CRANSTON DRINKS
LAMONT CRANSTON had promised Joe Cardona to accompany him back to the
home
of Doctor Jasper Logan. But when he reached the street, he suddenly changed
his
mind.
Out of the corner of his eye, he had noticed a girl in a flashy roadster
at the curb.
She was a honey-colored blonde, and she was gorgeously beautiful. She was
wearing a knitted blue sports costume that clung tightly to her rounded
figure.
Her hat was blue. So were her eyes.
It was the hard stare of those eyes that warned Lamont Cranston of
danger.
He pretended to be completely unconscious of the girl's surveillance. But he
knew her eyes were stabbing into his back as he talked with Joe Cardona.
Joe was puzzled by the abrupt way Cranston got rid of him, but he made no
objection. He shook hands, hurried to the corner and took a taxi.
Cranston walked the other way. He passed deliberately close to the parked
roadster in which the blonde sat. He wondered what the girl's game might be.
As Cranston, The Shadow had been approached in Logan's war-machine
scheme.
There were two other investors, whose names Logan had refused to divulge. Were
all of them, including Cranston, in danger of meeting the same fate that had
happened to the unfortunate George Clifford?
Cranston remembered the mysterious Peggy Madison who had rented the
murder
apartment in the rooming house. True, she had red hair. This girl in the
roadster was a blonde. But a transformation wig could easily explain that.
The girl's blue eyes were no longer hard. They were demure and innocent
as
she smiled at Cranston. He smiled back.
"I wonder if you could help me," she said. "My car is parked here so
tightly that I can't back it out. I hate to trouble you."
"No trouble at all," Cranston said.
The girl slid over and he got behind the wheel. The girl's side movement
had hitched her short skirt above her knees. She was wearing rolled silk
stockings. She made no effort to lower her skirt. Cranston was conscious of
the
warmth of her body as she sat close to him. A provocative perfume drifted into
his nostrils.
He had little trouble extricating the roadster from the parking space at
摘要：

DOUBLEDEATHbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"December15,1938.Theyeachdiedtwice-andnowitwasTheShadow'sturntofacedoubledeath.CHAPTERITHEMASKEDMANTHEcrookontherooming-houserooflayflatonhisstomach.Sorigidlyquietwashethatheseemedlikeacorpse.ButBumpWilsonwasverymuchalive.Accordingto...

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