Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 156 - The Green Hoods

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THE GREEN HOODS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE MESSAGE IN GREEN
? CHAPTER II. DEATH IN THE LIGHT
? CHAPTER III. MEMBER 13
? CHAPTER IV. MURDERER'S GOAL
? CHAPTER V. BALKED BATTLE
? CHAPTER VI. NEWS FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VII. DEATH'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER VIII. CLUES OF GOLD
? CHAPTER IX. AHEAD OF THE LAW
? CHAPTER X. FLARE OF DOOM
? CHAPTER XI. THE QUARTER HOUR
? CHAPTER XII. THE CARBON CLUE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE LAW'S TURN
? CHAPTER XIV. THE HALTED TRAIL
? CHAPTER XV. THE FOURTH STUDIO
? CHAPTER XVI. THE GREEN MENACE
? CHAPTER XVII. TWO FROM FIVE
? CHAPTER XVIII. CARDONA TALKS
? CHAPTER XIX. THE VITAL LINKS
? CHAPTER XX. TRUTH UNINDUCED
CHAPTER I. THE MESSAGE IN GREEN
MANHATTAN'S lights formed a galaxy of glitter as Kent Allard, famous aviator, viewed them from his
hotel window. Often, early of an evening, he sat there, his blue eyes fixed upon the sparkling brilliance
that represented New York.
Tonight, as on other nights, Allard's thin, hawklike face was inscrutable. He was as impassive as an Aztec
god of stone surveying a vast realm below its pedestal.
There were men who regarded Allard as the equivalent of an Aztec god. They were the two Indians who
were his trusted servants. Members of the lost Xinca tribe, they had come with Allard from Guatemala,
after he had lived there, presumably, for ten years, following a plane wreck. Here, in the isolation of this
magnificent hotel suite, they were ready at his instant bidding.
As like as a pair of twins, the short-built Indians stood stony-faced. They knew the meaning of their
master's fixed gaze.
Kent Allard was The Shadow!
Scourge of the underworld. The Shadow chose night as his domain. Cloaked in blackness, he moved
everywhere—anywhere—to strike down evildoers who plotted crime. Crooks knew him as a being
whose burning eyes shone from beneath the brim of a slouch hat; whose gloved fists gripped a pair of
massive automatics.
Many had met The Shadow, often to their own disaster. None had ever pierced the mystery that
shrouded his real identity. Tonight, however, mystery confronted The Shadow himself.
Keen eyes turned from the window, to an envelope that stretched between long-fingered hands. That
envelope was addressed to Kent Allard. He had opened it previously; again, he drew forth the contents.
A disk of green jade slid to Allard's palm. The object was thin, the size of a half dollar. The only mark
upon it was the number 13, carved in the center of one side.
With the disk was a message; it had been typed through carbon paper. The color of the print was green.
It read:
To one interested in matters of crime, we offer opportunity to become a link in an extending chain. As a
member of the Green Hoods, you can accomplish much of value. We meet beneath the Landham
Theater, at 8:30 tonight; none admitted later than 9 o'clock. The enclosed amulet will identify you by
number. Wear the hood and robe that you find in your locker.
The note was unsigned; beneath it, in underscored letters, was typed:
Tonight's survey is vitally important. Come.
This was The Shadow's first knowledge of an organization that called itself the Green Hoods. One that
apparently numbered twelve members, since his amulet—the green-jade disk—bore the number 13. The
message, though, did not specify whether the Green Hoods met for good or evil.
Allard was considering a deeper significance to the message.
It might be a mere hoax, sent to him as a prank. Contrasted with that trivial possibility was the chance
that the message carried an insidious design. It might mean that some shrewd criminal had guessed The
Shadow's real identity, and was using this as bait to trap him.
Those extreme possibilities seemed unlikely; there were points against each theory. The Shadow saw a
middle answer; its soundness increased, the more he considered it.
The message was neither hoax nor snare. The Green Hoods, through some individual member, had
picked Kent Allard as a candidate for their organization without suspecting that he was The Shadow.
Upon Allard's thin lips appeared the faintest of smiles. He remembered something that had occurred last
night; an incident that could be the forerunner to this message, which had arrived only an hour ago.
THE Xincas saw their master arise; he went to a small, secluded dressing room in the far corner. There,
before a mirror, he began a most remarkable operation.
From a make-up kit, Allard produced substances with which he remolded the contour of his face. A
puttyish application reduced the sharpness of his nose. Pressing upward from the chin, fingers widened
cheeks and pressed in wax that changed features in their new position.
Touches of temporary dye not only changed the color of eyebrows, but altered their apparent shape.
Deft dabs, here and there, completed the transformation.
Though the new visage still had a hawkish effect, it could not be recognized as Allard's. In place of a
natural gauntness, it had a masklike appearance; yet, withal, it was natural. The Shadow had done more
than merely drop the guise of Kent Allard. He had adopted another actual identity.
The Shadow had become the image of Lamont Cranston, a well-known New York millionaire, whose
identity he used, at times.
When their master arose from the mirror, the Xincas were waiting. They did not even observe the new
face that The Shadow wore. All that mattered to them was a rare jewel, a girasol, that shone from The
Shadow's finger. That iridescent fire opal was the symbol that its wearer was their master.
One servant held a black cloak, the other a slouch hat. The Shadow donned those garments. With his left
thumb, he turned the ring so that the fire opal was inward. With his right hand, he pocketed the
green-jade amulet that was tonight's token.
One of the Xincas had opened the door to the hallway; he was motioning that the way was clear. The
Shadow slid black gloves upon his hands; mere seconds later, he had blended with the darkness of a
fire-tower.
A taxicab was waiting in an obscure spot beside the hotel. The Shadow boarded it silently, invisibly. A
whispered order to the driver and the cab was on its way.
The taxi halted one block from the exclusive Cobalt Club, where Cranston was a member. Leaving the
black garments in a drawerlike space beneath the rear seat, The Shadow alighted. With the strolling gait
of Cranston, he continued to the club on foot.
Sight of a big official car brought a slight smile to his lips. The Shadow knew that he would find the man
he wanted in the club.
That man was Ralph Weston, New York's police commissioner. Cranston met him in the club foyer; as
they shook hands, the millionaire expressed regret that he had not been there on the previous evening.
"YOU missed something, Cranston," declared Weston. "Kent Allard was here— you know, the chap
who lived among the Xinca Indians—and he gave an excellent informal talk regarding their tribal
customs."
"Odd that it interested you, commissioner," remarked The Shadow, in a leisurely tone that went with
Cranston's guise. "I supposed that you concentrated solely upon the study of crime."
"That was just it!" Weston was brisk, in his enthusiasm. "I asked Allard some questions regarding crime
among primitive races. His answers were concise, but thorough."
"They interested others than yourself?"
Weston nodded. He declaimed at length upon a chat that he had resumed with other persons, after
Allard's departure. One man, Weston remembered, had hoped to meet Allard again. The commissioner
had given him Allard's address.
"I don't suppose that Allard will mind it if he calls," remarked Weston. "Maybe you know the fellow,
Cranston. He's an earnest sort; his name is Robert Leng."
The Shadow remembered the man, but did not tell that to Weston. Instead, he shook his head negatively.
Weston described Leng as a quiet, bespectacled man of middle age, who was something of an expert on
photography. He had made a study of black light; its aid to photography in darkness.
"Leng was around here this evening," mentioned Weston. "I could have pointed him out to you, a short
while ago. I think that I saw him leave, just about half past eight."
The foyer clock showed twenty minutes of nine. Commissioner Weston was disappointed when his friend
Cranston suddenly remembered another engagement, and decided that he must be on his way.
Once outside the club, Cranston's leisurely style ended. A big limousine was parked across the street; it
was Cranston's, and the doorman would have whistled for it, had he seen the millionaire. But the
supposed Cranston was away before the doorman spied him.
The Shadow calculated that ten minutes would bring him to the Landham Theater. He figured that after
he was back in the cab, with the driver hitting a good speed. Lost time had been worth while. The
Shadow had linked past with future. He had strengthened his theory, regarding the message that invited
him to join the Green Hoods.
With it, The Shadow knew the probable identity of one member: Robert Leng.
THE Landham was an old, disused playhouse; its location was on an obscure side street. To reclaim the
minutes that he had lost, The Shadow donned his black garb during the ride. He was set, with one hand
on the door handle, when the cab rolled to a stop near the theater.
This cab was The Shadow's own. Moe Shrevnitz, its driver, was following orders in perfect style. He
didn't stop in front of the empty theater; he pulled into a deserted hack stand just beyond it, so that any
chance observer would suppose that he had a vacant cab and was looking for a fare.
That move produced a sudden surprise—one that caught Moe off guard. Before the cabby could signal
the news to The Shadow, a new passenger bobbed into view.
She came from a sheltered corner of the theater—a girl whose face showed beauty, despite its troubled
paleness. Her dress was dark; so was the cape that she wore. That was why Moe did not see her, until
her hand was on the handle of the very door that The Shadow was about to open.
Staring, Moe saw dark-brown eyes beneath a wave of even darker hair. He spied serious lips below a
well-formed nose; heard them speak quickly, firmly, as the girl gave an address. She didn't wait to ask if
the cab was empty.
Moe had only time to cross his fingers, in hope that the girl wouldn't spot the cab's occupant. Moe's
good luck wish was unnecessary. By the time the girl was opening the door on the curb side of the cab,
the opposite door was easing shut.
The Shadow had made one of his speedy departures. Low, beside the step on the street side of the cab,
he came up beside the driver's seat. Moe heard The Shadow's whisper, telling him that The Shadow had
caught the address also. Following that, came the terse order:
"Report later!"
The cab whipped away. The Shadow sidestepped into the space that it had left. A quick glide across the
sidewalk brought him to the shelter that the girl had left. There, The Shadow lingered briefly in darkness,
watching the cab as it wheeled around a corner.
Even before he reached the meeting room of the Green Hoods, The Shadow had met with a mysterious
event. The sudden appearance of the brunette, plus her quick departure, showed some connection with
the unknown organization that had chosen The Shadow as its thirteenth member.
That episode might mean coming danger. It keyed The Shadow to the adventure that lay ahead. A low
laugh whispered in the darkness; it predicted that The Shadow intended measures that would counteract
any coming menace.
Rarely did The Shadow's methods fail. Tonight, he was moving into an uncharted zone, but he was fully
equipped for the foray. That, ordinarily, would be enough for whatever might befall. Tonight, it was not
sufficient.
The meeting of the Green Hoods was to provide The Shadow with a surprise far more startling than the
sudden appearance of the mysterious girl who had traveled away in The Shadow's own cab.
As for the girl herself, she was to play a vital part in one of the strangest campaigns that The Shadow had
ever waged against crime.
CHAPTER II. DEATH IN THE LIGHT
IT was pitch-black in the alleyway beside the old theater; the space was silent and deserted. That was as
it should be, since the Green Hoods presumably came here singly.
A new member, picking his way for the first time, would probably be expected to use a flashlight. If the
game was on the up and up, old members would give him right of way, if they saw the gleam.
The Shadow wasn't chancing that the game was on the level. He used a flashlight, but handled it so
expertly that its glitter was entirely concealed. Keeping close to the wall, he held the tiny electric torch in
the folds of his cloak. When he flicked the light, it was muffled; its glowing bulb almost touched the wall
beside him.
With swift probe, The Shadow found a battered doorway that looked like an old stage entrance. He
eased through, used the light along the floor, to discover a spiral stairway that led downward. Once at the
bottom of those steps, The Shadow needed his light no longer.
A dull glow greeted him. He was in a windowless basement room that had several passages leading from
it. In each passage, The Shadow could see the outlines of squatty lockers. He noted that one row began
with the number 1; another with 7; while the number 13 was painted dimly on the first locker in a third
passage.
The Shadow reached the gloom beyond the locker. Reaching back, he tried the locker door. It swung
open; inside was hanging a green robe, with a cowl-like hood that folded back from it.
So far, The Shadow was positive that he had been unobserved. He had several minutes more before the
dead line of nine o'clock, when members, old or new, would no longer be admitted to the conclave of the
Green Hoods.
The Shadow had a prompt use for those minutes. He wanted to learn the location of the meeting room; if
possible, peer into it, before he would be forced to don the green of Member 13.
There had been nothing in the message regarding the exact location of the meeting room. The Shadow
assumed that his own passage would lead there. He followed the gloomy path between stone walls, came
to a turn where the light from the entry ended.
Ahead, The Shadow saw a crack of light that indicated a doorway. Guided by it, he reached the inner
end of the passage. The door had no knob; it gave a slight sideways yield to The Shadow's touch. He
recognized it as a sliding panel, and acted accordingly.
Imperceptibly, The Shadow inched the barrier to one side, so that he could peer beyond. One eye to the
space, he became an unseen observer to the very meeting that he had been invited to attend.
THE Green Hoods were in conference, ranged about a circular table that stood in the exact center of a
square-walled room.
Except for height, they were all alike; they resembled a group of night riders, clad in green. Drawn hoods
came below their chins. Almond-shaped eye-slits and narrow mouth spaces gave no glimpse of the faces
that lay behind them.
A single table lamp lighted the scene; it was impossible, therefore, for The Shadow to ascertain if twelve
members had already assembled.
One Green Hood stood near the lamp, his costumed form clearly visible, like those of the few nearest
him; but those farther around the circular table were clustered irregularly, with some members in the
background.
From what he could see of the nearer walls, The Shadow judged that there were several paneled
entrances, which allowed the members various avenues of arrival.
Looking upward, The Shadow noted the ceiling. Though dim, it appeared solid. It had a chandelier with
six frosted bulbs. Evidently those lights were not used, because they would throw too much glow upon
the meeting.
The member near the lamp had raised his right hand; it was clad in a loose-fitting glove that formed an
extension of the robe's sleeve. The others remained silent as the man with the raised hand voiced in a
forced, sepulchral tone:
"Member 1 has word!"
Down to the table level descended the raised hand. Its fist opened to show a jade amulet, visible in the
lamp glow because its hue was a lighter shade than the dark-green glove that held it.
A few of the Green Hoods craned forward to observe the amulet's identifying number, but the others
took the procedure as a mere formality. They seemed more interested in hearing what Member 1 had to
say.
The Shadow, too, was intrigued. He decided that he would play the part of an unseen spectator, rather
than appear as Member 13.
"I have spoken often of my experiments," stated Member 1, his voice a low roll from his throat. "At our
last meeting, I declared that I had completed them; that the Truth Inducer was no longer an idea, but an
established fact."
"I promised then to bring the chemical formulas to this meeting, together with the plans for the required
mechanism. I have brought them, from my own private laboratory, for distribution among you."
Thrusting a hand beneath the robe, Member 1 put away the jade amulet. He drew a long roll of paper
from the robe; as he placed it on the table, the roll separated into single sheets. Member 1 began to sort
them on the table, while his eager companions watched.
Evidently, all knew the theory of the Truth Inducer and had been expecting its detailed formulas and
plans. The Shadow saw some of the Green Hoods stretch out their hands, while others turned to buzz
among themselves.
Drawing his hood tight with one hand, to keep his voice muffled, Member 1 rumbled for the others to be
patient. He had the manner of an instructor addressing a group of pupils. Extended hands withdrew.
There was a shift of Green Hoods in the background.
Then, the stroke came.
THE man who delivered it had chosen the most timely instant. He was a Green Hood somewhere in the
far background, unnoticed by the others, obscured from The Shadow.
There was audible proof of the sudden action he performed. It was the click of a light switch at the far
wall.
That sound was useless as a warning. The result it produced was instantaneous.
Every light in the ceiling chandelier delivered a blinding glare. All six were flash bulbs, their frosting a mere
surface to cover the material that they contained. For a split-second, the room was filled with a brilliance
that had the burn of lightning. Eyes did not have to face it directly to be totally dazzled.
There were hoarse cries from the Green Hoods; a wild shuffle as they staggered blindly for the wall
panels. The Shadow could hear those shrieks and shuffles, but the scene itself was gone from his view.
Like the Green Hoods in the meeting room, their prospective Member 13 had taken the effect of that
terrific flash.
Instinctively, The Shadow wheeled back along the passage. Despite its darkness, he was gripped by the
sensation of vivid light, that formed a tormenting sheet when he thrust his cloaked arm across his eyes.
In those moments, The Shadow was as helpless as the Green Hoods themselves; but, despite his
predicament, he was realizing that he possessed an advantage that others did not have. Streaks of light
tortured him whether he opened or closed his eyes; but those after-effects were oddly one-sided.
They seemed like shafts that barbed toward the left side of his face, and they gave The Shadow the clue
to his own condition.
The Shadow had been peering through the narrow space beside the panel with his left eye only. His right
eye, against the wall edge, had been shut almost tight. There was darkness blurring in among the stabs of
light. His right eye had not taken the fierce dazzle.
Clamping his left hand over the eye on that side, The Shadow still suffered from the after-impressions; but
his right eye sensed darkness more definitely. He couldn't see the crack of the panel, but that was
because it showed too dimly.
Groping toward the meeting room, The Shadow guided himself by the sounds of groaning voices, that
were punctuated with excited gasps.
An obstruction halted The Shadow's advance. It was the panel; he had blundered against it. Probing
quickly with his fingers, he found the open space, pressed his right eye against it. From his cloak, his right
hand drew an automatic.
The Shadow opened his right eye.
SEVERAL seconds had passed. It took a few more before The Shadow's eye could focus itself to the
scene. First, there was the shifting blur of many green-clad figures—some flaying, others offering helping
hands, while a few were huddled near the walls.
In their plight, members seemed varied in opinion. Some regarded all as foemen; others accepted them as
friends. The rest were too concerned with their own plight to care about their companions.
The blur cleared as two Green Hoods shifted away from The Shadow's panel, to sag separately, as they
groped along the wall.
Directly ahead, The Shadow saw the table clearly. The rolled papers were gone, but a man remained
there. He was Member 1; his position was too close to the table lamp for him to be any one else.
Like the others, Member 1 had taken the full effect of the flashing bulbs; but that, alone, did not account
for all that had happened to him.
Where others had retained their hoods, his was gone. In its place, The Shadow saw a large face, with
ruddy beard; above it, thick, shaggy hair that matched the whiskers. There was a stare in the eyes of the
bearded man. Those eyes were glassy; they bulged from their sockets, straight toward the ceiling.
The stare, its direction—neither could have been caused by the burst of light. The Shadow's gazing eye
looked lower, toward the green-robed body that was hunched, breast upward, half across the table.
There was a glitter that showed from the center of a darkish splotch, where red blood dyed the green
cloth of the robe. A few moments later, The Shadow identified the sparkling object.
It was the jewel-studded handle of a long, thin-bladed knife that had been thrust straight to the heart of
the green-robed man who called himself Member 1.
The leader of the Green Hoods had paid the penalty for his overzeal, in offering his newly invented Truth
Inducer to his fellow members. All had been willing to share the knowledge regarding that device, except
a single member.
That lone person, a traitor in the midst of the group, wanted it for himself. He had snatched the entire set
of formulas and plans; to preserve them for his sole use, he had disposed of the person who created
them.
The vivid blast of light had served as cover for a murder. One victim of the blinding flare had been singled
out for death. The kill had been accomplished in the midst of a group helpless to prevent the doom that
the victim, himself, had been unable to escape.
Not only had the Green Hoods failed to spot the murderer or his deed. The nefarious stroke had been
driven home before the light-blinded eye of The Shadow!
CHAPTER III. MEMBER 13
GROPING men in green had reached panels along the wall, though none had arrived at The Shadow's
passage. It was plain that once they gained outlet, the Green Hoods would stampede. If any waited
longer, they would eventually join the rush, once they saw the murdered form of Member 1.
His eye attracted by the motion along the walls, The Shadow saw panels sliding under pressing hands. It
struck him instantly that those were the first exits to open. With that thought came a more important
conclusion.
The murderer, himself a member of the Green Hoods, was still in the square-walled meeting room!
Whatever the motives of the Green Hoods, death had been dealt among them through an act of
treachery. The killer was a criminal who deserved full vengeance. The Shadow's task was to single the
murderer from the rest of the green-hooded band.
The killer had certainly avoided the dazzle of the lights. He had placed the bulbs beforehand; had pressed
the light switch to produce the flash. He had needed only to keep his eyes tight shut. Proof that he had
done so was apparent from the quick skill with which he had dealt the knife thrust.
Quickly, The Shadow looked for a Green Hood who was showing no signs of temporary blindness.
Such a man would be the murderer. Oddly, no such member appeared among the rest.
A crafty game was being played by the killer. Not knowing of The Shadow's presence, the murderer was
calmly biding his time, letting others grope their way ahead of him. He was playing it safe, in case any of
the other Green Hoods happened to catch a fleeting glimpse of him.
Within a half minute, the assassin would be gone, along with a blundering throng. There was only one
way in which The Shadow could force the issue; that was to make the killer reveal himself. It could be
done, and The Shadow knew the system.
With his left hand, The Shadow slid back the panel, sprang into the squarish room. As he came, he
loomed his automatic for the largest cluster of Green Hoods. From The Shadow's lips came a shivering
laugh that brooked of accusation.
It was a challenge to the murderer. The chilling tone seemed to carry the announcement that The Shadow
had picked the man he wanted.
Member 13 had joined the meeting of the Green Hoods. Only one man -the killer—could see him; but
the others heard the sinister mirth. They took it as the menace that they all expected.
The result was a double effect.
ONE Green Hood whipped about from a far panel; he yanked an old-fashioned pistol into view. The
others forgot the exit; they sidled along the walls, crouching, with hands shielding their eyes, trying vainly
to spy the intruder who had issued the laugh.
The Shadow had not only found the murderous member of the green-clad band; he had cleared a path
for battle with that killer.
In turn, the Green Hood recognized The Shadow as an outside menace, more formidable than any of the
usual members present. He was versed in ways of crime, that killer, for he promptly identified The
Shadow as the being who was dreaded by all the underworld. That was why the Green Hood handled
his gun with whippet speed, hoping to beat The Shadow to the shot.
That effort failed. The Shadow's automatic thundered its echoes through the cramped space of the
meeting room while the murderer was still trying to tug the trigger of his ancient shooting iron.
As always, when there was room for it, The Shadow faded as he fired. His fisted gun was like the
fulcrum of a lever: constant in its aim, while his tall shape shifted. That measure was seemingly
unnecessary on this occasion, for The Shadow's shot, directed for the killer's gun arm, was far in advance
of the Green Hood's action.
Oddly, the green-clad murderer did not falter.
Instead, he blasted bullets toward The Shadow. Those fading tactics were useful after all. Slugs were
whining past The Shadow's ears, while he stabbed shots in return.
Not one of four bullets clipped the murderer.
The Shadow's accuracy had left him, even at this close range. The reason was the aftermath of that
blinding light. Though his right eye had its usual vision, The Shadow had lost proper sense of distance and
perspective from the strain that his left optic had suffered.
Green Hoods, flattened on the floor, their heads buried, ostrich-fashion, in their arms, were clear of the
barrage. That didn't help The Shadow. If this cross fire kept up, he—not the murderer -would be the one
to fall.
So far, The Shadow's shifting tactics, plus the belated aim of the killer, were the saving factors. Once The
Shadow reached the side wall, that would be ended. The Green Hood was waiting, half through his open
panel, ready to drop The Shadow when the latter was forced to reverse his course.
The Shadow took a sudden, desperate measure.
Ending his fade, he lunged straight for the lingering killer; driving in, he aimed as he came. With amazing,
lengthy strides, he cut, down the distance. His finger was ready on its gun trigger, to begin a new duel at
such close range that the shot could not fail.
The Green Hood had a momentary opportunity to insert a sure shot of his own. He took it; but it didn't
have the certainty that he expected. The Shadow's sudden movement had brought a spontaneous
backward spring from the killer. He was recoiling as he fired. His gun was pointed a trifle high; the quick
snap he gave the trigger jolted it still higher.
Two shots rang out together.
The Shadow's bullet zimmed the edge of the half-shut panel, was deflected away from the green figure
just beyond. The slug from the old-fashioned revolving pistol took a slice from the slouch hat brim just
above The Shadow's ear.
NEITHER shot had sufficed. The murderer was in flight. The Shadow was whipping aside the panel, to
take up the pursuit.
The chase led through a twisty, stone-walled burrow. The cellar of the old theater was more
honeycombed than The Shadow had originally supposed. At every turn, the killer was just far enough
ahead to be out of range. At last, he clattered up a spiral stairway on the far side of the building.
That was his one chance to drop flight and take up battle. The murderer didn't take it. When The
Shadow reached the head of the staircase, a door was swinging shut to mark the Green Hood's
departure into the outside air.
His hand on the staircase rail, The Shadow was ready for a long lunge, to cover the distance to the door.
A slight motion halted him. He dropped back, letting his body slide down the steps. The door swung
open; the glare of flashlights spotted The Shadow. With the beams came shouts; new guns began to rip.
The Green Hood had kept a gun crew waiting outside. He had given them the order to finish The
Shadow.
If the thugs had withheld their inrush, they might have bagged The Shadow. Overzeal defeated them. He
was sliding away, downward, when their revolvers barked.
Before they could drop their aim, The Shadow was below the level of the top step. His hand withdrew a
fresh automatic. Jutting upward, that gun talked from the very floor.
摘要：

THEGREENHOODSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEMESSAGEINGREEN?CHAPTERII.DEATHINTHELIGHT?CHAPTERIII.MEMBER13?CHAPTERIV.MURDERER'SGOAL?CHAPTERV.BALKEDBATTLE?CHAPTERVI.NEWSFORTHESHADOW?CHAPTERVII.DEATH'STRAIL?CHAPTERVIII.CLUESOFGOLD?CHAPTERIX.AHEADOF...

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