Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 154 - The Golden Vulture

VIP免费
2024-12-23 1 0 178.18KB 74 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
THE GOLDEN VULTURE
by Maxwell Grant (Lester Dent)
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," July 15, 1938.
Gilded death strikes ruthlessly and brings The Shadow to Miami to
investigate the suicides that weren't suicides!
CHAPTER I
THE TERROR BIRD
THE elderly man was terrified. Huddled in the darkest recess of the big
limousine, he kept his reedy hands locked together to still their trembling.
His
uneasy breath came and went in low, quavering rushes.
Twisting about, he peered fearfully through the rear window of the car,
then shrilled at the chauffeur:
"Drive faster, Otho!"
"Yes, Mr. Josephs."
Otho was a man with a square, heavy face; his thick box of a body crowded
the space behind the limousine wheel. He pressed his foot to the accelerator,
and his stocky frame rocked slightly, as the big automobile darted past a car
ahead.
In the rear, age-shrunken Josephs lost his balance. He straightened
himself
unsteadily, as the car pitched onward along the Miami residential boulevard,
the
headlights cleaving a sharp-cut path.
"Turn left, Otho!" shrieked Josephs. "At the next corner!"
The terror in the piping voice caused a queer flicker on the squat
driver's
face. Unholy gloating came into his eyes; his lips made a fierce, cruel twist
of
a grin. The display hovered only an instant, then it was gone, leaving Otho's
features stupidly composed.
Rubber screamed piercingly on asphalt, as the limousine rounded another
corner. Dwellings here were nearly half a mile apart. They were larger, more
sumptuous; the estates of those who possessed enormous wealth.
Wheeling left, the car entered an immense grounds, then stopped with a
jerk.
A man blocked the car's progress. He held a revolver in his right hand.
He
was swarthy, of stocky build, determined of eye.
"I'm Mr. Josephs!" The owner of the name quavered it. "I am expected."
The guard gave Josephs a thorough looking over, applied the same scrutiny
to Otho. Then:
"Go ahead!"
The car followed a curving drive through shrubbery. White walls of a
great
mansion flung up ahead. The machine came to a stop. Josephs peered about as if
fearful that some terror of the night was about to attack him.
Quitting the limousine, he crossed a wide veranda at a pace as near a run
as his creaking old limbs could manage. The finger he jammed against the bell
twitched as though palsied.
The butler who opened the door had a long, sallow face. When he bowed to
the elderly visitor, his thin frame seemed to bend all along its length, as
though he were boneless.
"Mr. Bland received your telephone message, Mr. Josephs," he said. "He is
waiting for you in the study, sir."
"Thank you, Mawson," the aged man replied, shakily.
JOSEPHS hurried past the servant, not waiting for the fellow to take his
hat or show the way.
Onto the butler's sallow face swept an expression of vicious elation. The
fellow stepped out into the night and closed the door at his back. He went to
the big limousine, leaned on the door beside the stocky driver, and spoke.
"It's workin', eh?"
"Yeah," Otho agreed in a coarse whisper. "The old goat's scared stiff!"
"But why'd he come here?" the butler demanded.
Otho made a low, animal-like sound of mirth.
"He got his final warnin'," he said. "It was a note, and I was ordered to
put it in the old fool's hand, while he took his afternoon nap. I watched him
wake up and read it. Some show! He looked like he was gonna drop dead."
"But why'd he come here?" persisted the butler.
"To talk with Bland, I s'pose," returned Otho. "They're both friends. He
probably wants Bland's advice."
"That's rich! Bland would like some advice himself. He's in the same boat
with old Josephs, only he ain't showin' it so much. He put a detective on
guard
today."
"Is it that dark-faced guy we saw at the gate?"
Mawson nodded a reply to Otho's question, then placed his head close to
the
car window, to add some important information.
"That dark-faced guy is supposed to be a big-timer. He's Inspector Joe
Cardona, from New York. Down here on a vacation, and Bland wired Ralph Weston,
the New York police commissioner, asking if he could use him. Bland and Weston
are old friends."
Otho scratched his square jaw and blinked stupidly, mumbling something
about Bland giving trouble.
"We'll handle him," assured Mawson, "and all the dicks he wants to hire."
"I ain't so sure," inserted Otho. "Bland is smart; look at all the dough
he's made. The same goes for old Josephs. If they get their heads together,
they'll -"
"We've given lots of other big-money guys the same medicine," snorted
Mawson. "Some of them tried to fight back. And what luck did they have against
us? What happened to 'em?"
Otho moistened his lips, then shaped them into a vicious leer. "They
committed suicide."
The butler winked broadly.
"They did - not!" he grunted. "But that's what the police and newspapers
said. And that's what it'll look like happened to Josephs and Bland, if they
don't do what the Golden Vulture says. Only, first, it'll probably be Bland's
daughter."
A pronounced shiver racked Otho's box-like frame at mention of the Golden
Vulture. His head settled between his huge shoulders, as though the air about
him had suddenly acquired a chill. His voice dropped to a wisp of a whisper.
"The Golden Vulture!" he breathed. "You dunno who he is, do you, Mawson?
You ain't found out?"
The butler frowned, heavily, "I ain't tryin' to find out! We got orders
not
to, and I ain't! I'm doin' what it pays me to do - takin' the orders of the
Golden Vulture and askin' no questions. And you better be careful to do the
same
thing!"
"I sure will!" Otho hastily muttered. "I'm gonna quit askin' questions."
"That's a good idea." The butler nodded sagely. "Now I'm goin' in and
hear
what Josephs and Bland say to each other."
He moved back into the huge white mansion.
WHEN elderly Josephs walked away from the sallow-faced butler, he was
entirely unaware of the ugly satisfaction his frightened condition had given
the
man. Josephs' mind was occupied with his own troubles, to the exclusion of
everything else.
He brushed open the door of Bland's study, went in.
Avery Arthur Bland arose, a hand extended in hearty greeting. He was a
rangy, powerful man, attired in immaculate dinner clothes, over which he had
drawn a silk smoking jacket. His reddish hair was grayish over the temples,
his
face angular and healthy-looking. In age, he appeared near fifty.
Joseph seized the proffered hand like a drowning man clutching a life
preserver.
"You are alone?" he demanded, shrilly.
Bland's eyes narrowed, registering abrupt interest and wonder as he
perceived Josephs' extreme agitation.
"My daughter, Marna, went to the theater, escorted by my secretary, Eric
Dix," he explained. "The president of my company, Tikewell O'Hallihan, had
dinner with us, but he left early. Yes, I am alone, except for the servants
and
the guard at the gate."
"That is excellent!" Josephs declared. "Excellent! I wanted to talk to
you
undisturbed."
The aged man drew two chairs to the table in the center of the room.
Seating himself in one, he waved Bland to the other. His excitement was making
him forget he was a guest.
Bland eyed the elderly man steadily, as he lowered himself into the
chair.
"Your voice sounded worried over the telephone," he offered in a calm
tone.
"Worried!" Josephs clenched his thin hands. "I'm in a terrible state of
mind, Bland! I've stood it as long as I can. I simply have to talk to someone.
And I was afraid to go to the police. I was even afraid to come here. But I
finally got up enough courage to do it."
Josephs ran a searching gaze about the study, peering into the shadowy
corners of the paneled walls. Getting up nervously, he locked the door, pulled
the shade of the single window, and looked under the table. Then he returned
to
his chair.
"I do not want to be overheard," he muttered, unsteadily. "Death was
promised me if I told anyone. Do you hear me, Bland? Death!"
Bland was staring at the creases in his trousers, a queer expression on
his
face. He did not look up, but said: "Go on."
Josephs swallowed, and clasped his hands together to still their shaking.
"I will start from the first," he said. "That was four months ago. I
received a note, signed only by a golden-colored likeness of a vulture -"
His unsteady voice stopped, for Bland had suddenly lifted in his chair,
arms and legs tense with shock and surprise. He hung there, like a steel
spring
partially uncoiled.
"The Golden Vulture!" he breathed, hoarsely.
"Yes," croaked Josephs, wonderingly. "What -"
Bland stopped the question with an upraised hand, then gestured to
command
silence. Lifting entirely out of the chair, he drew a drawer from the table.
He
got a pad of paper and a pencil.
He began to write feverishly.
CHAPTER II
SUICIDE!
JOSEPHS started another nervous question; something about a final
warning.
Bland stemmed it with an impatient wave of his hand. He continued to write.
The study was silent, except for the uneven sound of the racing pencil.
Josephs squirmed as he waited, then clutched eagerly at the paper which Bland
tore off and handed to him. He read:
Do not speak aloud! I have come to believe the Golden Vulture
has ears everywhere.
I know the horror you face, because the same thing has happened
to me. That is why I hired the detective you saw at the gate. I have
also installed alarms of every kind.
Have you received your final warning?
Josephs looked up from the penciled words. He nodded violently, to
indicate
he had received the final warning also.
Bland took the paper back, placed it atop the pad and wrote once more.
His
pencil traveled rapidly. Folding the paper, he drew an envelope from the
drawer,
thrust the sheet inside and sealed the flap down. His pencil scribbled on the
outside. Then he handed the missive to Josephs.
The elderly man read what was on the envelope:
I have made secret plans to escape.
You shall go with me. Directions are in this envelope. Read them
when you are alone, and follow them. Destroy the directions immediately
after you have read them. The Golden Vulture is uncanny. No knowledge
escapes him.
Looking up, Josephs nodded that he understood. He glanced furtively about
the study, making no effort to repress a violent shudder.
"Hold yourself together," Bland said, steadily. "Perhaps it is not as bad
as it seems. Perhaps you had better do what the Golden Vulture has ordered."
He immediately shook his head to indicate he did not mean that; he was
merely uttering it for the benefit of a possible eavesdropper.
Josephs arose. "Maybe you are right. Well, I had best be leaving. And -
bless you for this, Bland! Bless you! I will never forget it!"
His host accompanied the elderly man to the door and watched him enter
his
limousine. Otho slid behind the wheel, the powerful machine purred away.
Bland returned to his study. His feet dragged. Standing just inside the
door, he patted his damp forehead with a handkerchief, at the same time
glancing
suspiciously about the place.
Three powerful electric bulbs spilled light from a chandelier in the
ceiling. The chandelier was elaborately carved and inlaid; the bulbs in it
furnished brilliant illumination.
Bland sighed, as he seated himself at the table. He did not believe
anyone
would have learned of that note he had passed to Josephs.
BUT Bland was greatly wrong in that supposition.
In the darkened guest bedroom directly above the study, Mawson, the
sallow-faced butler, was lying prone on the floor. He had moved a rug aside
and
tilted up a strip of hardwood flooring. To the opening thus made, he had an
eye
pressed.
Through a tiny aperture in the carved design of the chandelier, he could
see the entire study.
A telephone headset was clamped to the butler's ears. Bland's sigh as he
seated himself came from the receivers with astounding clarity and volume.
Extremely sensitive, the microphone which picked up the sound. It was well
concealed in the chandelier, for Bland had searched his study numberless times
without discovering it.
The butler arose and carefully concealed the headset in the space between
the flooring and the ceiling of the room below. He pressed the hardwood floor
board down. He squinted to make sure the floor would pass the closest
inspection, then quietly replaced the rug.
Crouched there, he pondered a bit. He was disappointed. Although he had
seen Bland write on the paper, his eyes had not been sharp enough to read the
penciled words.
At length, Mawson left and made his way to his own room in the rear of
the
great residence. There, he fumbled with an ornamental grating before a
radiator
which was built into the wall. The grating, then the radiator, tilted outward
under his hand.
Mawson knelt, and drew out a package approximately a foot in thickness
and
twice as long. It was wrapped with tough brown paper.
He drew on thin silk gloves and loosened the brown paper. The length and
sharpness of his sallow face, the darting swiftness with which his thin arms
moved, made him look like a big, white weasel given human form.
The paper came away, revealing the golden-hued statuette of a bird.
It was the likeness of a vulture, squat, broad, thick of body. The wings
of
the evil thing were folded tightly. The head, naked, repulsive, was jutted
forward, the curved beak open wide, as though the bird were about to scream.
It
seemed to be made of some metal, except for the large, staring eyes, which
were
of colorless glass.
Lifting the bird, the man bore it to one side of the room and placed it
carefully on the floor before an electric current outlet. He untangled an
insulated cord from the talons of the bird, plugged the end of the cord into
the
outlet. Instantly, a wavering glow came into the staring eyes of the
statuette.
It was as if life had suffused the inanimate metal.
The butler seated himself before the thing. He pressed his gloved hands
against the folded wings, then removed them.
His vicious lips were parted, as if he expected to enter into
conversation
with the bird, and had much to tell it. A minute passed. Two.
Then the Golden Vulture spoke!
THE words, rasping, metallic, came out of the gaping beak of the
statuette.
"You are Picus Mawson, butler in the home of Avery Arthur Bland," the
bird
said. "What else are you?"
"The Seventy-fifth Feather of the Golden Vulture!" the weasel-like
servant
replied, eagerly. "I got somethin' important to report!"
"Report!" ordered the voice from the gullet of the gilded statuette.
An uneasy look crossed the butler's face, his vicious eyes showing a
twinge
of fear as he peered steadily at the golden bird. He nibbled his lips
nervously.
"Josephs visited Bland," he said, hurriedly. "They talked in the study. I
heard Josephs start to tell Bland he had received his final warning - then
Bland
stopped him.
"Bland wrote on a paper and let Josephs read it. Then he wrote some more
and put it in an envelope. He must've scribbled directions on the outside of
the
envelope. I was not close enough to read what he wrote. Josephs took the
envelope away."
"Fool!" gritted the Golden Vulture. "You should have had a magnifying
lens,
which would have enabled you to read it."
The ghoulish golden statuette was silent a time. The weasel of a butler
also maintained a reverent quiet, as though he were afraid of offending the
thing further.
Finally, scratchy words came from the distended beak.
"In failing to read that which was written by Bland, you have not done
well," it grated. "You will redeem yourself. Listen closely to how you will do
this."
A scratching volley of orders came from the gullet of the gilded bird,
finishing with an inquiry: "Do you understand?"
"I do," said the servant, a cruel, bloodthirsty expression on his face.
"Disconnect!" ordered the sinister metallic voice.
With shaking fingers, Picus Mawson tugged the cord out of the light
fixture
and wrapped it around the talons of the statuette. He replaced the brown-paper
wrappings and returned the weird thing to the recess behind the radiator.
The butler stared at the package as it lay there. In his sallow, evil
face
was the rapt look of a barbarian worshipping the image of some vicious deity.
It was obvious that, to him, the gilded bird, with its uncanny ability to
see and speak and hear, was something unearthly. He did not dare ask the
identity of his diabolic master.
The butler proceeded to carry out the orders he had been given.
From the cavity beside the wrapped statuette of the gilded bird, he took
a
revolver and an intricate mechanism of steel, which was only a little thicker
than an ordinary match and about twice as long. To one end of this was affixed
a
long, thin, stout silk cord.
By pressing on it, the mechanism became an ingenious stand to hold the
revolver. When the silk cord was tugged, a small lever would discharge the
weapon, and the recoil of the gun would throw it clear of the stand. The stand
then closed automatically to its rod-like shape.
He took from the cache a small steel hammer and a pair of pliers, which
were extremely long and thin. These he pocketed, together with the gun and the
collapsible stand. He tilted the radiator back into place and closed the
grating.
In furtive silence, Mawson crept downstairs and threw a switch which
disconnected the burglar alarms installed on the stone wall surrounding the
Bland estate.
SMILING evilly at the ease with which he was leaving the place without
the
knowledge of even Joe Cardona, the butler clambered quietly over the wall at
the
rear of the house. He went down a street.
A cruising taxi drew near when he had walked some distance. He hailed it,
rode to a small garage in the neighborhood and dismissed the cab.
The butler rode from the garage in his small sedan. Bearing heavily on
the
accelerator, he made for the home of Josephs, which was located in the older
section of Miami.
Parking two blocks from his goal, Mawson approached Josephs' residence on
foot. The dwelling resembled an overgrown bungalow, and the grounds around it
were landscaped with an eye to quantity rather than quality.
The shrubbery was almost a jungle. It enabled Mawson to reach the
two-story
garage in the rear without being observed. The chauffeur's quarters were over
the garage, reached by an outside stairway.
Otho was spread on the bed, smoking a cigarette, when Mawson made his
quick
entry. The chauffeur sat up hurriedly. With a wise leer, Mawson questioned:
"Did you get your orders from the Golden Vulture?"
"Just a couple of minutes ago," replied Otho. "I'm to go in the house and
be talkin' to the servants."
"O.K.," snapped Mawson. "Let's get it over with."
Descending, the pair separated in the darkness of the lawn. While Otho
was
openly entering the back of the house, Mawson crept around to the front. The
door was unlocked; once inside, Mawson moved amid a tomblike quiet.
Old Josephs was upstairs in his bedroom. A splinter of light showed
beneath
the door, but the keyhole was almost entirely dark, indicating that the door
was
locked from inside.
Downstairs, Mawson could hear Otho laughing uproariously with the other
servants, indicating that the coast was clear.
Mawson knocked lightly on the door.
"Who's there?"
It was Josephs' voice, nervous, suspicious. Mawson identified himself,
stating that he had brought a note from Bland. Josephs unlocked the door. He
looked relieved when he saw Mawson.
Shoving a hand into his pocket, Mawson produced the steel hammer instead
of
the expected note. His next gesture was as swift and evil as that of a
striking
serpent.
Josephs was too old to be capable of speedy movement. His dodge was late.
The hammer head struck his temple on the left side of his head. Josephs
collapsed.
MAWSON caught the unconscious form, glanced swiftly about the bedroom.
The
paper and envelope that Bland had given Josephs lay on the dresser.
Seating the senseless Josephs in a chair, Mawson picked up the message.
His
small eyes glittered as they read the penciled words.
"It's sure lucky we got this!" he muttered, thickly.
Pocketing envelope and paper, Mawson put on the silken gloves, to
eliminate
future fingerprints. He opened the intricate steel stand, setting it on the
dresser. Fitting the revolver into the stand, he aimed the muzzle at the spot
where the hammer had struck the senseless man's temple.
Mawson slid the end of the silken cord through a large-slotted ventilator
in the window sash, letting a small weight carry it to the ground outside.
As he locked the sash itself, he marveled at the power and knowledge of
his
infamous master, the Golden Vulture, who knew of everything, even the slotted
ventilator.
Outside the room, Mawson used the long, thin pliers to turn the key in
the
lock. Sneaking down the front stairs, he made his exit, crept through the
shrubbery beside the house until he found the plummet on the dangling cord.
Mawson tugged the silken strand.
The revolver exploded in the bedroom, the sound muffled by enclosing
walls.
Rapidly, Mawson pulled on the cord. It stuck for a moment. Mawson yanked.
The clamp mechanism dropped beside him. The butler heaved a relieved sigh; he
gathered the clamp and cord, stuffing them in his coat pocket.
A maid was screaming from the second floor. Blows began to crash against
the bedroom door.
Grinning evilly, Mawson was already sliding away from the house, knowing
that the bullet from the gun would eliminate all traces of the hammer blow
that
had rendered Josephs unconscious.
Getting back to Bland's was all that remained for Mawson to do.
That, he could accomplish easily.
CHAPTER III
SHADE OF THE NIGHT
SUICIDE! That was the verdict of police and newspapers the next morning.
Nicholas I. Josephs had retired to his bedroom, the news accounts said.
His
faithful chauffeur, Otho, had been conversing with the other servants when a
shot was heard.
They had found the body of Josephs on the floor of his room, a discharged
revolver near his hand. A bullet from the gun had pierced his temple.
The door and windows of the room had been securely locked, the servants
being forced to break down the door to gain admittance.
Suicide! There was no doubt of it.
Josephs was a man of great wealth. His death caused a considerable stir,
as well as some speculation as to what had provoked him to take his own life.
Late afternoon editions of the newspapers revealed that the fortune of
Josephs had shrunken greatly during the last few months. He had drawn
practically all his ready cash from the banks and had disposed of large blocks
of securities as well.
This would seem to indicate financial worries had unbalanced the elderly
man to the point where he decided to take his own life, the news writers
decided.
Josephs had visited his friend, Avery Arthur Bland, less than an hour
before his demise, the newspapers mentioned. Bland was greatly upset by his
friend's death; but after a single interview, he refused to discuss the matter
more.
NIGHT came. Clouds shut off the moonlight, making the boulevards very
murky
beyond the luminance cast by street lights.
The night was two hours old when a taxicab rolled along the boulevard
which
passed before the Josephs home. The machine neared a corner adjacent to the
low,
stuccoed residence. It did not move fast. The driver had orders to drive
slowly
along this thoroughfare.
Casually, the driver started to make conversation. Receiving no answer,
he
twisted in his seat - and saw his fare gone! On the rear cushion was a five
dollar bill, ample to pay the meter.
The cabby blinked and peered about the street. He batted his eyes in
astonishment, for he could see no one in the street! True, the boulevard was
full of shadows that might have swallowed the fare. Some of those splotches
even
seemed to sway and change in shape.
Reaching back, the cabby got the money off the cushions. It was genuine.
He
grinned, albeit not very heartily. He recalled there had been a strange
quality
in the voice that had directed him to drive along this street. A fantastic
whisper of a voice!
"That was a funny fare!" the cabby muttered "Come right down to it, he
wasn't nothin' but a shadow and a voice."
HARDLY was the taxi out of sight, when one of the night shadows moved.
Seemingly without solid physical being, the blot of murk trickled across the
street. It entered the grounds which held the Josephs residence. The thick
gloom
amid the luxuriant lawn growth swallowed it.
There was no sound, no rustling of leaves, not even a whisper of bending
grass blades. But an instant later, the weird blot of blackness seemed to
envelop the lower portion of the front door.
The door swung inward silently, the patch of darkness following it. Then
it
closed. The fantastic shape had entered the house.
A lighted room gaped off the vestibule. In it, amid an immense mound of
flowers, the body of Josephs lay in state. Servants were keeping silent watch
over the body of their master.
Like a cloud of black oil smoke blown by a gusty breath from within the
lighted room, the dark shape glided up the stairs.
Darkness was intense in the second floor hallway. Suddenly a flashlight
licked out, shedding a beam which was thin and intensely bright. It swayed
about
like a taut white string, centering at last upon the door of the bedroom in
which Josephs had died.
The door was unlocked; it opened inward. The thin beam of light rested on
the lock and remained there. The key was in place.
A long, slender hand appeared suddenly in the string of light and
silently
removed the key. On the third finger of this hand, a weird gem - a rare
girasol
- caught the bright beam of the flash and cast eerie red reflections. The hand
carried the key to the dresser.
It withdrew from view, to reappear almost at once with a magnifying
glass.
Enlarged by the lens, small scratches stood out on the tip of the key. They
were
the marks left by Mawson's pliers.
The hand lifted the key and seemed to float, disembodied, across the room
to return it to the lock.
Moving with incredible alertness, the flash then probed about the room,
covering every inch of walls, ceiling, floor and furniture. It paused for an
interval on the dresser top, where the powerful magnifying lens appeared again
and brought out scratches on the varnished surface.
So faint were the marks as to escape an ordinary eye, but under the glass
they showed plainly. And they pointed toward the window.
The light raced over the window, and again hesitated, this time on the
ventilator. There, the magnifying glass showed unmistakable evidence that a
small object had been drawn outside.
Carefully, the hand on which the weird girasol reflected queer glowings
picked a wisp of silk from the edge of the ventilator slot - a wisp entirely
invisible to the naked eye.
Then the thin flash beam seemed to collapse in mid-air as it was
extinguished.
FOR long minutes, silence was in the room. But it was silence with a
different quality than before. It seemed to live, as though the great brain
working in the darkness was throwing off a telepathic aura which saturated the
very air.
Indeed, the crime was now reenacting itself in that brain. It was
occurring
again as clearly as though movie film cast it upon a silvered screen. The
striking of the blow - Josephs had been knocked unconscious first, of course;
the placing of the body; the arranging of the gun and stand so the bullet
would
erase traces of the blow - all this was clear. Only one detail was lacking
from
the picture: the face of the slayer.
The door of the room opened and closed noiselessly. A moment later, the
tall, wraith-like patch of shadow again appeared in the door of the lighted
room
below.
Servants were silent for the most part. When they did speak it was in
solemn whispers. Then one servant, gazing toward the door, thought he saw
movement - a deep shadow within the hallway.
Nerves tense from the death watch, he tiptoed to the doorway. He saw
nothing, although to his startled gaze it seemed that the front door was just
closing silently.
The menial wrenched the door open quickly. His darting eyes discerned no
sign of life. He gave a quick nervous laugh, that died in a shocked throat.
For the laugh of another being was jarring the air about his ears!
It was a low, terrifying sound, a laugh so unreal and sinister that the
retainer could not believe the sound came from a human throat. Like the voice
of
some fantastic master of the darkness, it trailed away into nothingness.
The servant, shaking in body, sprang back into the house. He was
convinced
摘要：

THEGOLDENVULTUREbyMaxwellGrant(LesterDent)Asoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"July15,1938.GildeddeathstrikesruthlesslyandbringsTheShadowtoMiamitoinvestigatethesuicidesthatweren'tsuicides!CHAPTERITHETERRORBIRDTHEelderlymanwasterrified.Huddledinthedarkestrecessofthebiglimousine,hekepthisreedyha...

展开>> 收起<<
Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 154 - The Golden Vulture.pdf

共74页,预览15页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：74 页 大小：178.18KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

高考理综 人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 74
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注