Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 153 - Murder For Sale

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MURDER FOR SALE to all who had the price! But there was one who finally

stopped these bargains of death: The Shadow!

CHAPTER I

OVER THE BRIDGE

THE four o'clock express from New York was rolling into Philadelphia.

Hauled by one of the Pennsylvania's huge electric locomotives, it had reached

the North Philadelphia station on the dot of 5:28.

At this precise minute, 5:32, the train was covering the five intervening

miles that lay between North Philadelphia and the main station at Thirtieth

Street.

Harry Vincent pocketed his watch and gazed from the window of the lounge

car. Despite the gathering of wintry dusk, his eyes took in a remarkable

panorama.

At this moment, the express had just reached the high, many-arched bridge

crossing the Schuylkill River. Beyond the curving stretches of Fairmount Park,

Harry could see the Philadelphia skyline, where massed buildings glittered

with office lights and the city hall tower rose above, topped by its statue of

William Penn, that seemed a pygmy at this distance.

Harry's eyes were attracted by the moving lights of automobiles on the

park drives that lined the river banks. As his gaze lowered, he saw a long,

bulky bridge that crossed both driveways and the river.

It was the Girard Avenue Bridge, so well-known to Philadelphians that

they no longer regard it with the curiosity that attracts the eye of

strangers. Built of iron, bulky in shape, the bridge reminded Harry of many

cantilever structures that he had viewed, but with one exception that made it

seem odd.

The top of the bridge formed the actual roadway; the spaces beneath the

cumbersome girders were nothing more than foot bridges. As a result, the

crossing automobiles seemed to be traveling over a long, wide roof.

They were safe enough, it seemed, for the bridge had curbs and sidewalks,

with iron rails along the outer fringes but just as Harry gained that

impression of security, the fact was disproven.

A coupe crossing the bridge took a sudden skid upon an icy patch near the

center. Swinging half about, the car climbed the curb, leaped the sidewalk and

rammed its radiator straight through the iron railing.

Chance had made Harry Vincent an eyewitness to that sudden scene. The

same coincidence enabled him to take in the rapid events that followed.

With the coupe's jounce, the door beside the driver's seat swung open. A

man's figure lurched forth, to strike the sidewalk and recover balance with a

skill that told that the fellow had made a well-calculated spring.

The man was clear of the car as it poised there, half through the rail,

teetering. Harry caught a flash of spinning rear wheels, proof that the driver

had pulled the throttle wide. The rear of the car flopped downward; those

wheels took hold upon the sidewalk. They gave the car a terrific forward

lurch.

Like a living creature, the coupe precipitated itself through the

crumpled rail and disappeared in a long plunge into the waters of the

Schuylkill.

Instinctively, Harry looked for the driver who had escaped that disaster.

He saw another car, a taxicab, stopping a few dozen feet away. The door of the

cab was open; the man from the coupe was making a quick dive into the taxi.

With that, Harry's view was ended. The express was across the higher

bridge, and was speeding downward into a tunnel. So far as Harry was

concerned, the sequel to the scene was a matter for imagination.

BACK at the bridge, other cars were stopping in the dusk. Their drivers

had seen nothing more than the swing of the doomed car's lights. The cars

formed a cluster, while people hurried from them to gaze over the ripped rail.

It was then the driver of the taxi supplied a loud-voiced suggestion.

"Stick here," he shouted to the men from the other cars. "I'll go and

tell the parkies what's happened!"

Speeding eastward across the bridge, the taxi reached a traffic signal

tended by a park guard in blue-gray uniform. Leaning from the wheel, the taxi

driver announced that a car had gone through the bridge. From then on, the

park guard was too busy to wonder what became of the taxicab.

That vehicle followed a descending drive that led to the Parkway. Within

a few hundred yards, the driver leaned back and grunted an "0. K.", which

brought his passenger up from the rear floor.

From then on, that cab which the park guard had taken for an empty was

just one of many other taxis carrying passengers to the center section of

Philadelphia.

Meanwhile, park guards were using rowboats to reach the car that lay in

the shallows of the river. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for automobiles to

skid into the Schuylkill, and the efficient park guards were always ready and

equipped for rescue.

In this instance, they were too late.

Guided by persons upon the bridge, who could see the car's lights still

glimmering from the water, the guards reached the coupe. The door on the left

was almost ripped away, but the car had tilted to the right.

That accounted for the fact that a man who occupied it was buried deep in

the body of the car. The park guards dragged him out and rowed ashore. While

one man plied the oars, another tried to resuscitate the victim.

As he worked over the prone man, the park guard noted that the victim's

head flopped loosely from side to side.

"No use," gruffed the park guard. "This guy's neck is broke! He took a

whack, too, right on the back of the head. Look!"

Plainly visible beneath the victim's right ear was the mark. The park

guards decided that he had battered his head against some portion of the car

when the fall came to its sudden finish.

The only step that remained was to identify the dead man. It proved a

simple task. The victim's water-soaked wallet contained identification cards,

including a car owner's license that tallied with the coupe's plates, as noted

by other investigating park guards. The dead man's name was Louis Rulland.

That stirred the recollections of the park guards.

"Say!" exclaimed one. "This is the young fellow that came into a couple

of million dollars, only a few months ago, from all those mills his

grandfather owned over in Kensington!"

Yeah," agreed another. "The same bird that would have been jailed on a

drunken driver charge last week, if they hadn't given him a chance to sober up

before the magistrate got there."

Mutually, the park guards agreed that this was one jam from which Louis

Rulland could neither talk nor buy his way out of. In their opinion, he would

have been luckier had he been sentenced the week before on the drunken driving

charge.

An added statement, however, was more ominous than the man who uttered it

supposed.

"Funny thing," said a park guard, the way these accidents happen in a

bunch. There was that fellow Warling, who was killed when his horse threw him

up on the Wissahickon Drive; and that sporting chap, Landrew, out in Media,

whose gun went off when he was cleaning it. Both of them were worth a pile of

dough, like Rulland. Then there was--"

The park guard cited no further cases. The grim work of removing

Rulland's body from the turf on the river bank caused him to interrupt

himself.

THERE were others, however, who saw Rulland's death as another in a chain

of startling accidents. They were the city editors of the Philadelphia morning

newspapers. Later that evening, big presses were grinding out front-page

headlines announcing the society man's death plunge from the Girard Avenue

Bridge.

None of the accounts beneath those headlines carried any inkling of the

real story.

That had escaped the observation of all so-called "witnesses", for no one

driving across the bridge had guessed that there was a second man in the

coupe, one who had been the actual driver; that is; no observer except the

taxi driver who had been on hand to spirit the man away.

Nor had any riders on the express from New York glimpsed the essential

details of the car crash, with the sole exception of Harry Vincent. However,

of all the passengers on that train, none could have been a better or more

important witness.

For Harry Vincent had come to Philadelphia for the specified purpose of

investigating the accidental deaths that had stirred so much comment in the

Quaker City. Having gotten first-hand evidence as to how those "accidents"

happened, Harry had sent the news along to his chief, in New York.

That chief was a mysterious personage known as The Shadow, master

investigator who hunted down men of crime. Whenever The Shadow gained evidence

of evil, he trailed it to its source.

Whoever the man might be who had managed these murders in Philadelphia,

he would soon hear from The Shadow!

CHAPTER II

FACTS OF CRIME

IT was morning, but pitch-black gloom filled a windowless room in

Manhattan. That hidden spot was The Shadow's sanctum, where crime's master-foe

prepared his campaigns against crookdom. A click sounded. A bluish light

flooded the surface of a polished table. Into that glow came hands, with long

fingers that moved like detached creatures. From one finger of the left hand

sparkled a strange fire opal. That rare stone, called a girasol, was the

symbol of The Shadow.

The hands produced clippings; eyes studied them from above the light.

Next came a report sheet from Harry Vincent, coded in ink of vivid blue. That

writing faded after The Shadow had read it. He laid the blank sheet aside,

along with the clippings. The report had been written in the special ink used

by The Shadow's agents to contact their chief. Once exposed to air, it

disappeared rapidly.

Into the light, The Shadow drew a folder that was stamped with the symbol

of a life-size human hand, with extended thumb and fingers.

This case-book dealt with a group of racketeers who had cleared New York

before the clean-up. Referring to new reports from the folder, The Shadow

studied a list of names:

"Thumb" Gaudrey

"Pointer" Trame

"Long Steve" Bydle

"Ring" Brescott

There had been a fifth name on that list, but it was crossed off. The

Shadow remembered that name quite well. It was "Pinkey" Findlen, final

"finger" of the crooked group that had once styled itself "The Hand". They had

fled New York.

Those crooks had become lone wolves. Pinkey Findlen had returned to New

York to head a blackmail racket. That had been his finish, for The Shadow had

crossed Pinkey's trail. (Note: See "The Hand" Vol. XXV No. 6)

Ever since, The Shadow had been expecting moves from the other four. He

had managed to keep close track of three, who had presumably retired from

crime, and were accounted for at present. But the fourth had staged a

vanishing act in California, and reports indicated that he might have headed

east through Old Mexico.

That fourth man was "Ring" Brescott. It was significant that Ring had

been the murder specialist in the group that called itself The Hand. That

offered a definite link to the crimes in Philadelphia. Unquestionably, the man

behind them was skilled in ways of murder, for he had completely covered all

his kills, until Harry Vincent had caught that lucky inkling of how one was

produced.

No one in all crimedom was more likely to be the master murderer than

Ring Brescott.

Reaching Ring would be no easy task, even for The Shadow. The mobster was

a human chameleon, who had often demonstrated his ability to slip from sight.

One thing upon which Ring prided himself was his ability to pick up any

language. That had enabled him to recruit his murder squads from all races. It

told, too, how Ring had so easily managed that fade-out in Mexico. He could

have passed himself beyond the border as a genuine Latin-blooded gentleman

from Mexico City.

The Shadow checked the name of Ring Brescott. Then his hands reached for

a pair of earphones. A tiny signal light glowed on the sanctum wall. A voice

came over the wire, quiet-toned:

"Burbank speaking."

"Instructions to Vincent," voiced The Shadow, in whispered tone. "Call on

close friends of Louis Rulland, posing as an acquaintance from New York. Learn

facts concerning Rulland. Prepare report at nine o'clock tonight."

The bluish light vanished, along with the spot of glow upon the wall. A

laugh filled the sanctum, bringing strange shudders that faded into

nothingness. That mirth boded ill for men of evil.

SOON afterward, Harry Vincent received a long-distance call from Burbank.

Burbank was the contact man between The Shadow and his agent. Finishing his

conversation, Harry promptly left his suite at the Hotel Penn-Delphia and

began a tour, in accordance with Burbank's relayed orders.

Harry wasn't familiar with Philadelphia, but the checkerboard pattern of

the streets made it easy to reach the required destination. Moreover, he found

it quite a simple matter to talk to the persons whom he met.

Rulland's death was the talk of the city, particularly among the dead

man's friends. Rulland hadn't been entirely a playboy; he had actually managed

some of the business of his grandfather's mills.

Hence, Harry found several business men who had known Rulland quite well.

They accepted Harry's statement that he had known the dead man, and took time

out to voice their knowledge of Rulland's affairs.

By mid-afternoon, Harry was convinced of one important fact: Louis

Rulland had been the favored grandson among a dozen possible heirs to his

grandfather's wealth. With Rulland dead, the estate would be equally divided

among the rest. As nearly as Harry could calculate it, each recipient would

gain approximately a quarter of a million dollars.

Such a sum would be sufficient for a treacherous relative to have brought

about Rulland's death. But after that discovery, Harry struck an obstacle.

According to his various informants, Harry learned that all of Rulland's

cousins were either "fine people" or "no good", depending upon the personal

view of the men who described them. Furthermore, it developed that all of them

either lived away from Philadelphia, or were out of town. To find the actual

betrayer would be like picking a bad egg from a basket of newly laid ones.

Hoping for a more helpful opinion, Harry made his last call of the

afternoon. He entered an office building in South Penn Square, rode to the

tenth floor, and reached the office of George Thelden, an insurance broker.

Thelden was a long-faced, dark-haired man of deliberate tone and

expression, as somber as the old-fashioned private office that he occupied.

His business was one that had been started by his uncle, and Thelden had many

of the social contacts that counted heavily in Philadelphia.

Rulland had been one of Thelden's regular clients. The insurance man

stated that in a drawling tone, then came to a fact that interested Harry.

"I saw Lou only an hour before he died," declared Thelden. "He was just

leaving the Lotus Club, on Camac Street. He was going to a parking lot, to get

his car and drive out to Bala.

"I'm afraid"--Thelden shook his head--"that Lou had taken too many

drinks. He must have, or he wouldn't have gone east over the Girard Avenue

Bridge. He should have driven out through the park, toward Belmont Avenue."

Harry questioned Thelden casually regarding Rulland's relatives. Thelden

was apparently unacquainted with any of them. That ended the interview.

Thelden saw Harry to the door of the outer office, and shook hands.

THERE wasn't a change of expression on Thelden's drab face as he turned

about and walked toward the inner office. He stopped long enough, however, to

speak to a dull-eyed stenographer, who sat at a typewriter in the corner

erasing mistakes that she had made in an insurance report.

"I expect another caller, Miss Deems," declared Thelden, dryly. "His name

is Howard Dembrick. Usher him into my office, when he gives his name." Then,

gesturing to a daily calendar, Thelden added: "You had better make a note of

it, Miss Deems. The name is Howard Dembrick."

Reaching the inner office, Thelden closed the door in his slow-mannered

style. From then on, his attitude changed. His long lips spread in an ugly

grin; his teeth gave a choppy, vicious bite, as he chewed off the tip of a

cigar.

Flicking his cigar lighter, Thelden stood by the window gazing

contemptuously toward the tiny human figures that trod the broad sidewalks

surrounding Philadelphia's massive, graystone city hall. He watched them going

in and out through the arched portals that offered passage to an inner

courtyard, the convenient short-cut that many persons used.

Those pedestrians reminded Thelden of ants, in and out of their hill. In

his opinion, their courses were as haphazard as those of insects. He didn't

care what purposes inspired them. Thelden was callused in that regard.

His gloating brain was obsessed by the desire to reach out a hand and

crush masses of those pygmy figures. That, of course, was impossible; and

Thelden was sane enough to recognize it. But his smile told that he at least

knew ways in which human beings could be eliminated one by one.

It was unfortunate that Harry Vincent was no longer present to observe

that leer. From it, The Shadow's agent might have learned the truth.

George Thelden, though not the big-shot who manipulated crime, was the

actual murderer of Louis Rulland!

CHAPTER III

THE NEXT VISITOR

IT was after five o'clock when Howard Dembrick arrived at Thelden's

office. The visitor was a portly man, whose wide face bulged outward from

beneath a derby hat. At Thelden's invitation, Dembrick hung his hat on a rack.

Seating himself, he planked his fattish hands upon the insurance broker's

desk.

"I'm a real estate operator, Mr. Thelden," announced Dembrick in a rumbly

voice, loud enough to be heard in the outside office. "I've got an option on a

couple of blocks of homes, and I want fire insurance for all of them."

Thelden pressed a buzzer, summoning Miss Deems. The next fifteen minutes

were spent in fixing the insurance rates on the houses mentioned. The whole

amount totaled twenty-five hundred dollars.

Dembrick wrote out a check for that amount. Thelden added it to a batch

of others, gave them all to the stenographer, telling her to deposit them in

bank. Thelden's bank evidently had night hours, for Miss Deems left the office

a short while later.

When the outer door had closed, Dembrick shoved a big hand along the

desk, straightened his thumb and fingers, so that Thelden would notice them.

The insurance broker placed his own hand beside Dembrick's, spreading it in

similar fashion.

Each hand crawled forward, doubling its little finger from sight. Perhaps

that was a tribute to the notorious Pinkey Findlen, no longer a member of The

Hand. It might also have been done to call attention to the ring finger of

each hand, for both Thelden and Dembrick sported a diamond solitaire.

At any rate, the signal was sufficient. It brought smiles to the lips of

both participants.

"A good job you did yesterday," commended Dembrick, his rumble lowered to

an undertone. "Ring Brescott liked it. He wanted me to ask you about the

alibi, though. How did it work?"

"Perfectly!" assured Thelden. "Rulland left the Lotus Club at

four-thirty. I met him, and started out to Bala with him. When we were on a

secluded drive, I told him I thought we had a flat. He stopped. That's when I

gave it."

"And afterward?"

"I met the cab that trailed us, and was back here by five-ten. I'd set

the office clock a half hour slow. I told Miss Deems to note the time when I

made an important call. She did."

Dembrick gave a broad-jawed grin. He didn't have to ask if Thelden had

later set the clock ahead to its right time. He could guess that the insurance

broker had done so.

Through Miss Deems, Thelden would have a perfect alibi for his story that

he had seen Rulland at half past four but that he had come immediately to his

own office. The set-back clock would show but little past that time.

Dembrick had information that he knew would interest Thelden.

"WHIZ Birsch did a slick job," stated the pretended real estate man.

"Ring knew he would, because Whiz used to be a stunt driver. He dumped that

car through the bridge in A-1 style. Nobody spotted his getaway."

Thelden nodded. The news pleased him. It fitted with the accounts in the

newspapers; but Thelden had worried a bit, fearing that the police had held

something back.

So you get your twenty-five hundred bucks," complimented Dembrick. A nice

price for croaking a guy. Ring always says it's worth while to pay high. Only,

what was the idea of banking the dough?"

"That's the best part of it," returned Thelden. "Those houses you talked

about are real, aren't they?"

"Sure, they are," returned Dembrick. "But I'm not going to close the

option I have on them. That's through, inside of thirty days."

"The same with the insurance policies," declared Thelden. "They'll be

issued by the company, but I don't have to settle, until the end of the month.

When that time comes, I'll have the policies canceled, saying you didn't pay

up.

"Meanwhile, if anything goes wrong, I can cover the emergency by actually

letting the policies stand. In that case, you'll have to close the options.

I'll pay the insurance company, you'll have the houses. Your check will stand

as proof that the transaction was legitimate, rather than my payoff for

bumping Rulland."

There was confidence in Thelden's tone; and the set-up pleased Dembrick.

Behind both of them stood a hidden power in the person of Ring Brescott.

The murder manipulator was fat with wealth that he had gained through

crime. Such matters as buying blocks of residences and paying insurance on

them were all within Ring's ability. He was always ready to cover for "fronts"

like Dembrick, or actual killers like Thelden.

Those two, however, were but part of Ring's organization. There were

others, like "Whiz" Birsch, who drew regular salaries for cover-up work. Jobs

went through smoothly with this out-fit, and that made it worth while for

Thelden and others to do murder for twenty-five hundred dollars, although they

knew that Ring Brescott grossed many times that amount.

Thelden was ready to close the office.

He was rising from his desk, when the telephone bell rang. Thelden held a

brief conversation; his eyes narrowed when he hung up.

"Funny thing, that call," Thelden told Dembrick. "It was from a young

lawyer named Lee, who used to know Rulland."

"Yeah? What did he want?"

"He asked if a chap named Vincent had dropped in to see me. So I told him

that he had."

"Who's Vincent?"

Dembrick's question brought a shrug from Thelden.

"I don't just know," admitted Thelden, reverting to his drawling tone.

"He comes from New York, and claims he was a friend of Rulland. It looks like

he's been making the rounds."

"That's bad," growled Dembrick. "Maybe he's a dick."

"I don't think so," returned Thelden, his eyes fixed in a murderous gaze.

"I'd like to meet him again, though!"

A few seconds later, Thelden's expression had changed. He clapped

Dembrick on the back and suggested that they ought to have a drink together,

since Dembrick had become one of Thelden's customers.

IT was dusk when the pair came from the building. They crossed Fifteenth

Street, entered one of the narrow alleys that lie between Market and Chestnut.

Their destination was a rathskeller, half a block ahead.

They hadn't gone that far before Thelden gripped Dembrick's arm. Quickly,

the murderer shoved the portly man into a doorway and whispered:

"Take a quick look through! See if there's a way out on the other side."

Dembrick took a look. He was back in ten seconds to say that there was an

outlet. The news pleased Thelden.

"Good stuff!" he whispered. "See that fellow coming along the side alley?

I thought I recognized him, and I was right. It's Vincent!"

At that moment, Harry crossed the alley directly in front of the doorway

where the pair lurked. Harry was heading for a little chophouse that had been

recommended as a good place for dinner. Thelden saw where The Shadow's agent

was going.

"So he likes chops, huh?" gritted Thelden. "That's great! Here's where I

chop him down!"

With a snakish whip, Thelden hauled a revolver from his hip and aimed it

straight for Harry. His finger paused upon the trigger, to give it an expert

squeeze. Another second would have meant death for Harry, if intervention

hadn't come. It was Dembrick who supplied that interference.

Thelden's momentary pause gave Dembrick a chance to clamp his big hand on

the gun. Not only did Dembrick divert the aim; his fist covered the revolver

muzzle. As Thelden snarled, Dembrick hauled him back into the doorway.

By the time Thelden had wrested free, Harry had entered the chophouse.

"I ought to drill you, Dembrick!" grated Thelden. "'What was the idea,

stopping me? Are you yellow?"

"If I was," retorted Dembrick, "I wouldn't have put my mitt over the

muzzle. I didn't want to see you act the sap, that was all."

"How was I a sap?"

"You were going to spoil a good job for somebody," reminded Dembrick.

"Maybe for yourself. Ring don't pay for a croak unless he orders it. Why throw

twenty-five hundred bucks into the gutter?"

The logic appeased Thelden. He pocketed his gun, followed Dembrick from

the doorway. When they reached the rathskeller, they resumed their discussion

in undertone, at a table secluded in a corner.

"I'LL tell Ring about this fellow Vincent," promised Dembrick. "If he

wants the guy rubbed out, the job will probably be yours. There's a chance,

however "--Dembrick sidelonged a wary glance as he spoke--"that Ring won't

want Vincent croaked."

Thelden seemed disinterested. His murderous spasm had passed. With

Thelden, killing was a matter of impulse that he had long restrained. Working

for Ring had given him the enjoyable privilege of cutting loose on occasion.

Nevertheless, the cash counted.

"Of course," added Dembrick, "if Vincent knows too much, Ring will grab

him. But a job like that belongs to Whiz and those salaried boys of his."

"That's right enough," agreed Thelden, "but they do a little trigger

work, now and then.

"Not if they can help it," reminded Dembrick; "Ring don't like it, unless

there's no other out. Sometimes he docks their pay, when they get too flip.

Only, you know how things happen, sometimes.

"Anyway, leave Vincent to Ring. If the guy's harmless, it would be

foolish to croak him. If he's the other way and Ring grabs him, he won't want

to let him go, and he can't keep him forever. That'll mean a soft job for you,

later, and you know how the rule goes. Full price for every croak!"

The anticipation pleased George Thelden. He and Howard Dembrick bumped

glasses in a silent toast to death that both regarded as a future certainty.

Later, when they were having their fourth drink, Dembrick asked, casually:

"Where is this fellow Vincent stopping? Did he tell you?"

"He did," returned Thelden. "He's at the Penn-Delphia."

From the looks that the pair exchanged, it was plain that Harry Vincent

would find plenty of excitement in Philadelphia, before this evening ended.

CHAPTER IV

HARRY TALKS FAST

AT half past eight, Harry Vincent returned to the Hotel Penn-Delphia,

intending to write out his report for The Shadow. He found the lobby crowded

with men and women dressed in evening clothes, and learned that a fashionable

ball was scheduled for the evening.

All seemed very quiet when Harry reached the eighth floor. He followed

the carpeted corridor to his small suite and unlocked the door.

There had been no single rooms when Harry checked into the hotel. He had

been given the suite at a reduced rate, partly because of its poor location.

The windows of both the living room and bedroom opened into a narrow space,

with the wall of an older hotel on the opposite side.

During the day, the rooms were anything but cheery, but at night, it

didn't matter. That, at least, was Harry's opinion.

Stopping in the living room, Harry pulled a fountain pen from his pocket

and sat down at a writing desk. The pen was provided with the special ink that

Harry used in writing messages to The Shadow. Though he intended to write in

code, inscribing a message that would fade on exposure to air, Harry was

cautious, nevertheless.

He had hardly placed his pen to paper, before he decided that a look into

the bedroom would be advisable. Rising from the desk, he opened the connecting

door and turned on the lights. Seeing no one, Harry decided it would be

unnecessary to look into the clothes closet.

As Harry turned off the lights and stepped back into the living room,

there was a slight sound from the closet door. Harry didn't hear it, for he

had closed the door between. By the time he reached the writing desk, the

connecting door gave a click; but that, too, escaped Harry's attention.

Coding messages to The Shadow wasn't an easy task. They had to be thought

out carefully, for there was no chance to read back over them, and rapid

writing was essential. Unless folded and tucked in an envelope by the time the

ink was dry, the messages would obliterate themselves before being

dispatched.

That was why Harry paused and raised his head in momentary thought. The

action fixed his eyes upon the wall in front of him. A small mirror happened

to be directly before his gaze. It gave him the reflection of the door from

the bedroom.

For a moment, Harry thought his imagination was at work. The reflected

door gave a tremble. It stopped, as he stared more steadily; but this time,

Harry wasn't fooled.

The door had opened, to the space of about an inch.

THOUGH he saw nothing through that crack of reflected darkness, Harry

felt a distinct impression that an eye was watching him. The situation called

for cool headwork, and Harry provided it. Concentrating upon the paper before

him, he slid his left hand across the front of his body and beneath his coat.

Expecting possible trouble, Harry had packed an automatic in his right

hip pocket. The cold touch of the weapon gave him reassurance. He was gripping

it left-handed, but that did not matter. Harry could handle a gun reasonably

well with his left hand.

All the while, he was pretending to write a note; a ruse which he felt

sure would deceive the hidden observer.

Then came action.

Shifting forward, Harry sped to his feet, giving his chair a backward

kick. He spun around to the right, drawing his gun as he made the twist. It

wasn't until he was full about that he realized his one mistake.

He should either have wheeled to his left, to bring his gun ahead of him;

or, in turning to the right, he should have shifted his body, holding the gun

almost stationary.

Instead, Harry tried a long draw. It was not only belated; his automatic

hooked his vest. The tug he gave it sent his arm wide. Instead of covering the

connecting door, Harry's aim was thirty degrees off.

There was no time to correct that error.

A glimmering revolver had poked through the space at the door. Its muzzle

was straight for Harry's heart. A slim, white finger was tightening on the gun

trigger!

Something--Harry didn't know what--caused The Shadow's agent to let his

fingers loosen. Harry's gun flipped from his grasp; by the time it thudded the

floor, his arms were half raised. That sudden surrender halted the trigger

finger at the doorway. By the briefest of margins, Harry had stayed his own

execution.

The door swung open. It was then that Harry realized why he had acted as

he did. His glimpse of the gun, of the hand with it, had instinctively told

him that he was not menaced by a murderous adversary. The revolver was small;

so was the hand.

Harry's foe was a girl.

SHE stepped into the living room, and Harry forgot his predicament when

he saw her. Seldom had he seen a young woman of such exquisite appearance.

A brunette, her hair seemed ebony against the ivory hue of her face. Her

features were perfect in their oval mold; her eyes, sparkling in their

blackness, had long, droopy lashes that gave her a languid gaze more suited to

romance than hostility.

Those eyes, however, showed no love for Harry.

Calmly, Harry waited. He didn't have to guess where the girl had come

from. She was beautifully gowned in a golden lame frock, which was

unquestionably the latest of Parisian creations. Her sandals were adorned with

sequins, to match her gown; and from his recollection of the throng in the

lobby, Harry knew that she was one of the many guests who had come to the

ball.

Bare-armed, her shoulders visible above the low-necked gown, the girl

appeared slender, almost frail, as she approached. Again, the snap of her dark

eyes reminded Harry that it would be dangerous to underestimate her

determination. The girl had questions to ask, and she expected rapid answers.

The first question came in a low, tense alto, that lacked any semblance

of a quaver:

"What do you know about Louis Rulland?"

"Nothing," replied Harry, promptly, "except that he was killed

yesterday."

"You claimed to be a friend of his," declared the girl. "Were you?"

"No," returned Harry. "But I told persons that I was."

"Why?"

"To learn something about him."

"Because?"

The single-worded question was sharp. In that moment, Harry made an

instant decision in favor of the truth.

"Because I believe," he declared, "that Louis Rulland was murdered!"

It was a long chance, that answer, and Harry knew it. Some one of social

standing had paid for Rulland's death, and it was possible that even so

beautiful a girl could have been concerned in the case. But Harry was

following the same hunch that he had used when he flung away his gun.

The sparkle of the dark eyes was what guided him. Somehow, they carried a

flash of vengeance, with indignation. It wasn't the sort of look that would

come with thoughts of crime. The girl, Harry was sure, had chosen the same

quest as himself. She was in search of Rulland's murderer.

Harry's own eyes must have registered the sincerity of his answer. His

clean-cut features carried a frank expression, and Harry Vincent seldom had to

convince people when he spoke the truth. For the first time, the girl's nerve

broke. She lowered her gun, as she gave a choky sob.

A few minutes later she was seated in an armchair near the writing desk,

forcing back her tears as she told her story to Harry.

"My name is Isabel Rendolf," she declared. Then, frankly: "I loved Louis

Rulland!"

Harry nodded sympathetically. He had expected that statement, after he

heard Isabel's first sob.

"Lou had his faults," the girl continued, "but he kept his promises. He

told me he would stop drinking, and I knew he had. That crash of his couldn't

have been an accident.

"Today, I talked with two of his friends. That's how I learned that you

had called on them. One of them telephoned some others for me and learned that

you had seen them, also.

"It made me suspicious, coming so soon after Lou's death. That's why I

came here, instead of going to the ballroom. I had learned where you

were--through the friends I mentioned--and I wanted to make you talk."

Harry felt urged to tell Isabel why he had been investigating Rulland's

death. He knew that she would be overjoyed to learn that so powerful an ally

as The Shadow was engaged in a search for the murderer. But Harry had to

retain that information for the present.

"Be assured, Miss Rendolf," he declared, "that if I were in any way

concerned with the cause of Rulland's death, I would not be in Philadelphia at

present. As a matter of fact, I was coming into town at the exact time of the

accident on the bridge. That is how I happened to see it."

Dark eyes widened. From beautiful, expressive lips came the breathless

question:

"You saw the accident, and you believe--"

"I believe that you are right," interposed Harry. "Louis Rulland was

murdered. If I have your confidence, I am willing to investigate further, and

later tell you all that I have learned."

The declaration satisfied Isabel. She subdued her curiosity, not even

asking the details that Harry had witnessed. She started to place her revolver

in Harry's hand, remarking that she could not very well carry it to the ball,

and would therefore appreciate it if he would keep the gun for her.

At that moment, some one rapped at the other side of the door to the

hallway.

Hastily, Harry pointed Isabel to the inner room, whispering for her to

keep the revolver for the present. Picking up his own gun, Harry stepped to

the outer door just as the rapped summons came again.

Whoever the new caller might be, this time, Harry Vincent was ready in

advance.

CHAPTER V

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MURDERFORSALEtoallwhohadtheprice!Buttherewasonewhofinallystoppedthesebargainsofdeath:TheShadow!CHAPTERIOVERTHEBRIDGETHEfouro'clockexpressfromNewYorkwasrollingintoPhiladelphia.HauledbyoneofthePennsylvania'shugeelectriclocomotives,ithadreachedtheNorthPhiladelphiastationonthedotof5:28.Atthispreciseminu...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 153 - Murder For Sale

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