Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 136 - The Keeper's Gold

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THE KEEPER'S GOLD
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH BRINGS DEATH
? CHAPTER II. CREDIT TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER III. CROOKS TURN SLEUTHS
? CHAPTER IV. THE FEUD BEGINS
? CHAPTER V. STABS IN DARKNESS
? CHAPTER VI. AT THE PIER
? CHAPTER VII. ALONG THE WATER FRONT
? CHAPTER VIII. UNFINISHED EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER IX. FROM UNDER COVER
? CHAPTER X. CROOKS FIND THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW TALKS
? CHAPTER XII. THE VANQUISHED PRISONER
? CHAPTER XIII. NIGHT IN WHITECHAPEL
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW UNSEEN
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW STEPS OUT
? CHAPTER XVI. THE OPENED PATH
? CHAPTER XVII. CROOKS TURN TABLES
? CHAPTER XVIII. TROUBLE BELOW
? CHAPTER XIX. THE MASTER MOVES
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME BROUGHT TO LIGHT
CHAPTER I. DEATH BRINGS DEATH
THE dreary-faced man was worried. He showed it by his shakiness. His oldish, withery countenance
was pale; his eyes stared fearfully, as they looked from the window of the taxicab.
Even a cab ride was a new experience to him, for when the taxi stopped in front of a modest apartment
house, he kept gawking from the window. The cabby nudged a thumb toward the number above the
lighted entry, with the comment:
"Here we are, sport. This is the address you gave me."
The dreary man nodded. He was unfamiliar with this portion of Manhattan; but the driver was right about
the number. Alighting, the oldish passenger produced an ancient leather purse and counted out the fare in
dimes and nickels.
Uncertainly, he stepped into the entry ran a shaky forefinger down the list of name cards. He read the
name of "C. Darringer"; after some hesitation, he pressed the button beside it. A brisk voice came
through a speaking tube:
"Hello? Who's there?"
"It's Frower," replied the dreary man, in a hoarse tone. "I'd like to see you, Mr. Darringer."
"Certainly! Come on up."
Frower seemed puzzled when the automatic buzzer sounded from the door lock; but at last he grasped
the idea that he was supposed to push the door inward. A few seconds later, he was on his way up to
Darringer's apartment.
Upstairs, Darringer was awaiting his visitor. Frower recognized the tall tuxedo-clad man and gave a smile
of relief. There was no mistaking Chet Darringer. He was tall, lithe of build and possessed of features that
were unquestionably handsome.
Chet Darringer looked young. His wide-set eyes, well-molded nose and tapering chin were types that
could retain a youthful appearance. His lips, though, had an even set: a half smile that denoted worldly
experience. Darringer's past career was a far longer one than most people, including Frower, supposed.
Darringer closed the door. He studied Frower mildly, as the dreary man sank in a chair. Stepping to a
table, Darringer poured out a glass of liquor.
"A drink, Frower?"
"No, no, Mr. Darringer," protested Frower, nervously. "Mr. Wimbell would not approve, sir! He was a
teetotaler."
"You speak of Ichabod Wimbell as though he were still alive."
DARRINGER'S casual remark made Frower start. He clutched the arms of his chair and craned
forward. Frower was dressed in plain black; his pose made him look crowlike. His voice, too, resembled
a raven's croak.
"Mr. Wimbell is dead," pronounced Frower, solemnly. "Of that, I'm sure, sir. He died three days ago. He
was buried yesterday. But his ghost—"
Frower faltered. Darringer eyed him, puzzled; took the drink himself. Jokingly, he chided:
"Come, Frower! Don't tell me that Ichabod Wimbell is haunting that old house of his. You haven't seen
his spook, have you?"
"No, sir," admitted Frower. "But I've heard things. Sounds that were never in that house during the six
years I was servant to Mr. Wimbell!"
Darringer picked up a newspaper that was two days old. He pointed to a portrait on the front page; the
picture showed an elderly man with side whiskers.
" 'Retired lawyer dies'," quoted Darringer. " 'Ichabod Wimbell, long active in defending criminal cases.'
Wouldn't this picture look funny, Frower, with headlines saying that a ghost haunts an old brownstone
mansion? Fancy it; a spook in New York!"
Frower tried to smile as he shook his head. Any show of mirth was difficult for the old servant.
"Perhaps I'm overstrained," he declared. "But I moved into that house with Mr. Wimbell. He was a sick
man then, sir. But there were six years passed; six quiet years. Until last night, when those sounds began."
"What sort of sounds?"
"Creeping sounds. Whispers. Tinkles, like chains."
"In Wimbell's room?"
"No, sir. I heard them mostly on the ground floor. I thought that they could come up from the cellar,
through the old hot-air registers. But I went down cellar, Mr. Darringer. It was empty there."
Darringer nodded sympathetically, as he poured himself another drink. Frower reached his fingers into a
tight vest pocket and drew out a crumpled slip of paper.
"You gave me this, at the funeral," the servant told Darringer. "It was your address, here. You were a
friend of Mr. Wimbell; and the only one of his friends who cared what might become of me."
"I told you to come and see me," acknowledged Darringer, "in case you decided to leave the old house."
"That's right, sir. That's why I've come. I can't go back there. I want your advice."
"You have money?"
"A thousand dollars in the savings bank. Some cash"— Frower tapped his pocket— "that I brought with
me."
Darringer studied the dreary servant. He seemed considerate of Frower's plight, for he spoke soothingly:
"Go to a small hotel. Get out and see things, Frower. Go to the movies; they talk nowadays, you know.
Not like the old silent pictures that were probably the last you ever saw. I'll have a place for you, in less
than a month. In less than a week."
THERE was a mirror directly behind Darringer. Frower could not see it, for in his enthusiasm, Darringer
stepped in front of the looking glass. Hence Frower did not observe what happened behind his own
back.
An inner door was opening. From it crept a blocky, square-faced man whose expression showed a
devilish gloat. In his fist, the approaching man carried a heavy knife, almost as large as a Filipino bolo.
The ugly intruder nodded toward Darringer.
"In a week, Frower," promised Darringer, his tone louder. "I guarantee it. A better job than you had with
Wimbell. Better hours; better pay."
Darringer's enthusiasm was contagious. Frower's eyes lighted. He believed the promise. It was what he
had wanted. Darringer extended his hand; Frower rose to accept it, expressing his full gratitude:
"Thank you, Mr. Darringer, again and again! You've told me what I've hoped for; I'll never go back to
that old house—"
Frower spoke the truth in his interrupted sentence. The creeping assassin had closed upon him, with
high-raised hand. The bolo descended with two hundred pounds of driving weight behind it. The blade
buried its length in Frower's back.
The stroke sprawled the servant at Darringer's feet. The servant's words were ended; but he croaked
spasmodic gasps. Darringer eyed him pitilessly; watched the blocky man remove the blade and wipe it.
Then, in his suavest tone, Darringer complimented:
"Good work, Hacker! Have a drink."
"Hacker" accepted the invitation, while Darringer watched Frower's motions end and heard the servant's
last cough. Darringer's pleased smile showed that he relished sight of murder. Hacker supplied the
growled suggestion:
"Let's scram, Chet."
Darringer eyed the chunky man with disappointed air.
"Why the hurry?" he questioned smoothly. "I thought that Hacker Torgan always took his time."
"Generally I do," growled Hacker. "Only Slick Hendry's waitin' for us tonight."
"That's so. Very well, Hacker. Pocket those glasses while I take the bottle. I want this slip, too"— he
tugged the crumpled paper from Frower's dead hand— "and remind me, Hacker, to remove my name
card from the front entry."
Darringer donned a pair of kid gloves; he opened the door and turned out the light. Darkness enclosed
the scene of death, as soon as the murderous pair had departed.
SOME minutes later, a faint, almost inaudible sound occurred at the door. The barrier eased open; but
no light came from the hall. A blackened figure was blocking it.
A tiny flashlight shone; its rays turned toward Frower's body. The light lingered; then extinguished.
The door closed softly. A hand pressed the wall switch. Once again, the scene was lighted; this time, the
room showed a figure far more sinister than the killers who had so recently left. The lone visitor was a
being cloaked in black. His burning eyes shone from beneath the brim of a slouch hat.
The Shadow, master crime-hunter, had found this spot of murder.
Keenly, The Shadow began a prompt investigation. He examined doorknob and light switch for search of
finger prints. He found none, for Darringer had used gloves. Nor did the inner door reveal the wanted
traces. Darringer had left that door ajar when he put Hacker in the hiding place.
Searching Frower's pockets, The Shadow learned nothing more; not even the man's name. The servant
had not carried a single paper of identification of his own; nor anything that linked him with the dead
lawyer, Ichabod Wimbell.
The Shadow's one clue was the huge, gory knife-thrust that marked Frower's back.
That was enough to identify the slayer as Hacker Torgan.
To-night, ever-vigilant agents of The Shadow had spotted Hacker in New York. The man was a killer
who had been absent for several years. Agents had lost Hacker's trail in this vicinity. The Shadow,
arriving later, had approached this apartment house from the back.
He had seen a light go out in this apartment; but before he could enter, a cab had driven away, on the
front street. That cab had carried Hacker and some companion. The Shadow knew that some one other
than Hacker had been concerned; for the bolo murderer would have been too clumsy to cover the trail
himself.
The apartment was obviously a furnished one that was at present untenanted. The Shadow observed dust
on tables— something that Frower would have noticed, if he had been less nervous.
Looking at Frower's body, The Shadow decided that the dead man had been decoyed to the apartment,
believing that a friend lived here.
THE SHADOW'S surmise was correct. Chet Darringer had used the apartment only for this evening.
Moreover, Chet, of all crooks, would be the hardest for The Shadow to link with this murder. Chet was
a confidence man, not a killer. His connection with Hacker was unknown.
The link between the two lay deep in the past. Even The Shadow's files did not hold evidence of it. The
Shadow still had only a single lead: Hacker Torgan.
Behind this murder of Frower lay deeper crime. That much was certain to The Shadow; for he knew
Hacker to be a hired killer, who slew at the behest of big-shots. More, therefore, lay at stake than
vengeance against Hacker. The Shadow intended to regain Hacker's trail, and use it to reach those higher
up in crime.
The Shadow turned out the light. He moved silently from the room of death. His departure was the
beginning of a quest; one that promised results, since Hacker did not suspect that The Shadow was on
his trail. Yet The Shadow, himself, did not foresee the odd circumstances that were to delay his efforts.
Before this night was ended, The Shadow was to figure deeply in the plans and affairs of criminals whom
he sought. That situation, however, was to come about without The Shadow knowing it.
Strangely, The Shadow, without a single move, would bring terror to the hearts of murderous crooks!
CHAPTER II. CREDIT TO THE SHADOW
LESS than one hour after the murder of Frower, three men were riding in a dark sedan. They were
approaching a row of old brownstone houses that stood west of Broadway.
The dashlight showed a sharp face above the wheel; shrewd, pointed features that were sallow. The
driver of the sedan was "Slick" Hendry, one of the smartest bank robbers who had ever souped a safe.
Beside Slick rode Chet Darringer. Hacker Torgan was leaning forward from the back seat.
Slick's sallow face showed relish at Chet's description of Frower's death. There was only one point that
brought a sour query on Slick's part.
"What made the old geezer come to you?" he asked. "You took a long chance, counting on that, Chet."
"He was jittery living alone in the house," replied Chet. "I figured that he would be."
Hacker voiced details from the back seat.
"The mug heard noises," he told Slick. "He was beefin' about 'em to Chet."
"Noises?" Slick shot a glance toward Chet. "How'd that come about?"
Chet shrugged.
"Don't ask me," he answered. "Frower said he heard them— that's all I know. Slow up, Slick. Here's the
back way to the house."
The trio reached the back door of the old mansion by way of a narrow passage. They effected a slow
entry; then began a tour of the ground floor. They were careful with their flashlights; but when they
reached a side parlor, Chet risked a glow that showed a huge portrait on the wall.
The picture portrayed Ichabod Wimbell, in life size. Slick snorted when he saw the side whiskers.
"The Keeper was a smart guy," he grunted. "Nobody would ever have figured a gink with that get-up to
be a mastermind."
"He was, though," commented Chet. "Park yourself, Slick. This is as good a place as any to talk things
over. Those windows are shuttered. Nobody can spot a glim."
Chet stood his flashlight on a table so that it served as an improvised lamp. He looked at Slick and
Hacker; then began to speak in an easy, reminiscent tone.
"SIX years ago," declared Chet, "there were five of us; and we knew our stuff. Everything was our gravy,
with plenty of mazuma coming from the bootleg racket. There was one chap, though, who was wiser than
all five of us together."
"The Keeper," interposed Slick. "He was the brain. He made us shove him a big pile of the swag, and he
put it away for us. It ought to run a half million a piece, the way gold's gone up."
"We never saw The Keeper," reminded Chet. "He told the five of us to come here and see the swag, in
the vault. There were envelopes for each of us. When we locked that vault, we each had part of the
combination."
Slick and Hacker remembered it, as their nods proved.
"The Keeper knew that the racket was finished," continued Chet. "He was one brain who knew when to
quit. One big-shot that The Shadow was after and never landed."
Turning, Chet pointed to Wimbell's picture; he gave a short laugh as he remarked:
"After the gold was stored, Wimbell moved in here. That gave us our first guess as to who The Keeper
was. I stayed in New York; dropped in to see Wimbell every now and then, but I never mentioned a
word of the past. The rest of you went your way."
"And two of us kept out of trouble," added Slick. "Hacker and I were wise. Louie Ricklo and Matt
Wilgan were dubs to try the snatch racket. That's why they're in stir."
"What does it matter?" questioned Chet. "They'll be out in time to get their share. We'll move the gold to
a spot of our own."
"Let's go," decided Slick. He picked up Chet's flashlight, focused it toward Wimbell's picture. "Well, old
Keeper, you were wise, except for one thing. You said to wait ten years for the divvy date, and you
didn't last that long."
Though it was six years since he had been in the house, Slick had no trouble finding the door he wanted.
It led to the cellar; when they arrived there, Slick went toward an old furnace near the far wall. There
was just space for the three to wedge past; Hacker found it a tight squeeze. There was space behind the
furnace, however, for the wall was set in.
Slick worked on the wall; found crevices and jammed a knife blade into the right one. There was a
muffled click; a narrow section swung inward like a door. The trio stepped into a musty crypt.
Slick's flashlight showed a large vault in the foundations of the house.
Slick crowded close in front and turned his share of the combination. He passed the flashlight to Chet,
who provided his portion of the process. Hacker came last. He finished some turns of the knob; and
commented:
"That's mine."
Again, Hacker turned the dial backward and forward. He swung about, with a grin, remarking:
"That's Louie's. He slipped me his combo when I visited him in the big house, out in Joliet. An' here
comes Matt's. He spilled it when I seen him in Sing Sing.
Hacker applied the final turns. He left it to Slick to open the vault. The sallow crook pulled the big door;
splashed the rays of the flashlight into the vault. Slick's hand became rigid. An oath left his lips.
The curse was echoed by Chet and Hacker. The interior of the vault was empty.
"DOUBLE-CROSSED!" snarled Slick, swinging to his pals. "The Keeper was smarter than we thought!"
"Not a chance," put in Chet. "Old Wimbell never left this house. I kept tabs on him, Slick."
"Who grabbed the swag, then?" demanded Hacker. "It couldn't have sneaked out by itself."
It was up to Chet to figure the answer. Slowly, the tuxedoed crook reviewed the facts.
"Wimbell had no heirs," he declared. "There was nobody to whom he would have slipped the gold. He
was old, and sick. That's why we didn't have to worry about him having the whole combination. I'd say
that The Keeper played more than fair. He probably left his own share here for us to divide."
"Where is it then?" snapped Slick. "We can't make a five-way divvy with nothing."
"What about Frower?" growled Hacker. "He could have pulled something."
Chet shook his head.
"Not Frower," he said. "You saw how dumb he was to-night, Hacker. Everything was air-tight here, until
after Wimbell died and was buried -"
"And then?"
The question came from Slick.
"I couldn't stay too close to the house last night," replied Chet. "We had to wait until we could pull
Frower out. What's more, you fellows hadn't arrived in town. Say! I've just thought of something!"
"So have I," put in Slick. "Those noises that Frower said he heard! That was the gold, going out!"
There was no arguing the fact. Both Chet and Slick took it for granted, so Hacker concurred with them.
The proposition, however, brought new ideas.
"Old Wimbell was dead," declared Slick. "So it wasn't The Keeper—"
"But it was somebody as smart," added Chet. "This vault was supposed to be one that nobody could
crack."
It was Hacker who suggested the answer, in a vicious grow:
"The Shadow!"
THE dread name seemed to echo from the close walls of the stone crypt, as though Hacker's growl had
stirred invisible tongues. Slick's sallow face twitched; his beady eyes saw shakiness displayed by Chet.
The crook who had known The Keeper was pale and worried.
"It could have been The Shadow," admitted Chet, feebly. "If it was, that gold is gone. The Keeper
always thought he had bluffed The Shadow, but—"
"But maybe The Shadow bluffed him," interposed Slick, grimly. "Anyway, the vault's been picked clean.
Not a nickel in it. Nothing!"
As Slick spoke, he ran the flashlight along the stone floor of the vault. His eyes spied something that they
had not seen before. It was a piece of white paper, lying near the rear wall. Slick slid forward; plucked
the paper and brought it into the light.
The side that the three plotters saw was blank. Slick turned over the sheet; his lips emitted another
savage tone.
The under side of the paper bore a black-inked silhouette. It showed a hawkish profile above cloaked
shoulders. The head was topped by the black outline of a low-brimmed slouch hat.
The silhouette was a perfect portrayal of The Shadow as the underworld visualized him.
"It was The Shadow," confirmed Chet, in an awed tone. "He took The Keeper's gold. He knew we
would come here after it, and this is what he left for us!"
Hacker shifted uneasily toward the outlet to the furnace. Chet followed; Slick hesitated only long enough
to close the vault door and turn the combination. He crumpled the silhouette paper and thrust it into his
pocket. He hastened after his two pals.
When they were past the furnace, Chet regained his nerve. He told the others to wait while he closed the
section of the wall.
The crooks stampeded after that. They did not pause in the musty parlor to pay farewell respects to
Wimbell's side-whiskered portrait. With The Keeper dead, they were thinking of another personage
whom they knew to be very much alive: The Shadow.
Hurrying through the rear passage, they regained Slick's car. They were still puffing from their run when
the sedan nosed from a side street and headed south on Broadway, toward the welcome lights of Times
Square.
Slick Hendry, tough though he was, did not attempt to conceal the dread that he felt; and he was
confident that Chet Darringer and Hacker Torgan shared his sentiments.
AFTER a brief trip down Broadway, Slick gained nerve enough to seek new darkness. He swung the
sedan eastward, and stopped near a subway station. There, he voiced advice to his companions:
"Got a hide-out, Hacker?"
"Yeah. The old one, over on Third Avenue."
"Better stick there until you hear from me. I'll phone the cigar store next door."
Hacker slid from the car. The brawny murderer lost no time in getting out of range. Slick spoke to Chet:
"How are you fixed?"
"All right, Slick. I'm putting up a front, living at the Hotel Biltdorf. I'll take my chances."
"Working the con stuff?"
"Yes. In big style. I can get out of The Shadow's way."
Slick thrust out a paw to his crooked pal of many years' standing.
"S'long! Chet," he said. "I'll head for Frisco."
Chet stepped from the sedan; watched while Slick drove away. The tuxedoed confidence man indulged
in a light laugh; as he inserted a cigarette in a holder and strolled toward the bright lights of Times Square.
To-night, The Shadow had gained credit for a master stroke which he had not accomplished— the
capture of The Keeper's swag. That, indeed, was a triumph worthy of The Shadow. It had thrown a
scare into a pair of toughened underworld members: Slick Hendry and Hacker Torgan. It had failed,
however, to worry Chet Darringer, although his pretense had been perfect.
The silk-hat con man knew more about this latest victory of the cloaked avenger than did The Shadow
himself. Chet knew something else that The Shadow did not know. That was the present whereabouts of
The Keeper's gold.
There was one factor, however, on which Chet did not reckon. When buried crimes were unearthed,
The Shadow was remarkably capable of learning it. In the murder of Frower, Chet Darringer had
unwittingly arranged a trail that could lead through to Chet himself.
The Keeper's gold no longer lay beyond the reach of The Shadow.
CHAPTER III. CROOKS TURN SLEUTHS
FROWER'S murder made the next day's newspaper headlines. The police had found the body, following
an anonymous tip-off; and they started the machinery to learn the dead man's identity. Late in the
afternoon, a niece of Frower's came to the morgue and identified her dead uncle.
That took the trail to Wimbell's old mansion; and the police search ended there. Frower had left
everything tidy and shipshape. The house showed no signs of recent visitors; and there was no reason for
the law to suspect any. The police were chiefly concerned with Frower's few belongings. They wanted to
find out if the servant had been troubled by enemies.
At night, when the police were gone, The Shadow visited the house and found traces that the law had
overlooked. Fragmentary clues made him suspect the cellar. He discovered the space behind the furnace
and wedged his way into the little crypt.
It took The Shadow considerable time to open the supposedly impregnable vault. Finding it empty, The
Shadow departed, to study data that concerned old Ichabod Wimbell.
The deceased attorney had lived a picturesque career. He had defended various notorious criminals in
the law courts. There was nothing, however, to indicate that Wimbell's life had been impeachable.
Integrity had been his chief virtue.
Definitely, though, Wimbell had talked with crooks as their legal adviser. Under that cover, he could have
dealt secretly with criminals. Nearly seven years ago, Wimbell had announced his retirement. He had
purchased the old house and come to live there after spending a winter in the South.
Consulting crime annals of that period, The Shadow found that a dangerous band of crooks had ceased
operations just about that time. The Shadow had settled some of them before they disbanded; he had
been hot on the trail of others when they quit. After that, traces had ended.
In The Shadow's archives was mention of The Keeper, supposed head of the outlaw outfit. Filed with the
name was the supposition that The Keeper was so named because he held the bulk of the funds. Gold
was listed as a probability.
Thus, The Shadow's present assumption was that Hacker Torgan had been allied with The Keeper's
band. Through Hacker's trail, The Shadow might find others who had presumably profited through past
crimes. Members of that gang had stirred to action again, resulting in the murder of Frower.
The Shadow's agents were posted. They were watching all districts where Hacker had been known to
have hideouts. If the killer showed his nose unwarily in Manhattan, The Shadow would soon learn it.
ON the second night after Frower's death, there was a telephone call received in the pay booth of a small
cigar store on Third Avenue. The proprietor went up to the second floor; came down again, followed by
Hacker.
The blocky killer grunted a brief conversation. He left the cigar store and looked for a taxi. He found one
at the next corner. He told the driver to take him to the Hotel Spartan.
As soon as the cab had driven away, a hunch-shouldered man shambled from the cover of an elevated
pillar, and moved away to make a report.
That scrawny eavesdropper was "Hawkeye," one of the cleverest spotters in the underworld. Hawkeye
was working for The Shadow.
The Hotel Spartan was a grimy rooming place on the lower East Side. Despite its bad location and dingy
appearance, it was favored by patrons who had money. The guests were the lesser aristocracy of the
underworld— those who were too important to frequent the lesser joints, yet who lacked the inclination
to establish themselves at first-class hotels.
Slick Hendry belonged to that group. Moreover, he had a qualification that made him a welcome guest at
the Spartan. At present, Slick was not wanted by the law. Crooks who were on the lam never came to
the Hotel Spartan. The police were too apt to be watching the place.
In summoning Hacker, Slick had made a good move. Since the law had failed to link Hacker with
Frower's death, the arrival of the murderer would indicate that Hacker had no recent crimes to his
discredit.
Hacker did not see that subtlety. His first question, when he entered Slick's room, was a grunty one:
"What's up, Slick? Worried about me?"
"Not a chance," retorted Slick. "I wouldn't have had you come here, if I was. I'm thinking about The
Shadow!"
There was an emphasis in Slick's tone that made Hacker gape. His next question was incredulous:
"You're not thinkin' about goin' after that gold that was snatched from The Keeper?"
摘要：

THEKEEPER'SGOLDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHBRINGSDEATH?CHAPTERII.CREDITTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERIII.CROOKSTURNSLEUTHS?CHAPTERIV.THEFEUDBEGINS?CHAPTERV.STABSINDARKNESS?CHAPTERVI.ATTHEPIER?CHAPTERVII.ALONGTHEWATERFRONT?CHAPTERVIII.UNFINISHEDEVIDEN...

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