Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 133 - Buried Evidence

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BURIED EVIDENCE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. WORD FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER II. RHYDE HEARS ADVICE
? CHAPTER III. DEATH'S ADVENT
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S CLUES
? CHAPTER V. THE COVERED TRAIL
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW PREPARES
? CHAPTER VII. MIDNIGHT DEATH
? CHAPTER VIII. THE ABSENT CLUE
? CHAPTER IX. THE LINK BETWEEN
? CHAPTER X. THE BROKEN CRUISE
? CHAPTER XI. THE CROSSED TRAIL
? CHAPTER XII. DYING WORDS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE STAGE IS SET
? CHAPTER XIV. SHOTS FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XV. AT THE TERMINAL
? CHAPTER XVI. BURIED EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER XVII. THE BUCK IS PASSED
? CHAPTER XVIII. CRIME CONFESSED
? CHAPTER XIX. FINAL EVIDENCE
CHAPTER I. WORD FROM THE PAST
SUNSET rays shone through an office window high above Manhattan's streets. There, two men were
seated at a flat-topped desk, engaged in earnest discussion.
Many New Yorkers would have recognized both those men. Their names - like their pictures—had
appeared in the news at different intervals.
The man behind the desk was Curtiss Haslock, an attorney who had played a prominent part in political
cleanups. Haslock was elderly. His thin hair was gray; his face a trifle withered. His eyes, though, were
bright; they had a kindly sparkle that offset the sternness of his straight profile.
The other man—a visitor in the office—was Ludlow Rhyde, one of Haslock's clients. Rhyde was no
older than thirty; but his face was a pale, tired one. At that, he had handsome features, topped by sleek
black hair. When he managed to smile, it offset his weariness of expression.
While Curtiss Haslock had been figuring as a champion of reform, Ludlow Rhyde had acquired a
blemished reputation. He was about to begin a new life; that was the reason for this conference.
"After all, Mr. Haslock"—Rhyde spoke in a rueful monotone—"I'm a jailbird! My friends are sorry for
me; but that doesn't alter the fact that I have just finished twenty months in the State penitentiary. I can't
shake it from my mind."
Haslock tilted his head. When he spoke, the lawyer used a soothing tone.
"You were never a criminal, Ludlow," he told Rhyde. "You were a headstrong young fool. Your
stepfather, Blake Hoburn, allowed you too much money. After he died, you came into an annual income
of twenty-five thousand dollars. You spent it recklessly; you were reckless in everything you did. Until
one night, two years ago -"
Rhyde interrupted with a nervous gesture. Then, steadying, he took up the tale himself.
"I drove out to the old hunting lodge," he recalled, soberly. "I had been drinking. I hit the curves at sixty,
like I always did. That's why I crashed the old car that was turned across the road. I killed the driver,
poor fellow. He never had a chance!"
There was silence. Haslock broke it.
"The law was justified in terming it manslaughter," declared the lawyer. "You served the minimum
sentence. You have paid the penalty. A clear future lies before you."
Rising, Haslock stepped from in back of the desk to clap an encouraging hand upon Rhyde's shoulder.
"You have new opportunities," said Haslock. "While you were away, the entire Hoburn estate became
yours. We had to wait, in case Hoburn's nephew appeared to claim it. If he had, the estate would have
been his. But the time limit is ended."
RHYDE nodded. He recalled that detail. It was one reason why he had squandered money while he had
it. Waiting to see if that nephew arrived was something that had given Rhyde the jitters. As he thought of
those past facts, he remembered the nephew's name.
"Dennis Carston," spoke Rhyde, reflectively. "Poor beggar, it would be tough for him to show up right
now, when it's too late to collect. If he does, though"—the young man was earnest—"I'll take care of
him, from some of those millions that I've inherited."
He arose and walked toward the door. Haslock followed; the lawyer showed an expression of approval.
"You are generous, Ludlow," said Haslock. "Too generous, sometimes. I believe you, when you say that
you will help Carston if he ever returns. Meanwhile, think of yourself. Look up some of your old friends."
"I intend to do that," returned Rhyde. "As a matter of fact, I've heard from one already. Herbert
Widdington."
Haslock frowned.
"A ne'er-do-well," was his definition of Widdington. "He may want to borrow money from you."
"Probably," smiled Rhyde. "But I know how to handle Herb. I'll tell him that my affairs are all tied up. I'll
pay the dinner checks; that's all."
RHYDE left the lawyer's office. It was nearly six o'clock when he reached Times Square. Dusk had
settled; Broadway was aglow with light. Rhyde stepped from his cab and entered a garish restaurant.
The place was Brindle's, a popular meeting place for those who were "in the money." Though the cafe
attracted certain big-shots of the underworld, it also had customers of a sporty-sort.
Brindle's was one of Widdington's favorite spots. Rhyde was not surprised that his friend had invited him
here. Just inside the door, he received a hearty thwack on the shoulder.
Rhyde turned, to be greeted by a sallow, mustached man whose eyes were squinty. It was Widdington,
his mouth forming a wide grin above his tuxedo collar.
"Hello, Lud!" greeted Widdington. "Great to see you! Come along— I've reserved a booth."
They went up a short stairway to a rear balcony. In the booth, Widdington called a waiter, to order
drinks. Rhyde refused, so Widdington called for one drink only.
"Had a few while I was waiting," said Widdington, "but I can stand another. I've got a lot to tell you, Lud.
A lot!"
Rhyde lighted a cigarette and watched Widdington steadily. After the drink came, Widdington gulped half
the glass; then squinted across the table.
"I did a big favor for you, Lud," he undertoned. "One that amounts to a lot, now that you're worth a few
million bucks. I've heard the details. Since Dennis Carston didn't show up, the Hoburn money is all
yours."
Widdington paused; his squint was shrewd.
"I don't like to talk about that automobile crash you had, Lud; but I've got to mention it. I'd have been
with you that night, if I hadn't had a previous engagement."
"I remember, Herb. You helped me a lot, coming out there, after I got in touch with you."
Rhyde smiled as he spoke. He thought he saw what Widdington was after. Probably a small loan, in
return for services rendered on that unfortunate night.
"I did help you a lot," insisted Widdington. "A lot more than you knew, Lud. I saw the dead man. I
arranged his burial. Had a tombstone fixed with his name on it. You remember his name, don't you?"
"Yes." Rhyde's lips showed a wince at the recollection. "His name was James Silven. No relatives; no
friends; Mr. Haslock never could find any. All we could do for Silven was give him a decent burial."
Widdington chuckled. His low tone was unpleasant to Rhyde's ears.
"No relatives or friends," repeated Widdington. "No wonder none ever showed up! All we had to go by
were the cards that the dead man had on him. They bore the name of James Silven; but it wasn't the
man's right name!"
RHYDE stared. He had wondered a lot about Silven, puzzling over the fact that the fellow actually had
no one to claim him. This explained it; and it startled Rhyde. But the surprise was nothing compared to
the one that Rhyde was about to receive.
Widdington's squint had narrowed. He saw that Rhyde was tense. There was a chance that Rhyde might
guess what was coming, and Widdington wanted to spring it before he did.
Quickly, Widdington peered from the booth to make sure that no one was close. That done, the sallow
man leaned across the table, to whisper:
"I knew that dead man, Lud. Knew him the minute that I saw him! That's why I knew he wasn't James
Silven; but I kept that to myself. I let him go as Silven, instead of telling who he was. That's the big favor I
did for you, Lud!"
Widdington's lips were straight. His gaze, for once, was direct; he could forget his nervous squint, at this
important moment. Widdington had been waiting for nearly two years to gain his present opportunity.
Slowly, emphatically, the sallow man delivered the low-toned statement:
"Lud, the man that you killed was Dennis Carston!"
CHAPTER II. RHYDE HEARS ADVICE
LUDLOW RHYDE sat silent. Widdington's eyes tried to ferret the pale man's thoughts. Widdington
expected comment, but he was not prepared for the cool sort that came. Rhyde's nerve returned.
"Call the waiter, Herb," he said. "Let's order dinner."
Widdington's fist tightened; his lips twitched angrily. Then, in harsh whisper, he reminded.
"You took a rap for manslaughter, Lud. That was because you had no motive to kill Carston—or Silven,
the name he was known by. But it would have been murder, if people had known the man was Carston!"
Rhyde snapped his fingers to bring a waiter. He ordered dinner; and Widdington reluctantly did the same.
As the waiter started away, Rhyde arose.
"I'm going to make a telephone call," he told Widdington. "I want to talk to my lawyer."
Rhyde went down the steps, toward a telephone booth at the front of the restaurant. Widdington
watched him and regained a grin. Leaning from the dining booth, the sallow man beckoned.
A stocky, hunch-shouldered man edged from another booth to occupy the seat that Rhyde had vacated.
The fellow was long-faced; his lower lip projected noticeably. He questioned:
"Anything doing?"
"He's fallen, Badger," chuckled Widdington. "I'm ready for the build-up. Call my apartment, later."
"Badger" started from the booth. Widdington gripped the lippy man's arm.
"This is my game," reminded Widdington, his squinty gaze hardened. "It was mine from the start, when
Dennis Carston first came to see me, two years ago."
"I was in it, though -"
"Sure! You knew that I bumped Carston and put him in that car, so Rhyde would ram it and think he
killed the guy. When Rhyde went up for manslaughter, I had to wait before I worked on him. But the
game's in the bag!"
Badger grinned agreement.
"Yeah," he said. "Rhyde's been in stir. He knows what the big house is like. He'll think about the hot-seat
-"
"Never mind. Remember, the game's mine and be ready when I need you. You'll get a cut if you keep
your trap shut."
"Say, do you think I'd blab to Rhyde?"
Widdington shook his head. He still had his grip on Badger's arm. He made another reminder:
"You've worked for Kale Bewer," he told Badger. "Kale's a big-shot. He'd muscle into this game, if he
knew about it. He might promise you a lot; but you'd get nothing. No hints to Kale. Understand?"
Badger nodded. Widdington shot a squinty glance toward the front of the restaurant. He shoved Badger
from the table, with the quick warning:
"Rhyde's out of the phone booth. Scram before he spots you. Call me later, Badger."
DOWN BY the telephone booth, Rhyde stopped at the cashier's desk to buy cigarettes. He was there
when Badger arrived.
The bulge-lipped thug was careful not to glance at Rhyde. He merely paid his check and nodded to the
cashier, with the words:
"H'lo, Bob! Seen Kale Bewer lately?"
"Haven't seen him, Badger. He's on a diet, I hear. Say—I thought you were a pal of Kale's."
"Sure! Haven't seen him, though, because I've been out of town. I just got back to-night. Stopping at the
Hotel Spartan."
Badger went out. The cashier grinned as he turned to a husky waiter.
"Hear that?" asked the cashier. "Badger Grifflin thinks he still stands high with Kale Bewer. Maybe Kale
lets him stick around; but he knows that Badger is yellow. So does everybody else. Badger Grifflin
would sell out on anybody that he wasn't scared of!"
The cashier was too occupied to notice Ludlow Rhyde. That young man was standing by the counter,
staring toward the wall. His fingers were twitching as they tried to open the fresh pack of cigarettes. His
paleness had increased.
Mechanically, Rhyde walked to the stairs. He stumbled, but caught himself. He approached the booth
steadily; but Widdington was smart enough to observe that Rhyde was shaky. After the first course was
finished, Widdington questioned:
"Did you get hold of your lawyer?"
"No," returned Rhyde. "He had left the office and wasn't home yet. I'll see him later."
"There's nothing to worry about, Lud," said Widdington, smoothly. "As I figure it, Carston was going out
to find you, that night. Probably wanted to talk to you. He must have gotten mixed on the road. That was
why he was turning when you rammed him."
"But why was he using another name?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter, though. The point is, I'm the only man who knows that he was Carston.
What's more"—Widdington's smile was friendly— "I'm not asking a nickel to keep silent. Only"— his
tone gained serious persuasion—"what I have told you may cost you money, Lud."
"In what way?" Rhyde was puzzled.
"Other people knew Dennis Carston," explained Widdington. "They have papers, other data, that might
give a clue if assembled. It would be wise to acquire all that material."
Rhyde pondered over the new angle. Widdington proceeded.
"I know who the people are," he said. "I can get everything. It may take time, though; and it will mean
expense. Afterward, I can tell you how much you owe me."
Widdington's suggestion was blackmail, covered with a veneer to make it look like a legitimate offer.
Rhyde, apparently, was deceived. He asked:
"How much will the work cost?"
Widdington squinted craftily; then smoothly named the astonishing amount that gave his game away:
"One hundred thousand dollars!"
Rhyde looked worried, as his pale lips tightened. At last, he nodded.
"All right, Herb," he said. "I think you will be able to count upon it. Within a few weeks, at most."
THE subject dropped. The two finished their dinner. Widdington was tactful enough to let matters rest;
Rhyde was anxious to avoid further discussion.
At eight o'clock, they parted outside Brindle's. Rhyde told Widdington that he had registered at the Hotel
Goliath; that Widdington could expect to hear from him within a few days.
It was half past eight when Rhyde alighted from a cab in front of an old brownstone house near
Eighty-sixth Street. Ringing the doorbell, Rhyde asked to see Mr. Haslock.
The attorney had arrived home and had just finished dinner. Rhyde was conducted to his second-floor
study.
It took Rhyde just five minutes to repeat, word for word, the conversation that he had held with
Widdington. By the time Rhyde's account was complete, Haslock's face was flushed with outraged fury.
"The scoundrel!" denounced Haslock. "This is blackmail, Ludlow! A case of absolute blackmail!"
"Herb asked nothing for himself," objected Rhyde. "He said he would have to buy up information."
"He probably intends to steal it; to pocket the full amount himself. A hundred thousand dollars!
Outrageous!"
Pounding his desk, Haslock followed with advice that was precisely the opposite of Widdington's.
"Forget the matter completely," ordered Haslock. "If Widdington has nerve, he will threaten to make
facts public. If he does, we shall charge him with blackmail. His own unwary statements will destroy his
game. The fact that he kept Carston's identity a secret for nearly two years will show that blackmail was
his motive."
"But Widdington says that there are others," inserted Rhyde, "who might prove that the dead man was
Carston. And are we right to keep silent regarding Carston's death?"
"We have only Widdington's say-so on both those matters," declared Haslock. "Since he has branded
himself a rogue, we are entitled to ignore him. I am your attorney, Ludlow. The matter is in my hands;
therefore, you are clear of blame. Ignore the matter from now on."
"But if Widdington calls me at the hotel? What then?"
Haslock's smile was kindly. He opened a desk drawer and drew out some papers. He spread them on
the desk.
"Your stepfather owned a yacht named the Paulina," reminded the lawyer. "It is yours. It is ready for a
cruise. I recommend that you go aboard the Paulina to-morrow. Invite some of your old friends;
privately, of course, so that undesirables like Widdington cannot flock along."
THE idea suited Rhyde. Haslock told him that the Paulina was moored in Long Island Sound; that he
would order the captain to bring the yacht to an East River pier. Pallor and worry began to slip from
Rhyde's face.
"You are more than a counselor," Rhyde told the lawyer. "I needed a real friend, Mr. Haslock, and you
are such!"
"You can always rely upon me, Ludlow," assured Haslock. "I esteem you for your honesty. That virtue
always wins my friendship."
The lawyer conducted his visitor downstairs. Rhyde hailed a taxi, told the driver to take him to the Hotel
Goliath. Through the opened cab window, Haslock gave a final admonition.
"Forget Widdington," said the lawyer. "As for the others that he did not name, we shall never hear more
concerning any of them."
Haslock was pleased with his own prophecy, as he watched the cab depart. But the lawyer, though his
legal advice might be sound, was wrong when it came to predictions.
Those whom Widdington had mentioned without naming, would soon be heard from. Crime was already
in the making, fostered by a scheming brain. Crime that was more menacing than blackmail.
Herbert Widdington had spoken the truth when he said that Dennis Carston had been killed nearly two
years ago. Widdington knew the facts; and so did Badger Grifflin, for Widdington had admitted to that
crook that he, Widdington, was Carston's murderer.
Buried crime had been brought to life. Murder from the past presaged murder soon to come. Murder
that could mean trouble for Ludlow Rhyde. Trouble, too, for Herbert Widdington and Badger Grifflin, as
well as Kale Bewer, the big-shot whom the two had discussed.
For, already, another figure was encroaching upon this circle wherein crime threatened. A being who did
not, as yet, know that murder brewed, but who would relentlessly hunt down any killer who came across
the scene.
That opponent of crime was a person called The Shadow.
CHAPTER III. DEATH'S ADVENT
THE next day was Wednesday. Late that afternoon, Ludlow Rhyde checked out of the Hotel Goliath
and went aboard the Paulina.
The yacht was scheduled to sail as soon as all his guests came aboard. Rhyde called Haslock to tell him
that news; also that he had not heard from Widdington. Haslock was pleased.
That same day, however, another guest checked out of a New York hotel. That person was Badger
Grifflin, the stocky crook who claimed a close but discreet acquaintance with a big-shot named Kale
Bewer. The hotel that Badger left was the Spartan, a dingy East Side establishment patronized by the
underworld.
When guests left the Hotel Spartan suddenly, it meant that they were planning crime, or seeking some
hide-out. That explained why Badger's trail was picked up later by a wiry, hunchy man who moved more
warily than the crook.
The trailer was "Hawkeye"; he was an agent of The Shadow. Hawkeye's chief was interested in the
activities of such suspicious characters as Badger Grifflin.
Hawkeye heard Badger make a telephone call from a booth in a Bowery pool room. Badger's end of the
conversation was all that Hawkeye caught; but it was enough to prove that the trail promised results.
"Yeah, this is Badger... Sure. I'll meet you... Yeah, Brindle's is out... He might show up there..."
Hawkeye reported that to The Shadow; then continued along Badger's trail. Soon afterward, another of
The Shadow's agents was assigned to the place that had been mentioned—Brindle's restaurant.
This agent was Cliff Marsland, a well-built, square-faced chap. The underworld knew Cliff as a
free-lance mobster. No one ever guessed that he actually served The Shadow.
Herbert Widdington was at Brindle's when Cliff arrived there; but the sallow schemer left soon after eight
o'clock. Cliff scarcely noticed him; for Widdington looked like a man-about-town, not the type of person
with whom Badger would have a connection.
Had Cliff trailed Widdington, he might have acquired some useful information.
Hawkeye, meanwhile, followed Badger to an old but well-kept hotel called the Brookland, which stood
near Twenty-third Street. It was almost half past eight when Badger reached there, and Hawkeye lost
sight of him just outside.
For several minutes, Hawkeye was at loss. As he peered through the lobby window, he heard a voice
beside him:
"Report!"
It was the whispered tone of The Shadow. He learned of Hawkeye's difficulty and took over the trail. A
cloaked form in black, he entered an obscure side door of the hotel and spotted Badger sneaking from a
reception room. That place proved empty when The Shadow investigated it.
In less than ten minutes, Badger had held confab with some one unknown to The Shadow. That person
had gone before The Shadow arrived.
Later, Badger reached a garage on the border of the underworld. The place was a blind for a notorious
gambling joint called "Carraway's." Badger was admitted upstairs; he began to play roulette.
Soon afterward, a tall arrival in evening clothes appeared at the same table. The Shadow was checking
on Badger Grifflin.
AT nine o'clock, Cliff Marsland reported from Brindle's restaurant by a telephone call to Burbank, the
agent who served as contact between The Shadow and active workers like Cliff. Burbank ordered Cliff
to Carraway's, to take over the job of watching Badger.
Just outside of the restaurant, Cliff encountered a bulky, thick-faced man, whose features were pudgy
despite their hard-jawed appearance. A deep voice boomed a greeting, while sharp eyes surveyed Cliff.
The Shadow's agent received the grip of a large, heavy hand.
"Hello, Cliff!" said the big man. "Haven't seen you for a long while. You know these boys"—he indicated
two toughs who accompanied him—"so I don't have to introduce you."
"Glad to see you, Kale," returned Cliff. "Going to have chow at Brindle's?"
Kale Bewer's laugh was sour.
"Not a chance," he replied. "I'm on the bread wagon!"
"The bread wagon?"
"Sure! When you're off liquor; you're on the water wagon. Well, I'm off food, except milk toast. That
puts me on the bread wagon."
"It's a diet," put in the taller of Kale's companions. "Some croaker gave Kale the idea—and soaked half
a grand for it."
Kale glared angrily at his henchman.
"You weren't asked for an opinion, Ding," he growled. "Sometimes you talk too much!"
"Sorry, Kale."
Cliff noted how quickly the lieutenant subsided. It was proof of Kale's iron rule. "Ding" Luff was
supposed to be a tough egg; but he didn't talk back to Kale Bewer.
The big-shot peered through the restaurant window; seeing no one whom he knew, he asked Cliff if he
was going up Broadway. Cliff replied that he was going to Carraway's; that he sometimes had good luck
there.
"It won't keep up," laughed Kale. "Carraway's got those wheels fixed. Has to, if he wants to pay freight.
Tough racket, running a gambling joint."
"Kale knows better ones," put in Ding.
Another glower from Kale. The talkative lieutenant quieted.
On his way to Carraway's, Cliff called Burbank to report his chance meeting with Kale Bewer. At the
gambling joint, Cliff chose the table where Badger was wasting money. Cliff joined the play; The Shadow
left the place.
OUTSIDE, The Shadow donned black cloak and hat, that he had stowed in a vacant doorway. Soon he
arrived at his sanctum, that blackened, hidden abode that was The Shadow's own headquarters.
Through earphones, The Shadow received reports from Burbank. Under a blue-rayed lamp, The
Shadow made notations.
The Shadow recognized that Badger Grifflin was engaged in some plot; but, for the present, it did not
seem pressing. The Shadow planned to watch Badger further, hoping for a future trail that would lead to
the unknown person who had met Badger at the Hotel Brookland. Crime, in The Shadow's opinion, was
not threatening immediately.
For once, The Shadow had adopted a waiting policy at the wrong time. From that night's events was to
come a startling result. The Shadow, his trail postponed, was not to learn the sequel until the morning; the
time when others were to hear of it.
Dawn showed the yacht Paulina still moored to an East River pier.
An hour later, Ludlow Rhyde stepped from a companionway to the deck. He rubbed his eyes; stared
down the river past a line of huge apartment buildings that fronted the shore. He gaped when he saw a
distant suspension bridge stretching between Manhattan and Long Island.
A uniformed man approached. He was Captain Dunley, portly, genial skipper of the Paulina.
"Why are we here, captain?" queried Rhyde. "I left orders to sail late last night."
"Sorry, Mr. Rhyde. The guests were not all aboard."
"They said that they would be. When I left the party at Luken's apartment" —Rhyde gestured toward the
shore—"it was only ten o'clock. They said they'd be here at midnight."
"They came aboard," informed Dunley, "but the Montagues did not arrive. They were on Long Island."
"That's so. I forgot the Montagues."
A girl in yachting costume came from the companionway. Rhyde greeted her with the words: "Hello,
Fran!" The captain added: "Good morning, Miss Laceland."
Frances Laceland was surprised to find the yacht still in New York. She was pleased, also, when told
that the yacht would not sail until evening.
"That means a crowd of us can go to the rodeo," declared the girl. "Phil Yarnall will drive us to Boston in
his car, leaving at eleven to-night. We'll rejoin you there, Lud. Unless you come to the rodeo with us."
"Not a chance," returned Rhyde. "Early hours and a lot of sleep: that's my motto for the future."
Fluffing her attractive blond hair, Frances started in for breakfast. Rhyde was about to follow, when he
heard a gasp from Dunley. A sailor had just brought a newspaper to the captain. Face ashen, Dunley
pointed to a headline.
"Read it, Mr. Rhyde."
Brows furrowed, Rhyde scanned the front page. Half aloud, he read snatches from the news account:
"Sidney Cleffard, retired banker—Shot through the heart—Body found in apartment—Place ransacked
-"
"It was murder!" blurted Dunley. "Imagine it, Mr. Rhyde; a man shot to death in his Park Avenue
apartment. Poor Mr. Cleffard!"
"You knew him, captain?"
"Indeed I did! Sidney Cleffard once owned this yacht. In fact, it was Cleffard who sold the Paulina to
Mr. Hoburn. Too long ago, though, Mr. Rhyde, for you to remember it."
"I never cruised with my stepfather," said Rhyde. "I didn't even know he owned the Paulina, until Mr.
Haslock told me."
摘要：

BURIEDEVIDENCEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.WORDFROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERII.RHYDEHEARSADVICE?CHAPTERIII.DEATH'SADVENT?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOW'SCLUES?CHAPTERV.THECOVEREDTRAIL?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOWPREPARES?CHAPTERVII.MIDNIGHTDEATH?CHAPTERVIII.THEABSENTCLUE?CHA...

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