Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 132 - The Yellow Band

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The Yellow Band
By Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. MIAMI MURDER.
? CHAPTER II. THE HALTED HORDE.
? CHAPTER III. THE LOST LINK.
? CHAPTER IV. THREE OF A KIND.
? CHAPTER V. THREE NIGHTS LATER.
? CHAPTER VI. THE SECOND CIGAR.
? CHAPTER VII. CRIME'S FATAL THRUST.
? CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER ALIBI.
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW'S LINKS.
? CHAPTER X. CRIME TO COME.
? CHAPTER XI. CROOKS GIVE ARGUMENT.
? CHAPTER XII. UNDER ARREST.
? CHAPTER XIII. THE LOST HOUR.
? CHAPTER XIV. AT THE BANQUET.
? CHAPTER XV. THEFT DISCOVERED.
? CHAPTER XVI. SHIFTED BLAME.
? CHAPTER XVII. CARDONA CONFERS.
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S PROXY.
? CHAPTER XIX. CROOKS COMBINE.
? CHAPTER XX. GATHERED SPOILS.
? CHAPTER XXI. THREE IN A ROW.
? CHAPTER XXII. THE BAND UNITED.
? CHAPTER XXIII. FINAL TRIUMPH.
CHAPTER I.. MIAMI MURDER.
THE lull of a moonlit, tropical night lay over Miami. Balmy contentment prevailed in those suburban areas
remote from the rush of traffic. Such was the scene upon the quiet street where stood the residence of
Howard Dorsan.
Flanked by lines of sprouty palm trees, Dorsan's Spanish-type home had an excellent setting. The place
spoke of wealth; and Dorsan had it. The man was a retired millionaire, a widower who spent his winters
in Florida with his daughter, Ethel.
A taxi stopped in front of the Dorsan residence. From it stepped a tall passenger. As the cab rolled
away, moonlight filtered through the palm branches to show the face of Dorsan's visitor. The glow
intensified a hawklike countenance, its features as immobile as those of an Aztec god.
There were many persons in Miami who might have recognized that visitor as Kent Allard, noted
explorer, who had stopped off in Florida during a trip to Guatemala. None, however, could have guessed
the other identity that he possessed.
Kent Allard was The Shadow.
Master-fighter who battled criminals, The Shadow had come to Miami because of recent crimes in this
Southern city. Robbery and death had teamed together, to leave the law at a loss. Behind those crimes,
The Shadow could picture an organization of de luxe outlaws, banded in a common cause of evil. He had
foreseen that further crime was due. The Shadow was here to break it.
Howard Dorsan was a man whose recent transactions had placed him in the limelight. Though retired
from business, the millionaire had figured in a series of real-estate deals that had made news in Miami.
The Shadow had picked Dorsan as a likely victim of crime's next thrust.
There was a cement walk beside the drive that led to the side entrance of Dorsan's house. With long,
silent stride, Allard followed that path until he reached the stone steps. There, he halted; with a side
move, he became a rigid statue. His dark-gray attire blended with the darkness of an hibiscus bush close
beside the steps.
Allard had become The Shadow.
TWO persons were coming from the house. The Shadow saw them by the porch light. One was an
attractive girl, bare-shouldered in her evening gown. She was Dorsan's daughter, Ethel.
The girl's companion was a tall, sleek young man, whose photograph had appeared in recent pictures of
society groups. His name was Craig Wylett; smooth-featured, handsome despite his lolling manner, he
was much admired as a lady's man. Wylett was wearing a Palm Beach evening jacket; over his arm he
was carrying Ethel's unneeded wrap.
Wylett ushered the girl into a coupé that stood by the steps, and Ethel took the wheel. As Wylett joined
her, words of their conversation reached The Shadow.
"Perhaps," purred Wylett, "we should go back and tell your father-"
"About our engagement?" laughed Ethel. "There is not time, Craig. Why didn't you speak at dinner?"
"Rather an inconvenient place, Ethel. Afterward, your father went to the library, as he always does."
"And so your chance was lost." Again, Ethel laughed. "Don't worry, Craig. I shall arrange for you to
interview father to-morrow. As for his consent, have no doubt. My dad believes that I should make my
own decisions."
The starter grumbled; the coupé rolled along the drive. One minute later, Kent Allard appeared upon the
house steps and rang the doorbell.
A portly servant admitted the visitor. When Allard quietly asked for Mr. Dorsan, the servant looked
uncertain.
"Mr. Dorsan is at home, sir," he admitted, "but he gave the usual orders that he was not to be disturbed.
That means that I am not supposed even to announce visitors."
Allard's gaze was quizzical. The servant explained further.
"You see, sir," he said, "that is left either to Miss Dorsan, or to the secretary, Mr. Torry. Unfortunately,
both are absent. Miss Dorsan went out only a few minutes ago. I am sorry-"
With long-fingered hands, Allard produced a letter which he showed to the dubious servant. It was
signed by Howard Dorsan; it stated that the millionaire would welcome a visit from Kent Allard, at the
latter's convenience. The servant smiled gratefully.
"That lets me out, sir," he declared.
He motioned toward a closed door at the far side of the hall. "You will find Mr. Dorsan in the library."
ALLARD stepped to the door indicated. He gave a slow, emphatic series of knocks, while the servant
stood by waiting. There was no response; again, Allard delivered the knocks.
Slight anxiety was showing on the servant's broad face. Allard's keen eyes observed it, and read the
fellow's thoughts. The servant was wondering why Dorsan did not respond. The same thought had come
to Allard, although he did not register it.
With the intuition that characterized The Shadow, Allard could sense that something had happened to
Howard Dorsan.
Allard's hand stretched to the doorknob. The motion was natural; so was the slight smile that came to
Allard's lips. The servant took it that the visitor had heard Dorsan's voice, inviting him to enter.
As Allard opened the door inward and stepped through, the servant moved away. He was gone from the
hall when the door again came shut.
Dorsan's library was a commodious room, with book-lined walls. Its lights were indirect; they threw a
mellow, solemn glow that produced a tomblike atmosphere. There were reading lamps at various places
in the room, but none of them were lighted.
The far wall had no bookshelves. It was taken up with windows, plus a pair of French windows that
opened to a sun porch. As Allard's keen, clear eyes hovered about the room, they saw no sign of
Dorsan. It seemed that the millionaire had probably gone out to the sun porch.
Approaching the French windows, Allard found them locked on the inside. As he moved along toward
the room windows, he saw that their catches were tight. It was obvious that Dorsan, if he had been alone
in the room, could not have left it except by the door to the hall.
But Allard gained an immediate impression that Dorsan had not left the library.
To the right lay a little alcove, past the end of a bookcase. Its position had rendered it unnoticeable when
the room was viewed from the hallway door. Ordinarily, that section of the room was out of sight
entirely, for a curtain should have hung above its entrance.
The curtain had fallen to the floor, giving the full view of the alcove. There was something ominous in the
shape that the drape had taken. It was bulgy, spread like a shroud. Stepping to the alcove entrance,
Allard stooped and drew the fallen curtain aside.
Beneath lay the body of Howard Dorsan.
The millionaire was lying face upward. His withery face was distorted beneath its streaky lines of thin
gray hair. Eyes bulged from their sockets; dead eyes that were riveted upon the blankness of the ceiling.
Arms were spread; the left hand was open in starfish fashion. But the right fist was clenched, as though it
had sought to deliver a final, useless clutch against the purpose of a murderous attacker.
Straight up from Dorsan's white shirt front projected the handle of a knife. The killer had driven the blade
to Dorsan's heart with one sure, hard thrust. The swiftness of the stroke had silenced the millionaire's lips
before they could utter a solitary cry.
ALLARD'S eyes centered upon Dorsan's tightened fist. Their gaze was burning; for they were the eyes
of The Shadow. Carefully, long fingers unloosened the dead man's hand. Holding the bent fingers open,
The Shadow viewed an object that lay in Dorsan's palm.
The object was a rubber band, yellow in color.
The simplest of clues, that yellow band; thrust by a dead man's hand before The Shadow's eyes. Yet, to
The Shadow, it symbolized much more; it stood for a group of banded murderers, whose killing of
Howard Dorsan was the latest outrage in their campaign for ill-gained wealth.
Almost motionless, The Shadow's lips solemnly phrased the term by which he now defined the crew of
killers that he sought to thwart:
"The Yellow Band!"
CHAPTER II. THE HALTED HORDE.
A SINISTER whisper, creeping through a room that had been stilled by death. Such was The Shadow's
low-toned utterance. It marked the beginning of a quest; vengeance for the death of Howard Dorsan,
which had come too early for The Shadow to avert.
It was The Shadow's challenge to the Yellow Band.
The starting point to that crowd of killers lay here, in Dorsan's library. Beginning with the yellow rubber
band, The Shadow intended to find new evidence; to piece the past and thereby control the future.
But the nearest events of that future already lay beyond The Shadow's full control.
Though he wore his natural guise of Kent Allard, The Shadow was working with the keenness that had
made him master over criminal foes. That was why he quickly learned that danger still gripped this room.
A murderer had gone; but others were due.
Creeping sounds from the sun porch told that story. Noises that the average listener would not have
heard. Sensing them, The Shadow gave no sign. He kept to the deliberate style of Allard, but he changed
his plan of action.
Instead of remaining beside Dorsan's body, The Shadow arose. He let the dead man's fingers spring
back into their clutch, retaining the rubber band in a remade fist. With long, easy stride, The Shadow
crossed the library to the hall-way door. He laid his hand upon the knob.
A ripping crash sounded from the sun porch. French windows splintered on flimsy hinges as a powerful
shoulder smashed them inward. As The Shadow swung about, faking a startled expression, he faced the
thuggish leader of a motley crew that had been lurking close at hand.
The fellow leered as he brandished a big revolver. The crook's grin was contemptuous when he saw
Allard's hands lift upward. The rowdy motioned to his companions; then strode forward.
"Found something, huh?" gruffed the thug. "Well, mug, you can leave it to some other guy to tell the
coppers. You're going along with us!"
Backed against the wall beside the door, The Shadow retained the steady expression of Allard. The
threatening crook was duped. He never guessed that he was walking into trouble for himself and his mob.
From the instant that The Shadow had wheeled, he had been ready. He could have drawn a gun and
beaten the intruder to the first shot; but he had refrained.
One glimpse of the crook's face, the fellow's confident juggle of his gun, had told The Shadow that threat
would precede action. As Allard, The Shadow was drawing his foeman into a snare.
Still scoffing, the ugly-faced leader behaved true to form. He shoved the muzzle of the revolver close to
Allard's face, forcing the supposed victim hard against the wall. With a growl, the crook reminded:
"One phony move, mug, and we'll croak you-"
THE move came, so well-concealed that no one could have foreseen it. The Shadow's shoulder blade
had picked the right spot on the wall, just above the light switch. There was no change of expression on
Allard's face; no move of the upraised arms. Totally hidden, that pressing shoulder blade hunched slightly,
then nudged sharply downward.
Out went the lights; and with them went the pretended slowness of Kent Allard.
As blackness blanketed that room, The, Shadow's hand grabbed straight for the gun that bulged between
his eyes. His whipping fist took the weapon from its owner's hand before the crook could even think
about the trigger. Lashing forward, The Shadow grappled with his disarmed foeman.
As choking fingers caught the mob-leader's throat, the fellow gave a frenzied cough for aid.
Thuggish followers could not fire. Their leader was in their path. They took the only alternative. They
surged forward in the darkness, hoping to win out by mass attack.
A figure hurled to meet them headlong. With slugging guns, the hoodlums fell upon their prey. He
flattened under their attack; a scrambling thug reached the light switch and pressed it. The rest looked to
the floor to see how well they had damaged Kent Allard.
They saw the sprawled body of their leader, his skull cracked by the brutal sledges that they themselves
had given him.
For the instant, thugs were too astounded to realize how they had been tricked. The Shadow had pitched
their leader in among them, with a force that they had mistaken for a driving attack. In the interim, The
Shadow had chosen a new position. He began to use it, before the baffled crooks could think about
looking for him.
The Shadow opened fire with the captured revolver. His first target was the gun hand of the hoodlum
who had switched on the lights. The bullet landed; the thug doubled, howling. The others turned; they
saw Allard aiming from the alcove above Dorsan's body.
Had they seen him cloaked as The Shadow, they might have lost their desire for fight. Spying only Allard,
the thugs aimed. It made no difference to The Shadow.
The big revolver repeated before a single thug could fire. With each pump of the gun, a crook went
sprawling. Others took for the shattered French windows, managing to fire as they ran. Their bullets
merely spoiled the morocco leather bindings of books along the shelves. Flight was their desire; aim was
only secondary.
Out to the center of the room, The Shadow paused for a moment as he saw two wounded gunmen rip
open the hallway door and start a dash in that direction. The portly servant met them, backed by a
white-hatted chef. The servant had a big cane belonging to Dorsan; the cook had brought along a skillet.
They showed that they could handle the wounded thugs. The Shadow went after the others.
Out through the sun porch, The Shadow saw fleeing men diving between the palm trees. He fired the last
two bullets that the revolver held; picked up a discarded gun and added more.
The shots spurred the remnants of the scattered horde into further flight, and served as additional alarm to
bring the law.
THE whine of sirens told that police were on the job; that the first shots had been heard. Gunfire in the
distance added news that crooks were finding more trouble.
The Shadow walked back into the house. In the library, he found the serving man and the chef. Both
were staring horrified at Dorsan's body. It was the broad-faced servant who blurted:
"Did-did they kill him, Mr. Allard?"
"He was dead when I arrived," came Allard's calm reply. "The attack was made later."
"Then they must have come beforehand-"
The servant was looking puzzled as he spoke. Allard's eyes were watching him. There were facts,
perhaps, that the servant could alone supply. Whatever they were, they were to be reserved until the law
began its inquiry. For the man was interrupted by a heavy pounding at the front door. He went to answer
it.
When the servant returned, he was accompanied by a chunky, heavy-jowled man from Miami police
headquarters, whose chief mark of distinction was a derby hat. He seemed proud of that headgear, as
well he might, for a derby was a rarity in Miami.
In fact, the headquarters man did not remove the derby from his head. He simply tilted it over one eye as
he glared suspiciously about the room.
The servant's introduction of Kent Allard changed that attitude. The derby-hatted man looked surprised
and pleased when he heard the name of the tall visitor. He promptly thrust out his hand.
"I've heard of you, Mr. Allard," he said. "Mighty glad to meet you. I'm Detective Kurman."
"I've heard of you also," replied Allard. "Where is your friend Cleer?"
Kurman grinned his appreciation.
"You've heard of us, all right," he declared. "Kurman and Cleer. We've cracked some pretty tough cases,
working together. We'll be teamed on this one, before we're through, unless I get to the bottom of it right
away."
For a starter, Kurman studied the body of the leader who had been battered to death by his own thugs.
He identified the fellow promptly; but his tone was glum.
"Gunner Modey. A bad guy! Whatever he came here for, none of his gang will be able to tell us. Gunner
always kept mum on what his jobs were all about."
Crossing the room to Dorsan's body, Kurman made another comment:
"Not Gunner's work. He never handled a shiv. That knife is important. Let's hear what you know about
it."
Kurman's request was addressed to Kent Allard. Coolly, the calm-faced visitor began his story. As
Kurman listened, his face showed admiration; but it also registered dumfoundment. The Shadow, as he
talked in Allard's tone, made mental analysis of Detective Kurman and, with it, came to a definite
conclusion.
Unless the absent detective, Cleer, possessed all the brains that Kurman lacked, the police would not
travel far in solving the riddle of Howard Dorsan's mysterious death.
CHAPTER III. THE LOST LINK.
ALLARD'S story clicked with Kurman. The dick was impressed by the ruse whereby the visitor had
handled Modey's mob. Allard's letter from Dorsan was one that had come in answer to some
correspondence regarding possible investments in Guatemala.
The servant, whose name was Parrington, conflicted on only one point. Parrington thought that Dorsan
had responded to Allard's knock. On further questioning, Parrington admitted that he had not heard
Dorsan's voice.
"Parrington said to enter the library," was Allard's explanation, "so I did. That was all."
Kurman decided that the matter was settled. He came to a more important subject: When had Dorsan
last been seen alive, and by whom, other than the murderer?
"I saw Mr. Dorsan go into the library," stated Parrington. "After that, Miss Ethel might have stepped in to
talk with him. Or Mr. Wylett might have. He and Miss Ethel went out together, to a party at Mr.
Thexter's, in Miami Beach."
"Lyman Thexter's!" exclaimed Kurman. "Say, that's where my side-kick, Cleer, is posted to-night!
Thexter's a big oil operator. He's throwing a swell party; the kind where crooks might try to pull
something. Wait until I talk to Cleer."
Over the telephone, Kurman reached his fellow dick and told of Dorsan's death. He arranged for Cleer
to keep an eye on Craig Wylett; but to say nothing of Dorsan's murder, not even to the dead man's
daughter. Kurman planned to break that news, when he arrived at Thexter's.
Coming back to Dorsan's body, Kurman remembered the rubber band that Allard had mentioned in his
testimony. Prying open the dead man's fist, Kurman found the yellow elastic.
"It can't mean much," commented Kurman. "Dorsan wouldn't have snatched it off the murderer."
"Hardly," agreed Allard. "But the killer might have taken something from Dorsan."
"What, for instance?"
"A stack of papers, with the yellow band around them. If he yanked them from Dorsan's fist, the band
could have remained."
Allard was looking at locked drawers below an alcove bookshelf. Finding keys loose in Dorsan's vest
pocket, Kurman unlocked the drawers. He found one half filled with bundles of papers. They proved to
be securities, title deeds and insurance papers.
Each packet was circled with a rubber band. But of those dozen elastic loops, not one was yellow. Other
colors-blue, red, green-were represented in random arrangement.
The absence of yellow bands meant nothing to Kurman. It tallied, however, with a theory that The
Shadow had already formed. But his lips did not express his thought.
Kurman found a typed list in the bottom of the drawer. He checked it with the papers and found that
none was missing. That was exactly what The Shadow expected. He had a question; but there was no
need to ask it. Kurman made the query instead.
Turning to Parrington, Kurman demanded:
"Who typed this list?"
"Probably Mr. Torry," replied the servant "He is Mr. Dorsan's secretary."
Parrington explained that it was Torry s night off; that the secretary had left before dinner. He
remembered that Torry frequently went to a night spot called the Hilo Club, where Dorsan could reach
him if needed. Kurman piled the papers back into the drawer, but put the list in his pocket. He told an
officer to take charge, keeping Parrington and the chef in the house.
"Suppose you come along with me, Mr. Allard," suggested Kurman. "We can stop at the Hilo Club on
the way to Thexter's. I'd like to talk to this fellow Torry."
As Kurman started from the room, Allard's fingers plucked the yellow rubber band from the table where
the detective had tossed it. Kurman was through with that clue; but The Shadow still had use for it.
THEY found Torry at a corner table in the Hilo Club's grillroom. The secretary was a frail, fidgety fellow,
who stared nervously through spectacles when he saw the arrivals approach his table. He seemed to
recognize Kurman by the tilted derby hat, which the detective did not bother to remove.
Dorsan's secretary had finished dinner and was having a drink. It wasn't the first that he'd taken that
evening, for his condition showed unsteadiness. When he heard the details of Dorsan's death, Torry sank
farther behind his table, like a turtle hunching its head into its shell.
"This is horrible!" he quavered. "I-I can't believe it! Mr. Dorsan dead-murdered!"
Shakily, Torry reached for his glass, only to find it empty. He beckoned a waiter and ordered another
rickey. While the waiter was getting the drink, Kurman produced the typewritten list. He showed it to
Torry and the secretary nodded.
"I typed it," he said. "A list of Mr. Dorsan's securities and other important papers."
"All that he had at the house?" queried Kurman.
"Absolutely all," replied Torry. "I'm sure of that."
"Humph!" Kurman grunted. "We had a hunch that the murderer took something."
Torry's lips twitched; then managed to blurt: "What made you think that?"
"We found a rubber band in Dorsan's fist," explained Kurman. "One like those around the papers in the
desk drawer.
Torry showed relief. The Shadow saw it, although Kurman did not. To Kurman, Torry's winces were
merely proof that the fellow was half drunk. The dick never realized that he had given Torry a break, by
stating that the rubber band was like those in the desk drawer.
What Torry had feared was a statement that the rubber band was yellow.
"Mr. Dorsan sometimes carried a roll of money," declared Torry, his nerve restored. "When he did, he
put a rubber band around it-like he did with those securities-"
Torry halted. He was sharp enough to see that the explanation had gone across with Kurman. The
secretary had sense enough not to say more; and The Shadow knew why. It was Torry, himself, who
had put the rubber bands around the securities in Dorsan's drawer.
The waiter had arrived with the rickey. He set the glass on the table and began to mix the drink. Kurman,
rising, blocked The Shadow's view of the waiter. To Torry, Kurman said:
"I'm going to find out how long you've been here. I kind of suspected you, Torry, but if your alibi stands,
you're in the clear."
KURMAN turned without leaving the table. Torry showed a grin. He knew that his alibi would stand; for
he had dined here, at the Hilo Club. Then, almost irresistibly, Torry's eyes were drawn toward the face of
Kent Allard. He met the gaze of eyes that were almost hypnotic.
Allard's gaze went downward; Torry's stare followed.
The secretary was looking at Allard's right hand, resting on the table top. Fingers had opened; lying in
Allard's palm was the yellow rubber band.
A gulp came from Torry's throat. Kurman did not hear it, for he was looking about, trying to spot the
club manager. Fear spread over Torry's face. The Shadow was not the only one to see it.
The waiter was still standing beyond Kurman. The waiter could not see Allard's face or hand; but he did
get a slanted view of Torry's expression.
From his tray, the waiter picked up a glass mixing stick and stirred Torry's drink. Then the fellow walked
away; his back was turned when Kurman spotted the manager. A few moments later, Kurman was
striding across the cafe. Torry was alone at the table with Allard.
"A yellow rubber band!" Allard's words came in cold, stern monotone. "One of several, around different
bundles. The mark that told the securities that could be safely taken. Negotiable bonds: the cream of
Dorsan's wealth."
Torry's lips were moving, in fishlike tremor. Mechanically, the secretary reached for his drink.
"You marked that wealth," accused Allard. "You typed a list that did not include the bundles that you
expected a thief to take. Your part was to cover robbery. Dorsan's murder was necessary; for he could
have declared his loss."
Allard's gaze had a boring burn. His eyes were those of The Shadow. Torry could not escape it. He
brought his glass to his lips and gulped a shaky drink, that sent surplus liquid spilling down his chin. The
drink did not help him. His hand dropped weakly, thumping its glass against the table.
"State the amount of Dorsan's loss!" Those words were a command from Allard's lips; the tone, the
sibilant whisper of The Shadow. Torry's pretense was finished.
"Half a million," gulped the secretary. "I-I sold out to-"
Torry choked. Then his shoulders hunched; his hands went to his own throat. With a rattly gargle, the
traitor pitched forward to the table. His arms spread wide; one hand knocked over the half-filled glass
from which he had taken his last drink.
Kurman was coming with the manager. The detective saw Torry's fall and reached the table with a long
bound. He shook the man's shoulders; tilted Torry's chin upward. Kurman's verdict was one word:
"Dead!"
Allard had risen. His finger was pointing toward the table. Kurman saw the spilled liquid beside Torry's
overturned glass. The stream was dying the table varnish with a tinge of green. Kurman understood.
"Poisoned!" he exclaimed. "By that waiter who mixed his drink! I'll get that fellow!"
KURMAN was off, hauling the manager with him. From outside, The Shadow heard the roar of a
departing motor. The murderous waiter had made his get-away. Kurman could not overtake him.
Whether or not the poison-giver was found did not matter.
The Shadow knew that the waiter, like "Gunner" Modey, was merely another tool of hidden criminals.
Masters of crime had bribed Torry to betray Howard Dorsan. They had given the treacherous secretary
a chance to cover his own part in murder. But they had had a watcher ready in case the secretary
weakened.
Torry's death was the latest evidence of the far-reaching power wielded by the Yellow Band.
CHAPTER IV. THREE OF A KIND.
KURMAN not only failed to overtake the missing waiter; he was unable to learn much about the fellow.
The waiter was a new employee; and he had served at the wrong table when he brought drinks to Torry.
After a half hour of wasted investigation, Kurman decided to move along to Thexter's.
While riding across the Venetian Causeway to Miami Beach, Kurman gave Allard his opinions regarding
Torry.
"They got the fellow," growled Kurman, "because they figured Torry would help us. Poor guy! His alibi
was O. K., which means he was on the level. They wouldn't have bumped him if he wasn't."
The Shadow saw no reason to dispute Kurman's theory regarding Torry's innocence. That link was lost;
it was better that the law should concentrate upon matters that had occurred at Dorsan's. Torry had said
enough, in his weak mention of possible money held by Dorsan, to make Kurman decide that robbery
was the motive.
"From your testimony, Mr. Allard," declared Kurman, "the windows of the room were locked tight from
the inside when you found Dorsan's body. That means that whoever killed Dorsan went out through the
house. Gunner Modey raided to make it look different.
"Torry's out; and so is Dorsan's daughter. Maybe Parrington was the guy we want; but I don't think so.
Anyway, we've got reason to hold him; and I'll quiz him proper. There's one other suspect, though. Craig
Wylett."
To that, The Shadow gave silent agreement. Kurman continued further.
摘要：

TheYellowBandByMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.MIAMIMURDER.?CHAPTERII.THEHALTEDHORDE.?CHAPTERIII.THELOSTLINK.?CHAPTERIV.THREEOFAKIND.?CHAPTERV.THREENIGHTSLATER.?CHAPTERVI.THESECONDCIGAR.?CHAPTERVII.CRIME'SFATALTHRUST.?CHAPTERVIII.ANOTHERALIBI.?CHAP...

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