Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 117 - Vengeance Is Mine

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VENGEANCE IS MINE!

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," January 1, 1937.

Solemn were these words from the mind of a mad criminal - but it was The

Shadow who meted out the repayment, with a stern justice that brooked no

thwarting!

CHAPTER I

CRIME'S BLAST

NEW YORK lay lulled that night.

Too lulled to please The Shadow, as he viewed broad avenues and narrow

streets from the passing window of a limousine.

Traffic was as heavy as usual. Sidewalks had their full quota of

pedestrians. Changing lights formed a colorful medley that added to the city's

motion. Yet, to The Shadow, the scene had perceptibly slowed. He could sense

the slackened pulse throbs of the metropolis.

Beneath the brilliance of Manhattan lay hidden enemies against whom The

Shadow waged constant war. They were men of crime - who lurked; then struck.

Most dangerous of these were the ones who waited until times when New York

seemed placid; for then the law would be least ready to oppose them.

In his campaigns against crime, The Shadow had discovered that the city

itself was an index to activities in the underworld. When crimedom was active,

lesser crooks would be on the move. Rubbing shoulders with the populace, those

small fry invariably created a tension. Like a mammoth creature, the city

would

show nervous symptoms. New York would vibrate in its motion.

Tonight's smoothness told that crime was latent. There was a reason why

the hidden underworld lay quiet. Recently, men of crime had been balked at

every turn. Their thrusts had been met promptly by the law. Routed in battle,

mobsters had been pursued, even to the confines of their hide-outs.

So-called big-shots had fled from Manhattan. Their henchmen had scattered

to the hinterlands. They knew who was responsible for their defeats. The

Shadow, penetrating to the very council rooms of crime, had been prepared for

every evil move. He was the one who had made the counterthrusts.

Crime's complete collapse had produced the singular calmness that The

Shadow could sense throughout the city. In that quiet lay danger. There were

others beside The Shadow who could feel the lull. They were men of supercrime,

hidden masters of evil who had long bided their time, awaiting the right

opportunity to embark upon insidious campaigns.

Somewhere in New York, an unknown plotter might have already recognized

that this was the time he wanted. Invariably, a lull like this marked the rise

of some formidable foe of justice, whom only The Shadow could cut down. If

that

plotter chose to move, The Shadow could counter only after the first thrust

arrived.

SOMETIMES, even masters of crime unwittingly let straws flurry in the

wind. The Shadow had encountered cases where such wisps had reached the

knowledge of the police, only to be overlooked. If there was any inkling of

coming crime available, The Shadow intended to uncover it. That was why he was

riding in the limousine.

The big car swung into an avenue where traffic was light. It pulled up in

front of a gray-stone building, an old but well-kept edifice that bore an

appearance of wealth and influence. This was the exclusive Cobalt Club, the

most high-toned rendezvous in New York. The Cobalt Club boasted a ten-year

waiting list for membership; hence persons who were already members regarded

themselves as fortunate.

Among the present members was Ralph Weston, police commissioner of New

York City. Proud of the distinction that the Cobalt Club gave him, Weston

visited the gray-stoned portals whenever he found occasion. Since crime had

quieted in New York, the police commissioner had idle evenings. The Shadow

knew

that he would find Weston at the club.

When he alighted from the limousine, The Shadow presented a much

different

appearance than the one with which he was usually identified. Law and

underworld

alike knew The Shadow as a being in black. Cloaked shoulders; a downturned hat

brim that shaded all features except a pair of blazing eyes; thin-gloved hands

that gripped huge automatics; hidden lips, ever ready with a mocking laugh of

challenge - those were the outstanding points of description that defined The

Shadow. None of those details fitted him in his present guise.

The lights beneath the marquee that fronted the Cobalt Club showed The

Shadow as a tall, calm-faced personage of leisurely bearing. His features,

somewhat hawkish, were immobile; almost masklike. Attired in evening clothes,

The Shadow had the distinguished appearance that marked him as a member of the

Cobalt Club. Both the tall doorman and the chunky cab starter recognized him

such.

When he visited the Cobalt Club, The Shadow passed as Lamont Cranston,

millionaire life member, close friend of Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.

The doorman, slightly taller than The Shadow, tipped his hat and bowed.

The squatty starter, about to assign the limousine to a choice space, learned

that Mr. Cranston no longer wanted the car. The limousine pulled away while

the

doorman was ushering The Shadow into the lobby.

JUST inside the door, a pudgy-faced man brushed past The Shadow and

brusquely questioned the doorman:

"Are you sure that messenger hasn't come yet?"

"Not yet, Mr. Zanwood," replied the doorman. "Both the starter and myself

are on the lookout for him."

"I can't wait much longer." Zanwood jerked a watch from his pocket. "I am

leaving for Boston on a late train, but I may want to go to my apartment

first."

"I understand, sir."

Zanwood began to pace impatiently, confining himself to the small area

just inside the door. The doorman spoke politely to The Shadow:

"Commissioner Weston is in the library, Mr. Cranston. He expects you

there, sir."

Strolling toward the library, which opened from the lobby, The Shadow

found the police commissioner in the broad doorway. Weston was a man of

military appearance, straight-shouldered and pompous even to his well-clipped,

short-pointed mustache. He had eyed the scene at the doorway; he spoke

indignantly as he shook hands with The Shadow.

"That fellow Zanwood is a bounder!" asserted Weston. "Bah! For all his

importance as a Wall Street operator, he does not belong in this club. How did

he ever manage to pass the admittance committee, Cranston?"

"George Zanwood is a life member," remarked The Shadow. "He joined the

Cobalt Club about six years ago, before the bars were raised."

Weston winced. The statement had a double significance. It meant that

Zanwood might have been lucky in joining the Cobalt Club; but it also placed

the pudgy-faced man in an exclusive class to which more recent members -

including Weston - did not belong. One of Weston's greatest disappointments

was

the fact that the Cobalt Club no longer granted life memberships.

"Let us go into the library," suggested Weston, abruptly. Then, as an

afterthought, he added, "These life members. Humph! It's time a few of them

died off!"

Weston was forgetful in that statement, for his friend Cranston happened

to be a life member of the club. However, The Shadow merely indulged in a

quiet

smile, for he knew that Weston referred specifically to George Zanwood.

IN a corner of the library, Commissioner Weston began to chat on the

subject that pleased him most: his own activities as police commissioner.

Weston found a ready listener in his friend Cranston, but he did not suspect

the reason for The Shadow's attentiveness.

Weston had a penchant for recounting odd cases that came to the notice of

the police. Ninety-nine per cent of them were chaff; but in one out of a

hundred, The Shadow found something of note that had escaped Weston entirely.

Those rare clues could prove worthwhile, particularly at a time when The

Shadow

expected moves from some hidden hand of supercrime. Unfortunately, the

incidents

that Weston recounted on this occasion were dry and pointless.

As Weston talked, his voice rose higher. With every pause, a sharp "ahem"

came from a corner of the library. A withery old club member named

Throckmorton

was mulling through his newspaper and did not enjoy the disturbance that

Weston's tones created.

Oblivious to Throckmorton's coughs, Weston kept on talking. At last, old

Throckmorton flung his newspaper aside and pounded the table beside him.

Weston looked around to see the old man rising, to stalk in spindly

fashion from the library. It dawned on him that he had violated the first rule

of the Cobalt Club, that called for absolute silence in the library. Weston

spoke quickly to The Shadow.

"Come, Cranston," suggested the commissioner, "let us go to the

grillroom.

We can talk better there."

With that, Weston hurried after Throckmorton and overtook the old man

before he reached the lobby. Weston was complete in his apology; but

Throckmorton did not want to be appeased. When The Shadow joined the pair,

they

were still moving toward the doorway that led to the lobby, Weston's humble

excuses mingling with Throckmorton's outraged cackle.

Close by the two, The Shadow looked out into the lobby. He saw George

Zanwood suddenly stop pacing beside the door. The doorman had stepped out to

the sidewalk; Zanwood hurried to join him. A few seconds later, Zanwood came

back, carrying a bag that looked like a physician's satchel. The tall doorman

was following close behind Zanwood.

The pudgy man halted within five paces. The Shadow saw a puzzled look on

his face; with it, Zanwood inclined his ear toward the bag. He had raised the

satchel with one hand; with the other, he beckoned quickly to the doorman.

It was too late for The Shadow to reach them. Even a shouted warning

would

have been useless, for the uniformed doorman, like Zanwood, had recognized

what

was wrong. He was reaching to yank open the door, while Zanwood was turning to

dash outside with the bag.

IN that instant, however, The Shadow performed another action. Wheeling,

he launched himself upon Weston and Throckmorton; hurled the pair backward

from

the lobby into the library, bowling them bodily against a table near an inner

corner. As the arguing men sprawled, a huge, glass-shaded lamp pitched from

the

table to the floor, ahead of them.

The shatter of that falling lamp was never heard. Before it had time to

crash to the floor, a tremendous blast sounded from the outer door of the

Cobalt Club. The roar of that explosion drowned all else.

Following Weston and Throckmorton, The Shadow completed a dive that

carried him just free of the hoisted debris that came with the concussion.

Tiled floor and walls were winging from the lobby, like shells in a barrage.

Chunks of shattered chandeliers, pieces of mahogany woodwork, masses of

plaster

came as added bombardment.

Volcanic flame accompanied the blast; walls of masonry shook as though an

earth tremor had seized them. The air quivered with the shock; it left

eardrums

ringing after the thunderous echoes had died. In their corner, Weston and

Throckmorton lay momentarily stunned by the cataclysm.

Flattened on the floor within the library, The Shadow saw that the

blast's

effect had ended. Rising, he gazed toward the space that had once been the

lobby

of the Cobalt Club. That scene was a void.

A chasm had replaced the tiled floor. The great front door of the club

was

gone; with it, the whole front of the building had been banished. The Shadow

could see the shreds of the marquee; beyond that, the avenue, littered with

masses of gray stone.

George Zanwood had vanished; with him had perished the uniformed doorman.

Ruthless murder had been done, with Zanwood as its victim. The doorman, a mere

bystander, had been slain also. Only The Shadow's quick action had saved three

other lives: his own, and those of Weston and Throckmorton.

Crime's blast had arrived. A master crook had struck in The Shadow's own

domain. With his first thrust, the murderer of George Zanwood had almost

gained

The Shadow as an added victim.

CHAPTER II

THE MESSENGER CLUE

DUST had settled amid the ruins of the lobby when Commissioner Weston

joined The Shadow at the library door. The chaotic scene awed Weston; made him

shudder when he realized how close he had been to death. In bewildered tone,

gulped:

"What - what was it, Cranston? How did you guess - how did you know what

was coming?"

"Zanwood's bag arrived," replied The Shadow. "I saw him take it from the

doorman. From the startled way in which they acted, I knew that they had heard

the ticking of a bomb."

"Then they were blown to atoms -"

"Yes. The Cobalt Club is short one life member and a doorman."

The Shadow's statement was a solemn one. It brought a pang to Weston. The

commissioner remembered his own remark about life members dying off; he

realized that it could be interpreted to mean that he had wanted Zanwood's

death. The grimness of the situation was sufficient to rouse Weston to

excitement.

"I must call headquarters!" exclaimed Weston, edging out into the

shattered lobby. "We can lose no time! The perpetrator of this outrage must be

captured! This is the work of some terrorist, who will be a menace as long as

he remains at large!"

Getting across the space to the front of the lobby was no small task.

Though he could guide himself by the lights that still glowed from the

library,

Weston nearly came to disaster when he tested the broken lobby floor.

One mass of cracked tile gave under the commissioner's weight and crashed

into the basement. Weston would have followed it but for The Shadow's

restraining grip. Again, Weston jarred an edge of the crumbled wall; The

Shadow

pulled him back as a gray stone dislodged and clattered almost at Weston's

feet.

Trapped club members poked their heads from a stairway at the rear of the

lobby. They had been in the downstairs grillroom when the explosion came.

Their

panic ended when they saw Weston and The Shadow threading their way out to the

street. They congratulated themselves because the explosion had come during

the

dinner hour, when the lobby was almost deserted.

By the time The Shadow had brought Weston past the pitfalls that blocked

their route, the commissioner's need for a call to headquarters was ended.

Shrieking sirens announced the arrival of police cars. Bluecoats recognized

the

commissioner, when he reached the street.

While Weston was giving orders, another car pulled up; from it stepped a

swarthy, stocky-built police inspector. Weston uttered a pleased exclamation

when he saw that the arrival was Joe Cardona, ace investigator of the New York

force.

Cardona had heard the explosion while riding in his police car more than

dozen blocks from the Cobalt Club. He had made a rapid trip to the location of

the blast. Weston gave brief details and put Cardona in immediate charge of

the

search for the man who had delivered the bomb to Zanwood.

That done, Weston looked for a spot that would serve him as temporary

headquarters. There was a drug store on the corner nearest the Cobalt Club.

Accompanied by The Shadow, Weston strode there and commandeered the place for

his own use.

PLAIN-CLOTHES men had arrived. Weston ordered one to look up Zanwood's

telephone number and call to learn if anyone was there. The call proved a

blank.

By that time, Throckmorton and other members of the Cobalt Club were

arriving at the drug store. One of them was well-acquainted with Zanwood. He

told Weston that Zanwood's family had gone out of town; that the Wall Street

man had been staying alone at his apartment and having his meals at the club.

"We shall go to Zanwood's apartment later," decided Weston. "It is named

in the telephone book: the Everglades Apartments. I must make a note of the

address."

Weston found the address and jotted it down. Hardly had he done so before

Cardona appeared, followed by two husky patrolmen who were helping a wilted

man

into the drug stone. They let the dazed fellow sink heavily into a chair.

Weston

recognized the stocky cab starter who worked for the Cobalt Club.

"Found him in the gutter," explained Cardona, "half under a parked car.

He's been trying to tell us something, commissioner. He mentioned a green cab

that pulled up and let out a passenger. I'll try to locate that hack while you

quiz this fellow."

The druggist provided the cab starter with a stimulant. After a gulped

drink, the fellow revived. His manner showed that he might prove a valuable

witness. Weston urged him to give his story.

"It was this way," declared the starter. "Mr. Zanwood kept talking to the

doorman, about a bag that he expected from the Apex Security Co."

"He mentioned that company?" queried Weston. "You heard him?"

"Sure thing," returned the stocky starter. "He's had 'em come to the club

before, Mr. Zanwood has - or did, I ought to say. A couple of times, but

brought by different messengers. That's why I didn't suspect the fellow that

showed up tonight, only I ought to have, because the bag was funny looking. It

wasn't flat, like the others were.

"The guy gets out of a green cab. He asks for Mr. Zanwood, so I pointed

the doorway. Jimmy - he was the doorman - comes out to take the bag, but the

fellow wants to be sure that Mr. Zanwood got it, so he starts crowding into

the

club. I saw Mr. Zanwood meet him at the door. The bag was sort of changing

hands.

"That was the last I saw of it. The hackie in the green cab was hollering

to know if there was a parking space. I started down the sidewalk to show him

one. He saw it, so I was coming back. Just then - bang! - out goes the whole

front of the club and leaves me lying in the street."

THE starter settled back in his chair, tired by his exertion. The Shadow

offered him a cigarette from a platinum case. The fellow accepted it eagerly.

He was shaky when he drew at the flame of The Shadow's lighter; but a few

puffs

eased him. He lifted the cigarette from his lips to say:

"Thanks, Mr. Cranston."

Weston had ordered one of his men to call the Apex Security Co., on the

assumption that its office was still open. While that was being done, he

questioned the starter for a description of the man who had delivered the bomb

to Zanwood.

"He was a tall guy," declared the witness. "Shoulders straight back. He

walked with a long stride; I saw that when he came across the sidewalk. Say!

That makes me remember it must have been him I saw later, just before the

blow-up came! Sure enough, he was clear up here by the drug store, making time

with those long legs of his, though he didn't look like he was in a hurry."

"A good point," commended Weston. "But get back to the description. Did

you see the man's face?"

"Yeah. It was kind of blunt. His hair was dark, pretty near black, I'd

say, and his eyes were about the same."

"His complexion?"

"I couldn't say. Dark, I guess. He was a youngish man, though. I'm sure

that."

The starter's recollection ended. Weston was called to the telephone. The

Apex Security Co. was on the wire. Weston held brief conversation, hung up;

then announced:

"The Apex Co. says that the messenger left only five minutes ago. It

couldn't have been their man who delivered the bag."

Cardona arrived just as the commissioner completed his statement. Joe had

located the driver of the green cab; he had the man with him. Scared, the

hackie told how he had just parked his cab when the blast came. He had still

been slouched behind his wheel when Cardona found him.

"I picked up the fare over near Times Square," testified the cab driver.

"On Forty-sixth Street, to be exact. He was in a hurry; asked me if I knowed

where the Cobalt Club was, and when I said yes, he told me to hop here in a

hurry."

"Did you see his face?" quizzed Weston. "Can you describe him?"

"I got a look at his mug when he was payin' me. He was usin' one hand to

get his money, on account of carryin' a bag. He had his thumb on the handle of

it. Guess he was holdin' a spring down, until he could get rid of the bag -"

"But what did he look like?"

"His face looked dark; because his back was to the light, maybe. He had a

big chin, though. Kind of stuck it at me when he pushed his mitt in through

the

window to give me my fare. His face was flattish, I guess; it could have

looked

that way because his cheeks bulged up underneath his eyes."

"He was tall?"

"Yeah. A big guy. I could tell that when he was going into the door of

the

club."

When it came to minor details, such as a description of the

bomb-carrier's

voice, both the starter and the cab driver were hazy. They did define the

man's

tone as a quick one; but that was hardly adequate, as his conversation with

both witnesses had been brief and hurried.

It was a certainty that the man had taken a quick, uptown route

immediately after delivering the bomb. The starter's recollection of the

long-striding figure was backed by the cab driver. The latter had parked just

south of the Cobalt Club and swore that he would have recognized his

ex-passenger, if the man had come in his direction.

FULLY ten minutes had passed before the police had begun a proper search

of the neighboring blocks about the Cobalt Club. The bomb carrier had profited

by that interval to clear the vicinity. Joe Cardona, however, was confident

that other persons would be found who had observed the killer's flight. They

would add new details of description.

While Cardona was making such comment, detectives brought in the

messenger

from the Apex Security Co., a mild-looking man who carried a bag that

resembled

a briefcase. The contents proved to be stocks and bonds that belonged to

Zanwood. The dead man had intended to take them to some customers in Boston.

They tallied with a list that the security company had read to Weston over the

telephone.

The messenger explained that he was one of several who worked for the

Apex

Co. and other security houses. That news brought an immediate response from

Weston.

"One of the other messengers may be responsible," declared the

commissioner.

"Knowing that securities were going to Zanwood, he could have preceded

the

actual messenger to the Cobalt Club. Our course is plain, Cardona. We shall go

at once to the office of the Apex Security Co. and continue our investigation

there."

That decided, Weston looked about for his friend Cranston, only to find

that he had left the drug store. A detective explained that Mr. Cranston had

remembered an appointment elsewhere; and had asked to be conducted through the

police cordon. The dick had obliged, knowing Cranston to be a friend of the

commissioner.

"I can't quite fathom Cranston," confided Weston to Cardona, as they

entered an automobile for their ride to Wall Street. "He has an amazing

ability

to recognize sudden danger, as he demonstrated tonight; yet, ordinarily, he is

lackadaisical and seldom seems to be alert.

"Here we are, Cardona, on the one trail that promises to solve the

mystery, and Cranston chooses to be elsewhere."

Commissioner Weston might have reversed his verdict, had he seen his

friend Cranston at that moment. The Shadow had already arrived near Times

Square.

There, on a side street, he was boarding a streamlined taxi that seemed

have been waiting for this particular passage.

When The Shadow spoke to the driver, his tone was whispered. The address

that The Shadow gave was that of the Everglades Apartments.

While Weston and Cardona were traveling to the office that had done

business with George Zanwood, The Shadow was making a trip to the dead man's

residence.

The Shadow had chosen his own trail in preference to the law's.

CHAPTER III

A MURDERER'S SNARE

WHATEVER the mystery enshrouding the death of George Zanwood, The Shadow

felt sure that it was something that had risen from the past. Zanwood had been

ruthlessly bombed into oblivion, and whoever had timed the murder did not care

if others perished. The fact that only the doorman had gone with Zanwood was

sheer accident.

In his unending search for crime-makers, The Shadow never failed to note

matters close at hand. One of his fundamental methods was to keep tabs on the

members of the Cobalt Club - not because he expected to find crooks among

them,

but because they represented the wealthiest men in New York, the sort against

whom criminals would strike.

The Shadow had checked the name of George Zanwood. The man was

prosperous,

precise in his business methods. His activities were not the sort that would

have made him a target for crime. Yet Zanwood had been done to death in a

fashion that was not only fiendish, but well planned. Someone had wanted to

remove Zanwood so completely that not even a trace of him would remain.

The Shadow's records concerning Zanwood began only a few years back. It

would be necessary to trace his earlier activities. Zanwood, himself, could

have described them; but Zanwood was dead. Therefore, The Shadow was choosing

the nearest point that might offer evidence concerning Zanwood's own career.

That point was the apartment where the dead man had been living alone.

Commissioner Weston had chosen a useless trail. Nothing of consequence

would be learned at the Apex Security Co. No ordinary runner from a security

house would risk his life by carrying a bomb. He would know that even if he

did

deliver it, the law would immediately be upon him.

Weston's trail, though useless to himself, was valuable to The Shadow. It

meant that the commissioner would forget Zanwood's apartment until later. The

Shadow, therefore, had time for his own investigation.

WHEN the cab neared the Everglades Apartments, it parked some distance

from the building. This cab was The Shadow's own. Its driver, Moe Shrevnitz,

was a speedy hackie whose life The Shadow had once saved. Moe followed The

Shadow's orders to the last detail; he was always in readiness for his chief's

command. Hence, when he parked near the Everglades, Moe turned off the motor

and sat waiting behind the wheel.

Moe did not see The Shadow alight. In fact, the keenest eyes could not

have spied the shrouded figure that emerged in darkness. The Shadow had donned

his cloak and hat from a bag beneath the rear seat of the taxi. Garbed in

blackness, he was moving silently into the night. He reached the front of the

apartment house; entered its lobby like a gliding, ghostly shape.

The Everglades was an antiquated type of apartment house; but its choice

location had kept it filled with tenants who paid high rentals. The floors

were

served by an automatic elevator; encountering no one in the lobby, The Shadow

had no difficulty in reaching Zanwood's apartment, which occupied a rear

quarter of the fourth floor.

Working with plierlike instruments of his own invention, The Shadow

opened

the lock within a few minutes. He entered the darkness of a large apartment

and

closed the door behind him.

Investigation with a flashlight showed that the apartment was entirely

empty. The Shadow lowered the shades in the living room and turned on the

light. Though the glow could be noticed from the windows of other rooms, no

outsider could possibly have glimpsed The Shadow.

In one corner of the living room was a door that looked like a possible

exit. The Shadow examined it, found it fitted with a heavy latch. Opening the

door, he saw an entrance to a steep stairway that turned at a landing, a dozen

feet below. The stairway was a fire exit, that could be reached either from

this apartment or the one that adjoined it. Familiar with this type of exit,

The Shadow knew that there would be a heavy, latched door at the bottom of the

stairway.

This type of exit was always ready for people who lived in the

apartments;

but the door below could not be opened, except with the janitor's master key.

Thus the exit was as completely barred as the front doors of the apartments.

CLOSING the fire exit door, The Shadow began an inspection of Zanwood's

living room. There was a writing desk in a corner; two of the drawers were

locked, but scratches on the mahogany surface indicated that someone had

worked

with different keys to open them.

The Shadow picked the locks with ease. Inside the drawers he found stacks

of papers in disarray. One space gave proof that a small batch had been

removed. If any documents pertaining to Zanwood's past had been here, they

were

gone.

There was a chance that a searcher had overlooked something important;

nevertheless, The Shadow preferred to inspect elsewhere before returning to

this field that had been previously searched. He went to a table in a corner,

found its drawer empty. A bookcase was likewise barren of results, even though

The Shadow was complete in his quick search.

Straight across the living room from the fire exit was a square-shaped

cabinet mounted on a pedestal. It served a double purpose. It was a humidor

wherein Zanwood evidently kept his tobacco and cigars. It was also a stand for

the telephone that rested upon it. There was a chair and reading lamp close

by.

Evidently, Zanwood's favorite spot was close beside the square-shaped humidor.

Stooping beside the stand, The Shadow observed that it had no lock;

merely

a small knob that controlled a catch to keep the door shut. There were faint

scratches, though, beside that knob; they were much like the marks on the

locks

of the desk drawers. Only The Shadow would have observed that oddity. It

impressed him particularly, for here there was no lock to pick.

Instead of opening the foot-square door, The Shadow lifted the telephone

from the top of the humidor stand. He wedged a thin piece of bladelike steel

between the sides of the stand and the top. Careful prying enabled him to

loosen the top of the stand. He lifted it away, to find a copper lining

riveted

beneath.

The Shadow made short work of the rivets. Lifting away the top section of

the lining, he saw the interior of the humidor. It contained two boxes of

cigars. The Shadow removed them and examined the remaining sections of the

copper lining.

He noted sharp scratches on the inside copper of the door; the screw that

held the catch was projecting slightly inward, and hooked about it was a tight

bit of wire that had been broken away.

THE humidor had been fixed as a death trap. Someone had entered the

apartment, opened the humidor and removed the cigar boxes to insert a bomb

instead. The knob had been fixed, with an inside wire connection, so that a

simple turn would snap the detonator of the bomb. Had Zanwood come to his

apartment and opened the humidor, he would have been blasted to nothingness

here, instead of at the Cobalt Club.

Two killers had teamed to get Zanwood. Tools of a supercrook who wanted

Zanwood's death, each of those workers had undertaken a different course to

make sure of the victim's doom. One had fixed a bomb in the humidor, while the

other had carried a bag to the Cobalt Club.

Without question, the man who had succeeded at the Cobalt Club had

promptly contacted his fellow worker in crime. The second man had decided to

remove the bomb that he had placed in the humidor, as it was no longer needed,

and replace the cigars. His task was no easy one, since the thing had been set

to blow the moment that the knob was turned.

The Shadow could picture two active workers. One - a man with iron nerve

who had handed Zanwood the bag, made strides for safety, called his pal by

telephone and arranged to cover the apartment afterward. The other - an expert

who could handle explosives; who did not fear to plant bombs and remove them.

The Shadow had taken no chances with the humidor; he had known that the

bomb might still be inside it. Finding the bomb gone, The Shadow simply closed

the door of the humidor; then put the cigar boxes in at the top. He replaced

the copper lining, wedged it in place and added the wooden top of the cabinet.

With one hand resting on the stout humidor, The Shadow started to reach

for the telephone. He made the move mechanically, for his thought were

concerned with his surroundings. The Shadow was planning his next move. His

eyes were fixed on a wall mirror that hung just above the humidor. From the

mirror, The Shadow could see the major portion of the living room.

He saw the door of the fire exit. A movement of that barrier made him

pause. The door was edging inward. Someone had unlocked it from the other side

and was peering through the darkened crack. As token of an immediate menace,

The Shadow saw a metal barrel slide noiselessly through the space at the edge

of the door.

Murderous men had not been far from Zanwood's apartment. They had seen

the

light come on there. One, at least, had returned by the fire tower, to which

the

pair must have gained access with a stolen key. A steady hand had opened that

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摘要：

VENGEANCEISMINE!byMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"January1,1937.Solemnwerethesewordsfromthemindofamadcriminal-butitwasTheShadowwhometedouttherepayment,withasternjusticethatbrookednothwarting!CHAPTERICRIME'SBLASTNEWYORKlaylulledthatnight.ToolulledtopleaseTheShadow,asheviewedbro...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 117 - Vengeance Is Mine

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