Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 110 - Jibaro Death

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JIBARO DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH MARK
? CHAPTER II. FACES FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER III. THE MESSAGE OF DOOM
? CHAPTER IV. BETWEEN THE KILLERS
? CHAPTER V. THE NEW SEARCH
? CHAPTER VI. CRIME'S WARNING
? CHAPTER VII. THRUSTS THROUGH THE DARK
? CHAPTER VIII. NEWS FROM SANTANDER
? CHAPTER IX. STRANGERS FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER X. TRAILS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XI. ZENJORA'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER XII. DOOM BEFORE DAWN
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S STROKE
? CHAPTER XIV. ZENJORA'S EMISSARY
? CHAPTER XV. CHANGED TRAILS
? CHAPTER XVI. THE DOUBLE TRAP
? CHAPTER XVII. JIBARO TORTURE
? CHAPTER XVIII. OAKBROOK'S VISITORS
? CHAPTER XIX. THE CLAIM OF WEALTH
CHAPTER I. DEATH MARK
THE man who alighted from a cab in front of the Hotel Goliath was a foreigner. That was apparent from
the olive hue of his skin; the jet blackness of his glistening hair, and the dark glint of his eyes. His exact
nationality, however, would have been difficult to guess.
The man's expression showed odd contrasts. The flash of his eyes; the set of his lips; the strength of his
squatty frame were indicative of a person who could combat danger. Nevertheless, his eyes showed a
blink; his lips carried a twitch. There was a shudder of the broad shoulders as the foreigner stepped
hastily across the stretch of sidewalk between the curb and the hotel entrance.
Once inside the glittering lobby of the Goliath, the olive-skinned man regained his composure. Lights
were brilliant; the lobby was thronged. The place seemed to be a meeting spot for all Manhattan. The
squatty man smiled as he looked about and saw a desk that bore the sign: "INFORMATION."
When he approached the desk, however, the man became cautious. He looked warily about; studied
faces that he saw near by. He saw a light-complexioned, blond-haired man standing near the information
booth, and apparently considered him of no importance. Observing no one of darkish visage, the
olive-skinned man leaned across the desk and spoke to a girl who was sorting mail.
"Tell me, please," he inquired. "Senor Alvarez Rentone - is he registered here?"
The girl went to a filing case marked "R." She consulted a card; without looking toward the questioner,
she replied:
"Mr. Rentone is registered here; but he has gone out of town for a few days. He left no word when he
would be back."
The squatty man looked troubled. He chewed his lips; then turned away and looked across the lobby.
He saw a line of telephone booths. He walked over, consulted a telephone directory and entered a
booth. After some perplexity with the dial, he managed to call the number that he wanted.
"Hello?" The squatty man's voice was questioning as he heard an answer. "Is this Senor Dundee?... Ah,
buenos! Allow me, senor, to introduce myself. My name is Manuel Fendoza... Ah, si, senor. I have come
from Santander."
There was a short-pause, while Fendoza listened to a voice across the wire. When Dundee had finished
speaking, Fendoza became voluble with further explanation.
"Ah, senor," he exclaimed, "it is not my wish to cause you bother. I have come to New York to find
Senor Alvarez Rentone... Ah, si. He is the grandson of Jose Rentone... But he is not where I should find
him... At the Hotel Goliath... Your name? Ah, senor, I heard of it by pure accident... Gracias, senor."
FENDOZA finished his call and stepped from the booth. He went to the cigar stand, purchased a pack
of cigarettes and looked about while he was opening them. He failed to glance back toward the
telephone booths. Hence he did not notice that a man was hunched in the booth next to the one that he
had just left. The man in the booth was the light-haired individual who had watched Fendoza at the
information desk.
A hard grin showed on the man's lips as his finger dialed a number. The call went through; the light-haired
man recognized the voice that responded. Lone-toned and harsh, the caller gave information.
"Hello, Zenjora." he announced. "This is Cardell, watching at the Goliath... Yeah. A fellow just came in
and asked for Alvarez Rentone...
"His name? Sure. I got it. Manuel Fendoza. He just put in a call to a guy named Dundee. I caught it from
the next booth... What's that? Howard Dundee? I can't say for sure. All that Fendoza called him was
Dundee...
"No. Dundee didn't know anything about Alvarez Rentone. From the way it sounded, he didn't want to
be bothered... Wait a minute, Zenjora! I see Fendoza going back to the information desk!... Yeah. I
think he's going to fall... Sure. I'll be ready with the tip-off..."
Completing his call, Cardell stepped from the booth. He watched Fendoza approach the information
desk; but Cardell made no effort to draw closer. Instead, he edged toward a side door of the lobby.
From that vantage point, he could see what happened at the desk.
There, Fendoza made another polite inquiry regarding Alvarez Rentone.
"Ah, senorita!" he said to the girl at the desk. "I must ask you again regarding Senor Rentone. He is a
friend of mine. Is it not possible that he has left some message here?"
The girl made another reference to file "R." She looked along the line of mail boxes; found number 1282,
There she discovered a sealed envelope, a memo slip with it. She passed the envelope to Rentone and
tossed the slip in the wastebasket.
"This was left for any one who inquired," stated the girl. "No name mentioned with it. It must be for you,
sir."
Fendoza took the envelope. Clutching it, he looked about, saw the side exit from the lobby. Cardell had
stepped away; Fendoza suspected nothing as he hurried through the doorway. Outside, he spied a taxi.
He entered it.
"Where to?" queried the driver.
Fendoza hesitated; then replied:
"Take me to a station of the subway." Then, noting a subway station just across the street, he corrected
himself: "No, no! I mean a station of the elevated railway. The one that is nearest."
Fendoza's only desire was to open the envelope in privacy. He started the task as soon as the cab pulled
away. Hence he did not observe a sedan that started from the curb and followed close behind the cab.
The driver of the sedan had caught a signal from Cardell, at the lobby door.
THE lights of Seventh Avenue were just what Fendoza wanted. Eagerly, he ripped the envelope open,
pulled out a stiff correspondence card that was within. The card was sharp-edged; it cut Fendoza's
finger, and brought an exclamation from his lips. Then, placing his finger to his mouth, Fendoza forgot
about the slight cut while he studied the card. His eyes blinked in puzzled fashion.
The correspondence card was blank.
Turning it over and over, Fendoza wondered. He looked inside the crumpled envelope; found nothing
there. The cab swung eastward on a gloomy side street, where no more light was available. Fendoza
shoved the card and the envelope in his pocket. Drawing his finger from his lips, he muttered to himself in
Spanish. Fendoza could not understand the barren message.
"Here you are, sir."
The cab driver made the announcement as he pulled up beneath a station on the Sixth Avenue elevated.
Fendoza alighted and produced the fare.
As the cab drove away, Fendoza looked about and became nervous. Sixth Avenue was less brilliant than
Seventh. Many of its lights were obstructed by the elevated. Glancing along a side street, Fendoza saw
the brighter district that he had just left. He decided to go back to it. He hurried westward along the side
street.
Halfway to Seventh Avenue, Fendoza stumbled as he passed the open front of a garage. His face
showed a wild expression beneath the glare of a street lamp. Another stumble; Fendoza gave an
inarticulate cry. He lost his footing and rolled to the sidewalk. The spot where he sprawled was dark.
A sedan swung up from the opposite direction. It was the one that had trailed Fendoza from the Hotel
Goliath. It had rounded the block while Fendoza was walking from Sixth Avenue to Seventh. The door
of the sedan swung open; a hunched, apish figure scrambled to the curb. The sedan blocked the glow
from the nearest street lamp. The apish man was scarcely discernible, as he crouched above Fendoza's
body.
With quick hands, this hunched ghoul went through Fendoza's pockets. There was a momentary glimmer:
an arm jabbed as though delivering a knife thrust. A low call from the sedan; the apish man bounded
back into the car. The sedan shot away as its door slammed. At that instant, an attendant arrived from
the open front of the garage.
"Hey, you!!" he shouted after the car. "What's going on here?"
The sedan did not stop. The garage man could not catch its license number; nor did he gain a good
glimpse of the car as it wheeled around the corner. He looked toward the sidewalk, near where the car
had stopped. He saw Fendoza's body.
The garage man raised a shout. Another attendant joined him. As the two shouted together, a patrolman
came on the run, from some distance down the street. Reaching Fendoza's body, the officer heard the
first garage man's statement.
"There was a sedan stopped here," the fellow informed the officer. "Maybe they dumped the guy. Or
maybe somebody hopped out and slugged him while he was walking past."
The policeman stopped and gripped Fendoza's shoulders. The body had tilted forward; the officer rolled
it on its back. One garage man gulped. From the dead man's breast he saw the handle of a knife.
Fendoza had been stabbed through the heart.
THE policeman grunted. This did not perturb him. He had seen dirked victims before. He had viewed
corpses with their faces shot away. He was used to all forms of death. With one hand, the officer tilted
Fendoza's face into the light, so that he could observe it better.
An instant later, the bluecoat came upward, rigid. His nonchalance was gone. His eyes were staring; his
hands shook. Yet he could not turn his gaze away from the horror that lay upon the sidewalk.
The face of Manuel Fendoza looked human no longer. No person on earth could have identified that
countenance as one that had been seen at the Hotel Goliath only fifteen minutes before. Death had
changed it to the visage of a fiend.
Livid eyes bulged from sunken sockets; eyes that were glaring brown orbs, surrounded by a rim of
bloodshot white. Olive skin seemed drawn fight across the dead man's cheek bones, pulled downward
by a sagged lower jaw.
Fendoza's lips were twisted into a terrible, downward smile that contorted his entire face. Half askew,
those lips looked as if they had tried vainly to deliver a shriek in response to something that the bulging
eyes had witnessed.
That was not all. Upon Fendoza's face stood proof that his terror had been real. A knife thrust was not
the only token that had been left upon the corpse. Upon Fendoza's forehead gleamed a mark that stood
for death.
That mark was formed by three crimson lines, like narrow welts. The symbol was in the center of
Fendoza's forehead; two lines horizontal, the third crossing them at the diagonal. They were like slashes,
carved upon the dead man's flesh; though scratches only, they had brought blood to the surface.
Yet, terrible though Fendoza's expression had become, his face was but the countenance of a victim. The
devilish glare that showed upon the dead man's visage stood as a reflection of an evil that still existed.
That was the evil of some master murderer who had ordered the doom of Manuel Fendoza.
CHAPTER II. FACES FROM THE PAST
FENDOZA'S death produced big headlines in the next day's newspapers. Though killings were not
unusual in New York, this one presented sensational angles. It was seldom that a man was stabbed to
death within half a block of the Times Square area.
To the police, Manuel Fendoza was an unidentified victim. There was no clue to his exact nationality; and
the contorted condition of his face made it still more difficult to trace the race to which he belonged. The
weapon, however, was not an ordinary knife. It was a stiletto; and that fact apparently placed an Italian
angle to the murder.
One fact was mentioned by all the newspapers. The victim had died in fear and anguish. Those who had
seen his face were unanimous on that point. All agreed that they had viewed a sight that they would like
to forget.
The morning newspapers handled the case in rather conservative fashion. The evening journals made it
more sensational. Behind Fendoza's murder, so they claimed, might lie a huge vendetta that would lead to
more deaths. The newspapers announced that the police commissioner had taken personal charge of the
case; and it was predicted that a round-up of criminals might be due.
Until midafternoon, reporters beleaguered the office of Commissioner Ralph Weston. Then their efforts
ceased. Weston ducked out and made for the Cobalt Club, where he was a member. No one had ever
crashed the gate of the exclusive Cobalt Club. The reporters gave up their efforts to gain an interview, on
the assumption that Weston would issue a statement later.
Four o'clock found Commissioner Weston finishing a steak in the grillroom of the Cobalt Club. Weston
was a man of brisk, military appearance; when he became ruffled, he was a hard man with whom to deal.
He had foregone his lunch hour in order to avoid reporters; and he had been annoyed on that account. A
meal in the quiet grillroom of the Cobalt Club had calmed him; in fact, Weston looked up with a
half-pleased smile when a visitor approached his table.
WESTON recognized the newcomer as Lamont Cranston, a millionaire member of the Cobalt Club. He
invited his friend to sit down at the table. Cranston complied. Weston looked across to eye a calm,
hawklike countenance, with keen eyes and thin, straight lips.
As Weston recalled it, he had never seen Cranston indulge in any but the slightest of smiles. There was
something masklike about the millionaire's face; his manner, too, was unusual. Cranston was always
deliberate and leisurely. Weston supposed that he had cultivated that manner through his long experience
as a globe-trotter. Cranston had experienced adventures in many parts of the world.
Though Weston thought he knew a great deal about Cranston, there was one fact that the commissioner
had never grasped. He would have been astonished had he been told that there were two Lamont
Cranstons; that the real one was seldom in New York. The Cranston whom Weston faced at present
was actually another person. He was that mysterious being known as The Shadow.
Master sleuth who hunted down men of crime, The Shadow used the role of Cranston to hide his own
identity. Moreover, he found it useful when he sought certain items of information. Today, The Shadow
was in quest of facts; he had learned enough about last night's murder to want more. Anticipating that
Commissioner Weston would be at the Cobalt Club, The Shadow had come here as Cranston.
In quiet, leisurely fashion, The Shadow expressed surprise at finding Weston at the lunch table, so late in
the afternoon. The remark produced the very result that The Shadow expected. It started Weston on a
tirade that led to the subject of Fendoza's murder.
"There is no rest for a police commissioner," snapped Weston. "When crime is rampant, I am criticized
by the newspapers and besieged by hordes of outraged reformers. Do they give me rest when I have
curbed crime? No! Then they magnify small crimes into large ones!"
"I suppose," inserted The Shadow, "that you are referring to last night's murder."
"I am," acknowledged Weston. "To read the newspaper reports you would think that a feud had begun.
Bah! It is such talk that stirs up trouble!"
"The newspapers state that you have taken personal charge of the case."
"I have. What else could I do? I had to satisfy them in some fashion. However, I am handling it through
Inspector Cardona. He is the best man to get to the bottom of it."
The Shadow indulged in one of his slight smiles. He knew that if Joe Cardona was on the case, Weston's
part would be a small one. Cardona was the most able sleuth on the New York force. He had long
served as Weston's right-hand man.
"CARDONA isn't even sure that the dead man is an Italian," confided Weston, leaning across the table.
"All he knows is that the man was stabbed to death with a stiletto; and that his forehead was marked with
a peculiar symbol that might be the sign of some secret society.
"But Cardona hasn't found out who the dead man is; and he hasn't located a single suspect. He's down in
Little Italy today, quizzing people there. Being a native of the district himself, Cardona ought to learn
something."
The waiter brought Weston his dessert. The Shadow lighted a cigar; leaned back in his chair and put a
casual query to the commissioner.
"The newspapers mentioned the mark on the dead man's forehead," he remarked. "They also stated that
the victim's face was distorted. Was that true, commissioner?"
For reply, Weston reached to a briefcase beside his chair. Gingerly, he produced a photograph, turned
its picture side down and passed it across the table.
"Take a look at it, Cranston," he suggested. "But don't spoil my meal by turning it in this direction. You'll
see the face and the mark on the forehead."
The Shadow studied the photograph. It showed the face of Manuel Fendoza as the patrolman had
viewed it the night before. The picture was a large one; it was almost as horrible as the face itself. The
photograph, however, produced a gleam of interest in The Shadow's keen eyes. He made a careful study
of the mark upon the forehead.
"Tell me, commissioner," said The Shadow. "Has the dead man's face altered since this photograph was
taken?"
A nod from Weston. The commissioner brought another picture from the brief case.
"There is a shot that was taken this morning."
The Shadow eyed the second photograph. Two features intrigued him. One was the fact that Fendoza's
face, though still distorted, had dulled. It no longer showed the lifelike glare that would have befitted a
demon. The other point was the mark upon the forehead. It was more conspicuous than before. The
reason for both changes seemed to be explained by a shrinkage that had come to the dead man's flesh.
"You seem to relish those photographs, Cranston," laughed Weston. "Have you ever seen any like
them?"
"I have," responded The Shadow, quietly. "In fact, I have seen actual faces that were contorted like this
one."
"Where was that?"
"In Ecuador. Commissioner, this dead man resembles those who have been victims of the Jibaro
head-hunters. He appears to have died from the virulent poison which the Jibaros use."
"You mean those chaps who shrink the heads of their victims and keep them as miniature souvenirs?"
"Precisely! The Jibaros apply the same substance to the heads, after death."
Weston thwacked the table with his fist. He delivered a long laugh.
"That would be a story for the newspapers," chuckled the commissioner. "Jibaro head-hunters, stalking
the streets of New York! Only one trouble, though, Cranston." Weston sobered, and spoke with mock
seriousness. "They wouldn't swallow it, even if I told them that I believed it."
"By which I infer," remarked The Shadow, "that you reject my theory."
"You have inferred correctly," smiled Weston. "That man was stabbed to death, Cranston. We have the
stiletto that was thrust through his heart."
The Shadow returned the photographs without comment. Weston packed them away in his briefcase. He
glanced at his watch; decided that he would chance a return trip to his office. A few minutes later, he was
on his way.
AN hour later, The Shadow left the Cobalt Club. He entered a waiting limousine; gave the chauffeur an
order. The big car drove slowly through Manhattan streets. The day was gloomy; dusk had settled when
the limousine reached an almost deserted street.
The figure that alighted silently bore no resemblance to Lamont Cranston. During the ride, The Shadow
had donned garments of black. Cloaked, with slouch hat on his head, he was like a phantasm amid the
dying daylight. Even the chauffeur did not detect his exit.
For a moment, The Shadow was visible as he crossed the sidewalk; then he was gone, beneath the
gloom of a dingy building. A silent alleyway marked his route; but from the point, his course was
untraceable.
Soon a click sounded amid darkness. A bluish light glowed within the corner of a black-walled room.
White hands came beneath the glow. The Shadow was in his sanctum, the lone abode that formed his
hidden headquarters in Manhattan.
Hands moved away from the light. When they returned, they carried half a dozen photographs and
spread them on the table. Faces glared upward toward the hidden eyes of The Shadow. Those
photographs looked like a gallery of demons.
Every picture displayed a countenance as contorted as that of Manuel Fendoza. Each had been touched
by the same grim death that had struck the man from Santander. These were the photographs of dead
men whom The Shadow had seen; the ones whom he had mentioned to the police commissioner. They
were the hapless victims of Jibaro head-hunters.
Not only were those victims rendered alike in death, so much so that their own identities seemed gone; in
addition, each carried an unmistakable mark upon his forehead. It was the three-line symbol: two cross
bars with the slashed diagonal.
Another set of pictures came into the light. They were pictures of the same victims, taken later. As with
Fendoza, each had undergone a relaxation. Skin was shrunken; the symbols on the foreheads were more
conspicuous.
Commissioner Weston would have expressed surprise had he seen those photographs. Perhaps some of
his ridicule would have faded. But those pictures were to remain within The Shadow's files. Weston had
passed up his chance.
The Shadow removed the photograph. He returned with a large-scale map that showed the northern
section of South America; also stacks of clippings that he placed to one side. Studying the map, he
placed a long finger upon the newly formed republic of Santander, which was close to Ecuador.
From the clippings, The Shadow produced a batch that referred to Santander. During the past few years,
that country had been governed by a dictator, old Jose Rentone. A famous champion of liberty, Jose
Rentone had been the idol of his people; but since his death, one month ago, revolution had been rife in
Santander.
With the clippings that gave the life story of Jose Rentone, The Shadow found a small one that had
appeared recently in a New York newspaper. It mentioned that Alvarez Rentone, grandson of the dead
dictator, had arrived in New York and was stopping at a Manhattan hotel. Written on the clipping was
the notation: "Hotel Goliath."
With the cooperation of his agents, The Shadow kept extensive files concerning all news that might have
any bearing upon crime. South American revolutions frequently extended their ripples to the United
States. Therefore, The Shadow had not neglected them.
Today, one lead had brought another. Newspaper reports of a mysterious stabbing had mentioned the
distorted face of a victim. The Shadow had seen photographs of the dead man, had recognized that he
could be a South American instead of an Italian.
Shrunken skin, the tri-marked forehead, had pointed to the Jibaro headhunters. A check on Ecuador had
brought The Shadow to a consideration of Santander; he had further checked the fact that Alvarez
Rentone, grandson of the dead Santander dictator, was registered at the Hotel Goliath.
Only a few blocks lay between the Hotel Goliath and the spot where the body of Manuel Fendoza had
been found. The chain had become a circle. The Shadow could see a connection between the dead man
and Alvarez Rentone. In fact, The Shadow was positive that Fendoza had encountered death either while
on his way to the Hotel Goliath or shortly after leaving it.
THE bluish light clicked off. Unfathomable darkness gripped the sanctum. From the darkened depths
came the whispered tone of a sinister laugh, that faded to leave absolute silence. The Shadow had
departed.
Since Commissioner Weston had rejected The Shadow's theory, The Shadow knew that he could
expect no immediate cooperation from the law. Any effort to push the police to a trail that Weston
regarded as absurd would be worse than futile.
This case demanded lone effort, of the sort that The Shadow could provide. Slender threads must be
tightened; small clues built into great ones. By the time such was achieved, the police would be through
with their own futile search for an Italian assassin. They would be ready to follow new and stronger leads
when they received them.
Tonight, working upon pure speculation, The Shadow had only one course; yet its very simplicity
promised results. The Shadow knew Manuel Fendoza only as a man who had undoubtedly tried to
contact Alvarez Rentone and had received death for his effort.
That meant that death might threaten others who attempted the same contact. To deliver death,
murderers would be forced to show their hand. The Shadow intended to follow the course that Fendoza
had chosen. He was ready to dare a horrible death to learn the source from which it came.
CHAPTER III. THE MESSAGE OF DOOM
DARKNESS had settled when The Shadow alighted from his limousine, in the vicinity of Times Square.
During his return ride in the big car, he had divested himself of his blackened garments. That equipment
was safely stowed beneath the rear seat of the limousine. The Shadow had again assumed the character
of Lamont Cranston.
Strolling to a side street, The Shadow approached a parked cab. The driver was absent; that fact
discouraged would-be passengers from boarding that particular taxi. Nevertheless, The Shadow entered
the deserted cab. He pulled the door shut; let it swing half open; then gave a final tug that closed it.
A shrewd-faced cabby arrived immediately from a side-arm restaurant. He had spied the motion of the
cab door; he knew it as a signal. This cab was The Shadow's own. Its driver was employed in his
service. As soon as the driver was behind the wheel, he heard quiet-toned orders from the passenger.
The cab headed for the Hotel Goliath.
Since his departure from the sanctum, The Shadow had formulated complete plans. He had contacted
agents to work with him, because his own part demanded that he bluff any watchers who might be at the
Hotel Goliath. The Shadow was sure that surveillance would commence as soon as he inquired for
Alvarez Rentone.
The cab reached its destination. The Shadow stepped beneath the marquee of the Hotel Goliath; waited
until the cab had pulled away. He entered the lobby; saw the information desk and strolled toward it. As
he approached, he spied a clean-cut young man seated in a chair near the desk. This chap looked like a
guest at the hotel. He was reading a newspaper, apparently oblivious to persons who went past his lobby
chair.
The young man was Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow's agents. Harry's interest in the newspaper was
genuine. His duty here would not begin until he received a signal. That was due to come.
Stopping at the desk, The Shadow made inquiry. His tone, though modulated, had a peculiar carrying
quality. It reached the ears of Harry Vincent.
"Is Mr. Alvarez Rentone stopping here?"
The girl behind the desk made prompt answer to The Shadow's query. She was the same girl who had
been on duty the night before. Ordinarily, she might not have remembered facts concerning one particular
guest at the huge hotel; but the name of Alvarez Rentone had impressed her because it was unusual.
"Sorry, sir," responded the girl. "Mr. Rentone is out of town. We do not know when he will return."
"He left no message?"
"He left a message; but a gentleman called for it last night. I am sorry, sir, but -"
The girl paused suddenly. She had remembered Alvarez Rentone's room number. Glancing methodically
toward the pigeon-hole mail boxes, she saw an envelope projecting from 1282. It was identical with the
envelope that Manuel Fendoza had taken.
Puzzled, the girl brought the envelope from the mail box. With it was a penciled memo, which she tossed
into the wastebasket. She handed the envelope to The Shadow with the remark:
"This was left with the day clerk. The memo says that it is to be given to any one who inquires for Mr.
Rentone."
Nodding in Cranston's leisurely fashion, The Shadow held the envelope between his hands. He turned
slightly, so that the action could be viewed from the lobby. The Shadow noted people from the corner of
his eye; but none was watching him.
Carrying the envelope, he strolled to the side exit; there he paused to eye the envelope once more. In
indifferent fashion, he placed it in his inside pocket and walked out to the street.
HARRY VINCENT, meanwhile, was glancing over the top of his newspaper, on sharp lookout for any
observers. At the moment when The Shadow pocketed the envelope, Harry caught a glimpse of a tall,
blond-haired man who had just stepped from the door of the tap room, some distance from the
information desk. He saw the fellow become tense; glance quickly toward the mail boxes behind the
desk. It was Cardell, the same watcher who had spied Fendoza.
Cardell had been caught off watch. The Shadow, noting no lookout, had suspected that a watcher might
be away from his post. The Shadow had deliberately delayed departure, as far as possible, without
overdoing the ruse. His method had worked. Cardell was quick to snap up The Shadow's trail.
Harry saw the light-haired man scowl viciously; then hurry to the street. Since Cardell's attention was
concentrated on The Shadow, Harry had an opportunity of his own. Rising from his chair, he tucked his
newspaper under his arm. Pausing for a few moments, he waited while two chance passers went toward
the side exit. Harry followed behind them.
Though scarcely more than a minute had passed, events had swung too swiftly for Harry. He thought that
he would be in time to observe the actions of the light-haired watcher. Harry was wrong in that surmise.
As he reached the street, Harry saw a cab swing the corner. It was The Shadow's taxi; it had rounded
the block and parked to await his reappearance. A sedan was pulling from the curb, headed for the same
corner. Simultaneously, a cab was starting from beside the hotel.
Cardell had reached the street in time to see The Shadow step aboard his cab. Flashing a signal to men in
the waiting sedan, Cardell had immediately taken a cab himself. Harry saw the pursuing sedan swing left
after The Shadow's cab. He watched Cardell's taxi turn right. A hunch gave Harry the answer to this
procedure.
Murderers had taken up The Shadow's trail. The watcher who had handed them the tip-off was on his
way elsewhere. He would not return to the Hotel Goliath until assured that death had been delivered and
that all clues had been eliminated.
Walking back into the lobby, Harry came to the conclusion that his presence here would be of no further
avail. For Harry Vincent was confident that assassins would not deal with The Shadow as they had with
Manuel Fendoza.
RIDING southward in his cab, The Shadow had quickly noted that a car was on his trail. His lips
phrased a whispered laugh as he reached for a bag upon the floor. Murderers had taken the bait that The
Shadow had given them. Emergency might soon arrive; The Shadow was preparing for it.
摘要：

JIBARODEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHMARK?CHAPTERII.FACESFROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERIII.THEMESSAGEOFDOOM?CHAPTERIV.BETWEENTHEKILLERS?CHAPTERV.THENEWSEARCH?CHAPTERVI.CRIME'SWARNING?CHAPTERVII.THRUSTSTHROUGHTHEDARK?CHAPTERVIII.NEWSFROMSANTANDER?CH...

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