Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 105 - The Yellow Door

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THE YELLOW DOOR
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. MURDER'S AFTERMATH
? CHAPTER II. TRIPLE DEATH
? CHAPTER III. THE LAW ENTERS
? CHAPTER IV. IN CLEVELAND
? CHAPTER V. HARRY REPORTS
? CHAPTER VI. PATHS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER VII. THE MESSENGER
? CHAPTER VIII. FACTS TO THE LAW
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW'S BARGAIN
? CHAPTER X. DEATH STRIKES TWICE
? CHAPTER XI. THE NEXT TEST
? CHAPTER XII. DOUBLE CAPTURE
? CHAPTER XIII,. WESTON DECREES
? CHAPTER XIV. TABLES TURN
? CHAPTER XV. DEATH DECREED
? CHAPTER XVI. THE GAME CHANGES
? CHAPTER XVII. HARRY'S VISITOR
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE UNSEEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIX. THE CITADEL
? CHAPTER XX. BEYOND THE DOOR
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SETTLEMENT
CHAPTER I. MURDER'S AFTERMATH
THE Jersey Central local chugged to a stop at the little Fanfield station. A wan-faced man stepped from
the smoker and crossed the gloomy platform of the station. It was night; few passengers came to Fanfield
at this hour. The ticket office had long since been closed.
Couplings jolted as the three-car local puffed from the station. The wan-faced man paused by a window
of the dimly lighted waiting room. His features were haggard; they showed that he had lost sleep. His lips
were twitchy; his eyes blinked suspiciously. The man feared that he was being followed.
Someone else had descended from the train. He was sure of it. All during the thirty minute ride from
Jersey City, he had felt that eyes were watching him. He could remember the same impression while
crossing by ferry from Manhattan. Yet when he eyed the entire platform, the jittery man failed to catch
sight of a single human being.
There was an old automobile parked in the station driveway. It was an ancient sedan that served as local
taxi from the Fanfield station. The driver was dozing behind the wheel. The nervous man shifted a
suitcase that he was carrying. He approached the taxi, opened the door and entered. He jogged the
sleepy driver.
"Take me to 64 Wesley Drive," ordered the wan-faced man. "Make it in a hurry."
The driver came to life. He grinned as he looked at his passenger.
"Sure thing, Mr. Dynoth," he said. "I'll get you there quick."
Dynoth chewed his lips; then queried: "How did you know my name?"
"I know everyone in Fanfield," chuckled the driver. "Soon as I heard your voice, I says to myself: 'That's
James C. Dynoth;' and I was right."
He pressed the starter; after a few attempts, the motor rumbled. The car shot away from the station.
Dynoth, jolting in the back seat, looked toward the dim platform. For a moment, he trembled nervously.
He was sure that he had seen a figure standing almost at the spot where the cab had been.
Then Dynoth delivered a tense laugh, that came weakly from his lips. What he had taken for a human
shape was no more than a curious shadow, cast grotesquely by the smudgy station lights.
"COME in from Chicago, Mr. Dynoth?" questioned the driver, pleasantly. "You go out there a lot, don't
you?"
"I was in Buffalo," returned Dynoth, a trifle gruffly. "I didn't make Chicago, this trip."
"Thought maybe you knowed that fellow Peter Gildare," remarked the driver. "The one that was
murdered yesterday. He was in the radio equipment business. That's your line, ain't it?"
"I never met Gildare."
Though the driver did not see it, Dynoth was chewing his lips, cursing the fact that he had ever chosen to
reside in Fanfield. The place was too small a suburb, where a hack driver could know all about every
commuter's business.
"Here we are, Mr. Dynoth. The fare's two bits."
The cab had stopped by a corner house. It was Dynoth's home, a small but attractive suburban
residence. Dynoth alighted. The cab driver nudged his thumb toward the first floor of the house, where
only a few hall lights were aglow.
"The missus is out," he informed. "I took her and your daughter over to a bridge party at Mrs. Dorbin's.
The battery of the car was run down, so Mrs. Dynoth said -"
"Here's a half dollar," interrupted Dynoth, tartly, passing the cabby a coin. "Keep the change."
He strode toward the house. The cabby watched him unlock the front door; then he backed the sedan
and started slowly toward the station. He muttered to himself as he drove along.
"A sour guy! Well, them traveling salesmen get that way. If I was -"
The cabby jammed the rickety brake pedal to the floor; then released it. The old sedan whined, jolted
and jerked forward. The driver grunted, shook his head and changed the tone of his mutter as he
proceeded on his way.
"I'd ha' swore that was somebody there, crossing the street by them trees! Them arc lights sure throw
funny kinds of shadows."
INSIDE his home, Dynoth had gone up to the second floor. He had passed through a hallway without
turning on a light. Entering a room, he pressed the light switch. The glow revealed a bedroom that served
also as an office, for there was an old-fashioned, roll-top desk in one corner.
The place was stuffy. Dynoth opened a window. He breathed fresh air; then went over by the bed and
opened his suitcase. He began to unpack it, tossing crumpled clothes into a corner of the room.
From downstairs, a clock chimed eight. Dynoth glanced at his watch and noted that it tallied. A few
seconds later, a telephone bell began to ring. There was a telephone on the desk, an extension of the
downstairs telephone. Dynoth answered the call.
A deep, solemn voice drawled a "hello" across the wire. There was a pause, while Dynoth stood rigid.
He had recognized the tone. Lips close to the mouthpiece, he gave a tense reply of three cautious words:
"The Yellow Door."
The response satisfied the speaker at the other end of the wire. The slow, deep voice spoke an order:
"Tell me about the transaction."
"It went through," asserted Dynoth, in his same nervous tone. "I - I - well, I settled the matter according
to the orders you sent me. He - he didn't have much to say when I left him. He - well, maybe he might
have said something within the next fifteen minutes; but nobody could have come there."
Silence. The man at the other end still listened.
"He knew more than I thought he did," expressed Dynoth. "He must have guessed a lot. But he didn't -
he didn't know what I was there for. He didn't figure my part in it. He hadn't talked to anybody before
me."
Dynoth paused. Then came the voice again, with an emphatic question:
"You are alone?"
"Yes," replied Dynoth. "The family is out, as I knew they would be -"
"Be gone," cut in the voice, "by twenty minutes after eight."
"To the Citadel?" queried Dynoth anxiously.
"Yes," returned the voice. "To the Citadel."
There was a click at the other end of the line. Dynoth clung to the receiver, scarcely realizing that the call
had ended. Then, to his ear, came another click. He listened intently, expecting to hear the voice again.
There was no voice.
DYNOTH hung up and planted the telephone on the desk. He went to a bureau, ripped open a drawer
and began to remove bundles of clothing, to pile them in his half-emptied suitcase. Glancing at his watch,
he saw that it was seven minutes after eight. Panting, Dynoth hastily opened a small drawer and grabbed
up valuables: studded cuff links, some rings of moderate value, other items that he considered of worth.
Suddenly he paused, to cock his head and listen. Fear showed on Dynoth's face. Strained nerves had
exaggerated his imagination. He fancied that he heard footsteps upon stairs. Steadying, Dynoth grated a
sickly laugh; then his face twitched.
There could be someone in this house.
Dynoth had remembered the click that had followed his telephone conversation with the voice. He
thought of the downstairs telephone. Had someone lifted the lower receiver? Was that person already en
route upstairs, or lying in wait below?
Frantically, Dynoth tossed his valuables into the packed bag. He leaped back to the bureau and pawed
through the drawer. He found a revolver and thrust it into a pocket. Diving to the bag, he dug beneath
clothing and produced a small, round bottle. Twisting off the screw cap, Dynoth shook out a large
capsule. He placed it carefully between his front teeth; then closed his lips to conceal it.
Unbroken, the capsule remained in its hidden position while Dynoth buried the bottle and closed the lid of
the suitcase. He tugged straps tight and lifted the suitcase, to plant it on the floor. He glanced at his
watch. Twelve minutes after eight. Dynoth grinned slightly, without disturbing the capsule with his pressing
teeth.
Gripping the handle of the suitcase with his left hand, Dynoth thrust his right into his coat pocket, to grasp
the revolver. While he fumbled for the weapon, he turned toward the door of the bedroom. His tightened
lips prevented a gasp; but his smile ended. Rigid, Dynoth faced a being on the threshold.
A SILENT intruder had arrived to confront James Dynoth. Motionless as a statue, silent as a specter, a
cloaked invader stood ready to block escape. The visitor was garbed entirely in black. A cloak covered
his shoulders; thin gloves encased his hands. His head wore a slouch hat, with downturned brim. The only
features visible to Dynoth were burning eyes that shone with a condemning challenge.
From one black-gloved fist projected an automatic pistol, a bulky .45 with looming muzzle that formed a
tunnel of certain doom. Dynoth quavered; the bag thudded as his left hand rose; the revolver turned in his
pocket as his right hand came to view and also moved ceilingward.
Everything in Dynoth's manner showed that he recognized the weird personage who confronted him. His
trembles were those of a guilty man; they told that James Dynoth was a murderer. He was marked as the
slayer who had killed Peter Gildare in Chicago. Dynoth was a man schooled in modes of crime. That was
why he had so quickly recognized the being who blocked his flight.
The black-cloaked invader was one who battled men of crime, whose power of vengeance was feared
by all who dealt in evil. He was the scourge of the underworld, the master who moved by night to
confront crooks and finish their outlawed careers.
James Dynoth stood trapped by The Shadow.
CHAPTER II. TRIPLE DEATH
SILENCE followed The Shadow's advent. A stillness so complete that the ticking of Dynoth's watch was
audible within that hushed room.
The murderer knew that his game was known. He realized why the voice had called him across the
telephone, warning that he must be gone within twenty minutes. Dynoth was but an instrument in a
scheme of gigantic crime. Someone more consequential had foreseen that the murderer might be trailed.
Dynoth remembered that shadowy shape by the station platform. He recalled his earlier impression. He
had been correct; an invisible trailer had followed him to Fanfield.
How much did The Shadow know?
He knew, certainly, that Dynoth had murdered Gildare. But the chances were that The Shadow had
arrived too late to catch any words of Dynoth's telephone call, particularly that identifying statement: "The
Yellow Door."
Dynoth kept his lips compressed.
Ticking seconds were becoming minutes. The Shadow spoke. His words terrified the murderer. There
was a sinister sibilance to the whisper that filled this close-walled room.
"You slew Gildare," spoke The Shadow. "As he died, he gasped your name. He spoke other words, as
well."
Dynoth shuddered. He knew that Gildare could have lived for twenty minutes, in the secluded room
where Dynoth had trapped him. The Shadow had been in Chicago, summoned probably by some news
concerning Gildare's fear of death. Too late to prevent murder, The Shadow had come to New York by
air, arriving before Dynoth. From the time that he had left the Grand Central Terminal, Dynoth had been
trailed.
Down to lower Manhattan; across the ferry; out to suburban New Jersey; here to his own home. The
Shadow had finally closed in upon his prey.
"The other words," pronounced The Shadow, "were these: 'The Yellow Door.'"
Dynoth chewed his lips between the teeth that still spread to clench the hidden capsule. The jacket of that
pill was not soluble. The capsule remained firm and intact between the pressure of the murderer's teeth.
"Speak!" commanded The Shadow. "State the significance of the Yellow Door!"
THE SHADOW was advancing. His eyes bored Dynoth. The murderer's nerve left him; then returned
for a final spasm. Dynoth bit the capsule. He gulped; his lips opened as he delivered a hopeless gasp.
With his gulp, Dynoth had swallowed the capsule.
Only The Shadow could have divined the murderer's action. He knew what Dynoth had done. Fearful
lest he would betray the secret of the Yellow Door, Dynoth had swallowed poison. He had chosen death
rather than face The Shadow.
The downstairs clock had chimed the quarter hour. It was eighteen minutes after eight when Dynoth
gulped the poison dose. He was counting upon the capsule to remove him from life within the next two
minutes. Dynoth had promised to be gone from these premises by twenty minutes after eight.
"Speak!" hissed The Shadow. His gun muzzle pressed close to Dynoth's eyes. "Tell of the Yellow
Door!"
Dynoth was cowering away, his hands pressed to his stomach. He gasped protesting words:
"I - I can't speak! I don't know the truth about the Yellow Door! If you ask -"
He gulped. He had almost betrayed a name. Quick to gain the advantage, The Shadow pressed that
point.
"Name the man," he ordered - "the man who will tell."
"Krode," panted Dynoth. "Ferris Krode -"
"State where he lives -"
"At the Barwick Apartments, in New York. Except -"
"Except when -"
"Except when he is in Cleveland. That's all I know."
A moment's pause. Dynoth was twisted in agony. The poison had almost accomplished its result.
Gasping for air, the murderer hoped to reach the open window. The Shadow stayed him with a repeated
demand.
"Speak for yourself!" hissed the cloaked avenger. "Announce the secret of the Yellow Door!"
Dynoth sagged by the window sill. One hand gripped the ledge. With glassy gaze, the contorted killer
met The Shadow's inflexible gaze. Even with death to save him, Dynoth could not resist The Shadow's
pressure.
"The Yellow Door!" he shrieked, hoarsely. "The Yellow Door! It exists! It means -"
A TERRIFIC pang seized Dynoth. He choked; he could not complete the sentence. His hand tightened
on the window sill. His body raised rigid; held its position momentarily; then wavered, about to topple.
The murderer's eyes were sightless. The poison had riveted him in death.
It was exactly twenty minutes after eight.
To The Shadow, that point of time had no significance. It was something else that made him act with
suddenness. A soft, purring noise had sounded beyond the window, where The Shadow stood almost
eye to eye with the stricken form of Dynoth. The purr was from a halting automobile. The Shadow
sensed a danger.
Instantly, he whirled away from the window, across the room toward the open door. From outside came
a ripping clatter, the drill of a machine gun. Dynoth's body jolted straight upward; it came sprawling
headlong to the floor, downed by a stream of bullets. Assassins of the night had come to make sure of
the murderer's departure. They had seen Dynoth framed in the window. They had known that he had
disobeyed a command.
The motor rumbled. The murderer's killers were on the verge of flight. The Shadow pressed the light
switch. In total darkness, he sprang toward the window, hurdling Dynoth's collapsed body. Gripping the
window frame with his left hand, The Shadow leaned out into the blanketing night.
He saw the death car, a low-slung coupe, starting along the side street, rearward from Dynoth's house.
Eyes glinting, The Shadow aimed. The range was short; his firm hand was about to deliver devastating
bullets. Punctured tires; a riddled gas tank - such possibilities were certainties to The Shadow.
Assassins who knew the secret of the Yellow Door were at The Shadow's mercy. One second more -
they would have been trapped in a crippled coupe. A short time interval; but it was not sufficient.
As The Shadow's finger squeezed the trigger of the .45, a splitting, thunderous blast quaked from below.
With an upheaving roar, the entire house seemed to lift itself from the ground. The window frame
shuddered, crackled sidewise. The Shadow was spun upward like a figure of straw.
Flames of the explosion swept upward from the depths. The boom of The Shadow's gun was puny, lost
in the terrific blast that shook the neighborhood. The flash that tongued, unaimed, from the automatic was
no more than a spark compared with the broad streaks of flame that spread upward, outward, as
dynamite shattered floors, walls and roof.
The shudder that followed the explosion was featured by falling ruins, by volumes of smoke that
enveloped the scene of disaster. The Shadow, the only living person in the house, was stunned, shaken,
hurled helpless and incapable by the blast.
The lights of the house were instantly extinguished. The room vanished. Dynoth's body was gone. Walls
had heaved outward; the roof had scaled upward; then, as after-effect, all settled back. Tumbling,
pouring, the fragments of the building collapsed inward to become a smoldering pit wherein dust and
smoke mingled to produce a grayish cloud amid the darkness.
INSTINCT alone saved The Shadow. Had he been at the door of Dynoth's room, he would have gone
down into the pit, for the floor had split to swallow everything that was actually in the room itself. The
Shadow, however, had been at the one spot that afforded safety.
Like a mammoth, clutching hand, the sucking intake of returning air had almost swept The Shadow
downward. All that held him was his grip upon the window frame. His gun was gone from his right hand;
instinctively, he clamped that fist along with the left. The window frame had cracked; but it formed a
partial structure as it loosened from the shattered wall.
Debris, smashing downward, was deflected. Lighter than the crumbling stone, the woodwork about the
window did not recover from the outward force of the explosion. Instead of rolling inward to the pit
where death was certain, it scaled downward, flopping crazily, to strike the ground just beyond the fringe
of the outer wall.
With it went The Shadow, twisted about, clamped in the broken frame itself. The frame struck on a
corner; it broke apart and sprawled its burden on the turf. Fragments of ruined shutters, masses of
splintered shingles came pouring down upon The Shadow's outstretched shape.
A stone from the falling chimney hurtled freakishly and struck the ground five inches from The Shadow's
head. A chance bounce sent it away from him. That missile was the last threat of death.
For a full five seconds, The Shadow lay motionless; black beneath the night, he showed no sign of life.
Then, slowly, he raised his head and shoulders. He inched forward away from the ruins.
A beam, supported by a chunk of frame, began to quiver. The Shadow could hear a warning rattle. He
eased cautiously; then gave a quick twist and rolled clear, to let a crushing flow of shattered masonry
come pouring upon the place where he had lain.
The Shadow arose weakly. He sagged; then managed to control himself with a limp. Capable of motion,
he knew that he could depart from the scene of the catastrophe, though his progress would be slow. He
had suffered no serious injury.
The murder car was gone. The Shadow had no chance to overtake it, even with a bullet. Triple death
had been delivered to James Dynoth, the killer who had failed to cover up his trail. A zero hour had been
set. Dynoth, forced to await it, had paid final penalty.
Dynoth had himself sought death by poison. Watchers, stationed outside to cover his departure, had
delivered machine gun bullets to make certain of Dynoth's doom. That matter; however, had already
been arranged by some other emissary of crime, who had come and gone beforehand. A huge
time-bomb had been planted in Dynoth's cellar, set for twenty minutes after eight.
Triple death had halted The Shadow's trail. Three courses had been devised to prevent Dynoth from
betraying the crooked master whom he had unquestionably served. Almost miraculously, The Shadow
had escaped from doom. During the final moments of Dynoth's life, The Shadow had gained an extension
of his trail.
The Shadow's quest was definite. He must find Ferris Krode, the man named by James Dynoth.
Krode could deliver the secret of the Yellow Door.
CHAPTER III. THE LAW ENTERS
IT was morning in Manhattan. A newspaper bore headlines that told of the explosion in Fanfield, New
Jersey. That newspaper was resting upon the glass top of a mahogany desk. Beyond, windows revealed
a panorama of New York's skyscrapers.
This office held one of the highest locations in lower Manhattan. It was on the fifty-eighth story of a
spirelike tower. It was the private office of Dudley Birklam, president of the World Wide Shipping
Corporation.
Birklam, in person, was seated behind the desk. A tall, bulky man, whose hair bore a grizzled touch, he
possessed features that were rugged and square-jawed. Birklam was in his late fifties; his vigor was that
of half his age. The pounds of his tight fist were emphatic when they reached the glass-topped desk.
Across from Birklam was a broad-shouldered, dark-visaged man, whose steady face was adorned with
a heavy mustache. He, also, was well-known in certain circles. He was Vic Marquette, head of the
Department of Justice operatives stationed in New York.
Birklam had finished a harangue. Marquette nodded that he understood.
"It's just as the police commissioner described it," declared the G-man. "I saw Commissioner Weston this
morning. I agreed with him that it was a Federal case."
"Of course," rejoined Birklam. "It is liable to carry to any part of the country. It may prove international."
"Exactly," decided Marquette. "Before we proceed further, let me summarize the information just as you
have given it to me. I want to be sure that I have every detail."
Birklam nodded his willingness.
"Ten days ago," stated Marquette, "you were approached by a man named Ferris Krode. He is medium
height, forty years of age, has a pointed nose and eyes that are wide apart."
"And lips that have an ugly curve," inserted Birklam. "It was their expression that made me mistrust the
man."
"Ugly lips," added Marquette. "Krode, in his talk with you, showed considerable knowledge of the
shipping business. He advised you that it would be a mistake for your company to buy out the
Pan-Europa line."
A nod from Birklam.
"Krode intimated," resumed the G-man, "that any announcement of intended purchase would stir up ill
feeling among the crews aboard Pan-Europa vessels. He added that there might be sabotage committed
on those ships as soon as the deal was settled. If that happened, the World Wide Shipping Corporation
would suffer immense loss."
"So great a loss," put in Birklam, "that all advantage gained by the merger would be offset. Our own
company would suffer because shippers would fear that the trouble would spread to the ships already
owned by the World Wide."
Vic Marquette leaned back in his chair.
"That much is settled," he asserted. "Tell me: what do you think is behind Krode's game?"
"I have two theories," replied Birklam, "It is either blackmail or a racket. Perhaps, in a sense, the two
might be called one. I think that if I had offered Krode money, he would have changed his tune. But he
made no demand."
"How did you forestall it?"
"By simply stating that my company was not intending to purchase the Pan-Europa line. I thanked Krode
for his advice, but added that it was unnecessary."
"Do you intend to buy the Pan-Europa?"
"Absolutely! Moreover, I am sure that Krode knows it."
"Both theories are good," mused Marquette. "They are similar, of course. In straight blackmail, Krode
would have simply threatened to produce the trouble himself. In a racket, he would have covered it under
the pretense of giving you protection. He would have claimed the ability to prevent the impending trouble,
for a given price."
"That is precisely as I estimated it, Mr. Marquette."
VIC arose and sauntered over toward the window. He stood looking out toward the bay, studying the
toylike ships that were plodding through the harbor. After a brief contemplation, Marquette turned about
and shook his head.
"There may be something else behind it, Mr. Birklam."
The shipping man raised his heavy eyebrows in query.
"Some time ago," explained Vic, "there was a case in California, wherein the Golden Oil Co. was advised
not to purchase certain options. The threat was intimated that the new wells would be set on fire. The
Golden Oil Co. went ahead with its plans of purchase."
"What occurred?"
"Howard Bostbaum, who headed the directors of Golden Oil, was found murdered. In the confusion
which followed, the options were allowed to ride. They were purchased by an almost defunct
corporation, the Amerimex Co. As a result, Amerimex stock showed a tremendous profit."
"Then Amerimex was behind the threat?"
"That could not be proven. The man who made the threat to Bostbaum was named Rupert Thurlon. He
had no connection with Amerimex. He has not been heard from since. The Amerimex Co. now rivals
Golden Oil. We have not learned who could have profited most: those who sold the stock when it was
low; those who bought and sold as it rose; or those who own it at present."
"But you are still seeking Thurlon?"
"Yes. Because he bears the same position in that case that Krode may hold in this one."
Marquette paused while Birklam nodded a slow understanding. Vic spoke again; as he did, he picked up
the newspaper from Birklam's desk.
"You've read about the explosion in New Jersey?"
"Yes," replied Birklam, in surprise. "Does it have a connection?"
"It does," replied Marquette. "There was a murder in Chicago, a few days ago. A man named Peter
Gildare was slain. He was a manufacturer of radio equipment."
"I recall the case."
"Gildare had arranged to form a new corporation - one that would have dominated the industry. He was
murdered. His plans are finished. Today, we learned that James Dynoth, the man who died in the New
Jersey explosion, was the last person who saw Gildare."
Marquette threw down the newspaper and wagged his forefinger across the desk.
"Dynoth may have been with Gildare, or he may have been against him," announced the G-man. "Which,
we do not know. In either case, Dynoth knew too much. That is why he died."
BIRKLAM'S face registered both puzzlement and worry.
"I can't quite grasp it," declared the shipping man. "Who could have gained by Gildare's death, and
Dynoth's subsequent murder?"
"The men who control any one of a dozen manufacturing groups," explained Marquette. "Twelve or more
concerns are after supremacy in the radio equipment field. Gildare's entry would have produced mergers.
Someone wanted to eliminate him."
Birklam was about to speak, when Marquette interrupted him.
"I know what you are about to say," declared Vic. "We should watch the other manufacturers and pick
the one that gains the most through the failure of Gildare's plans. That won't work, Mr. Birklam. We are
dealing with some crafty fox, who may let others profit first. He is looking way ahead in this game. Just as
he is in your case."
"In my case?"
"Yes. Can you tell me what effect may come if you do not purchase the Pan-Europa line?"
Birklam pondered; then shook his head.
"There is no way to tell," he admitted. "Pan-Europa may strengthen. Or it may merge with some line other
than World Wide. If it does merge, it may ruin the company that it joins, instead of helping it. It is like a
chess game, Mr. Marquette; one can not predict the moves that are to come."
"Unless the game is fixed," returned Marquette, "and that's the way with this one. Oil, radio equipment,
摘要：

THEYELLOWDOORMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.MURDER'SAFTERMATH?CHAPTERII.TRIPLEDEATH?CHAPTERIII.THELAWENTERS?CHAPTERIV.INCLEVELAND?CHAPTERV.HARRYREPORTS?CHAPTERVI.PATHSINTHENIGHT?CHAPTERVII.THEMESSENGER?CHAPTERVIII.FACTSTOTHELAW?CHAPTERIX.THESHADOW...

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