Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 103 - The Crime Oracle

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THE CRIME ORACLE
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME AFTER DARK
? CHAPTER II. TRAPS REVERSED
? CHAPTER III. CRIME'S NEW TRAIL
? CHAPTER IV. DESPITE THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER V. FIGURES IN THE GLOOM
? CHAPTER VI. THE LONE CLUE
? CHAPTER VII. CHIP MEETS A PAL
? CHAPTER VIII. TWO APPOINTMENTS
? CHAPTER IX. THE SPEAKING HEAD
? CHAPTER X. THE GUEST REMAINS
? CHAPTER XI. THE FINAL VISITOR
? CHAPTER XII. A CRY FROM THE GLOOM
? CHAPTER XIII. THROUGH INNER WALLS
? CHAPTER XIV. CLIFF GIVES WORD
? CHAPTER XV. AT THE HOSPITAL
? CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST INTERLUDE
? CHAPTER XVII. THE NEW ALLY
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE DOUBLE GAME
? CHAPTER XIX. THE LAST ORACLE
? CHAPTER XX. RIDDLES ARE SOLVED
CHAPTER I. CRIME AFTER DARK
The northbound elevated train rattled to a screechy stop. The gate of the last car swung open. A sallow,
squint-eyed passenger stepped to the rough planking of the old station platform. Starting toward the exit,
he paused to light a cigarette, while the train jolted away on its journey.
The squint-eyed man turned about. His gaze steadied after he had blinked. His lips formed a satisfied
smile, as he looked toward the south end of the deserted platform. It was early evening; the platform was
dimly lighted, for it was above the level of the avenue lights. The squint-eyed man was barely able to
discern a huddled figure by the rail of the platform's lower end.
The squint-eyed man approached. As he neared the huddled figure, he noted that the fellow was half
crouched across the rail, looking down toward the street.
Calmly, he clapped a hand upon the hunched shoulders. The huddled man snapped about with a snarl.
The mellow glow of a platform light revealed a pasty, tight-lipped face. Cunning eyes gleamed; then dried
lips twisted in a grin. The huddled man had recognized the arrival. He whispered a hoarse greeting:
"H'lo, Squint!"
"Hello, Chip!" The squint-eyed man puffed at his cigarette. Then: "You've spotted Koker's crew?"
"Yeah." "Chip" retained his grin. "Lamp 'em yourself, Squint. They're parked in a sedan down in front of
that eatin' joint -"
"Casey's?"
"Yeah. That's what the sign says."
"All right, then. Let's hop along, before another train shows up. Koker and his outfit can stay where they
are."
"Squint" led the way, with Chip following like an obedient dog. They walked to the exit and descended
the steps. This course brought them to the side street, a dozen yards from the corner. But instead of
turning back toward the avenue, Squint moved along the side street. Chip followed, puzzled. Squint
explained.
"Koker don't know the lay," informed Squint. "He's not in on it at all. I just told him to be on the avenue,
in case I wanted him."
"Was that on the dope sheet, Squint?"
"No. Just an idea of my own."
"But if The Head didn't tell you -"
"I'm following the orders that came from The Head. Listen again, Chip; Koker isn't wise to the racket.
So what does it matter, him being here?"
They had reached the depressed entrance to a side-street tea room. Shuttered windows told that the
place was no longer in business. A weather-beaten sign proclaimed the name: "THE YELLOW
PARROT," with a picture of the bird in question. Squint drew Chip down to the closed doorway. He
began to work at the lock with a skeleton key.
OF the many characters in Manhattan's underworld, Squint Proddock and Chip Mulley were unique.
Each was a specialist in his own direction; each was wise enough to admit his own limitations.
Squint Proddock was an ex-racketeer who had feigned retirement in order to turn to other crime. His
shifty, blinking eyes had given him his nickname; they also rendered him easy to identify, which was the
chief reason for Squint's carefulness when he crossed the path of the law.
Chip Mulley also carried a descriptive title. Originally, his pals had dubbed him "Chipmunk," a title that
befitted his dryish, small-lipped face. His nickname had been shortened to Chip; and he was known as a
competent subordinate who served various big-shots. Chip Mulley was an able hand at gaining needed
information. He was a competent go-between, who kept what he knew to himself. It was not surprising
that Squint had found Chip useful.
The door of the Yellow Parrot had opened under Squint's manipulation with the skeleton key. The two
men edged into the tea room and closed the door behind them. Squint clicked a flashlight and passed it to
Chip to hold. Under the glare, Squint produced an envelope. From it, he took a typewritten sheet and
studied a list that looked like a schedule.
"'Enter Yellow Parrot,'"read Squint. "'Time: 7:15.' Right to the dot, Chip!"
Squint had brought a watch into the light. Chip whispered a comment, wisely:
"That's the ticket, Squint! The Head knows his stuff. This ain't the first dope sheet I've lamped. I'm tellin'
you, it's a set-up when you follow one of them time-tables!"
"Come along, then." Holding the paper in his left hand, Squint took the flashlight with his right. "The next
stop is the second closet on the left, in the back hallway."
They reached their objective. Squint focused the light upon the door and ordered Chip to open it. The
squirrel-faced hoodlum obeyed. Squint raised the schedule into the light, then growled:
"Unscrew the coat hooks on that cross-board. Then yank the board away. Make it snappy!"
Chip complied. After he had removed the hooks, the strip of wood came away. Chip issued an
exclamation when he saw the top edge of a low door. The other edges were obscured by a baseboard
and upright corner strips.
"Shove it upward."
Again Chip followed Squint's order. The barrier slid easily. Squint's flashlight showed a narrow,
darkened passage. Squint added an order:
"Move ahead. We're going through."
The passage ran a dozen feet; then turned to the right. The two crooks followed it until they reached a
stairway. There, they ascended. They came to another barrier, which was held in place by screws. Squint
brought out a screw driver and handed it to Chip.
"Get busy," he ordered. "This is to be off by 7:25. You've got six minutes, Chip."
Four minutes were all that Chip required. Squint helped his aid to shift the blockade aside. They
advanced into a musty, windowless storeroom. Squint's flashlight showed heavy crates and packing
cases, with cobwebs everywhere. There was a door beyond.
"It won't be locked," informed Squint. He blinked the flashlight for a final consultation of the dope sheet.
"We'll listen there, until we hear the buzzer. That comes next. I'll do the rest - but stick with me, in case of
trouble."
They moved to the door and waited there in darkness. Squint's hand was on the knob. They were ahead
of schedule; so the wait became prolonged. Then came the sound that the pair expected: a sharp,
repeated buzz from the other side of the storeroom door.
Squint waited five full seconds; then turned the knob and pressed the door inward.
Chip saw a small, lighted office; at the right, a desk placed in front of a window that opened into an air
shaft. There was a door at the left of the room; straight across, a paneled wall that had a ledge and
window like a bank teller's wicket. There were no bars, however; the wicket was a solid wooden panel,
which prevented view beyond.
There was a man at the desk, a stoop-shouldered, gray-haired fellow who had been going over an
account book. He was wearing a green eye shade, with rimless spectacles beneath. He had heard the
summons of the buzzer. Looking past Squint's shoulder, Chip saw the gray-haired man reach out and
press a switch that was attached to the desk.
That done, the gray-haired man arose. He turned toward the wicket. Hence his direction was away from
the two crooks who were watching him. It was obvious that the gray-haired man had admitted a visitor
from a front door on the avenue. He was going to open the wicket and meet the arrival. But he never
accomplished that mission.
The gray-haired man had stopped long enough to stoop and turn the combination of a small safe directly
beneath the wicket ledge. Chip had not noticed the safe until that moment, for it was obscured in the
blackness beneath the ledge. As the door of the safe swung open, Squint stalked forward. Chip saw a
blackjack wriggling in the hands of his companion.
The gray-haired man heard Squint's approach. He started upward, too late. Squint snapped his wrist in
artful fashion. The blackjack thudded the gray-haired man behind the ear. Chip, bounding forward, saw
the victim succumb. Squint snarled a warning for quiet.
"The white box," he whispered. "A tin one - in the safe! Snag it, Chip! No noise!"
Chip found the box. He turned around to see Squint bending over the motionless body of the gray-haired
man. Withered fingers of the victim's left hand were clutching a small key that the man had drawn from his
pocket. Squint tugged the key from the victim's clutch. It came easily, for the hand had relaxed.
"Out again," whispered Squint, nodding as he saw the white box that Chip exhibited. "Speedy - but no
noise!"
THEY sneaked to the door of the storeroom. As they reached it, they heard a pounding at the wicket.
Some visitor had entered from the front. He was wondering why the wicket was not open.
Squint closed the door from the storeroom side. He polished the knob with a handkerchief. He and Chip
reached the stairway. Together, they shoved the barrier in place. Chip made quick work of replacing the
screws. They hurried down the stairs to the Yellow Parrot.
There, while Squint whispered hoarsely for speed, Chip put back the strip of wood and screwed in the
coat hooks. They made for the outer door.
"Wait!" Squint's whisper stopped Chip. The flashlight glimmered downward. Again, Squint nudged it into
Chip's hand; then used the key to open the white tin box.
A gasp from Chip; a pleased chuckle from Squint. The interior of the tin box was filled with packets of
crisp bank notes.
"Fifty grand!" chortled Squint. "Easy pickings, eh, Chip? Come along. Let's scram. But take it easy when
we get outside."
They made their exit to the street. Squint polished the doorknobs on both sides; but did not bother to
lock the barrier. Tucking the tin box under his coat, he urged Chip toward the nearest street lamp.
"We won't need Koker," whispered Squint. "The Head was right, Chip. It worked just like he expected
it."
"What're you stoppin' here for, Squint?"
Chip's rejoinder was an uneasy one. They were just within the range of the street lamp.
"Instructions," responded Squint. "The last on the list. A signal. It means all jake."
He made a sidewise gesture with his left hand. Then, nudging Chip, Squint started eastward at a swift
walk. Chip kept close beside him. They neared the next corner. Squint chuckled.
"A few blocks up," he said to Chip. "We'll take the crosstown subway. This was a pipe, Chip!"
CHIP nodded, as he looked back over his left shoulder. He saw a car which had been parked in
darkness. It was moving forward slowly, going back along the route which they had come, for this was a
westward street.
"The Head! He had that bus posted there!"
Such was Chip's whispered comment. He had guessed the reason for Squint's signal. Koker's crew, on
the avenue, had been Squint's own idea. But a superman of crime, the hidden master of this night's doing,
had also taken due precaution. Some watcher from the dark had spotted Squint's tip.
Crime after dark had been accomplished with ease and precision. The perpetrators were departing with
their swag - fifty thousand dollars. All through the prearranged plan of an evil chief whom Chip Mulley
had dubbed "The Head."
Even Squint Proddock, though he termed himself a big-shot, had been no more than an instrument in the
machinations of a master schemer!
CHAPTER II. TRAPS REVERSED
JUST after Squint and Chip had made their departure by the side street, a stir took place upon the front
avenue near Casey's beanery. It began when an excited man came out from a doorway near the corner.
Tall, heavy of build, this man was attired in gray hat and overcoat. He was carrying a suitcase - an empty
one, from the ease with which he handled it.
The man in gray spied a patrolman near the corner. He hurried up and spoke to the officer.
"Something - something has happened!" stammered the man. "I'm afraid that there has been foul play!"
"Whereabouts?" demanded the patrolman.
"In there." The man pointed to the doorway from which he had come. "That's where the trouble may
be."
The patrolman eyed the sign above the door. It bore the name:
J. G. SAUTELLE
WHOLESALE CLOTHING AGENCY
"You're Mr. Sautelle?"
The gray-clad man shook his head in response to the officer's query.
"No," he stated. "My name is Jennings, Luber Jennings, from Cleveland. Mr. Sautelle was to be in his
office. When I rang, he pressed the switch to let me enter. But when I reached the office, I couldn't rouse
him."
"We'll take a look."
They went to the door. It was latched. Jennings explained, nervously: "It swung shut when I came out. I
tried to stop it but I was too late."
The patrolman looked dubious. But as he eyed Jennings more closely, he saw that the man's attire and
bearing marked him as respectable. The panels of the door were thin. The officer considered smashing
one to reach the knob from the inside. Jennings urged him to follow such a course.
FROM down the street, men were watching. They were stationed in a parked sedan; the car that Chip
had spotted from the "L" platform. Beside the driver was a pasty-faced man who showed an ugly scowl.
He was Koker Hosch.
"Lamp the harness bull, Koker -"
"I'm watching him," growled Koker, interrupting the man at the wheel. "But it ain't the copper that counts
most. It's that mug in the gray coat. He came out of that clothing joint."
Two men in back leaned forward to hear their chief's comments.
"I'm covering for a pal tonight," commented Koker. He referred to Squint Proddock, although he did not
mention the racketeer by name. "He's staging something hereabouts and I've got a hunch that it was in
that joint."
"Maybe the bird in the gray coat butted in -"
"That's just what it looks like. Get that typewriter ready."
"You're going to rub him out?"
"Yeah!" Koker's tone was savage. "Him and the harness bull, too! He may have spilled the works to that
dumb copper. Come on - shove ahead, Pete!"
The chauffeur started the sedan forward. From the back seat, the barrel of a machine gun nudged into the
light. Murder was in the making. Neither Jennings nor the patrolman saw the death car that was looming
toward them.
Across the avenue, a taxicab was rolling southward. Its driver had spied the sedan. So had a passenger
in the cab. A hissed whisper reached the driver's ears. It was a command. The taxi slowed, almost to a
stop.
A door opened. A blackish shape sprang from the rear of the cab and landed beside an "L" pillar. The
door slammed shut. The taxi sped forward as if impelled by the jar. The driver was following instructions
to get clear of the neighborhood.
The black being from the cab had timed his drop to a break in traffic. He sprang across the car tracks
that ran beneath the elevated pillars. He reached the opposite posts. His figure seemed to vanish as it
stopped there. Only a keen observer could have caught a passing glimpse of that cloaked shape.
The sedan was abreast the pillar where the cloaked form had halted. Twenty feet more would bring it to
the doorway where the patrolman had begun to bang at the panel, while Jennings stood beside him. Blue
uniform and gray coat - both were conspicuous in the glow of street lamps.
"Give it!"
The growl came from Koker. In the back seat, the man on the right was guiding the machine gun, while
the one on the left was pressing a ready finger to the trigger. Another instant would mean double death.
Something thudded the running board, on the left of the sedan. A blackened figure had swooped from the
darkness beneath the elevated. Landing upon the moving car, the rescuer was just in time. A
black-gloved hand sledged through the opened window. The muzzle of a .45 automatic drove down
upon the machine gunner's head.
Koker Hosch heard the crack. With a snarl, he twisted about. A revolver glittered in his fist. His lips
mouthed an oath; then spat a startled cry of recognition:
"The Shadow!"
LIGHTS from across the street formed a background against which Koker saw his silhouetted foe. A
cloaked shape of blackness, with eyes that burned from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. The Shadow -
master fighter whom all gangdom feared! He was the unexpected adversary who had knocked off
Koker's machine gunner.
Viciously, Koker fired. Though the range was but a few feet, his shot went wide - for the simple reason
Koker had aimed for the top half of the window, just behind the driver's head. That was where he had
seen The Shadow's eyes. But The Shadow had rolled backward, outward. Only his left hand clutched
the lower edge of the rear window.
"Get him, Skibo!"
Koker howled the command as Pete, the driver, jammed the brakes. The order was to the man in the
rear seat - the one beside the stunned machine gunner. Skibo lurched to the window at the left. He swung
a vicious blow for the hand upon the window edge.
The hand came up as Skibo's arm descended. Like a mechanical clamp, it caught the ruffian's wrist.
Skibo's head and shoulders shot through the window. The rowdy jammed there. Shifting his hold to the
crook's neck, The Shadow jabbed his right hand in through the window, to take aim at Koker.
With the move came a sinister laugh. It was a burst of fierce hilarity that spoke of doom for crooks. The
laugh of The Shadow, dreaded by all who belonged to the underworld!
Pete heard it. Wildly, the driver jolted the sedan forward. Skibo, though helpless, gave a frantic twist.
The Shadow's gun spoke; his bullet sizzed above Koker's ear, thanks to Skibo's disturbance of the aim.
The Shadow shifted outward; then suddenly dropped his hold and went rolling to the street.
In his haste, Pete had let the sedan swing from the curb. He was yanking the wheel to the right, to avoid
an elevated pillar. Pete had not designed the maneuver; purely through accident, it balked The Shadow.
The left running board was about to graze the pillar. The Shadow had dropped away just in time to save
himself from a smash against the steel post.
THE patrolman had heard the shots. He had yanked a revolver; from the doorway, he was opening fire
at the departing car. Skibo had rolled back into the rear seat. Koker, seeing no sign of The Shadow, had
swung about to exchange bullets with the bluecoat.
The officer ducked into the doorway; but Jennings, out to the middle of the sidewalk, was rooted where
he stood. The sedan was making a left turn at the corner; Koker, leaning across, had gained a bead on
Jennings. But before Koker could press the trigger, a black shape hurtled up from the curb.
It was The Shadow. Gripping Jennings, he sent the man staggering against the patrolman in the doorway.
Falling away as Koker fired, the cloaked battler stabbed quick shots toward the escaping sedan.
An elevated pillar stopped a bullet that was designed for the sedan's gas tank. The Shadow dispatched a
second slug, this time with sure result. It pinged a rear tire just as the car was making its get-away,
westward on the side street. The sedan lurched, but kept on.
Then began an amazing sequence. Traffic had deployed along the avenue, automobiles and trolleys
stopping in alarm at the gunfire. Halted near The Shadow was a taxi. It was not the cab in which he had
come here; but it was one that would suit his purpose, for it was pointed northward and nothing blocked
its path.
The taxi was of the convertible type; its top was down, for the weather was mild. That was another
advantage for The Shadow. Leaping from the sidewalk, he whipped open the door and boarded the cab.
The staring driver saw his unexpected passenger; then shivered as he heard the commanding voice:
"Start ahead! Swing left at the corner!"
Mechanically, the taxi man obeyed. As the cab moved forward, another car crossed its path. This was a
roadster, that shot in from the right and turned left on the avenue. It was the same car that Chip had seen
when he and Squint had ducked eastward on the side street.
As the taxi hurtled forward up the avenue, the roadster passed it, going down the other side of the broad
thoroughfare. There were many intervening pillars; and The Shadow, settling in the cab, had not spied the
roadster at the moment of its crossing. But those in the roadster saw The Shadow.
He was rising upon the rear seat of the taxi, ready when the driver swung left. From high above, he
would be able to deliver bullets above the driver's head, once he might spy the crippled sedan upon the
side street.
Instantly, the roadster changed its course. Its driver yanked the wheel. The trim car made a turn in the
middle of the street, skidding between elevated pillars. It was a complete U turn, before the roadster
reached the blockade of stalled cars on the avenue. The roadster was on the trail of The Shadow!
First tokens of this new entrant came just before the taxi made the left turn at the corner. Shots rang out
from behind. The Shadow was a black shape towering up from the topless cab. He darted a quick
glance down the avenue. Two guns were belching from the very front of the pursuing roadster. Its
windshield was down; the man beside the driver was handling two weapons. The Shadow was the
target!
The cab was negotiating the left turn, directly under the elevated station. For the moment, The Shadow
was protected from the fire in back. But a hoarse cry from the scared driver told that danger lay ahead.
"They're waiting for us!" It was true. From the crossing, the taxi man could see the sedan. It had halted
on the side street, fifty yards west of the corner. Halted, the car had swung across the street to block the
thoroughfare. The side street was a trap.
It was too late to avoid the turn. The cab, moreover, needed distance, to get away from the pursuing
roadster. The Shadow was trapped between two fires. With a competent driver, he could have counted
upon mobility in battle. But his chance hackie was frantic. Fear alone impelled the driver to follow a last
command:
"Straight down the side street!"
The hissed order came as the cab was directly in the center of the crossing. The driver stepped on the
gas. The cab leaped forward. Then a machine gun began to rattle from the blockading sedan.
At the same instant, the pursuing roadster whizzed into view from the pillars at the avenue. The taxi driver
saw the spurts of the machine gun. He glimpsed the lights of the roadster in his mirror. Wildly, he swung
the cab to the curb and dived for the sidewalk.
The Shadow was no longer in view. Apparently, he had dropped to the floor of the cab. Koker, Pete
and Skibo came piling forward, relying upon revolvers instead of the machine gun. They let the cab driver
scurry away. They were out to get The Shadow.
They reached the cab and leaped upon the running board just as the roadster arrived and swung up
beside the taxi. Glaring eyes looked from the roadster, as fists brandished guns. But the pursuing
marksman and his chauffeur were treated to the same astonishing sight as Koker Hosch and the latter's
pals.
The rear of the taxicab was empty!
Weirdly, The Shadow had eluded the trap. Somehow, he had made a complete evanishment. He had
rescued Jennings and the patrolman from their dilemma; then had been forced into one of his own. But he
was out of it; and those who had sought him independently were baffled!
SIRENS whined from the avenue. A snarl came from Koker. A fierce growl was given in the roadster by
the marksman who sat beside the driver. Police cars were arriving. Crooks had failed to get The
Shadow; it was their turn to be trapped.
The roadster hurtled forward. Its occupants had opportunity for a getaway and they took it. The speedy
car careened to the sidewalk and squeezed past the deserted sedan. The motor roared as the two-man
car sped westward. It had a chance to reach the next avenue before police arrived there.
Koker and his pals were left in a jam. A patrol car came whining from the blocked avenue behind them.
They turned to fight it out. Pete and Skibo opened fire. The police car halted; they sprang toward it, only
to be felled by prompt bullets. Koker saw a chance for flight. He leaped to the wheel of the abandoned
taxi.
Copying the example of the roadster, Koker jolted the cab past his abandoned sedan; then whizzed
away to the west. The police car took up the chase. Pete and Skibo lay sprawled upon the street for
others to pick up. More police arrived. Excitement followed, for nearly half an hour.
IT was after the street had cleared that a singular happening occurred at the crossing where the side
street ran beneath the elevated station. The superstructure there was low; a traffic light hung from the
heavy girders that supported a foot passage beneath the elevated tracks.
A taxi happened to cross the avenue. Like the one that The Shadow had commandeered, this cab was
open-topped. It had no passengers; nevertheless, the driver was careful enough to slacken speed as he
hit the jolty car tracks of the avenue.
To the hackie's surprise, the rear springs gave a sudden thump. It worried him; but he kept on slowly and
decided that the cab was all right. Two blocks further on, he received another surprise. He was about to
turn left from the westbound street when a quiet voice spoke from the back of the cab.
"Take me to Times Square."
Looking about, the taxi driver saw that he had a passenger. They were near bright lights; in their glow he
could see a tall, calm-faced personage riding in the car. The passenger was attired in evening clothes; he
was smoking a thin cigar. His countenance was hawklike; his eyes carried a gleam.
When and how this stranger had boarded the cab, the hackie could not guess. He removed his hat and
scratched his head; then reached over and pulled the metal flag to start the meter ticking.
A soft laugh came from the fixed lips of the mysterious passenger. The driver had not noticed folded
garments of black that lay upon the seat beside the hawk-faced rider.
Only The Shadow knew the mystery of his own disappearance. Half an hour ago, he had ridden into a
trap. He had seen it while his commandeered cab was making that left swing beneath the low structure of
the elevated platform. The Shadow had given an order to his former taxi driver. Then he had sprung up
from his standing position in the rear seat. He had caught the nearest girder beneath the elevated. He had
swung to safety, a blackened, unseen shape, just before the roadster had whizzed leftward beneath him.
Thus had The Shadow changed the trap. He had known that the taxi driver would duck for safety. He
had left criminals to the law. The police themselves were to blame for the escape of the roadster and the
taxi flight of Koker.
Safely ensconced above the crossing, The Shadow had retained his perch until after excitement had died.
Then he had waited for another open-topped cab. One had come along. He had taken it. He was riding
serenely toward Times Square. To his credit he could charge the rescue of two doomed men: Luber
Jennings and the patrolman who covered the beat along the avenue.
Yet The Shadow's laugh lacked mirth, and with good reason. Men of crime had escaped him tonight.
Because of that, The Shadow could foresee new trouble. Not from Koker Hosch; The Shadow knew
him to be nothing more than the leader of the cover-up crew.
The Shadow's concern involved the marksman who had ridden in the speedy roadster. That enemy,
arrived so timely, was one who impressed him. The Shadow could see the menace of a super foe - one
who had been behind tonight's doings. More must be learned; for later, there would be new and bitter
conflict.
The Shadow was right. Tonight's adventure had been but the preface to events that were due. Chance
had brought The Shadow into a game that would become the strangest epoch in all his warfare against
crime.
CHAPTER III. CRIME'S NEW TRAIL
It was dusk the next day. Two men were seated on opposite sides of an office desk. One was
bald-headed, bespectacled Wainwright Barth. Barth was acting police commissioner in the absence from
New York of Commissioner Ralph Weston. The other man was stocky, swarthy-faced.
He was Joe Cardona, crack ace detective of the New York force. Joe, at present, was an acting police
inspector.
The air in the room held that electric quality that comes when two strong-willed men hold forth in
argument. Barth had been raking Joe over the coals about the stick-up of Sautelle's wholesale clothing
firm and the street fight that followed. Cardona was restraining himself while the acting commissioner was
pounding his fist and enumerating the crimes that had preceded the wholesale clothier's.
Barth roared out, "Two weeks ago a gold shipment, consigned to a bank, was landed from the steamship
Arabia, and robbed from under the very noses of the guards on the dock! And not a clue to the theft!
"Three nights ago another crime was perpetrated! Securities valued at one hundred thousand dollars
were stolen from the offices of Mullat Co. by a man who posed as the Chicago partner of the firm -
Herbert Threed! There hasn't been even a suspect arrested!
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THECRIMEORACLEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CRIMEAFTERDARK?CHAPTERII.TRAPSREVERSED?CHAPTERIII.CRIME'SNEWTRAIL?CHAPTERIV.DESPITETHESHADOW?CHAPTERV.FIGURESINTHEGLOOM?CHAPTERVI.THELONECLUE?CHAPTERVII.CHIPMEETSAPAL?CHAPTERVIII.TWOAPPOINTMENTS?CHAPTER...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：84 页 大小：202.29KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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