Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 090 - The Python

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THE PYTHON
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE PYTHON'S PRISONER
? CHAPTER II. THE PYTHON'S WILES
? CHAPTER III. WEALTH RECLAIMED
? CHAPTER IV. THE PYTHON'S TERMS
? CHAPTER V. BENEATH THE RIVER
? CHAPTER VI. OUTWARD BOUND
? CHAPTER VII. ABOARD THE "TROPICAL"
? CHAPTER VIII. CRIME'S ZERO HOUR
? CHAPTER IX. THE DISTANT WATCH
? CHAPTER X. CROOKS CHOOSE TO FIGHT
? CHAPTER XI. ODDS PREVAIL
? CHAPTER XII. THE CASTAWAYS
? CHAPTER XIII. MOVES AT DUSK
? CHAPTER XIV. THE BROKEN INTERVIEW
? CHAPTER XV. THE MIDNIGHT MEETING
? CHAPTER XVI. SMOOTH STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XVII. DEATH UNCOVERED
? CHAPTER XVIII. AT THE LEGRAND HOTEL
? CHAPTER XIX. ORDERS FOR MURDER
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S SEQUENCE
? CHAPTER XXI. THE DOUBLE STROKE
? CHAPTER XXII. MOVES BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XXIII. HALF PAST TEN
CHAPTER I. THE PYTHON'S PRISONER
A SALLOW, leering face gloated as it studied the prone, limp figure stretched upon a rickety cot.
Ratlike features surveyed the closed eyes of a drawn, bloodstained countenance. Such was the scene
that showed beneath the glare of a single electric-light bulb, which provided the sole illumination of a
windowless, stone-walled room.
The leering man was short and stocky. The malicious ugliness of his thick lips and pudgy profile was
increased by a scar that crossed his sloping forehead.
His clothes, though new, were cheap and ill-fitting. In every point of appearance, he was inferior to his
unconscious victim.
The prisoner on the cot was clad in evening clothes of faultless fashion. His face, despite its gashes, was
one that betokened dignity. His features were of even mold; calm, even in this temporary state of
oblivion.
The rat-faced man turned from the cot. He thrust a cigarette between his puffed lips and scratched a
match upon the surface of a metal-sheeted door. As he lighted his cigarette, he stopped abruptly; then
wheeled about to face another door on the opposite side of the room.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap.
The sallow-faced man recognized the knock. With a clumpy stride, he crossed the room and drew a
bolt. His stocky figure backed away. A tall, stoop-shouldered man entered the room and gave an ugly
grin of greeting. The newcomer, too, was a sallow, hard-faced ruffian. The pockmarks on his long-jawed
countenance were a match for the stocky man's unsightly scar.
"Hello, Bevo," growled the stocky man. "I've been waiting for you. Thought you'd be here soon. Doc
said he knew where he could get hold of you."
"Doc called me," returned the stoop-shouldered rowdy. "Told me to chase up here in a hurry, Chuck.
Said you was -"
Bevo paused. Looking past "Chuck," he had seen the figure on the cot. His glary eyes widened as they
noted the unconscious man's fastidious attire.
"Say!" exclaimed Bevo. "Doc told me you was watching some bloke; but I figured it was some stoolie
you'd grabbed. Pipe the soup and fish this bird's wearing!"
"Class, ain't it?" queried Chuck, his thick lips leering. "Ritzy-looking, ain't he?"
"Sure is. Say - who is this mug?"
"The Shadow!"
CHUCK gaped. For a moment, his features froze as he heard Bevo's statement. Then, with a forced
laugh, the stooped-shouldered rogue faced his companion.
"Lay off the hooey, Bevo," insisted Chuck. "It ain't good business, talking about The Shadow. Even when
you're kidding."
"I'm not kidding," retorted Chuck. "Say - do you think Doc would want two of us to watch a guy that's
lying here cold? A guy that Doc's loaded up with dope, to keep him that way? He wouldn't - not unless it
was The Shadow."
Bevo pondered, still doubting. Chuck delivered an ugly laugh; then reached underneath the cot and
dragged forth a dress-suitcase. He yanked the top upward and pulled out a mass of cloth. Bevo stared,
almost aghast, as he saw a black cloak with crimson lining.
"Lamp this," snorted Chuck. "And take a look at that slouch hat laying there. Get an eyeful of them
smoke-wagons. Four of 'em there in the suitcase. Heft 'em."
"Whew! What gats!" Bevo, stooping, was hoisting two huge automatics from the suitcase. He replaced
the guns to examine a second brace of similar weapons.
"Say - there is only one guy who'd want to handle these rods. Boy! A .45 like this baby" - he paused to
test a single weapon - "a gat like this could blow a hole through a stone wall!"
"Maybe," corrected Chuck. "Maybe not. Anyway, this mug's The Shadow. Lamp this ring he's wearing,
Bevo."
Chuck raised a limp arm from the prisoner's side. Bevo stared warily at a resplendent gem that
shimmered in the light, its colors changing from deep to lighter hues.
The stone was a rare girasol, the only jewel that The Shadow wore. It shone from the long third finger of
the limp left hand.
"Doc says it's a kind of fire opal," informed Chuck. "Worth plenty of jack, maybe. Kind of a ring The
Shadow might be wearing. We got to leave it on him, though." Chuck flung the arm against The
Shadow's body. "We're not doing nothing to the guy until The Python sees him."
"The Python?" inquired Bevo, breathlessly. "He's coming here?"
"So Doc says. He put the call through and got the flash-back. But we won't be seeing him, nor Doc
either. The Python will come in through the other way."
"Through the middle room?"
"Yeah. That's where we'll leave The Shadow for him. But not until Doc gives us the word."
BRIEF silence followed. Bevo was staring at the wan face on the cot. The lips of Bevo's pock-marked
face were twitching; a fact that brought a grin to Chuck's ugly face.
Chuck, too, had been leery when he had learned that the man was The Shadow; but Chuck had gotten
over it. He waited for Bevo's next question. It came.
"How did you bag him?"
Chuck laughed, his tone half a snort.
"We didn't," he admitted. "It was a lucky break, Bevo; that was all. It came when we was up by the
Hotel Bragelonne, Doc and I, this evening."
"Watching for Jurrice?"
"Yeah. Like you was this afternoon. Doc and I had the sedan. We was half a block away from the
Bragelonne, ready to tail Jurrice if he took a cab. Just to be sure he wasn't clearing town."
"I know why you was there. But what about The Shadow?"
"I'm coming to that. While we was sitting there in the car, a big, swell looking limousine comes across the
avenue, going toward the hotel. Just then a truck kites around the corner, making a left turn. The truck
rams the limousine and sends it up on the sidewalk. It hits a brick wall - the limousine does - and the
door opens.
"This guy comes diving out - bag and all - and hits the sidewalk. A chauffeur climbs out of the front seat,
kind of dizzylike. We was right there - Doc and me - and it would've looked phony if we hadn't jumped
out to lend a hand. So we did."
"But how -"
"How'd we know who The Shadow was? Luck, I told you. First thing we see as we come up to him was
this bag. It had cracked open; the cloak and hat was half out of it. We saw the gats. I was dumb, Bevo;
but Doc wasn't. He got the idea quick."
Chuck paused to snap his fingers as an indication of the rapidity with which Doc experienced mental
impulses.
"Doc slams the stuff into the bag," he resumed. "Closes it and hands it to me. A copper comes up; Doc
stoops over the unconscious guy and tells the flatfoot to help him get the mug into our car.
"'I'm a physician, officer,' says Doc. He used to be a croaker - you know that, Bevo - and he tells it to
the copper like he meant it. 'I'm a physician. My car is available and I shall hurry this man to the nearest
hospital. You look to the chauffeur, officer' - that's what Doc said, Bevo."
"But you brought him here instead?"
"Sure. We started in a hurry so's the flatfoot wouldn't see that Doc didn't have no green cross on his car.
The Shadow took a jolt, falling out of that limousine. But he wasn't hurt so bad, Doc told me. Doc
brought out that kit he carries under the rear seat. I stopped while he jabbed a needle full of hop into The
Shadow's arm. Just so's he wouldn't come to.
"Then we stopped again, while Doc went into a place to telephone. The word must have gone through in
a hurry. Them blue lights was blinking when we got here. Doc says the signal was his. Orders from The
Python to hold The Shadow here. After we'd lugged him in, Doc went out to call you, Bevo."
Bevo nodded; then inquired:
"Why ain't Doc back here himself?"
"He will be," replied Chuck. "But he's got something to do meanwhile. He frisked The Shadow before
making that call. Found a wallet on him; what was in it, I don't know. But Doc does; and he's using what
he learned to frame things so's nobody'll know The Shadow's missing."
"Then when The Python gets here he'll -"
Bevo stopped short. A signal tap was coming at the outer door. Chuck nodded. Bevo, opened the
barrier.
A BLOCKY, square-faced man entered. He was wearing an expensive overcoat, with kid gloves and a
derby hat. His face, though hardened, had a professional look, which was accentuated by a pair of
gold-rimmed spectacles.
"Hello, Doc," greeted Chuck. "Ready for us to move this guy?"
Doc shook his head. He went over to the cot, raised a limp arm and felt the pulse. Drawing a leather
case from his pocket, he extracted a hypodermic needle and made an injection. A sour smile showed on
his lips.
"That'll hold him," chuckled Doc. "For an hour more, anyway. He won't need more than one of us to
watch him. You stay here, Bevo. Chuck, you come along with me."
"Going back to watch for Jurrice?"
"No. He's gone out by this time. We'll have to trust to more luck - take a chance that Jurrice hasn't
become jittery enough to leave town. The Shadow was more important. Much more important." Doc
paused significantly. "That is something which I learned since his capture."
"Where are we going then, Doc?"
"To grab a hamburger and a cup of Java. Neither of us have eaten yet, Chuck. Don't worry about our
leaving, Bevo. There's no chance of The Shadow waking up while we're gone."
Doc motioned for departure. Chuck followed him. Bevo remained alone. He looked toward The
Shadow. A confident gloat had come over Bevo's pockmarked features. He, too, shared the elation that
the others felt.
For Bevo and Chuck, as aids to Doc, were henchmen of The Python, an insidious master whose ways
were those of evil. Yet in such service, these underlings had held one fear. Men of crime, they dreaded a
foe whose name had long compelled the awe of crookdom.
That foe was The Shadow, the only being who could thwart The Python. His probable entry into the
affairs of the supercrook had been the doubtful element; the event that minions felt inevitable; and toward
which they had shared a secret fear.
Tonight, haphazard fate had brought an unexpected triumph to the cause of crime. For The Shadow,
helpless, was to be delivered to the Python. And that delivery would mean The Shadow's final doom.
The Python, as his chosen name implied, was a personage who would show no mercy to a captured foe.
CHAPTER II. THE PYTHON'S WILES
CHUCK, in his chat with Bevo, had used some specific terms. He had spoken of a "flash-back" in
response to a call that Doc had made. He had later referred to "blue lights blinking"; as if the two
references had signified the same occurrence.
They did. In fact, while Bevo remained on lone guard over The Shadow, blue lights were blinking another
flash-back. A man was watching them.
Stationed at a window of a darkened apartment in the Fifties, this individual was staring across a low
sweep of buildings toward a loft building that stood near the East River.
A corner of the loft building was visible from the apartment window; and that was the spot that the
watcher noted. As he kept observation, corner lights blinked slightly. Their signals came in quick
succession. They paused, then blinked again.
Then the blinks had ceased. A satisfied chuckle sounded in the gloom of the apartment. Footsteps moved
toward the door; a hand turned the knob. The apartment occupant stepped out into the hall and closed
the door behind him.
Standing in the light, the man from the apartment appeared youthful and immaculate of attire. Though the
assurance of his face indicated his correct age as nearly forty, most persons would have considered him
as being much younger. He was sleek, well-groomed; his tuxedo fitted him to perfection.
There was poise in this man's manner as his lips formed a calculated smile. His face, white-complexioned
beneath his light-brown hair, was one that pretended frankness. His actions gave the semblance of a
dress rehearsal as he nonchalantly adjusted a cigarette in its holder, applied a flame from a sterling-silver
lighter.
This man's name was Albert Thurney, a fact which he revealed as he stepped away from the apartment
door. For the action removed his figure from a name plate which contained a cut-out center of one of
Thurney's calling cards.
Donning a Derby hat that he carried with him, Thurney went to the elevator.
WHEN he reached the street, Thurney stepped into a cab that the doorman hailed for him. Giving the
driver an address near the East River, Thurney settled back to puff his cigarette.
As the cab rolled along an avenue, he looked out and upward - toward a window on the fourteenth floor
of the apartment building. That window, on the topmost story, represented Thurney's own apartment.
He had chosen it because it afforded a view of the distant building with the blue lights. Riding in the cab,
Thurney could gain no immediate glimpse of that glare. But as the taxi continued eastward, he sighted it
three or four times, thanks to partially open spaces. The lights were no longer blinking.
The cab reached a wide, secluded avenue, the last thoroughfare before the river. It stopped a few doors
above a large apartment house, on the west side of the street.
Thurney alighted, paid the driver and strolled toward the house where they had stopped. As the cab
pulled away, he changed his course. Crossing the avenue, he picked a three-story building on the corner.
Ascending the steps, Thurney rang the doorbell.
The visitor knew this neighborhood. It was an exclusive section, newly developed and named Versailles
Place. Several large apartment buildings had sprouted up from a dingy setting of abandoned tenement
houses. The tenements, in turn, had been reconstructed into swanky apartments that commanded
fabulous rentals.
The house which Thurney now stood before was the home of Danton Califax, a retired manufacturer
who had foreseen the development of Versailles Place and had bought this property before values had
jumped.
THE front door opened and a suspicious-eyed flunky surveyed Albert Thurney. The servant had seen the
visitor before; and Thurney addressed him by name.
"Hello, Sykes," greeted Thurney, in a suave manner. "Is Miss Califax at home this evening?"
"No, sir," returned Sykes, gruffly. "Miss Califax has gone to the theater."
"By the way, Sykes. Was it you who answered the telephone this afternoon? When I called Miss
Califax?"
"Yes, Mr. Thurney."
"Ah, yes. I thought I recognized your inimitable voice. So you were the fellow who informed me that
Miss Califax did not wish to speak with me?"
"I obeyed the instructions that Miss Califax gave me. Moreover, Mr. Thurney, she told me to repeat
another message should you chance to call here. Miss Califax does not care to see you in the future."
Thurney's smile retained its suavity. He eyed Sykes; and the fellow waited for him to speak. The door
was half open. Looking beyond, Thurney could see a lighted hallway. At the rear was a peering face, that
of another servant. Thurney caught a nod from the man whom Sykes did not see.
"Very well," decided Thurney, in a nonchalant tone. "You may tell Miss Califax that I hope she will
reverse her decision."
Sykes nodded. Thurney turned about and strolled down the steps. Sykes watched him walk toward the
avenue; then closed the door with a slam. Thurney looked about as he heard the bang. He sidled to the
house wall, returned toward the steps, where he waited.
Soon the door opened. A stooped figure appeared there. It was the servant whom Thurney had seen at
the rear of the hall. The man beckoned. Thurney entered.
The servant - a middle-aged man with a hard, wise face - was careful in his silent closing of the door.
With a whisper he led Thurney through the hall. Together the pair ascended a flight of stairs.
THURNEY and his guide had reached the third floor. They stepped into a tiny corner room which had
two windows. The hard-faced servant pointed to one window which faced the avenue. From there it was
possible to see the loft building. Lights were no longer blinking.
Thurney smiled, a smile of gloating approval.
"You've done well, Warthrope," stated the visitor. "And to think that I thought you timid! Of course I had
to threaten you with some petty thievery that I knew about when you worked for your previous
employer!"
"I never could guess that, Mr. Thurney. The Python must be -"
"Never mind the rest, Warthrope. The Python knew all. You have been honored, and I as his Coilmaster
can state that you have done good work."
Thurney paused, then continued suavely, "You are one of my men, Warthrope, and so is my valet,
Warring. Both of you work under me. We all have our own special codes by which we know when to
act. You are the only supporting Coil to a Coilmaster, Warthrope, who has a code list. The future speaks
well for you."
Warthrope swelled. "You mean, sir, that I could be a -"
"A Coilmaster? Yes. You have proven your usefulness. And now, is everything ready? The
microphone?"
"It is," acknowledged Warthrope. "The wires run in back of Mr. Califax's filing cabinet and we will catch
every word that will be said."
"Good. And I understand that Jurrice will be here shortly."
"Yes, very shortly."
Warthrope stole over across the room and locked the door. Together they went toward a small radio
set. There Warthrope unscrewed the cover and listened as he turned a dial. Faintly sounds came from
below.
"Jurrice!" whispered Warthrope. "And Bornick!"
Thurney nodded. Together these aids listened for the words that were to come from the room below.
CHAPTER III. WEALTH RECLAIMED
IN the room below, three men were gathered at a large oak desk that matched the deep, rich polish of
the paneling. One, who sat alone, was Danton Califax, a man of fifty. Shoulders slightly stooped, his face
tired and hollow-cheeked, Califax possessed a weariness that explained his early retirement from active
business.
His smile, however, showed that Califax was making an effort to receive his guests. While he used one
hand to stroke the front of his baldish head, Califax employed the other as a means of introducing his
visitors to each other.
"This is Lester Bornick," stated Califax. He pointed across the desk to a rangy, firm-jawed man whose
face was of a rugged mold. "He is my attorney."
Bornick thrust out his hand to the other man, a pale-faced, nervous fellow of medium height. At the same
time, Califax indicated the pale man with a pointing finger.
"This is Craig Jurrice," said the manufacturer. He lowered his left hand from his brow. "You know about
Jurrice, Bornick. Come. Let us begin our discussion."
Califax extended a box of cigars. Both visitors accepted. Jurrice, more nervous than before, was still
wincing from the pressure of the handclasp that he had received from Bornick. He gazed askance at the
lawyer; then looked to Califax.
"You - you have told Mr. Bornick?" questioned Jurrice.
"About your offer?" said Califax, with a smile. "I have told him everything, Jurrice. Right from the start. I
talked with him after the night of your first visit."
"But - but I - I had hoped that nothing would be said -"
"I am Mr. Califax's counsellor," interrupted Bornick, his gaze firm on Jurrice. "He seeks my advice on
many matters, Jurrice. To talk to me was no indiscretion on his part."
"I - I understand." Jurrice managed a smile. "I see - you are Mr. Califax's lawyer? Not just someone
whom he called in on this matter?"
"Mr. Bornick has represented me for years." It was Califax who made the reply. "Set your mind at rest,
Jurrice. Among his clients, Bornick numbers many who are far wealthier than myself."
Jurrice nodded, relieved.
"Suppose we recapitulate," suggested Bornick. "Start with the beginning and sum up the entire matter. It
will help us, Jurrice."
"Very well." Jurrice spoke untroubled. His nervousness had lessened. "I shall do so, gentlemen."
He paused long enough to take a few puffs at his cigar; then began to speak in a slow, careful tone.
"I have a friend," declared Jurrice, "whose name is Revoort. Louis Revoort. Some years ago, Revoort
traveled extensively in the West Indies. In the course of his journeys he met many wealthy Cuban
planters. Some of his Cuban friends became closely identified with the affairs of the Machado
administration. When that government was overthrown, they deemed it wise to flee.
"Not long ago, Revoort met a Cuban whom he knew. The Cuban's name is unknown to me. I merely
have the assurance that the man really exists. This Cuban told Revoort that he had left a fortune in his
native land. Wealth, in gold, valuable securities and precious gems. The last named constitutes the
greatest part of the fortune.
"The Cuban had not been a party to the misdeeds of the former administration; but certain high officials
were his friends. Personal enemies have believed ill of him. The Cuban dares not set foot in his country.
So he requested Revoort to go there and bring away the treasure."
JURRICE paused; he leaned forward on the desk. His voice became a deep-drawn tone.
"It means a fortune for Revoort!" he exclaimed. "One third of the total amount, with a commission on the
sale of the jewels. That part is most important. For both the Cuban and Revoort want an immediate
conversion into cash.
"Revoort required funds. He called upon me, not only as a friend, but as one who has dealt in precious
stones. It will be my task to find a single buyer for those jewels; to offer them as an unusually fine bargain
for one who can buy them outright."
Jurrice sat back in his chair. Bornick rubbed his chin; then put a question.
"Just how," asked the lawyer, "did you happen to come to Mr. Califax?"
"I talked to people," replied Jurrice, soberly. "To persons at my club; to some among the trade. I spoke
quite cautiously; but mentioned that I might have access to a valuable collection of gems.
"Various persons told me names of those who might be interested. Several collectors were mentioned;
among them, Mr. Califax."
"Who mentioned me?" inquired Califax. "Do you remember?"
"No," replied Jurrice. "I don't recall just who. I heard your name mentioned somewhere; then made
inquiries about you. I learned that you were a collector."
"Hardly a real one, Jurrice." Califax motioned over his shoulder, toward a safe at the back of the study. "I
have some gems in there; but their total value is not great. True, gems have been a hobby with me, since
my retirement, but -"
"That's just it, Mr. Califax!" exclaimed Jurrice. "Don't you see? I wanted to meet someone who was just
beginning as a collector. One who did not have too much money tied up in precious stones. One who
could buy if he would."
"So you told me, Jurrice. I must confess that your judgement appears sound."
THE windows of Califax's study had raised window shades. Bornick, seated in front of the desk, could
see straight past Califax, out toward the avenue. The lawyer's view was an angled one that Jurrice could
not gain. Nor could Califax observe what Bornick saw, for Califax had his back toward the window.
Bornick was watching blue lights that blinked from the corner of a distant loft building. His lips moved -
almost imperceptibly - as he marked off dots and dashes. Lights ended their blinking.
Bornick continued to watch as they resumed again. He heard a question from Califax. Lips tight, Bornick
stared straight at the manufacturer, yet kept watching the lights while he did so.
"What do you think, Bornick?" Califax was quizzing. "Would I be making an illegal step if I should
purchase these gems from Jurrice?"
"I think you would be," returned Bornick, steadily. Lights had blinked and finished. The lawyer's eyes
eased slightly, but neither witness noted their change. "Not so far as any Cuban complications are
concerned. Provided, of course, that this Cuban friend of Revoort's actually has title to the gems.
"But if the jewels are smuggled into the United States - and I understand that they are coming here by
such method - any purchase of them would be a defiance of the customs law. You could be held
responsible, Califax."
Jurrice raised his hand in protest.
"There is no intent to break the law," he declared. "Revoort already has the treasure. He came from
Cuba by a small boat and landed in Florida, unchallenged by coast guards or customs officers.
"He does not want to escape paying duty. The gems can be declared after they reach New York. Any
payment to the government will be deducted from the purchase price. That is why it has become
imperative for me to plan a sale. So there will be funds available for customs charges."
"What of the gold and the securities?" questioned Bornick. "Why not use them to pay the customs
charges?"
"Revoort's Cuban friend needs cash at once," explained Jurrice. "Whatever remains may not be sufficient.
The gems must be sold."
"I explained this to you, Bornick," reminded Califax, mildly. "Jurrice told me these facts several days ago.
I repeated them to you the next night."
"So you did," agreed the attorney. "I wanted to hear Jurrice acknowledge them."
"Did - did Mr. Califax mention what Revoort has done?" questioned Jurrice, nervously, as he faced
Bornick. "About - about his planning to take passage on the steamship Tropical, at Savannah?"
"I did," replied Califax, speaking for Bornick. "Mr. Bornick knows of Revoort's plans. The Tropical,
however, is a coastwise vessel. It comes from no foreign port; therefore, it will run into no difficulty with
the customs authorities."
"My advice, Califax," stated Bornick, carefully, "is for you to avoid this purchase. If you decide to go
ahead - in spite of my advice - make no transaction whatever except in the presence of an attorney."
"Do you mean," inquired Califax, "that you will not give me further counsel?"
"I mean exactly that. You understand, of course, that as my client you have absolute assurance that this
entire subject has been and will be kept a secret. But I can not place myself in the position of becoming
party to a technical conspiracy."
CALIFAX looked troubled. It was Jurrice who showed a sudden gleam.
"Suppose the matter be forgotten," he suggested, speaking to the lawyer. "For the present, you
understand. Then suppose I should approach Mr. Califax. No - better not for me. Suppose a stranger
such as Revoort should come here, with certain gems, ready to declare them before a sale -"
"Under those circumstances," decided Bornick, interrupting, "it would be difficult to class the transaction
as a conspiracy. Mr. Califax could summon an attorney and ask his advice in the unusual matter."
With that, Bornick arose and extended his hand; first to Califax, then to Jurrice. Blue lights had begun
anew. Unnoticed, Bornick was making a mental record of their blinks.
"I have an important appointment," recalled the lawyer. "One that I postponed on account of this visit. I
believe that I am needed here no longer. Good night, gentlemen."
Bornick lingered while the blue lights finished their blinking. The slight delay allowed Jurrice opportunity
for another statement.
摘要：

THEPYTHONMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEPYTHON'SPRISONER?CHAPTERII.THEPYTHON'SWILES?CHAPTERIII.WEALTHRECLAIMED?CHAPTERIV.THEPYTHON'STERMS?CHAPTERV.BENEATHTHERIVER?CHAPTERVI.OUTWARDBOUND?CHAPTERVII.ABOARDTHE"TROPICAL"?CHAPTERVIII.CRIME'SZEROHOUR...

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