Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 079 - Murder Every Hour

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MURDER EVERY HOUR
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. TWO MILLION DOLLARS
? CHAPTER II. FIVE O'CLOCK DEATH
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S CLUES
? CHAPTER IV. MURDER AT SIX
? CHAPTER V. MURDER AT SEVEN
? CHAPTER VI. THE NOON MAIL
? CHAPTER VII. THE EVIDENCE LINKS
? CHAPTER VIII. THE POST MORTEM
? CHAPTER IX. THE BLIND QUEST
? CHAPTER X. THE TRAP REVERSED
? CHAPTER XI. HARRY REPORTS
? CHAPTER XII. CARDONA HAS A HUNCH
? CHAPTER XIII. INTRUDERS ARRIVE
? CHAPTER XIV. AGENTS SLIP
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW EXPLAINS
? CHAPTER XVI. STRONG ALIBIS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE NEXT SUMMONS
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE PROOF OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XIX. THE FINAL TERMS
? CHAPTER XX. THE FINAL EVIDENCE
CHAPTER I. TWO MILLION DOLLARS
A HUGE, gray-haired man was seated at a massive mahogany desk. The modulated glow of electric
lights showed his rugged, square-formed features. Bushy brows, gray like the hair above them, added to
a perpetual scowl that existed on this heavy face.
Like the man, the furnishings of the room were bulky. Squatty, stout-legged chairs surrounded the
weighty desk. A cumbersome table stood in one corner. Behind the desk was the thick steel door of a
wall safe. Against a side wall was a mammoth bookcase, in three sections, that ran from floor to ceiling.
A knock came from the door of the room. The big man raised his head and rumbled an order to enter.
The portal opened; a frail, bespectacled individual stepped timidly into the heavy-furnished study.
"You wished to see me, Mr. Dreblin?" inquired the newcomer, in a shaky voice.
"I did," returned the man at the desk. "That is why I told Alfred to summon you.
"Is something wrong, sir?"
"You are, Hastings. Your work has proven unsatisfactory. I no longer require you as my secretary."
Hastings stood with lips twitching. The news of his dismissal troubled him. Yet the frail young man felt
that he had reached the end of an ordeal. As secretary to Philo Dreblin, he had served a most irritable
employer.
"Yes, Hastings," grumbled Dreblin, "you have been inefficient. Intolerably so! Like the half a dozen others
who have held your job during the past few months. It seems that I shall never manage to hire a secretary
with brains."
"I have tried my best, sir -"
"Apologies are unnecessary, Hastings. I have made due allowance for your shortcomings. The job has
proven too stiff for you; that is all. I realize that effort has not been lacking."
"Therefore" - Dreblin paused, and Hastings stared at sight of a smile that was almost kindly - "I have
arranged other employment for you, Hastings. You will remain here for a few days. After that, you will
work in the New York office of the Calthite Company."
"Thank you, sir!" exclaimed Hastings. The secretary's face showed a relieved smile. "This is generous of
you, Mr. Dreblin. I shall be very much pleased -"
"Pleased to get away from here," interposed Dreblin, dryly. "Well, Hastings, I cannot blame you. I
suppose that I am something of a slave-driver. Well, now that your future is settled, you can go back to
your present task. Continue to arrange my correspondence. I shall summon you if I require you."
Hastings bowed himself out, closing the door behind him.
PHILO DREBLIN glowered from behind the desk. After a short interval he arose, tiptoed to the door
and opened it suddenly, as though expecting to find Hastings listening from the other side.
Finding no sign of the secretary, Dreblin looked about an empty outer room; then stepped back in his
study, closed the door and locked it. A satisfied smile showed on the big man's lips.
Moving to the bookcase, Dreblin withdrew three heavy volumes from a lower shelf. He found a hidden
button, pressed it, then replaced the books. Returning to the desk, Dreblin sat down and waited
expectantly.
Two minutes passed. A muffled click came from the wall. An upright section of the bookcase swung into
the room. A tall man stepped into view, nodded his greeting, then swung the bookcase shut. After that,
he approached the desk.
Philo Dreblin's visitor was a man with a shrewd, pointed face. His fox-like expression contrasted with
Dreblin's square, heavy-browed countenance. Yet it was plain that the two had some enterprise in
common - one that required secrecy.
For Dreblin's first action was a warning gesture that caused the fox-faced newcomer to sidle to a chair.
Rising from the desk, Dreblin moved over to the door, stooped there and listened cautiously. Satisfied
that Hastings was not outside, Dreblin returned to the desk.
"All right, Nethro," stated Dreblin, in a guarded rumble. "We can talk. No one is eavesdropping."
The visitor was striking a match with his left hand. He applied the flame to a cigarette, shook the match
until it went out, then tossed the burned stick toward an ash tray on the desk. Drumming the woodwork
with his right hand, he surveyed Dreblin curiously.
"This secretary of yours," observed Nethro. "What harm can he do? Why would it matter if he overheard
us talking? He has seen the letters Frieth wrote you, hasn't he?"
"Not all of them," returned Dreblin. "Hastings is the sixth secretary that I have had in the past two months.
He has only seen Frieth's last letter. He will not see any more of them."
"You won't hear from Frieth again?"
"Perhaps; perhaps not. But in either event, Hastings will not be here. I am dismissing him."
Nethro guffawed, Dreblin scowled.
"I am choosing another secretary," announced the large man. "I am taking the next on the list of waiting
applicants."
"And I suppose," put in Nethro, "that you'll fire the new guy within two weeks."
"I shall," asserted Dreblin, dryly. "And I shall do the same with every succeeding secretary until this Frieth
matter is ended."
"And when will that be?"
"Soon, I hope."
EMPHATICALLY, Dreblin yanked open a desk drawer and brought out a long sheet of paper. He
thrust it across the desk to Nethro. The visitor studied it curiously; then laughed.
"Been doing your own typing, Mr. Dreblin?" he inquired. "Yeah. This looks like it. Guess this must have
been too important to leave to your secretary."
"Read it," suggested Dreblin.
Nethro perused the lines. His face took on a puzzled look; then his lips formed a hard, angry curve.
Indignantly, he tossed the paper back to Dreblin.
"You expect me to sign that?" was Nethro's challenge. "So I'll sew myself up any way you want me?"
"Hardly," replied Dreblin, in a casual tone. "I can see nothing unfair in this agreement. It merely states that
Kip Nethro will share responsibility with Philo Dreblin in any mutual undertaking. It is simply a legitimate
protection."
"Maybe it is," agreed Nethro, "but I can't see the use of it. I'm not in business with you, Mr. Dreblin. I'm
a private investigator - and I'm working for you -"
"And like any employee, you might be bought out by the opposition."
"You don't think you can trust me?"
Dreblin smiled. Rising from his chair, he strolled around the desk and clapped Nethro on the shoulder
with one hand while he presented the paper with the other.
"If I didn't trust you, Nethro," stated Dreblin, "I would not have hired you in the first place. I intend,
however, to assign you to a new and more important task. One wherein you will contact certain parties
who might seek to bribe you. Come, Nethro, sign."
Nethro stroked his chin. He eyed Dreblin shrewdly. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he picked up a
pen with his left hand. In sweeping strokes, he affixed his brief signature to the document.
Dreblin picked up the paper and went back to his chair.
"We can talk more freely from now on," rumbled the huge man, as he placed the signed paper in the desk
drawer. "I can tell you exactly how we intend to deal with this sharp promoter, Newell Frieth."
"And the guys who are working with him?"
"Yes. Jeremy Lentz and Howard Morath. You have done well, tracing them, Nethro. But that work was
merely a test. I knew about them all along."
"Yet you had me on the job -"
"Getting first-hand information for yourself. So that I might learn your capabilities. You found out a great
deal, Nethro. I shall tell you more. So let us review all facts."
METHODICALLY, Dreblin reached into the desk drawer and produced a square sheet of dull, grayish
metal, which he tossed across the desk to Nethro. The object struck the woodwork with a dull clang.
"Calthite," stated Dreblin. "The alloy which I manufacture for use in all-metal aircraft."
Nethro nodded. Dreblin produced a second sheet of metallic substance and passed it to the investigator.
"Ferroluminum," remarked Dreblin. "The alloy controlled by Hiram Caffley, as one of his side lines. It's
hard to choose between them, Nethro."
"So it looks to me," nodded Nethro, "but Caffley's handling more business than you are, Mr. Dreblin."
"Purely because his organization is stronger," rumbled Dreblin, sourly. "Hiram Caffley is a multimillionaire.
He has outside funds with which he can push the manufacture of ferroluminum. But his alloy is no better
than calthite."
"What about this alloy of Frieth's?"
"I'm coming to that, Nethro."
Dreblin arose and paced the room. His face was troubled; Nethro watched the huge man keenly. A
shrewd smile showed on the investigator's lips. The smile faded as Dreblin wheeled about.
"Some time ago," declared Dreblin, "an inventor named Jeremy Lentz produced an alloy which he named
Duro Metal. I have a sample of it here."
Stepping back to the desk, Dreblin plucked forth a new square of dull silvery metal and handed it to
Nethro, who began to compare it with the specimens that he already held.
"Duro Metal," resumed Dreblin, "resembles both calthite and ferroluminum. It possesses one quality,
however, which the other alloys do not have. I refer to cheapness. Duro Metal, I am informed, can be
produced for two thirds the cost of the others."
Nethro nodded. This was a fact that he already knew.
"Jeremy Lentz," declared Dreblin, "took his invention to Howard Morath, a shyster lawyer. Morath, in
turn, negotiated with Newell Frieth, a high-pressure promoter. That trio wants me to buy the rights of
Duro Metal, so that I can use it in competition with Caffley's ferroluminum."
"Which sounds fair enough," observed Nethro, helping himself to a cigarette from a box on Dreblin's
desk. "Except that you've already got a lot of dough tied up in your own alloy, this calthite stuff."
"Which would not matter," asserted Dreblin, promptly, "if Frieth and his cronies were reasonable in their
demands. But they are not. They will not consider a fair royalty basis in regard to Duro Metal. They want
two million dollars in cash, for an alloy which I do not need."
"You're satisfied with calthite?"
"Absolutely. Just as satisfied as old Caffley is with ferroluminum. Yet I can not overlook the fact that
Duro Metal, if extensively produced, would undercut the existing market."
"And if you don't buy out Duro Metal, maybe Caffley will."
"Exactly. And if he does -"
"You'll be sunk."
DREBLIN scowled as he heard Nethro's statement. Plucking a cigar from his pocket, he bit off the end
of it and chewed savagely at the tobacco.
"A great bunch of hijackers," remarked Nethro. "Lentz, Morath and Frieth. This isn't the first fast one
they've sprung."
"What do you mean?" snapped Dreblin. "You've heard about -"
"About the Powlden business?" chuckled Nethro, as Dreblin stopped abruptly. "Sure thing! That's how
those hijackers got their start. Jeremy Lentz used to be hooked up with an inventor named Donald
Powlden, who doped out a synthetic gasoline. Powlden left its handling to Lentz. The result was that
Powlden was left out in the cold while Lentz tied up with Morath and Frieth. The three of them got a
million bucks out of an oil company that bought up the synthetic gas to get rid of it."
"So you learned that," mused Dreblin. "Well, Nethro, you went deeper than I supposed you had. Why
did you hold back these facts?"
"I figured you knew them. And there was no way of getting at those three guys through Powlden. They
foxed him so completely that he had no come-back."
Dreblin nodded. His eyes were keen beneath his bushy brows. Nethro showed a shrewd smile as he met
Dreblin's fixed gaze.
"Tomorrow, Nethro," stated Dreblin, slowly, as if formulating the final steps of a premeditated plan, "I
want you to visit all three of those men. Lentz first; then Morath; finally Frieth."
"As your representative?" inquired Nethro.
"No," retorted Dreblin, savagely. "That would be folly, Nethro! Do not even mention my name to any
one of the three."
"Who shall I say sent me? Caffley?"
"That would be even greater folly. Chances are that those rascals are already negotiating with Caffley as
well as myself."
"Then who - how -"
"Tell them that you represent a newly formed syndicate. That your employers have heard of Duro Metal.
That they want to buy it to compete with both calthite and ferroluminum."
"Will they fall for that stall?"
"They may. I don't think they know the alloy business well enough to realize that no one would try to
buck such strong concerns as Caffley's and mine. Talk prices with the three of them: Lentz, Morath and
Frieth - right up the line."
Nethro was nodding his approval of Dreblin's plan. His sidelong gaze fixed shrewdly upon the
manufacturer's rugged face.
"Until I can raise two millions," asserted Dreblin, "I must hold off Caffley. Duro Metal, in his hands,
would mean my ruin."
"Suppose Caffley outbids you?" inquired Nethro, casually.
"He won't go over two million," snapped back Dreblin. "You have mentioned a future danger, however.
The prospect is not pleasant, Nethro."
"Unless," put in the investigator, "you find some way to eliminate Duro Metal altogether. Why couldn't
you and Caffley get together on the proposition?"
"I WOULD like to control Duro Metal," responded Dreblin. "I do not trust Caffley. There is no chance
of cooperation with him. The only plan, Nethro, is to keep the deal open until Frieth comes down in his
price. Unless - as you have suggested - a sure way of handling the problem could be discovered.
"After all, you are right. I am satisfied with calthite. It is as good as ferroluminum, despite Caffley's claims
to the contrary. Elimination - something I had not thought of. Do you think you could accomplish it,
Nethro?"
"I might," asserted the investigator, rising. "Maybe by scaring these bozos with talk about Donald
Powlden. Or getting a line on some other crooked deal the three of them have pulled. But if I'm going to
spring a bluff, I've got to see all of them - Lentz, Morath and Frieth - as a starter.
"I'll be tied up over at the Acme Investigation Agency until after half past four tomorrow afternoon. But I
can get to Lentz's office before five o'clock. Morath's apartment next; then Frieth's."
"You seem to have learned a bit about those men," observed Dreblin, dryly. "You have not, by any
chance, met them?"
"I've seen them. That was good business. But they haven't seen me. So I'm holding the edge for a starter.
But tell me this, Mr. Dreblin: suppose I do bluff these phonies. Suppose I put the skids under Duro
Metal, or get it for you cheap. What do I get out of it?"
Dreblin considered. When he spoke, his words were both methodical and deliberate.
"If you can cut the two millions in half," he decided. "I shall pay you one hundred thousand dollars,
Nethro. For every thousand dollars below one million, ten per cent additional. A price of half a million
would mean one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for you."
"And suppose I get Duro Metal for nothing?"
"That would be two hundred thousand dollars."
"And if no one gets it? If Duro Metal goes in the scrap heap? That means the same? Two hundred
grand?"
"Certainly. If you can prove that it is actually forgotten."
"Let me have a memo on that, Mr. Dreblin. With your signature."
Dreblin hesitated. His heavy lip's straightened. His brow showed a scowl.
"I signed your paper," chuckled Nethro. "It's your turn to put something in writing."
Dreblin strode to the desk. Hesitating no longer, he picked up a pen and scrawled off the statement that
the investigator wanted.
Nethro was looking at his watch when Dreblin handed him the paper. Smiling, the investigator tucked the
memo in his left vest pocket.
"I'll drop in at this time tomorrow night," informed Nethro, pulling out the bookcase. "Nine o'clock. We'll
have more to talk about then. Goodnight, Mr. Dreblin."
Nethro departed by the secret exit. The bookcase clicked shut behind him. Philo Dreblin stood in
speculation; then went to the door, unlocked it and called for Hastings. The secretary appeared.
"Letters," rumbled Dreblin. "Have your pad ready, Hastings, while I dictate them."
Seated at his desk, the huge man went through the routine of dictating business letters to branch offices of
the Calthite Company. But as he rumbled along, Philo Dreblin registered suppressed elation upon his
rugged features.
Apparently, the secret visit of Kip Nethro had turned out to Dreblin's liking. For the alloy manufacturer's
real thoughts concerned the morrow, when his new campaign would begin against the trio who sought
two million dollars.
CHAPTER II. FIVE O'CLOCK DEATH
EARLY dusk had settled over Manhattan. The day had been a cloudy one, and the sky had blackened
with each succeeding hour of afternoon. Lights were twinkling from myriad windows where electricity
had supplanted the fading illumination of day.
A man was seated at a battered table in a small, paneled office. The room looked antiquated; it was
located only a few stories above the street. This little office, in an old-fashioned building, was the inner
room of the suite occupied by Jeremy Lentz.
The inventor was the man at the table. Before him lay a mass of spread-out blueprints. Lentz, sour-faced
and bespectacled, was studying the blueprints. His lips protruded as he pursed them. Mechanically, the
inventor drew a cigarette from a pack that lay on the table beside him.
The cigarette was of the cork-tipped variety. The trade-mark imprinted upon it was a small blue crown.
This was Lentz's regular brand. An ash tray cluttered with stumps was evidence that the inventor was a
heavy smoker.
Bluish smoke was curling from the ash tray as Lentz lighted his fresh cigarette. Careless in habit, Lentz let
the old stumps smolder in the metal ash tray. The odor of burning cork mingled with that of tobacco; but
the heavy atmosphere did not appear to bother the inventor.
Standing up from the table, Lentz looked about and noticed the settling darkness. He glanced at a wrist
watch and seemed surprised to note that it was not quite five o'clock. The closeness to the hour,
however, reminded him of something. Lentz went to the door of the office and opened it.
A stenographer was seated at a small desk in the outside reception room. The girl was putting away a
stack of old letters. She looked up as Lentz opened the door.
"You may leave now, Miss Farthington," informed the inventor, in a mild tone. "I shall not require you any
longer."
"Aren't you going to file the blueprints?" questioned the girl.
"I can attend to that myself," returned Lentz. "I shall be here until six o'clock."
Abruptly, the inventor went back into the inner office, closing the door behind him. The stenographer put
away the letters, donned hat and coat, then went out into the hallway.
LENTZ'S office was the last door on this corridor. Directly opposite it was the door of an unoccupied
office. Beyond these doors, the corridor terminated in a window that opened above an alleyway three
floors below.
The window was at the girl's left as she stepped out into the hall. Hence she turned right in order to
approach the elevators.
The corridor was dim, for it had not been lighted, despite the gloom of the day. As the stenographer
reached the main portion of the hall, she stepped squarely into the path of a man coming from an
elevator. The man moved quickly aside. The stenographer passed him and rang the elevator bell.
At that moment, the girl wondered if the visitor happened to be coming to Lentz's office. Turning back,
she was just in time to see him opening the door that led into the inventor's offices.
She noticed that the man was tall and stoop-shouldered. His coat, a light gray, was visible in the gloom of
the corridor. But the stenographer could catch no glimpse of the man's face.
Before the girl could start back to the office to find out who the arrival was, the door of an elevator
banged open and the operator called "Down." The stenographer decided not to return to the office.
Instead, she took the elevator and descended.
The lobby of the little building was not a pretentious one; yet there was a fair flow of people passing
through it, most of them outward bound. Lentz's stenographer went out with other home-goers. It
seemed as though nearly every one was leaving before five, on this afternoon.
FIVE minutes passed. A short, stubby man jostled his way into the building, carrying a stack of cigar
boxes. He managed to grab loose boxes that were toppling as someone brushed against him.
Twisting aside, the stubby man avoided the final members of the crowd and paused beside a table where
the elevator dispatcher was standing.
"Nearly bowled you over," chuckled the dispatcher. "Would have been too bad if you'd busted up some
of those fancy boxes. Got an extra smoke today, bud?"
A grin appeared upon the stubby man's red face as he used his chin to indicate the breast pocket of his
overcoat. The dispatcher reached in and extracted a wrapped cigar, which he transferred to a pocket of
his uniform.
"Take another," suggested the stubby man, in a gruff voice. "I've got plenty."
The dispatcher helped himself.
"Kind of hoped you'd be in today," he remarked. "But I'd given you up, this late. What's the idea hitting
here as late as five? Most everybody's gone out."
"I've got to see one customer," informed the stubby man, in his hoarse tones. "Fellow named Lentz. Ain't
gone out, has he?"
"Don't think so," returned the dispatcher. "His stenog breezed by about five minutes ago. But I think he's
still up there. Usually stays late. I check off anybody that goes in or out after six o'clock. He's a regular
late-stayer, Lentz is. Hello there, Terry."
The last remark was addressed to a newcomer. The stubby cigar salesman turned about to see a
uniformed policeman who had entered the lobby. The officer was obviously the patrolman covering the
beat that included this office building.
"Hello," returned the cop. "What're you doing? Buying some cigars?"
"Not me," laughed the dispatcher. "Meet this guy, Terry. He sells the offices in this building. What did you
say your name was, bud? I've forgotten."
"Garsher," informed the stubby man. "George Garsher. I do a business in high-grade cigars. Try a couple
of smokes, officer. They're in the outside pocket of my overcoat."
The cop nodded solemnly and helped himself to two of Garsher's perfectos. His eyes opened as he saw
the bands that proclaimed the cigars to be an imported brand.
Just then an elevator door whammed open and a flood of passengers came from the car. The dispatcher
nudged Garsher, who nodded and walked aboard.
The dispatcher turned to chat with the bluecoat. Both forgot Garsher; neither noted the people from the
elevator. Thus they failed to see a stoop-shouldered fellow in a gray coat who walked out briskly with
the throng.
"GOOD smokes, these," remarked the dispatcher, tapping his pocket. "Next time that fellow Garsher
comes in, I'll remind him to leave a couple for you."
"He blows in regular?" queried the cop. "Customers in the building?"
"Yeah. He sells high-class brands at a cut rate. Does a good business here. Usually comes in with a big
stack and goes out empty-handed. Well, Terry, how does it look out? Due for rain?"
"No. But it's chilly, though. And me on the beat with this cold of mine. Well, I've stuck it out all week.
Guess I can keep going. But I don't figure it's a bad idea to step inside once in a while. It don't hurt on
this beat."
Terry leaned back against the wall. His elbow jostled a telephone from the table. The dispatcher caught
the instrument before it fell to the floor. He hung the receiver on the hook and replaced the instrument on
the table.
"Don't knock it again, Terry," he warned. "We've cracked a couple of 'em on this stone floor. Phone
company got sore about it."
"What does this do? Hook up with the offices? I didn't know you had a switchboard service in this
building."
"We don't. This is just the building phone. But we gave out cards with the numbers to all the guys that
have offices here. So they can call down if they want service. And we can reach them at night, too. The
owner's kind of particular. Here's the list. All the phone numbers in the building."
The dispatcher pulled a small book from a drawer in the table. He handed it to the patrolman. Terry was
glancing through the pages when the telephone began to ring. The dispatcher answered it.
"Hello..." There was a curious pause in the dispatcher's voice. Terry looked up. "Hello... Who? Lentz...
You mean... Sure, he's still here... Yeah. We'll be right up."
"What is it?" queried the cop, as the dispatcher hung up the telephone.
"Something's happened to a guy named Lentz," was the response. "That was Garsher calling. The bird
with the cigars."
"From Lentz's office?"
"Yeah. On the third floor."
Passengers were coming from another elevator. The dispatcher and the policeman hurried into the
emptying car. The dispatcher spoke to the operator. The door clanged. They rode to the third floor.
The dispatcher guided Terry along the gloomy hall. A lighted patch greeted them. It came from the door
of Lentz's office. They saw Garsher standing, there, his cigar boxes tumbled on the floor beside him.
"Look - look inside," panted the stubby man. He was clutching at the door frame. "In the - in the inside
office. It's - it's Lentz!"
The patrolman shouldered through. He reached the inner door and drew it outward. He stopped short on
the threshold, staring at the sight before him while the dispatcher looked over his shoulder.
Halfway between table and door lay Jeremy Lentz, dead. The inventor had apparently slumped forward;
then rolled upon his back. There was no doubt as to the cause of Lentz's death. He had been slain by a
gunshot.
A huge, gaping wound showed in Lentz's bloodstained shirt front. Crimson was still oozing from the spot
where a murderous slug had entered. The patrolman had seen such sights before. He knew that Lentz
had been shot through the heart.
TURNING about, the officer motioned the dispatcher back into the outer office. White-faced, the fellow
leaned against the wall. Garsher, his features pitiful, was looking in from the door.
"Is - is - he dead?" stammered the cigar salesman.
"I'll say he is!" responded the patrolman. "What did you do? Walk in and find him there?"
"I - I waited here for a few minutes. Here - here in the outer office. Then - then I knocked at the inside
摘要：

MURDEREVERYHOURMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.TWOMILLIONDOLLARS?CHAPTERII.FIVEO'CLOCKDEATH?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOW'SCLUES?CHAPTERIV.MURDERATSIX?CHAPTERV.MURDERATSEVEN?CHAPTERVI.THENOONMAIL?CHAPTERVII.THEEVIDENCELINKS?CHAPTERVIII.THEPOSTMORTEM?CHAPTER...

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