Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 157 by Maxwel l Grant

Author:Maxwel,l Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

CHAPTER XII

WHO IS OTTO MULLER?

WHEN Rodney Mason's stolen beat rammed its nose upward on the muddy edge of the mainland, his eyes gleamed shrewdly. He knew that the blows that had dropped Marsland and The Shadow had been hurriedly dealt. Mason had been almost

exhausted when he had swung his treacherous gun butt. He was aware that pursuit

would not be long delayed.

Mason dived through the concealing branches, to where he remembered the sedan had been parked. Its front wheels pointed toward the road.

With Turk's gun steady in his grasp, Mason flung open the rear door. He studied the unconscious faces of Baron and Squint. Both were tied securely; both were gagged.

Mason chuckled with the air of a man contemplating a very pleasant joke.

He slammed the rear door. Circling the car, he slid coolly behind the wheel and

started the motor. He had worked so swiftly that barely a minute had elapsed since he had leaped ashore from the boat.

Nosing out of the thicket, Mason sent the sedan speeding along the road.

As he neared the foot of the steep hill, he increased the speed recklessly.

But

the fleeing chemist was an excellent driver. He reached the top of the hill without accident. He took the winding lane back to the main highway.

When he felt the smoothness of concrete under his humming tires, Rodney Mason laughed with high-pitched delight at his escape.

The highway led straight southward to New York. Presently, Mason reached a

busy Westchester County intersection. He turned, approached the New York City limits through Yonkers. The chemist's goal was the subway line that ends at Van

Cortlandt Park. He wanted to get rid of Baron's car, for the subway was a safer

bet for a smart man.

Driving into the park, Mason took one of the broad, winding roads. His speed slackened. Presently, he saw what he wanted - a narrow lane that branched

off toward a more secluded section of the huge park. He followed the lane to a spot that was utterly deserted except for the gray, flitting shapes of a couple

of squirrels.

The frightened squirrels vanished. So did Rodney Mason.

THE moment he had the sedan parked out of sight, Mason yanked open the rear door. A quick tug of his hand lifted the lap robe from the unconscious crooks.

He searched them with swift efficiency. He found nothing on Squint but a gun, a box of cartridges, and a thick wad of currency.

But the eager chemist made a more interesting discovery on the crumpled figure of Sam Baron. He drew a folded scrap of paper from an inner compartment of Baron's wallet. The paper was dirty and creased, but the typewritten words on it were clearly legible.

It was a note signed by a man whose name made Mason's eyebrows lift with quick interest. He read:

The ice business is picking up. Get the ice wagon ready. But no smoke wagon unless you have to! Same split as usual.

OTTO MULLER

Mason shoved the note into his pocket. His eyes were pin points of cold flame. He knew that in the underworld argot, "ice" meant jewelry.

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