Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 177 by Maxwel l Grant

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

CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOWY FIREMAN.

"THE Ferndale Bank!" Peacock gasped, pointing a frightened finger toward that angry glow in the sky.

"Thieves have dynamited the bank and set it afire!"

Lamont Cranston had turned his face away for an instant. His lips tightened. His eyes gleamed with an inner understanding. In that single instant, The Shadow had realized what was going on and had made his decision. He was certain that Peacock's guess about the Ferndale Bank was a poor one. He suspected arson-and murder!

But it was in the gentle voice of Lamont Cranston that he spoke to his frightened host.

"Get in my car. We'd better hurry into Ferndale and find out what's happened."

Stanley sent the big limousine whizzing along the smooth highway. Ferndale was a ferment of excitement.

The main street was crowded with people racing through the darkness. But their goal was toward the residential end of town. The Ferndale Bank was unharmed.

A minute or two later, the real source of the fire became apparent. The home of Charles Trent was blazing fiercely. It was a fire that The Shadow realized at once was not going to be brought easily under control.

Stanley parked the car a block away. A growing crowd blocked the street, made further automobile progress impossible. Peacock sprang out and, followed by Cranston and Stanley, shoved his way through the packed throng. The heat from the doomed house was terrific. It was like the angry red glow from a blast furnace.

A mysterious explosion had blown out part of the basement and the front of the ground floor. Flames spouted from what looked like the mouth of a red-hot cave. Firemen were standing well back from the terrific blaze, pouring futile streams of water from the nozzles of a half dozen hoses. It seemed to make no impression whatever on the fire.

The flames were mounting swiftly through the upper floor's of the house.

Peacock asked a hoarse question of a gaping spectator. To his relief, the man replied that Charles Trent and his son Ralph were safe. Neither of them had apparently been at home at the time of the explosion.

The explosion had preceded the fire. It had wrecked the cellar of the house in a single ear-shattering blast. Then the flames had roared through the frame structure with express-train speed.

"Arson," Peacock whispered to Lamont Cranston. "Someone must have planted an incendiary bomb in the cellar!"

Cranston didn't reply. A murmur rose suddenly from the crowd. It was a hoarse, terrified sound that gathered volume as it ran from lip to lip. People were pointing upward toward a spot below the peak of the roof. A man had appeared at an attic window.

It was Charles Trent!

Flames roared directly beneath him. A pall of black smoke almost hid his feeble gesture for help. Choked by the dense smoke, he had barely managed to totter to the attic window. An instant later, he collapsed unconscious across the sill.

Excitement and horror turned the crowd below into a maelstrom of shrieks and shouts. Men were cursing wildly, begging the helpless firemen to do something.

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