Shadow 222 - Master of Flame 05-15-41, The by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street and Smith
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

NO sound followed Frost’s single cry. The murder had taken place at a wild, desolated spot in the hills. The only audible noise, as the masked murderer slid behind the wheel of Frost’s car, was the hum of the idling motor and the rustle of leaves from the trees that hemmed in the deserted mountain road.

The masked man put the car in motion. He knew exactly where to drive with the bleeding corpse. He didn’t have far to go. Turning another sharp curve in the rutted lane, the masked man halted near the edge of a steep declivity cut in the rocks on one side of the road. It was a man-made precipice. It was the remains of an old, abandoned quarry.

Seepage from many a cold mountain spring had turned the bottom of that abandoned quarry into a deep lake. A fence guarded the road’s edge, but its rails were old and rotted. The masked man lifted one of the rails and carried the body of his victim to the edge of the abyss.

He weighted the corpse with a stone of heavy granite which he found after a brief search through the weeds. He found another chunk of rock not so big - a chunk which fitted easily in his clenched hand.

Then he did a horrible thing. He leaned over the corpse land struck savagely, again and again.

When the masked man straightened, David Frost no longer had a face. Both his dead hands were badly mangled. His fingers were so smashed that it would be impossible for anyone to take a single recognizable print of those fingers, if the body were ever found.

The masked man didn’t expect the corpse to be found. His ghoulish battering of the victim was an added precaution on the part of a criminal genius who took no chances on failure.

The weighted body of David Frost fell like a plummet into the depths of the quarry lake. There was a quick splash, a ripple of white foam spread - then the corpse vanished into the ooze at the deep bottom of the murky water.

Calmly, the murderer replaced the rotted rail he had lifted from the fence along the deserted road. The last living link to the Boss’ unknown identity was gone.

Harold Young, alias David Frost, was dead. The missing vice president of the Drovers’ Bank, in New York, would never reappear to be questioned by police. There was no risk of the Boss being tripped up in a minor detail of his alibi by persistent police detectives. Harold Young’s disappearance would take its place with other unsolved mysteries in the records of the police department.

The dye formula for which Harold Young’s alias, David Frost, had given his life, was now safely in the United States mails. It was on its way to the hands of a supercriminal whose gigantic conspiracy was ready for another profitable move!

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