The Masked Headsman by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1937-04-18T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII. DANGER FROM VERDUGO

THE SHADOW did not detour past the parking lot at the hotel in Whitefield. That was unnecessary. He had his black garb with him. He had left cloak and hat beneath bushes beside Darraga's front veranda. Picking them up had been a quick matter when he left the count's.

The Shadow stopped long enough, however, to make a telephone call to Clyde Burke. The reporter had seen no one enter the apartment house where Don Luis lived. The Shadow had reason to suppose that Verdugo had made another visit there. Despite the fact that Clyde had failed to see Verdugo on a previous visit, The Shadow still relied on his agent's observation.

After the call, The Shadow put on cloak and hat; sped the coupe the remaining distance, stopping just far enough from the Spanish restaurant to avoid suspicion. A few minutes later, he was in the obscurity of a side street, effecting entrance through the basement of the empty house.

Ascending to the top floor, The Shadow used a skylight to the roof. Pressed close to the darkened house top, he crawled to the intervening courtyard; listened there for any sounds from below. All was quiet. The route was clear. The Shadow knew it perfectly, from recent trips on which he had contacted Alvara.

The Shadow took the precipitous descent into the court. His fingers and toes found holds that they had used before. When he reached the line of Alvara's window, The Shadow poised one foot upon a sill of the empty house, performed a pivot and let himself fall out into the darkness.

It was scarcely more than eight feet across the narrow space. The Shadow's spread arms gauged their swing in darkness; his gloved hands were almost noiseless as they thudded the sides of Alvara's window frame.

The Shadow's doubled knees took the sill lightly; his body came up through sheer momentum. That was the crucial instant in which fingers, slipping up along the frame, found crevices between wood and brick and dug in hard. By day, the feat would have looked miraculous. In this blackness, The Shadow's acrobatics had no audience.

Alvara's window was unfastened. The Shadow raised it silently; edged into complete darkness. He listened; gave a subdued, sibilant whisper. There was no response. The Shadow utilized the covered rays of a tiny electric torch.

There was a bed in the corner; a figure lay there. It looked like Alvara, huddled in sleep. The Shadow extinguished his light; approached with silence. His hand reached out to touch the prone shoulder that was tilted toward him.

A moment later, The Shadow was above the bed, gleaming his flashlight upon the profile of a whitened face. He tilted the face upward. Bulging eyes stared with sightless glassiness. Bloated lips were widened; teeth stretched horribly from drawn gums.

The man on the bed was dead. It was Alvara; his face showed that he had known torture. His mistake–that call to Darraga, against The Shadow's order– had been fatal.

Fortunately for Alvara, he had not undergone a sustained ordeal.

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