The Shadow - 61 - Spoils of the Shadow by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1934-08-31T22:00:00+00:00

“He fears a robbery,” explained Cranston. “Like those at Dutton’s and Brockthorpe’s. He seems very anxious for me to visit him. Would it be asking too much -“

“Of course not,” interposed Doris. “You must certainly go to Mr. Bexler’s at once. I can take a taxi home.”

“No, indeed,” returned Cranston. “My limousine is outside. I shall have Stanley drive us to your apartment house. I may be a few minutes later than Bexler expects; that will not matter.”

Cranston accompanied the girl to the street. They entered the globetrotter’s limousine.

Stanley received his orders. Fifteen minutes later. Lamont Cranston said good night to Doris Munson in the lobby of the girl’s apartment house.

ROLLING onward in his limousine, Lamont Cranston rested back upon the cushions.

Stanley was bound for Hubert Bexler’s. A soft laugh came from Cranston’s immobile lips.

That whispered mockery was an echo of The Shadow’s mirth.

Three crimes had been accomplished. The Shadow, though he had not prevented them, had gained an insight into Mark Tyrell’s methods. In his sanctum, he had mapped out the schemer’s ways of working.

His own observations—the reports from his agents—his preliminary survey gained from his first contact with Tyrell at the Paragon Hotel—all had served The Shadow well. To-night, by keeping an engagement with Doris Munson, he had deliberately absented himself from the scene of crime. He had paved the way for Tyrell’s scheme.

Why? Did The Shadow fear Tyrell’s threat regarding the lives that might be at stake? That could have been the answer. At Dutton’s—at Brockthorpe’s—at Gault’s, to-night—there had been danger to innocent persons. The Shadow was thinking of the darkness in the paneled room, which Harry Vincent had reported. A shot in that blackness could have spelled quick death.

There was another explanation, however, of The Shadow’s actions. Perhaps it was the reason for the soft laugh in the limousine. By playing a passive part as Cranston, The Shadow was giving Tyrell the definite impression that his threats had struck home. The Shadow was making himself appear to be a soft antagonist. When would the pretence end?

Only The Shadow knew!

The limousine had crossed the East River. It was speeding along a broad highway. Hubert Bexler lived on Long Island, in an exclusive residential district. Stanley chose a road that led to the right. Half a mile on, he turned into a gravel drive and pulled up in front of Hubert Bexler’s home.

The house was a gloomy structure, lighted only at the front, downstairs. But Lamont Cranston was not looking toward the house. He was busy in the back seat of the limousine.

From a briefcase that he had drawn into view, he was extracting cloak and hat; also a pair of automatics.

Stanley had stopped the car past others that were parked in the drive. The door opened by the back seat; unseen by his chauffeur, The Shadow glided from the car. Stanley heard the floor swing shut. He supposed that Lamont Cranston had stepped from the limousine.

There was a narrow lawn at this side of Bexler’s house. Beyond it was a hedge.

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