The Shadow 131 The Shadow Unmasks by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1937-08-15T22:58:06+00:00

“I hope so, Burke,” returned the commissioner. “No more sales, no more crimes. That seems logical.

And yet it’s my belief -“

He paused. Impatiently, he picked up a newspaper and thwacked the front page.

“Any day, Burke!” he exclaimed. “Any day, these pages may reek with horror! New death - new robbery! It’s a dreadful responsibility, being police commissioner.”

As he placed the newspaper on the table, Weston indulged in a relieved smile. He pointed to a photograph on the front page. It showed a long, lean face, with high forehead; firm eyes gazed beneath straight brows. The picture was of Kent Allard, the lost aviator who was arriving home from Guatemala.

“There’s a man for you, Burke,” declared Weston. “Twelve years ago, his plane crashed in the jungles of Guatemala. He was crippled, helpless among a tribe of Xinca Indians; and I understand those savages are the most barbarous in Central America.

“Did Allard yield to those Xincas? No! Instead, he tamed them. He lived with them; ruled them. When he had civilized them to a state where they could govern themselves, he appointed a native as chief. A work of twelve years was ended, so Kent Allard came home.”

Clyde nodded his admiration for the famous aviator. The reporter was sorry that he had not taken the Guatemalan assignment; for Allard’s return had developed into the most sensational news story in years.

It was due for its culmination today, when Allard arrived in New York.

There was a ring of Weston’s telephone bell. It presaged one of the best scoops that Clyde had ever had as a newspaper reporter. Clyde did not know that, until Weston finished talking over the wire. The commissioner’s face showed huge enthusiasm.

“Bad news and good,” announced Weston. “The mayor is too ill to receive Allard when he arrives. I have been appointed to take His Honor’s place. You can come with me, Burke.”

THEY met Kent Allard at the Battery, amid the greatest medley of chimes and whistle-blasts that had sounded since the Armistice.

Tall, limber, the famed aviator wore a solemn look upon his thin, bronzed face. He was as solemn as the pair of short-built Xinca Indians who had come back with him from Central America.

Weston and Allard entered an open car and Clyde joined them, much to the envy of other reporters who were on the scene. Allard spoke brief words to the Xincas; following his bidding, the two Indians went aboard another automobile.

The procession moved up Broadway, beneath a storm of torn paper that was streaked with ribbons of ticker tape. Thousands of windows were disgorging that man-made deluge amid the fading light of late afternoon. The shouts of multitudes rolled among the canyon between the mighty buildings; drowning the music of the band that led the parade.

It was that spectacle that only Manhattan can produce: the home-coming welcome for a man of recognized achievement. It was a titanic expression of modern approval that dwarfed a Roman triumph; yet Kent Allard received it with surpassing calmness.

His bows to the welcoming throng were properly timed.

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