The Third Skull by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781608770236
Amazon: B003KV0VFA
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1935-05-15T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII. THE ROOM OF SKULLS

LISTED first among the names of old Hildrew Parchell's associates had been Channing Tobold. Crooks had raided the pawnbroker's shop; they had failed to get the wealth they sought. The silver skull ring had been a blind.

The Shadow had anticipated the criminal move; but he had been too late to stop the evil thrust. Chance had tricked The Shadow. Channing Tobold was dead. But tonight, The Shadow was playing for better luck.

Knowing that wealth was still missing, The Shadow had picked the name of Hildrew Parchell's second associate. That was Professor Tyson Morth, the well-known anthropologist. The Shadow had sought for information concerning Professor Morth; he had learned that the man was out of town. Morth's house was closed.

Then Mann had seen the item in the Philadelphia newspaper. Detail work was Mann's business. He went through files of out-of-town journals every day. Mann had passed the word to The Shadow, who, in turn, saw every reason to believe that Morth would be home tonight.

With ten o'clock approaching, The Shadow was riding toward a destination. He was traveling as Lamont Cranston; he was lounging in the rear seat of a big limousine. The car was rolling southward on Seventh Avenue, toward the outskirts of Greenwich Village.

There was a radio in the limousine. The Shadow turned the knob. The zing-zing of a wireless sounded. Some amateur sender, using short wave. But the code was not the International. Dots and dashes formed an odd jargon as The Shadow listened.

A soft laugh echoed as the limousine rolled onward. Riding luxuriously through Manhattan, The Shadow was receiving a last-minute report from Burbank. The contact man was using a short-wave set from his hidden post.

The message was in special code devised by The Shadow. A tricky combination that included key words which only The Shadow could recognize when he had translated them.

Burbank was reporting calls from various agents; he was mentioning briefly the fact that they had lost sight of the men whom they were set to watch.

Again, The Shadow laughed. His agents had encountered bad breaks; yet he was unperturbed. Some one among the watched men might be the big-shot. It was impossible to determine which one. But while others were innocently on the move, the supercrook was apparently designing evil.

The Shadow was ready for trouble; its approach pleased him. Particularly when Burbank's final report buzzed through, telling that Cliff and Hawkeye had uncovered Flick Sherrad's hideout, only to find it empty. That meant that minions, like their evil chief, would be on the job.

THE limousine was in the edge of the Village, weaving its way through a curious network of twisted streets. Stanley, the chauffeur, was familiar with this district. The car rolled through a thoroughfare no wider than an alley. It turned into a cross street.

Radio turned off, The Shadow was peering from the window of the big car. He noticed an isolated house, an old-fashioned building that remained a homestead among other edifices that had been transformed into apartments.

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