The Shadow 115 The Seven Drops Of Blood by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1936-11-30T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

DOOM REPEATS

MAROTTE’S glossy manner vanished when his eyes spied the steady guns. A ratlike snarl came from the crook’s opened lips. His fingers clenched as he backed toward the corner of the desk. Turning, Marotte spied Berkland; viciously, he spat oaths at the oil magnate.

“Cut it, Marotte,” snapped Cardona. He approached, frisked the crook’s gun

from its pocket. “You talked a lot tonight. Let’s hear some more.”

Marotte stared toward the opened door, saw that his path was blocked by Mogridge. Cardona was squarely in front of the crook; Marotte looked across the

room, seeking another possible avenue of escape. All that he saw was the locked

door that led to the library, its key straight upward.

“What if I did talk?” snarled Marotte. “I didn’t incriminate myself.”

“Maybe not by what you said,” rejoined Cardona, pocketing the crook’s gun,

“but by what you did. Having those rubies on you is enough, Marotte.”

The crook chewed his lips. Cardona kept up the pressure.

“You know what the charge will be,” he reminded. “Murder! You were with that bunch at Pettigrew’s. That makes you as badly off as the actual killer.

It

will be the chair for you, Marotte!”

Marotte trembled. His ugly leer was gone. He moved one of his upstretched hands to wipe cold sweat from his wide forehead. His lips moved, as though ready to talk.

“One thing might save you,” added Cardona. “If you and that pal you mentioned turn State’s evidence, maybe there won’t be a murder charge. Your only way out is to admit that you were in on the robbery, and tell us your pal’s name. How about it, Marotte?”

“I don’t like to squeal on a pal,” pleaded Marotte, his voice rising to a quavering whine. “If I thought it would help him, though -“

“It will,” assured Cardona. “You can count on that, Marotte.”

“Then this isn’t a squeal.” Marotte put the statement vigorously. “I’m telling you his name to help him out. So he can help me out. That’s why I’m telling you who he is. You’ve heard of him. He’s Jake Doxol, the con man.”

“That’s a hot one,” grunted Cardona. “Another smart guy, working out of his line. I thought Jake was in Florida.”

“He was, until he heard of this proposition. He’s not very far away now,”

asserted Marotte. His voice had steadied, his lips had lost their quiver. “It won’t take you long to find him. Not long at all. You’ll see Jake very soon -“

AN ugly chuckle interrupted Marotte’s words. It came from the open door.

Cardona turned his head, then stiffened. So did Mogridge. Berkland, behind the desk, sank backward.

There was a moment’s pause; after it, two revolvers thudded the floor.

Cardona and Mogridge raised their arms; Berkland shakily copied the move.

In the doorway stood a long-limbed man whose rounded face and bald head showed everything but friendliness. Lying in the crook of the arrival’s arm was

a submachine gun. The man’s position indicated that he knew how to handle the weapon. Marotte, the fourth crook, had introduced the fifth.

The man in the doorway was Jake Doxol.

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