The Shadow Strikes 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: 1964-01-20T08:00:00+00:00

The voice laughed. "You think I fear some comic opera ghost? No, Cranston, you will tell me what you really are. I know you are more than you seem, I am not a fool. Your cars have special motors, you seem to appear everywhere, and you knew what that gas gun was when you saw it! No one but an expert would know that, yes? Come, please, what are you?"

Cranston remained silent. Behind the light there was a sharp movement. "How did you know Bela Kodaly?" the voice said.

Cranston did not answer.

"You were in Budapest when you met Kodaly. Why? What name did you use?" Cranston stared straight into the blinding light.

"Very well," the voice said. "George!"

From the darkness behind the light a tall figure emerged. It was the man with the scar on his face. In the glare of the light the long scar from jaw to ear seemed to glow red and alive. He stepped to Cranston without a word. His fist smashed into Cranston's face. Cranston felt blood in his mouth. He moaned to show the pain he did not feel. Long ago in the Orient the crimefighter had learned the secret of bearing pain to the point of actually not feeling any but the most intense and sudden pain. It had been the most difficult of the mysteries of Chen T'a Tze for The Shadow to master, a matter of mind and body and will and years of mystic contemplation and rigid mental and physical discipline, but it had been one of the major aids in the secret avenger's battle for justice. Now Cranston tasted the blood in his mouth, but his powerful mind and body resisted any feeling of pain. The moan when the scarfaced man struck was for his unseen audience. "What are you, Mr. Cranston!"

Cranston did not move a muscle. "George!"

The scarfaced man raised his fist and struck again. This time the scarface, George, struck once, twice. Cranston moaned.

"Cranston? Who are you!"

"I told you, I'm a friend of Commissioner Weston," Cranston said thickly as if in pain. "George!"

The scarfaced man, George, stepped forward again. His fist raised. He struck-- one, two, three times. George stepped back. The silent George had still not uttered a single sound. "Now, Mr. Cranston?"

"I told you what I am," Cranston mumbled.

Behind the light there was a deep sigh like wind blowing through metal. The voice, Count Papescu, changed, became soft and smooth again through the microphone. Cranston recognized the trick about to come-- remove the pain and let the victim think the ordeal is over, and then when the pain comes again it is twice as hard to stand.

"Very well, Cranston," Papescu's voice said, "let us try another line of inquiry. Who killed Pavlic?"

"Do I really have to tell you?" Cranston said.

"If you want to live to . . . Ah, I see, you mean that you think it was I who killed him?"

"Or your scarfaced gunman," Cranston said.

"George? Yes, George would have liked that," the metallic voice said.

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