Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 143 by Maxwel l Grant

Author:Maxwel,l Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

CHAPTER XIV

DOUBLE TREACHERY.

A BLUE STAR cab drew to the curb in front of the entrance of a respectable hotel on the West Side. It was the same hotel where Ethel Sherman was hiding under an assumed name.

A man and a woman inside the cab exchanged quick whispers. The man on the rear seat was Con Platt. The woman beside him was a good-looking brunette of the flashy chorus type.

"You sure you got the message straight, Mazie?"

Mazie smiled and showed even, white teeth.

"Don't worry. She'll come out like a baby following a stick of candy!

The moment I mention Fred Daniel's name she'll think it's O.K. I'll tell her I'm a reporter from the Classic. As soon as she steps in the cab--"

"All right, babe. Get going!"

The brunette vanished into the hotel with a confident smile. But she was gone barely two minutes. Then she reappeared with a haste that resembled panic. She was still alone. With a frightened oath, she flung herself into the cab alongside the startled Platt.

"Get this cab outa here--quick!"

The cab shot away.

"She's gone!" Mazie gasped, fiercely, "Ethel Sherman's been snatched! We got here too late!"

Platt listened with a startled frown to the swift story of the brunette.

Ethel Sherman had checked out of the hotel twenty minutes earlier. A man had called for her, and after listening to his story, the district attorney's gullible daughter had left hurriedly with him.

"He had the nerve," Mazie cried, harshly, "to say he was a reporter from the Classic, and a friend of Fred Daniel, the managing editor! I pumped the dame at the desk and then beat it."

"What did the guy look like?"

There was fear in Mazie's voice: "The guy that snatched Ethel Sherman was a tall bozo with flaming-red hair and deep-blue eyes. The woman at the desk remembered the blue eyes distinctly. She said they were hard to forget."

"Tiger Marsh!"

"Right!"

"But that mug's dead! He was blown to hell in an explosion!"

Platt leaned forward. He shoved the glass panel aside with a force that cracked the pane.

"Back to the garage, Pete!" he yelled to the driver. "Make it fast!"

The cab's speed increased. It threaded through traffic like a busy needle sewing through cloth. Con Platt's face was a pasty-white. Tiger Marsh had not only escaped death; he had beaten the Napoleons to their trump card.

He had snatched the D. A.'s daughter for a hostage.

A queer sense of impending doom made the hair crawl on Con Platt's scalp.

TIGER MARSH was smiling crookedly. In a shabby room, lighted by the glare of a lamp on the table, he was snarling a curt order to a terrified girl. The girl was Ethel Sherman.

"Get on that phone and tell your father it's really you! Tell him it's no use trying to trace the call. This phone is on a tap from a feed cable.

It'd take a company trouble-shooter a week to locate it. Go ahead, talk!"

The frightened girl stared at Tiger's bristling red hair, at the relentless blue eyes under his shaggy brows. Trembling, she picked up the phone.

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