Shadow 048 - Gray Fist 02-15-34, The by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street and Smith
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE lock of the door clicked. Neither Cliff nor Harry became aware of the sound until the door began to open. The dull light of the room seemed hazy as a man entered and closed the door behind him. An evil chuckle caused both Cliff and Harry to stare weakly toward the entrant.

The visitor was dressed entirely in gray. To the men who looked at him, his form was a blurred outline. A long gray overcoat hung from his shoulders. A gray hat adorned his head. A thick gray muffler was wrapped about his neck and chin. His face, like his form, was blurred to those who saw it.

The chuckle continued. To Cliff and Harry, the sound was threatening. They knew that this must be the man who had ordered their capture. They realized that they were in the presence of a superfiend.

The man came closer, yet his form still retained its blurred appearance. He began to speak, and the watchers could see the gleam of teeth behind the moving lips. The words that the visitor uttered were harsh, discordant tones.

“I am Gray Fist!” was his announcement.

With the statement, the man raised his right arm. He thrust a clenched and threatening hand toward the faces of his prisoners. The hand was wearing a large gray glove. It seemed to loom larger than the man behind it, like a photograph out of perspective. The men on the cots stared at that outstretched hand. They saw the fingers open, then close into the clutching form of a fist.

“This,” declared Gray Fist, in his discordant tone, “is the hand with which I grip my enemies. Those who have felt the clutch of Gray Fist have never known it to loose!”

Cliff Marsland was studying the features of the speaker. In the dim light, Gray Fist seemed grotesque. The harder Cliff stared, the more he found himself blinking. A sense of dizzied weariness made him give up the effort. With a tired, sidelong glance, Cliff observed that Harry Vincent was leaning back against the wall at the end of his cot. Harry’s eyes were closed; yet despite his fatigue, he too, was listening.

Cliff copied the action. He saw a purpose in it. He feared that Gray Fist would become demanding; that this fiendish captor would want to know the identity of the master whom his prisoners served. By feigning grogginess, Cliff realized that he might be able to escape a cross-examination at the hands of Gray Fist.

A chuckle came from Gray Fist. It broke into a harsh strain of chortling laughter. The captor had evidently divined the thoughts that his victims held.

“Rest yourselves,” ordered Gray Fist, in an ironical tone. “You need not worry that I shall inquire into your affairs. I know the parts that you have played. You are servants of that ridiculous masquerader who calls himself The Shadow.

“I have proven my superiority to The Shadow. My henchmen are stronger than you. The ease with which they captured you is proof of that fact.

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