Shadow 210 - The Devil's Paymaster 11-15-40, 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

CRANSTON questioned Judson about possible suspects. But the inventor was of no help, He knew no more about Mr. Remorse than Cranston did.

In his laboratory, Judson reminded Cranston, were the unpatented formulas for synthetic glass, synthetic rubber, and many other discoveries that would mean millions to a warlike nation. Europe was in a mighty conflict. If Judson could be kidnapped and tortured into revealing some of his scientific secrets, spies could reap a handsome profit from warring powers across the Atlantic.

In a quiet voice, Cranston advised Daniel Judson exactly what to do.

Judson agreed. There was something reassuring in the calm voice of this millionaire from New York.

Acting on the advice he received, Daniel Judson went downstairs to the taproom. A glance through the open door showed him that Richard Woodstock and Clyde Burke were still there. Woodstock had finished his glass of stout and Clyde his beer, but the two men had got into a discussion on trout fishing.

Judson joined them.

He entered the fishing argument, and got quite hot in his opinions about the type of flies to use in New Jersey waters. He kept his eye on the taproom clock. Lamont Cranston had told him to keep Woodstock in the taproom for at least fifteen minutes

The hands on the clock seemed to crawl.

Meanwhile, Lamont Cranston had put in another phone call from his room to the desk clerk downstairs.

“I’m very tired,” he said. “I’m going to try to sleep awhile. I don’t wish to be disturbed during the next hour.”

The clerk agreed.

All The Shadow wanted to do was to establish in the mind of the clerk that for the next hour, he would be asleep inside a locked room. Sinister events were in the making. An alibi might be extremely valuable later on!

Cranston left his room with cautious stealth. There was a leather bag in his hand. He carried it with him down the dim upper hall, to a room at the rear.

The door was locked. But Cranston got in easily enough. It was Clyde Burke’s room. Clyde had given the key to Cranston under cover of their handshake when Cranston had arrived.

Locked inside that rear room and protected from surveillance by a drawn shade, Lamont Cranston made a quick change. He changed not only his garments, but his entire personality.

The burning eyes of The Shadow gleamed in the semi-darkness. A broad-brimmed slouch hat shaded those eyes. A black cloak with a scarlet lining covered The Shadow’s gaunt frame. Black gloves covered his tapering fingers.

He lifted the shade on Clyde’s window and peered cautiously down at the rear of the inn. There was no one in sight.

Like most country establishments of its kind, the inn was far from attractive at the rear. There was a narrow drive where trucks with supplies drove around to the kitchen door. Clyde’s room was in a sort of an “L,” invisible from the kitchen.

The Shadow moved like a patch of darkness across Clyde’s window sill. He seized a drainpipe that ran downward between the windows.

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