Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 012 - The Crime Cult

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THE CRIME CULT
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. SEALED LIPS
? CHAPTER II. THE SOCIETY SUICIDE
? CHAPTER III. WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW HEARS
? CHAPTER V. A MAD MESSAGE
? CHAPTER VI. DIP TRAILS TROUBLE
? CHAPTER VII. MARGARET SEEKS A FRIEND
? CHAPTER VIII. DEATH IN THE CARDS
? CHAPTER IX. THE MAN WITH THE EYES
? CHAPTER X. KILLERS AT WORK
? CHAPTER XI. CARDONA TRACES MURDER
? CHAPTER XII. DONEGAN PREPARES
? CHAPTER XIII. THE TEMPLE OF SILENCE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE MAN WITH THE CLEW
? CHAPTER XV. MIDDLETON SPEAKS AGAIN
? CHAPTER XVI. THE CRIME CULT
? CHAPTER XVII. CARDONA ATTACKS
? CHAPTER XVIII. A FIEND'S END
? CHAPTER XIX. RETRIBUTION
CHAPTER I. SEALED LIPS
A SUDDEN chill swept over Don Hasbrouck as he reached forward to place his hand upon the bell. He
hesitated. He looked upward to the black windows and strange turrets of the old stone house. The cold,
driving rain pelted into his face. The night—or the dismal, sinister mansion itself—brought instinctive fear
deep into the man on the steps.
Hasbrouck straightened his shoulders. He couldn't tell, for the life of him, why he hesitated, or from
whence came that eerie feeling.
He was at the end of a trail, ready to enter a place that he knew well. There was no one in the gloomy
house who could harm him. Reason told him that. But instinct, some age-old secret dread, fought against
reason.
A shrill night wind whistled through the narrow uptown street, as if to shriek a warning. And, suddenly,
Hasbrouck, in the midst of Manhattan, felt isolated and insecure.
Hasbrouck's finger crept forward. Deliberately, he pressed the bell. The wind had died down. Now,
from the depths of the house, he heard a single, muffled note, like that of a ghostly gong struck in somber
silence.
The sound quickened Hasbrouck's qualms. As he waited, he felt a sudden desire to turn and dash down
the stone steps behind him. The darkness of the night seemed safer than the gloom that lay ahead.
He waited. The door creaked slowly open. With a quick effort, Hasbrouck stepped into the dimly lit
vestibule.
Before him, a quiet, pale-faced young man—a servant, to judge from his black garb—moved noiselessly
aside to let him enter.
"Good evening, Mr. Hasbrouck," said the young man, in a monotone. "Mr. Glendenning is expecting you.
He has stayed up to see you. I shall tell him that you are here."
Standing in the gloomy hallway, Hasbrouck watched the young man ascend the stairs. The regularity of
the man's step made him appear like a mechanical figure.
Now, within the portals of the old house, Hasbrouck strove to fight off that fearful impression which had
gripped him so surprisingly. But it remained.
Hasbrouck turned quickly, in response to an unknown impulse. He stared at the dark velvet curtains that
hung in front of the entrance to a side room. He reached forward and pressed his hand against one
curtain. The heavy cloth wavered beneath his touch.
What lay in the darkness beyond?
A shudder shook Hasbrouck's shoulders. His hand dropped quickly to his side. From the direction of the
stairway came the sound of footsteps. The young man was returning. Hasbrouck assumed an attitude of
composure.
"Come right up, Mr. Hasbrouck," said the calm voice.
Hasbrouck felt less uneasy as he ascended the stairs and reached the second-story hall. A door was
open at the front of the building. Passing the young man, Hasbrouck entered the front room alone.
An old man reclined in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows. He was attired in a dressing gown. His thin,
gray hair heightened his aged appearance. A crop of white stubble covered his face. This was the
recluse, Clinton Glendenning. His face was lined with marks of gloom and discontent.
The sight of this individual was momentarily reassuring to Don Hasbrouck. Clinton Glendenning was a
man whom one might pity, but certainly not fear.
Hasbrouck, tall and hawklike, loomed like a human scarecrow in the center of the room. He felt a certain
superiority over his host, as he went to the chair toward which old Glendenning motioned.
"Come in, Larkin!" rasped Glendenning.
The quiet-faced man at the door obeyed. He closed the door behind him, and stood within, in the attitude
of a servant awaiting his master's next order.
AN oddly assorted trio! Larkin was the only one who presented a neat appearance. He was virtually
self-effacing as he stood beside the door. His pale face formed a marked contrast to the dark,
well-pressed suit he wore.
"Well?" questioned old Glendenning shrilly. "What do you want, Hasbrouck? Why have you come here?"
"The usual matter, Mr. Glendenning," replied Hasbrouck, in a deliberate tone. "I am still searching for
Robert Buchanan."
"Why annoy me, then?" responded the old man testily. "I have told you several times that I have no idea
where he may be."
"I thought perhaps that you might have received some news. It has been two weeks since I last called to
see you."
Glendenning's eyes flashed suddenly. The steely glint surprised Hasbrouck. His gaze dropped to the arms
of Glendenning's chair, and he observed the old man's clawlike hands as they gripped the arms.
There was strength in Glendenning's thin, curved fingers— remarkable strength. It was something that
Hasbrouck had not noticed before.
He began to feel uneasy again. Sensing hostility on the part of his unwilling host, Hasbrouck sought to
give an explanation of his visit. He glanced toward Larkin, at the door. The pale-faced man had not
changed his position.
"I do not wish to annoy you, Mr. Glendenning," said Hasbrouck. "At the same time, you must understand
that it is my business to trace young Buchanan.
"So far, I have uncovered only one important fact. Robert Buchanan was engaged to your niece,
Margaret Glendenning. The girl favored an early marriage. You opposed it. The last night that Buchanan
was seen was the night he came here to discuss the marriage with you -"
"Why go into that?" demanded the old man angrily. "We talked about that the last time you were here.
That's true, isn't it, Larkin?"
The quiet-faced man nodded.
"Why annoy me, then?" repeated Glendenning, turning to Don Hasbrouck. "Larkin is my secretary. He
attends to such minor matters as this. Should we hear anything from Robert Buchanan"—there was biting
sarcasm in the old man's tone—"Larkin will inform you. I have your card, here."
Glendenning reached in the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a card, which he held so
Hasbrouck could see it. On the card was inscribed:
DON HASBROUCK
Hasbrouck Detective Agency
Hasbrouck watched while old Glendenning fumbled with the card. A sinister expression played upon the
gray-haired man's lips. Seeing it, Hasbrouck felt a return of that dread which had almost overpowered
him before.
What were the thoughts in the old man's mind? What did he know that he had not told? Hasbrouck was
determined to learn. Trying to catch Glendenning unaware, he sprang a sudden question.
"Did you ever hear of a man named Jerry Middleton?"
Glendenning looked up.
"No," he replied. "I do not recall any person by that name."
"A friend of Buchanan's?" prompted Hasbrouck.
"I never heard of him."
"The reason I asked," explained Hasbrouck, "is because Buchanan and Middleton were close friends.
Before Buchanan came to this house—on that last night—he spent a few hours with Middleton."
"I suppose Middleton is missing, also," said Glendenning, dryly.
"He is," admitted Hasbrouck, "but there is no mystery about that. He is always a difficult man to find.
Middleton is a young man, of considerable wealth. He goes in for the unusual. Always seeks new thrills.
He becomes bored in New York, and travels about the country.
"The last I knew about him, was the same night that Buchanan vanished. Middleton left for Florida that
very night."
"Perhaps Buchanan went with him."
There was a subtle tone in the old man's remark.
"Perhaps," agreed Hasbrouck. "But there is no proof of it; and Buchanan does not have Middleton's
habit of dropping out of sight. However"—he paused, then decided to continue—"that matter will be
settled to-night.
"Middleton is coming to New York. He has an appointment with a friend. I expect to meet him at the
friend's home and learn what he knows."
THERE was a ringing challenge in Hasbrouck's voice. It seemed as though the detective was offering a
last chance to Glendenning, giving the old man an opportunity to reveal whatever he might know.
There was no response from Glendenning. He merely stared. Hasbrouck shot a glance toward Larkin.
The secretary's face was immobile.
"This interview," said Hasbrouck, "may be our last meeting, Mr. Glendenning."
"It will be our last," replied the old man coldly.
Hasbrouck did not like the tone. His gaze wandered slowly about the room. He took in its simple
furnishings. He meditated for a moment, and the howling of the wind disturbed his thoughts. It reminded
him of the menace he had felt when he stood outside the house.
"Our last interview," he said quietly. "Very well, Mr. Glendenning. That brings me squarely to the point at
issue. It concerns your niece - Miss Margaret Glendenning."
"Well?" asked the old man querulously.
"She was engaged to Robert Buchanan," said Hasbrouck. "Therefore, she might furnish a clew. I should
like to speak with her."
"There is no reason for that," declared Glendenning emphatically.
"I disagree with you!" retorted Hasbrouck.
The old man glowered. He looked fiercely toward the detective; then turned suddenly to Larkin.
"Call Miss Margaret," he ordered. "Tell her I would like to speak to her. We shall end this matter now!"
Hasbrouck smiled as the secretary left. He had won his point. On his previous visits, Glendenning had
refused to let him meet the girl. Now the wish had been granted.
Neither man spoke during the interim of waiting. The silence troubled Hasbrouck. Why had Clinton
Glendenning suddenly capitulated?
It was obvious that the old man did not wish to give out any information upon the subject of Robert
Buchanan. Margaret Glendenning was the important key. From her, Hasbrouck might expect statements
which her uncle would not make.
But another thought disturbed the detective's mind. Had Margaret Glendenning been schooled for this
pending interview? If so, her remarks would be of little value. Suppose she did talk—what then? It would
antagonize the old man toward Hasbrouck.
The detective pondered as he considered such a situation. Were his fears forebodings? Would Clinton
Glendenning use some method to thwart him, if he learned facts that the old man did not want him to
know?
The arrival of Margaret Glendenning put an end to these thoughts. The girl entered the room,
accompanied by Larkin.
She was remarkably beautiful, but the black lounging pajamas that she wore gave an added pallor to her
white features. The girl stared directly at the visitor, and Hasbrouck noticed a sad look in her brown
eyes.
"What do you wish to know?" the girl inquired, without waiting for the formality of an introduction.
Hasbrouck had risen from his chair. He sat down as Margaret Glendenning took a seat opposite him. He
responded immediately to her question.
"I should like to know anything that you know concerning Robert Buchanan," said the detective.
"Anything that might help me in my efforts to locate him."
"I do not know where he is."
The girl's voice was level—each word uttered in a hushed, solemn tone.
"You have not heard from him since the last night he was here?" Hasbrouck questioned further.
"Not a word," answered the girl, with a far-away look.
"He said nothing that might give you an idea where he has gone?"
"Nothing at all," declared Margaret solemnly. "He"—a slight expression of fearfulness appeared in her
eyes, as she looked toward her uncle—"he said nothing of his plans."
"And you were engaged to him?" asked Hasbrouck quietly.
"Yes," answered Margaret, "but that is ended now."
"Why?"
"My uncle disapproved. He said that in his opinion I was too young to marry. I am not yet twenty-one.
But"—her eyes turned again toward Glendenning —"he did not interfere. After Robert went away,
without a word, I decided that Uncle Clinton must be right. That is all."
"Do you know Jerry Middleton?" inquired Hasbrouck.
"No," replied the girl. "I have heard Robert speak of him. They were friends. But I did not know Mr.
Middleton."
WHILE Don Hasbrouck was considering another question, Margaret Glendenning arose abruptly and
walked from the room. The sudden action perplexed the detective. Hasbrouck turned to speak to
Glendenning.
"Regarding Middleton," he said, "I might mention that the man is wealthy, and a very good friend of
Buchanan's. When I tell Middleton, this evening, that his friend has disappeared, he will leave nothing to
chance in conducting a thorough search.
"I have been employed by Buchanan's relations. I am working on this case alone. I have assembled some
data, and all my previous findings have been recorded. I shall include my interviews with you and Miss
Glendenning in the report that I expect to make."
"I hope that your notes may prove illuminating," said the old man. "I also trust that you will find your
interview with Middleton a productive one. But in view of the man's tendency to go and come as he
pleases, you should not count too much upon finding him tonight!"
With this statement, Glendenning used a tone of finality. He raised himself from his chair, moved abruptly
to a corner of the room, and passed through a door that evidently led to his bedroom. Hasbrouck was
alone with Larkin.
The peculiar emphasis of Glendenning's parting words brought a new feeling of insecurity to the detective.
He stared at the chair that the old man had vacated.
Why had Glendenning left so abruptly?
Hasbrouck glanced at Larkin. He wanted to quiz the secretary, but he feared that the old man might be
listening.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Don Hasbrouck arose from his chair and walked toward the door. Larkin
went before him. In the hallway, the detective felt more uneasy.
He had interviewed Clinton Glendenning in the past, and each time this man Larkin had been a silent
witness. What did the fellow know about the secret? Could he explain the reluctance that both
Glendenning and his niece had shown?
Hasbrouck knew that he would have to search for information elsewhere. He had mentioned the name of
Jerry Middleton, hoping that it might bring results. And it had failed.
But Jerry Middleton himself would not fail when the detective met him tonight. Hasbrouck knew where
Middleton would be. He intended to go directly to that place.
In the dim light of the lower hall, Hasbrouck found himself once more fighting the sense of impending
danger—of some unknown peril that lurked in that house. Foolish, he knew, for in a moment he would
be out.
Larkin, here, was certainly no menace. Neither was Clinton Glendenning, for that matter.
He stifled a contemptuous laugh. How ridiculous! Here, in a house inhabited only by an old man, a
pasty-faced weakling, and a girl, Don Hasbrouck was worried! He looked at Larkin as he donned his
coat. The secretary bowed a silent good night.
Hasbrouck, standing by the velvet curtain, watched the young man go upstairs. He was left alone, to
leave the house at his leisure. It was another sign of the abruptness that all the occupants of this residence
displayed.
He sensed that Larkin wanted to avoid any chance for an interview. Hasbrouck shrugged. He could not
blame the secretary. The fellow had to do old Glendenning's bidding. He could take no chances with his
job.
AS Larkin's footsteps echoed at the top of the stairway, Hasbrouck pulled a card from his pocket and
glanced at a written address which told his next destination; the place where he would find Jerry
Middleton.
He put the card back in his pocket, and once more glanced up the stairs. His hat was in his right hand;
the fingers of his left sought the knob of the vestibule door. His back grazed the nearer of the two velvet
curtains.
Something brushed over Don Hasbrouck's shoulder. It felt like a wirelike cord, moving swiftly sidewise.
The invisible object had fallen over his head. It was moving slowly upward, toward his collar.
It might have been the imperceptible touch of this cord; it might have been a sudden thought that had
flashed through Hasbrouck's brain - at any rate, the detective shuddered.
He held his breath and stood still as he sensed a motion behind him. Then he slowly drew his left hand
from the doorknob and pressed it against the curtain.
His fingers encountered a solid object through the velvet! Hasbrouck started to move forward. He
stopped abruptly.
A wild look came upon his face. His eyes bulged, and his hands shot toward his throat. The tiny cord
was there, tightening into the flesh! The detective's clawing fingers could not loosen its terrifying pressure!
A gurgle sounded in the doomed man's throat. His gangling form toppled backward and slumped against
the curtain. Hasbrouck went down slowly, his fall governed by that cord which bound his neck. The cruel
thread was biting— strangling—killing!
Invisible hands came from the curtain. Hasbrouck's inert form was drawn into darkness. A short, sizzling
sound came from behind the velvet curtain. Then all was silent in the hall.
Ten minutes later, Larkin came downstairs and locked the front door. The secretary turned and went
upstairs, passing the spot where Don Hasbrouck last had stood. There was nothing to indicate that the
detective had not left the house.
Detective Hasbrouck's forebodings had been realized. Here, in this great, sinister, silent house, he had
met his fate. His lips were sealed by death!
CHAPTER II. THE SOCIETY SUICIDE
A QUIET-FACED man was seated in an office on the ninth floor of the Badger Building. The door of his
private room was open. Beyond was a stenographer at a desk.
The glass-paneled door at the outer entrance bore the number 909, in reverse figures. Beneath it, also in
reverse, was the inscription:
RUTLEDGE MANN
Investments
The man at the desk was somewhat rotund in both face and body. Like most persons of his proportions,
he was inclined to be leisurely.
He picked up a letter from the desk, handled it thoughtfully; then arose and closed the door of the private
office. He returned to his desk, cut the envelope with a letter cutter, and took out a folded sheet of
paper.
The paper bore a coded message which Rutledge Mann perused without difficulty. Even as he finished
reading, the ink on the letter began to disappear. Mann tore up the blank sheet and deposited it in the
wastebasket.
He picked up the telephone and called the office of the New York Classic. Connected with the editorial
department, Mann asked for Clyde Burke. He spoke a few cryptic sentences into the telephone, then
hung up.
Some twenty minutes later, there came a rap at Mann's door. The stenographer opened it.
"Mr. Burke is here," she said to the investment broker.
A young chap of medium height entered the room. He was plainly dressed, but presented a neat
appearance. His eyes were keen as he closed the door behind him.
"The Andrews case?" he questioned, in a low voice.
"Yes," responded Mann. "What do you make of it?"
"Plain as the nose on your face. George Andrews got hit in the stock market. Discharged his servants and
took a little apartment. Broke. Things became worse. He hung himself."
Mann fingered a clipping on his desk. It told the story.
George Andrews, young society man, had committed suicide by hanging himself from the hook of a
skylight in his studio apartment. With his neck in a dangling loop, he had kicked away the chair on which
he had been standing.
His body had been discovered by a maid who had entered in the morning.
Friends of Andrews had stated that the young man had been depressed because of money matters. This
was all covered in the early editions of the evening newspapers.
"Too bad," observed Mann. "I was talking this morning with a chap who knew Andrews well. He said
that he had seen Andrews yesterday afternoon."
"What did he say about him?" Burke asked.
"Well, Andrews was certainly hard up. But he was somewhat cheerful at that. He told my informant that
he was expecting a visit from Jerry Middleton."
"The polo player?"
"Yes," Mann went on. "Middleton is a great traveler. Andrews evidently expected him back in New
York last night. Middleton has money. Perhaps Andrews thought Middleton would lend him some."
"But -"
"Either Middleton refused, or did not arrive as expected," the man at the desk ignored the interruption. "I
incline to the latter opinion."
"Why?"
"Because I called up Middleton's town house, and they told me that he was still away, and not expected
to return. They said that they didn't know where he was."
"Well," commented Burke, "it looks plain enough. Andrews needed dough. That's why he killed himself.
But, of course"—he hesitated thoughtfully— "there may be some other reason in back of it. A man isn't
too quick to take his own life."
"What about this case, Clyde?" asked Mann, changing the subject.
HE drew a clipping from the desk drawer. Burke looked at it. The account was a few days old. It told of
a small motor boat found adrift in Long Island Sound. The owner, a sportsman named Dale Wharton,
was missing. It was assumed that he had fallen overboard and drowned.
"There may be a mystery here," observed Burke. "They're expecting the body to turn up any time, now.
When they find it, there may be a clew.
"Wharton started out at night, alone, for a run over to Connecticut. Left Long Island; that's all they know
about him."
Mann nodded.
"A peculiar case," he said, "and there's another one that the newspapers know nothing about. A young
man, rather prominent socially, has been missing for approximately two months."
"Who is he?" Clyde Burke's question came in a tone of surprise. Very few such items failed to reach the
news office of the New York Classic, the tabloid newspaper with which Burke was connected.
"A man named Robert Buchanan," declared Mann. "His relatives have been disturbed about his absence.
He was engaged to marry Margaret Glendenning, who lives with her uncle, a retired manufacturer. No
one seems to know where Buchanan has gone."
"How did you find out about it?" Burke asked.
"I hear many things at the Cobalt Club," declared Mann, with a note of pride. "It's my business—as you
know—to keep posted on matters unusual. I learned of Buchanan's disappearance about ten days ago."
"And then -"
"I sent the information to—to the proper person"—there was a hidden significance in Mann's
words—"and of course I made notes on the Wharton case also.
"I must admit, however, that I would have seen nothing in the suicide of George Andrews. But to-day, I
received instructions."
Burke nodded. He knew what Rutledge Mann meant by "instructions." For both Clyde Burke and the
investment broker were the secret agents of that man of mystery—The Shadow.
Rutledge Mann, working from the security of a comfortable office, and spending his evenings at the
exclusive Cobalt Club, served as a contact man for The Shadow.
Clyde Burke, ostensibly a newspaper reporter with the Classic, in an ideal position to conduct outside
investigations, was an active agent of The Shadow.
"I had been expecting instructions," declared Mann quietly, "but until today, all was silence. I read of the
Andrews suicide in the newspapers, and I actually passed by it. Then came the word. That is why I
called you at the Classic office. You are to get information on Andrews immediately."
"At his apartment?"
"No. That is either unimportant, or has been taken care of. Your investigation must be made at the
morgue. You are to view the body of George Andrews."
"That's easy enough," said Burke. "I can go down there right away."
"Good!" said Rutledge Mann. He stared at the wall and spoke as though repeating words which he had
read. "Look for anything unusual when you see the body. If you find it, report in full. If you see nothing,
report to that effect. Learn all you can."
Mann became silent. Burke knew that the discussion had ended. He arose and left the office.
Mann remained at the desk, studying the newspaper clipping. He put it away in a desk drawer, called the
stenographer, and dictated some letters to his investment clients.
AN hour later, Mann was once more alone in his inner office, when the stenographer appeared to say
that Mr. Burke had returned. The reporter was soon cloistered with Mann.
There was a tone of repressed excitement in Burke's voice as he related the details of his investigation in
the Andrews case.
"I went to the morgue," he said. "I ran into Steve Brill, covering the story for the Classic. Brill took me in
to see the body.
"It was an ugly sight, but that didn't concern me. I was interested in the rope mark about the neck. It left
a big welt—almost like a scar. You could see the twists of the rope.
"I've seen marks like that before, so I knew what to expect. I had a chance to look at it closely. And
that's when I saw something else!"
The reporter leaned forward, and his right forefinger traced a line on the palm of his left hand.
"Right with the rope mark," he said, "was another line—so thin you could hardly see it. Just a faint,
narrow trace, almost like a thread. It may have been red once; but it's white now.
"It followed the rope mark so closely that it was lost at times. It looked to me exactly as though the rope
had been set to cover that very line!"
Mann was listening with implacid countenance to Burke's words. It was not Mann's business to theorize
too frequently. He was a collector of facts. Nevertheless, he could see the obvious connection toward
which Burke was working. Mann made no comment.
摘要：

THECRIMECULTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.SEALEDLIPS?CHAPTERII.THESOCIETYSUICIDE?CHAPTERIII.WATCHERSOFTHENIGHT?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWHEARS?CHAPTERV.AMADMESSAGE?CHAPTERVI.DIPTRAILSTROUBLE?CHAPTERVII.MARGARETSEEKSAFRIEND?CHAPTERVIII.DEATHINTHECARDS?CH...

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