Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 003 - The The Shadow - Laughs

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THE SHADOW LAUGHS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH INTERRUPTS
? CHAPTER II. DETECTIVE GRIFFITH INVESTIGATES
? CHAPTER III. IN THE MORGUE
? CHAPTER IV. AN UNOFFICIAL REPORT
? CHAPTER V. FELLOWS IS PERPLEXED
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW INVESTIGATES
? CHAPTER VII. LAMONT CRANSTON TALKS TO HIMSELF
? CHAPTER VIII. SPOTTER MEETS A FRIEND
? CHAPTER IX. AT BROOKDALE
? CHAPTER X. IN THE FARMHOUSE
? CHAPTER XI. VINCENT ESTABLISHES HIMSELF
? CHAPTER XII. DEATH TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIII. A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
? CHAPTER XIV. SPOTTER PAYS A VISIT
? CHAPTER XV. THE RAID AT MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XVI. SPOTTER SEES THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVII. HARRY VINCENT FINDS TROUBLE
? CHAPTER XVIII. TIGER BRONSON
? CHAPTER XIX. TWO AGENTS TALK
? CHAPTER XX. AFTER DARK
? CHAPTER XXI. VINCENT ESCAPES
? CHAPTER XXII. BURBANK GOES ON DUTY
? CHAPTER XXIII. VINCENT RETURNS TO BROOKDALE
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE DEN OF LOO LOOK
? CHAPTER XXV. TRAP FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XXVI. THE SHADOW FAILS
? CHAPTER XXVII. VINCENT TAKES ACTION
? CHAPTER XXVIII. BURBANK GIVES INFORMATION
? CHAPTER XXIX. HARRY VINCENT FACES DEATH
? CHAPTER XXX. THE FIFTH MAN
? CHAPTER XXXI. ENTER THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XXXII. THE LAST ATTACK
? CHAPTER XXXIII. THE OUTCOME
CHAPTER I. DEATH INTERRUPTS
A TAXICAB skirted around the corner. Violently, brakes clamped on before the third house in the row.
An odd, elongated figure stepped briskly to the sidewalk, hurriedly thrust a bill into the driver's hand, and
then, looking neither to right nor left, hurried up the steps to the house.
Within the hallway, the man stood for a moment, as though enjoying a sense of security for that brief
interval.
The dim light revealed his thin, pale face, and his slightly stooped figure, clad in a poorly fitted gray suit.
He was about thirty-five years of age, but the worried expression of his features made him look older.
A middle-aged woman came down the stairs and smiled as she greeted the new arrival.
“I hadn't expected you for another week, Mr. Jarnow,” she said, “but your room is ready.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” returned the man at the door. “You're always ready here. This is one
rooming house that seems like home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jarnow. But I am sorry that you had to come back to Philadelphia during this hot spell.
The last few days have been scorchers. You must have found it cooler, away from town—”
“I had to hurry back, because I'm expecting a visitor—a Mr. Windsor. Has he come?”
“No one has called to see you.”
“If he comes, send him up, please. But make sure it is Mr. Windsor.”
Jarnow hurried up the stairs and entered a room at the back of the house. He went to the window,
opened it, and peered down into the narrow alley below. Then he closed the window, and drew the
shade to its full extent.
Having concluded these precautions, he turned on a study lamp that hung above a small table, and locked
the door of the room.
A glance at his watch showed eight o'clock.
“He should be here now,” muttered Jarnow. “He said he would come, and he should be here by now.”
A minute ticked by, and the man in the room became restless. He paced the floor back and forth, his
hands closing and opening nervously. He stopped by the door to listen. While he stood there, intent, he
heard voices in the hallway.
There was a tap at the door, and the man drew back as though afraid. Then came the voice of the
landlady.
“Mr. Windsor is here.”
Jarnow unlocked the door, and admitted the visitor.
The newcomer was faultlessly attired in a tuxedo, and his rather jolly expression contrasted noticeably
with Jarnow's serious face.
“Hello, Frank,” said the visitor. “Here I am; just about on the dot. Glad to see you. What's all the
excitement about?”
Jarnow closed the door, withdrawing the key as the lock clicked, and motioned his visitor to a chair
beside the table. Windsor had been drinking; his unsteadiness betrayed him even more than his speech.
“You seem rather mysterious, Frank,” said Windsor, in an indulgent tone, as the tall man took the chair
on the opposite side of the table. “What's it all about?”
“It's a serious matter, Henry,” replied Jarnow, dropping the key into his coat pocket. “I've just come
from Brookdale.”
“Is—is—anything wrong with Blair?” questioned Windsor, assuming an air of drunken seriousness. “Is
anything wrong? Couldn't be anything wrong with good old Blair?”
“Your brother is all right,” said Jarnow, grimly. “All right, so far as health is concerned. But there is
danger there, Henry. Serious danger.
“You've got to sober up, Henry. I have important facts to tell you. You must believe what I say.”
HENRY WINDSOR tilted his head to one side. He was a man past forty, and his pudgy face seemed
both solemn and ridiculous. He appeared to be listening seriously, but Jarnow groaned as he realized that
it would be difficult to gain the man's attention. Henry Windsor had unquestionably reached a state of
almost hopeless intoxication.
“I wish you were sober,” said Jarnow. “I've got to talk to you now, Henry. I can't wait until tomorrow. It
is a matter on which life depends.”
“Blair is in danger?” asked Henry Windsor. “Tell me about it, Frank. I'll do anything to help Blair. He's
my only brother, Frank. My kid brother. Ten years younger than I am. Means a lot to me, Frank. Don't
say anything's wrong with Blair.”
“Listen, Henry,” exclaimed Jarnow. “Forget your brother for a minute. I want to talk to you—about
yourself. You are in danger. Real danger—”
“I can't forget Blair,” interrupted Henry Windsor, in pathetic tones. “He's all I've got in the world, Frank.
He's made good, that boy.
“You know, Frank, when our grandfather died, he left me nearly half a million, and he gave Blair only fifty
thousand. Look at me now—I've got all my money yet, but no more. Live off the interest—that's what I
do.
“Blair didn't have enough to live off the interest. He left Philadelphia. He went away—up to Boston, you
know. Made money there. Maybe he's worth as much as I am, now. He deserves it, Frank. He's going
to get my pile of dough when I die. He's younger than I am, Frank. He'll live longer—”
“Steady up, Henry!” interrupted Frank Jarnow. “Keep quiet, and listen to me. I know all about your
money, and that's where the danger lies.
“Something has happened, Henry; it affects both you and Blair. I want you to know all about it before it
is too late.”
Henry Windsor lurched forward slightly in his chair, then steadied himself against the table. He propped
his chin on one hand, and seemed to make an effort to listen intelligently. He had gained a temporary
soberness that gave reassurance to Frank Jarnow.
The tall man looked nervously about the room; then leaned forward and spoke in a low, firm voice.
“I arrived at Brookdale two days ago,” he said. “I was to stay two weeks. Blair told me to stay as long
as I wished. There are several people staying there. I thought they were friends of Blair's; but I found
out—”
He paused. Henry Windsor's eyes were closed, and he seemed to be half asleep. Jarnow reached across
the table, and shook the man impatiently.
“Stop it!” exclaimed Windsor, starting to rise from the table in sudden anger. Jarnow pushed him back
into the chair.
“You'll be sorry for this!” cried Henry Windsor, indignantly. “Don't try that again. You'll be mighty sorry
for it.”
“Listen to me,” said Jarnow. His voice carried a command. “I suspected something the first day that I
was at Brookdale. I investigated on the second day. This morning I discovered the truth. I found this
here—”
He drew a small sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it before Henry Windsor's eyes.
“Can't read it without my glasses,” said the other man. “Read it to me, Frank. What does it say?”
“It says,” replied Jarnow, “that Blair Windsor—”
His lips became rigid. He was staring over Henry Windsor's head, toward the door beyond.
“What does it say?” questioned Henry Windsor.
Two shots reverberated through the little room. Frank Jarnow sprawled across the table, one hand firmly
clutching the sheet of paper, the other extended against Henry Windsor's shoulder. Windsor, half rising,
nearly toppled to the table.
The light clicked out.
“Frank,” mumbled Henry Windsor. “Speak to me, Frank!”
Befuddled though he was, he fancied he heard Frank Jarnow moving by the table. He reached out to
steady himself and his hand rested on Jarnow's neck.
Groping along the table, Henry Windsor touched metal, and his fingers clutched the handle of a revolver.
THERE was a crash at the door. The wooden barrier gave slightly; excited voices were shouting outside.
Henry Windsor became suddenly aroused.
“Good old Frank,” he said. “Shot good old Frank. I'll stop them!”
The door fell. A hand pressed the wall switch that controlled the ceiling light.
In the midst of the illumination, Henry Windsor faced the doorway and raised the revolver. But before he
could press the trigger, a man leaped forward and wrested the gun from his hand. Windsor was
overpowered by three of the intruders.
“Shot Frank Jarnow!” exclaimed Henry Windsor as he was pressed against the wall. “Frank's dead!
You'll be sorry for this. I'll kill all of you!”
A woman screamed from the doorway. It was the landlady, following the men who had broken down the
door.
Some one was running for the police.
Chaos seemed to rule the house, and in the midst of it lay the silent form of Frank Jarnow.
THE morning newspapers carried a sensational story. The very circumstances of the tragedy marked it as
the most startling crime news that had broken in Philadelphia during that placid summer.
Henry Windsor, wealthy clubman, had murdered his friend, Frank Jarnow, in an obscure boarding house.
The occupants had broken in and had managed to overpower the murderer before he could escape, and
he had threatened to kill them, also. They had heard him confess his guilt.
Pictures of Henry Windsor and Frank Jarnow were on the front page, with a photograph of the boarding
house and a picture of Mrs. Johnson.
But amid the multitude of words that crowded the columns of the journals, a most important statement
did not appear.
There was no mention whatever of the uncompleted sentence which Frank Jarnow was uttering when
death interrupted him!
CHAPTER II. DETECTIVE GRIFFITH INVESTIGATES
SHORTLY before noon, Detective Harvey Griffith entered Mrs. Johnson's rooming house. Griffith, the
keenest man on the force, had been out of town on another case, and had come to view the scene of the
murder immediately upon his return.
He found a policeman in the room on the second floor, but the body of the murdered man was no longer
there.
“They moved the body out,” explained the officer. “Got all the evidence there was. This fellow Windsor
didn't have a chance to get away. Lucky he was drunk. He might have shot them when they grabbed him.
“Harrison is handling the case; he'll be up in a minute. He's talking to the landlady now.”
The sound of whistling came from the stairs, and a tall young man entered the room. He stopped
suddenly when he encountered the short, stolid form of the star detective.
“Hello, Griffith,” he said. “Sorry you didn't get here before we removed the body. You could have seen
the whole layout. No mystery to it; they got the man quick enough. Guess you read it in the papers.”
“You can't rely on them,” replied Griffith. “Let's hear what you found out. I just thought that there might
be a link between this murder and some of the cases I handled before I took my vacation. That's why I
drove up from Atlantic City. If you've landed the right man, I'll head for the shore again, to-night. But if
you haven't—”
Harrison smiled at the seriousness of Griffith's expression. The star detective was always ready to make a
tremendous mystery out of a simple case. Some there were who claimed that he exaggerated all crimes
purposely.
“Well,” explained Harrison, referring to notations, “Frank Jarnow came in at exactly eight o'clock.
Arrived in town suddenly. Went up to his room. Told Mrs. Johnson—landlady—that he expected Mr.
Windsor. At about eight fifteen, Henry Windsor arrived, nicely drunk. Came into the room. Mrs. Johnson
showed him in; she heard Jarnow lock the door.
“A boarder going by the room at about eight thirty—on his way up to the third floor—heard a voice say:
'You'll be sorry for this!' Claims it was Windsor's voice—he heard Windsor speak afterward.
“Just after eight thirty the shots were fired—two of them. People rushed upstairs. Smashed down the
door. Found the light out; Windsor holding the gun. He threatened to shoot to kill. They disarmed him.
“He said he shot Jarnow—also said the same thing down at the district station, but he says he doesn't
remember bringing a gun, nor does he remember the actual action of firing it. Claims his mind is pretty
much a blank—says his friends will testify that he gets that way when he boozes.”
“Mm-m-m!” grunted Griffith. “How long between the time when the shots were fired and the time they
captured Windsor?”
“We reckon it at about five or six minutes.”
“How did Windsor get in?”
“The landlady let him in.”
“The front door wasn't locked when I came here just now.”
“No; they don't lock it until midnight.”
Griffith looked about the room.
“Where was Jarnow?” he asked.
Harrison silently took his position in the chair, and slumped on the table—to indicate the position of the
murdered man.
“And Windsor?” questioned Griffith.
Harrison pointed to the chair opposite.
Griffith sat in the place which Henry Windsor had occupied, and remained thoughtful for a few moments.
“What about the bullets?” he asked.
“They're from Windsor's gun,” replied Harrison, “His finger prints are on the gun, too. Windsor must
have stood up to shoot; Jarnow was just about to get up; the bullets came downward at a slight angle.”
“How tall is Windsor?”
“About your height.”
“How tall was Jarnow?”
“About my height.”
GRIFFITH walked to the window; raised it; and looked below. The alley was slightly raised; the
distance was about nine feet to the ground.
“Window unlocked?” asked Griffith.
“It was,” replied Harrison. “Raised just a fraction of an inch at the bottom. Shade fully drawn.”
Griffith walked about the room, whistling softly.
“What's that?” he asked, pointing to a tiny scrap of paper that lay on the floor near the table.
“Don't know how I missed that,” said Harrison. “Looks like it was torn from a larger sheet.”
Griffith picked up the bit of paper, and laid it on the table.
Harrison's conjecture was correct; it was a scrap from a larger sheet. It appeared to be the corner, and it
bore two written letters—o and r.
“The word 'or',” said Harrison, promptly.
“Don't be too sure of that,” replied Griffith. “Why would 'or' be in the lower right corner?”
“There might be another sheet following,” returned Harrison. “What is it if it isn't 'or'?”
“Some other word ending in the letters o and r.”
“Such as—”
“Windsor.”
Harrison was dumfounded at Griffith's terse reply. Somehow, the star detective always managed to gain
his point; was always able to prove that something could be added to evidence.
“Here's all we found on Jarnow,” said Harrison, pulling a large envelope from his pocket. “We can add
the piece of paper to the collection.”
He slid the miscellaneous articles on the table. Griffith fished among them.
“Probably nothing here,” he said, “except a few notes that may be of value.”
Griffith picked up an envelope, and observed some penciled notations. They were short, with initials,
such as B, and H; and it was quite possible that they might prove important.
“Better let me look these over,” said Griffith.
“Suit yourself,” replied Harrison. “There's nothing else there —except eighty dollars in cash; that's all that
is valuable.”
Griffith continued to rummage through the remaining articles.
“Bring them along with you,” suggested Harrison. “You're coming right down, aren't you?”
“I may stop at the morgue,” replied Griffith. “I'd like to see the body. But I won't be there long.”
“All right,” said Harrison.
He left, followed by the policeman, who had been a silent observer of the proceedings.
LEFT to himself, Detective Griffith walked about the room; then returned to the table. He studied both
the notes, and the sheet of paper.
Then he put them back in the envelope, and picked up the money. It consisted of three twenty-dollar
bills, and two tens. The tens were old, and worn. The twenty-dollar bills were crisp.
“Not important!” grunted Griffith. “Valuable. Worth twenty dollars apiece?”—he held one of the crisp
bills to the light—“not worth twenty cents each! Phony mazuma. On Jarnow, the murdered man. Passed
on him? Planted on him? Or—” Griffith shrugged his shoulders significantly.
The detective studied both the door, and the window. Then he sat at the table, where Windsor had been.
Suddenly he stood up, and bumped his head against the hanging study lamp.
He stepped back, and pointed an imaginary pistol toward the spot where Jarnow had been seated. He
repeated the experiment, avoiding the lamp.
“So Windsor was here,” observed Griffith. “He stood up, and shot downward. Funny, wasn't it? The
light was right in front of his eyes —green shade and all!”
The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket, and began to mark details. He arranged events on a
schedule, and studied the times that intervened. When he had finished, he talked aloud—though
softly—in order to make each finding clear.
“After Henry Windsor entered,” he said, “Frank Jarnow locks the door but does not lock the window.
That might be all right—still—” he paused doubtfully.
“Then,” he added, “Windsor shoots Jarnow from an almost impossible position. Funny that Jarnow let
him do it. When they crashed the door, they took the gun away from Windsor.
“What was Windsor's motive, anyway? He certainly didn't plan well. He had about five minutes to get
away; but he didn't go—not even through that window. Sober enough to shoot Jarnow; too drunk to put
up a fight, or to escape. Doesn't sound right, does it?”
The detective made another survey of the room; then drew some diagrams, and made penciled notations.
He went out into the hallway, and stood by the wrecked door. He looked back down the stairs.
“Suppose,” he said softly, “that I am an unknown person in this job. I can come in the front door
unnoticed. Up to here; then unlock the door—any skeleton key would do, and the regular key was in
Jarnow's pocket—then sneak into the room.”
He edged through the doorway, and a smile of satisfaction came upon his face as he noticed the position
of the table in front of him. Again he raised his hand, and pointed his forefinger downward.
“From here,” he said, half aloud, “it's a perfect shot! Then—” he stepped toward the table, and snapped
the button on the hanging lamp —“out goes the light; and out I go—through the window, which remains
unlocked.”
Griffith sat at the table, and laughed.
“The gun?” he said, as though asking himself the question. “Wipe the handle; then plant it right in
Windsor's hand.
“That slip of paper? Either Windsor or Jarnow had it. Our man snatched it, and a piece tore off. No time
to hunt for it.”
The detective again reviewed his progress of crime reconstruction, and he seemed more satisfied than
before. He went to the window, and peered below.
There might be evidence there, he thought, but at the moment, he had a more important idea.
Picking up the envelope, Griffith took another look at the twenty-dollar bills. The presence of what might
be counterfeit currency added a new angle of interest.
Whom did it involve; Henry Windsor, or Frank Jarnow?
THE question puzzled Detective Griffith as he walked down the stairs. He went to the back of the house,
and made a few observations, both up the wall, and on the ground.
Then he returned to the room, and examined the window sill. He had seen no marks there before; now
he observed what appeared to be a slight smudge. He shook his head.
“Looks like a handkerchief or something was laid there,” he said. “There's a clever man in this
somewhere. Enough sense to avoid finger prints during the get-away.
“There's a man in this—a man you're going to meet some time, Harvey Griffith, and let's hope it's soon.”
Satisfied with his accumulated evidence, the star detective walked from the rooming house, and moved
leisurely along the street. He smiled as he thought of Harrison.
It would have been foolish to have mentioned a single clue, except, of course, the piece of paper, which
Harrison should have found. Griffith knew from experience that it was best to gather all possible evidence
before mentioning any of it.
“There's 'ifs' to it,” he acknowledged. “But if the bills are phony; if the other man came in; if—”
He remembered the slip of paper, and drew out his notebook. He marked down an item: to check the
writing of the letters “o” and “r" with any available copy of Henry Windsor's handwriting.
“If these clues hold together,” observed Griffith. “It's going to mean a lot to Henry Windsor. They've got
the goods on him so far, and he's an easy goat. It may be lucky for him that I begin where Harrison
leaves off.”
So thinking, the detective continued his easy pace. These clues could wait a little while, locked in his
brain, and recorded in his notebook.
For as yet, Harvey Griffith had not seen the body of the murdered man. After that had been inspected, he
would be ready for action.
“Yes,” concluded the detective, “I have a hunch that this visit to the morgue will lead me to the
murderer.”
CHAPTER III. IN THE MORGUE
THE city morgue was located in an old brick building that stood on a side street. It had been erected
many years before, in the days when windows were few; and the architect had apparently sought to
make the structure as forbidding as possible.
Detective Harvey Griffith stepped into gloom the moment that he left the street. He entered a long,
echoing hall, that was illuminated by two small electric lights.
Visitors to the morgue had often remarked upon the depression that seemed to grip them when they
entered the portals of the ugly building, but Griffith had been there too often to sense this natural
repulsion.
There was a door at the right of the hall; it was open, and it showed the dingy office, where an attendant
sat at a dilapidated desk. The man glanced upward and waved his hand in recognition.
“Hello, Mike,” greeted Griffith. “I've come to take a look at the body.”
“You'll find it downstairs,” replied the man at the desk. “It's on truck number six. You won't have any
trouble finding it.”
“Many people been in to see it?”
“Not yet. It was identified at the house. Couple of reporters came in. Expect there'll be more later on;
probably some female ones.”
“Yeah. They send the sob sisters out on these cases now. Gruesome details have a new touch when
women write about them.”
“You don't want to talk to any newspaper people, do you?”
“Send them down if they come in. They won't bother me, and they won't learn anything. It's not my case
anyway. Harrison is on it.”
Mike laughed.
“Well,” he said, “they've got to play up this murder with a lot of bunk. There's no mystery about it.”
“No mystery?” murmured Griffith to himself, as he walked to the end of the hall. “We'll see about that.”
Descending the stone steps at the rear of the building, Griffith entered the chamber below. His footsteps
echoed on the concrete floor of the low room as he walked to the truck on which lay the body of Frank
Jarnow.
The room was well illuminated, and Griffith stood a few feet away from the corpse, studying every detail.
With his left hand across his breast, and his right against his chin, the detective became as motionless as
the form which he surveyed. He stood like a statue, in a room of silence.
After a time, he leaned forward, and looked at Frank Jarnow's form from close range. He felt through the
pockets of the murdered man, but found that Harrison had made a thorough search. Then he stood back,
and resumed his first position, looking at the body of the murdered man.
His eyes rested on Jarnow's face: the dead man's eyes were staring; the mouth was half-open, as though
some terrible realization had caught the man at the instant of death.
FOOTFALLS came from the steps, and Griffith turned to see a young man of medium height enter the
chamber. The critical eyes of the detective studied the newcomer.
The fellow was about thirty years of age; his face was sallow, and his eyes were sharp. The man
stopped, openmouthed, and glanced about him.
“Well?” growled Griffith.
The man blinked his eyes, and looked at the detective with a foolish smile.
“I'm from the Gazette,” he said. “My name's Bolton. Harry Bolton. You're Detective Griffith, aren't you?”
“Yeah. You're a new man on the Gazette, aren't you?”
“Yes, sir. They just gave me a city job. Used to be an out-of-town correspondent. First time I've ever
been in this place. Woozy, isn't it?”
摘要：

THESHADOWLAUGHSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2003BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHINTERRUPTS?CHAPTERII.DETECTIVEGRIFFITHINVESTIGATES?CHAPTERIII.INTHEMORGUE?CHAPTERIV.ANUNOFFICIALREPORT?CHAPTERV.FELLOWSISPERPLEXED?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOWINVESTIGATES?CHAPTERVII.LAMONTCRANSTONTALKSTOH...

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