Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 066 - Doom on the Hill

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DOOM ON THE HILL

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. THE SHORT ROAD

? CHAPTER II. THE LONE HOUSE

? CHAPTER III. NEW MYSTERY

? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW LEARNS

? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW ARRIVES

? CHAPTER VI. NEW PERSONS ENTER

? CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW AT WORK

? CHAPTER VIII. CORPUS DELICTI

? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW'S RETURN

? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW LISTENS

? CHAPTER XI. PATHS TO THE HILL

? CHAPTER XII. DEATH ON THE HILL

? CHAPTER XIII. THE SECOND BULLET

? CHAPTER XIV. WORD SPREADS

? CHAPTER XV. IN FROM NEW YORK

? CHAPTER XVI. SPIKE MAKES PLANS

? CHAPTER XVII. MOVES BEGIN

? CHAPTER XVIII. FOES IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER XIX. FOES IN THE LIGHT

? CHAPTER XX. CHANCE BULLETS

? CHAPTER XXI. MEN FROM THE DARK

? CHAPTER XXII. THE BIG SHOT

? CHAPTER XXIII. WEALTH RESTORED

CHAPTER I. THE SHORT ROAD

"FIGURING on reaching New York tonight?"

The filling-station attendant asked the question as he was replacing the cap on the gasoline tank of a trim

coupe. The owner of the car, standing with a five-dollar bill in his hand, gave a nod as his response.

"Past eight o'clock now," remarked the gas man, hanging the hose on the standard. "You'll be lucky if you

pull in by three in the morning."

"My calculation was two thirty," responded the motorist, as he followed the attendant into the service

station. "Twenty miles more along the superhighway; then turn right along the Interstate Trail. Traffic is

fairly heavy; but the roads are dry. I can make good time."

"That's the way most of 'em go through," observed the attendant, as he pounded the keys on the cash

miles."

"Bad roads?"

"Not when they're dry. That's why I'm giving you the tip. There hasn't been a drop of rain in this county

during the past three weeks. You take this route I'm showing you and I guarantee you won't have to drop

under fifty anywhere along the line."

The attendant unfolded a road map on the desk. He spread it flat and used a pencil to mark the location

of this filling station upon the superhighway. The map showed the broad road running in a red line that

crossed the Interstate Trail.

With his pencil, the attendant pointed out a diagonal road that was indicated by two thin lines. It formed a

connecting link, cutting across from one main road to the other. The motorist nodded as he saw the

obvious saving in distance.

"One and two-tenths miles," informed the attendant. "That's all you'll have to go before you strike the

short cut. It's a dirt road; but solid as rock. You won't even kick up dust along it. A great bet, when it's

dry."

Running his pencil along the short road, the attendant marked an X. The motorist leaned forward with

interest. His face showed in the light above the table. A keen-eyed, clean-cut fellow in his early thirties,

this chap displayed vigor and self-confidence. The attendant happened to glance up from the map. He

grinned.

"I was going to tell you that this is a lonely sort of road," he stated. "But I don't think that would worry a

fellow like you. All I'm warning you against is this spot I've put the X on. A grade crossing and a mighty

mean one. You can spot it though, if you're looking for it. The road twists and runs along with the track;

then cuts over it and twists on the other side."

"I'll be on the lookout," said the motorist, quietly. "What railroad line is it?"

"The Union Valley."

"Many trains at night?"

"Yeah. A freight along about nine; a local comes the other way right after that. The Union Limited blows

through along about midnight; then comes the Dairy Express, into New York. More freights after that."

"Nine o'clock," mused the motorist, as he picked up the map and received his change. "I ought to hit that

crossing ahead of the freight train."

"Yeah. But keep your eyes open, bud. That clodhopper comes through in a hurry."

THE motorist returned to his coupe. Half a minute later, his car rolled away from the filling station. Two

minutes after that, the coupe slowed its pace while the driver, checking by his speedometer, began to

watch for the short cut that the map had shown.

Spying the turn-off, the motorist swung away from the superhighway. The coupe rolled smoothly along a

solid, well-packed road. The speedometer arrow moved up to the fifty-mile-an-hour mark.

As his car purred rhythmically forward, the driver focused his gaze straight into the glaring path of the

headlight. Though his eyes were on the road, his thoughts were far away. He had remembered the

filling-station man's admonition regarding the grade crossing; he would watch for the danger point

automatically when he arrived at the twist in the road. For the present, he had time to devote to

speculation.

New York before morning. That was an important goal. For this young man who was speeding eastward

was engaged in a service which could not be put aside. His name was Harry Vincent. He was a secret

agent of a mysterious being known as The Shadow.

To the world at large, The Shadow was a mysterious master who battled crime. A dweller in darkness, a

supersleuth who could follow unknown trails, The Shadow was a fighter who had shattered hordes of

crookdom. Public and police believed that The Shadow's headquarters lay in New York; but it was also

rumored that his hand reached everywhere that the menace of crime might bring it.

To Harry Vincent, The Shadow was a patient but exacting chief. The Shadow had saved Harry from

death on more than one occasion. He had provided his trusted agent with funds and comfortable

surroundings; in return, he had demanded prompt and thorough obedience to orders.

There were times when The Shadow's ceaseless battles became the work of a lone hand. During these

periods, Harry Vincent was free to journey. Though he welcomed these occasions, Harry never felt

regret when he returned to New York. The service of The Shadow offered thrills and adventure which

intrigued him.

Messages from The Shadow came from various sources. Harry was a member of a small but

highly-trained group of workers. Like the others, he did not know the identity of The Shadow. Ten days

ago, the quiet voice of an agent named Burbank had informed Harry that he could leave New York. This

message had come over the telephone.

Harry had gone home to Michigan. Yesterday morning, he had received a telegram from an investment

broker named Rutledge Mann. That message had referred to securities; to Harry it had meant that he

must be back in New York within forty-eight hours. Harry had set out promptly from the little town of

Colon.

New York! New adventure! Harry's mind was considering past episodes when his eyes saw a sharp turn

to the right. This was the danger spot. Harry slackened speed and guided his car around the bend. As the

road turned crazily upward to the left, he shoved the car into second and approached the grade

crossing.

All clear. The coupe jounced across the tracks; then down the other side. A sharp turn to the right; then a

curve to the left. Harry stepped on the accelerator as he approached a grade ahead. This was hilly

country.

Easy curves required careful driving, but did not greatly hamper speed. The contour of the road became

intriguing to Harry as soon as he had passed the railway crossing. The thick darkness outside the path of

the headlights seemed as heavy as a shroud of solid blackness.

Each curve betokened adventure. At one turn, a dirt road cut in from the right. At another, the whiteness

of an abandoned quarry loomed ghostlike on the left. As the road twisted lazily along the side of a

sloping, half-wooded hill, Harry began to wonder what the next straight stretch might bring.

PERHAPS it was Harry's intensity of thought; possibly his instinct for adventure was at work. Whichever

the case, the driver of the coupe was keyed to alertness as the road made another veer. The glare of the

headlights revealed a clump of bushes; as the lights swerved, Harry caught a fleeting impression of

something dark, huddled at the side of the road.

Though his car was clearing the spot in question, Harry followed a sudden impulse. He jammed the

brakes. They acted evenly. Without a skid, the powerful coupe came to a smooth stop in the center of

the road, almost alongside the spot where the object lay.

Pulling a flashlight from the pocket in the door, Harry stepped from his car. He left the lights on and the

motor running. He did not think that he would require more than a minute to satisfy his curiosity. But

when Harry Vincent set foot upon the packed dirt of the road, he was scheduling himself for a long stay

in this vicinity.

An exclamation of alarm came from Harry's lips as his flashlight picked out the huddled object in the

road. There, Harry saw the folds of a heavy, dark overcoat. Rumpled crazily, the garment bulged high; as

Harry approached, he saw two shoes projecting from one side of the coat.

All was silent here in the night. After a moment's pause, Harry Vincent stooped. He hesitated, almost

sensing that eyes were watching him from somewhere. Then, shaking off the nervous impression, Harry

clutched the overcoat and swept it free from the form beneath. Steadily, stolidly, Harry stared.

Lying in full view, huddled with face upward, was the body of a man. Rigidly turned toward Harry, with

eyes bulging in unseeing stare, was the ashen countenance of an elderly man. Gray hair, rumpled above

the thin, dried countenance, was proof that the man's age was past sixty.

But this was not all that startled Harry Vincent. The man's silence, his position - these were but

preliminary proofs of foul play. The flashlight showed other evidence of more horrifying nature.

Coat and vest were open as testimony of a bitter struggle. A white shirt showed clearly in the light. The

center of that shirt was crimson; it bore the singing marks of flame around a spot that indicated the

victim's heart.

This elderly man had been attacked in the darkness. His struggles against a fiendish foe had been to no

avail. However well he might have protected himself, the victim had succumbed to his enemy's last

resort.

The man in the road had been shot through the heart. His killer had flung the overcoat upon his form and

had taken flight from the scene of crime. Harry Vincent, speeding through the night, had stopped to

uncover the body of a murdered man!

CHAPTER II. THE LONE HOUSE

HARRY VINCENT was grim when he returned to his coupe. He had taken a short road to save time.

He realized now that it would be impossible for him to reach New York before dawn. As an agent of

The Shadow, Harry had been trained to the important duty of following any trail of crime that his path

might cross.

The first step was to report this murder. Miles between two traveled highways, Harry was in a spot that

seemed desolate. Yet his keenness told him that a town could not be far away. The proof of this

conjecture lay in the railroad crossing that he had passed less than two miles back.

There must be towns along the line of the Union Valley and Harry was sure that he could find one without

taking to the ties. He recalled a road that had cut in from the right. As he remembered it, that dirt highway

had followed the direction of the railroad. Acting upon this recollection, Harry swung the coupe about.

He found his road after a mile of driving. It proved to be rough and stony. Moreover, as Harry slackened

his speed to twenty miles an hour, he noted that this road was swinging along the base of the hillside. It

was evidently an old lower road that had been superseded by the one along the slope.

One mile back along the upper road; one curving mile along the lower. Harry realized that a person

cutting across fields and through wooded patches could reduce the trip to half a mile. This was when he

began to wonder if he had followed the best course. As the question perplexed him, he saw a house

ahead.

It was a good-sized building, on the side of the road toward the hill. Harry surmised that its owner must

be a man of means. Lights glimmered dully from windows on the first floor and the second. Another

lighted window on the third story looked like an indication of servants in the place.

Harry found a driveway and entered. He swung his car up to the front door. He alighted and found a bell

with his flashlight. It was an old-fashioned device, with a knob projecting from the center of the door.

When Harry twisted the knob, the clangor of the bell was followed by echoes that seemed to come from

the recesses of the building.

Harry waited half a minute. Then he rang again. Just as he was about to ring the bell for the third time, he

caught the sound of footsteps from the stairs. A heavy, middle-aged woman appeared in the dim hall.

She was attired in an old dressing gown, which she held bundled with one hand. Harry saw her by

peering through tiny panes of glass beside the door; when the woman arrived, she stared back just as

Harry stepped away from the window.

A LIGHT flashed on from a little projecting roof above Harry's head. Harry stepped into view as the

woman again peered from the window. Seeing his friendly face, the woman unbolted the door and

opened it.

"You want to see Mr. Breck, yah?" the woman questioned.

"Yes," responded Harry. "I should like to see him at once."

"I think he is gone out," informed the woman, making ready to close the door.

"Wait a moment." Harry stopped the closing door. "I have come here to report a - an accident."

"You mean someone hurt?"

"Yes. Up on the road along the hill. It is important that I bring aid. Do you have a telephone here?"

"Yah."

The woman stepped aside to let Harry enter. Half friendly, half suspicious, she conducted the young man

through a well-furnished hall into a living room. This was a comfortable apartment, well-stocked with

books. The woman pointed to the telephone, which rested on a wallbox equipped with a bell handle.

Harry lifted the receiver and whirled the handle. He was forced to repeat the operation before he

received a response in the voice of a lazy rural operator.

"I am speaking from the home of Mr. Breck," stated Harry. "I want to talk to the police - or the

authorities - at once. It is important."

"I'll ring the sheriff for you," came the operator's reply.

Harry edged a glance toward the heavy woman. She was standing in the center of the room, Listening

intently to all he said. He wondered what her reaction would be when she learned that a murder, not an

accident, was the subject upon which he had called the sheriff.

A gruff voice sounded its "hello" across the wire. Harry inquired if he were speaking to the sheriff. He

received an affirmative response. Harry announced that he was speaking from the home of Mr. Breck;

then he plunged into his statement.

"My name is Vincent," explained Harry. "Driving through to New York along the road on the hill. Found

a body in the road! Looks like a murder, sheriff."

"What's that? Murder?" The questions were sharp ones. "You're at Breck's you say? Wait for me. I'll be

there with my men."

"Very well, sir." Harry eyed the woman as he spoke. "I shall be ready to lead you to the place."

"Hold on," came the sheriff's voice. "Do you have a description of the man?"

"I can give it to you when you reach here."

"I want it now."

"All right." Harry felt annoyed by the sheriff's gruff-voiced delay. "The man was about sixty years of age.

Medium height, wiry build. He had gray hair and a thin sort of face, while his eyes - I saw them bulging -

were gray and -"

Harry had forgotten the woman standing in the room. As he reached the final point of his telephoned

description, a shrill cry came from her lips. Looking up, Harry saw her clutch her hands to her heart and

waver toward the floor.

"Trouble here, sheriff!" blurted Harry, into the mouthpiece. "Hurry out!"

HE flung the receiver on the hook and leaped to aid the woman before she slumped. At the same instant,

another figure came dashing in from the door of the room. As Harry caught the woman, he found himself

facing a long-faced, solemn fellow who bore the look of a servant. Together, they aided the woman to a

couch, where she sank against the cushions and began to moan.

"Who are you, sir?" demanded the long-faced man. "What is the trouble? What has happened?"

"Didn't you hear me talking to the sheriff?" questioned Harry.

"Yes, sir." The servant hesitated. "I mean no, sir. I saw you from the door, but I couldn't catch your

words."

"Murder," said Harry, tersely. "On the hill road. The woman was listening to my description of the victim.

It must have overcome her."

"I understand, sir," said the servant, with a nod. "I am Craven, Mr. Grantham Breck's butler. Johanna" -

he indicated the woman on the couch - "has these fainting spells quite often. I shall summon Adele, the

cook."

Craven hurried from the room. Harry heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs. The man bellowed from

above; there was an answer. Soon, a tall, stoop-shouldered woman appeared. Like Johanna, Adele was

wearing a dressing gown. Evidently all the servants except Craven had retired for the night.

Johanna had been moaning at intervals while Harry watched her; but her condition had given Harry no

cause for alarm. It was only when Harry turned toward the couch that the moans became most

noticeable. Harry could not restrain the impression that Johanna was faking.

Adele, the cook, was both apprehensive and talkative. She worried for a bit; then as she placed a pillow

under Johanna's head, she spoke in words that were half to Johanna, half to Harry.

"Poor soul!" exclaimed Adele. "She has been working too hard. Yes, sir, she has. Any one that visits this

house can tell you the same, sir. There should be a dozen servants to keep the place tidied up as Mr.

Breck wants it.

"There, there, Johanna. Rest a bit. I'll fetch you a drink of water. Yes, sir, it's a housekeeper that Johanna

is; and a housekeeper should be giving orders - not always doing all the housework herself.

"It's been a wonder to me that something like this hasn't happened long ago. But you haven't had time,

have you, Johanna, to be ill like this? No, sir - she's always on the go, working all hours of the day. Wait

here, sir, while I fetch the water."

Johanna had closed her eyes and was lying silent. Harry's gaze narrowed as the young man turned

toward the doorway. Craven had not returned. That was the first point that made him ponder. Another

important factor was Adele's statement that Johanna had been working steadily. It belied Craven's claim

that the housekeeper had been subject to frequent fainting spells.

HARRY was about to go and look for the butler when Adele returned. She was carrying a bottle of

ammonia and a glass of water. She thrust the latter into Harry's hands, while she uncorked the ammonia

and held it under Johanna's nose. The effect was electric. The housekeeper gasped and sat up, thrusting

the bottle away from her.

Adele pushed the bottle into Harry's hands and grabbed the glass. She made Johanna drink the water;

then stood back and smiled as the housekeeper rubbed her head and blinked. Adele seemed pleased at

the effectiveness of her emergency methods. To Harry, however, the housekeeper's quick recovery was

reason for new suspicion.

A few minutes passed while the cook made Johanna more comfortable on the couch. Harry began to

edge for the door, hoping to gain some sign of Craven. Then came the sudden clang of the big bell.

"Craven will answer it, sir," announced Adele. "Stay right here, sir."

Again the clang. Still no sign of Craven. Harry turned to the cook.

"How far is it from town?" he questioned.

"To Chanburg, sir?" asked Adele. "Less than two miles, sir, by the short road that comes in below the

house -"

"Then that's the sheriff," broke in Harry, as the clang came with violence. "I'll answer the door myself,

since Craven is not about."

With that statement, The Shadow's agent hurried out into the hallway. Grim as he hastened to admit the

sheriff, Harry Vincent was forming a quick theory based upon Johanna's fainting spell and Craven's

absence.

Harry Vincent was convinced that the dead man on the hill could be none other than Grantham Breck,

the absent master of this house!

CHAPTER III. NEW MYSTERY

WHEN Harry Vincent opened the front door of the house, an angry-faced man stalked in and glowered

at The Shadow's agent. The newcomer was a husky fellow. His old, unpressed suit added to his rough

appearance, while the badge that glimmered from his vest was token of his identity.

"I'm Sheriff Forey," the big man announced. "Tim Forey from down in Chanburg. Are you the fellow that

called me over the telephone?"

"Yes," responded Harry.

"What did you say your name was?" questioned the sheriff. "Vincent?"

"Yes. Harry Vincent."

Three grim-faced men had followed Forey into the hall. They were wearing deputy badges. Their gaze

was challenging on account of their chief's anger.

"What did you cut off the call for?" demanded Forey. "What happened here?"

"The housekeeper fainted," explained Harry, indicating the room where Johanna was still resting on the

couch. "I had to catch her before she fell to the floor."

"I see. Well, it broke up that description you were giving me. Where's Mr. Breck?"

"The housekeeper said that he was out. She let me use the phone to call you."

"All right. But say" - the sheriff's eyes were suspicious - "for a fellow that was in all the hurry you were, it

seems funny you left me standing outside this door. Why didn't you answer my first ring?"

"The butler was around," responded Harry, calmly. "I expected him to answer. I was in the living room. I

came to the door when the butler failed to show up."

"All right." Again, the sheriff was abrupt. "Suppose we run up to the road and find that body."

"I was about to suggest it," put in Harry, quietly. "Otherwise you may be getting more calls from tourists

who come through."

"On that road?" demanded the sheriff as he motioned Harry through the door. "Not a chance. Say,

fellow, you're probably the first one who came through there this week. This your car here?"

Harry acknowledged ownership of the coupe. The sheriff ordered his men into the touring car which they

had come in. He entered the coupe with Harry. Forey spoke as Harry started the car out into the road.

"Thought you said you were going into New York," remarked the sheriff.

"I was," replied Harry, as he picked a course to avoid the bumps.

"You've got a New York license," said Forey. "I thought maybe you might have been coming from the

city."

"I left there ten days ago," explained Harry. "I drove out to Michigan to see the folks. I was on the trip

back."

"What part of Michigan?"

"St. Joe's County."

"How'd you happen to take this road?"

HARRY explained the episode at the filling station. He pulled the map from the pocket of the door, with

the statement that the service-station man had marked the railroad crossing. For the first time the sheriff

appeared amiable.

"Wondered why you came through this way," remarked Forey. "Most people duck the short cut. I

figured somebody round here must have told you about it."

They had reached the hill road; the touring car close behind. Harry swung the coupe to the right. The

sheriff put another question:

"How far from here to where the body is?"

"A bit over eight-tenths of a mile," replied Harry. "We'll be there when the trip-dial shows" - he leaned

forward - "when it shows ninety-six and five tenths."

"That's funny," growled Forey.

"What is?" queried Harry.

"That you knew how far it was from here to the place you found the body. What's the idea? Why'd you

begin clocking from this junction point?"

There was renewed suspicion in the sheriff's tone. While Tim Forey waited for a reply, Harry chuckled.

This seemed to anger Forey.

"Well?" he growled. "Give me your answer. Why did you start clocking when you passed the lower

road?"

"I didn't," laughed Harry.

"Then how do you know the distance?" queried Forey.

"After I found the body," explained Harry, "I remembered seeing a road that I had passed. So I turned

the car around, noted the registration on the speedometer, and set out. I wanted to be sure of the

distance to the body, so I clocked it coming back."

Forey emitted a gruff "huh." Harry smiled. He felt that his explanation had settled the sheriff. He could see

that Forey was hard-boiled only on the surface. There should be no trouble from now on. Harry began to

slow the car.

"Tenth of a mile more," remarked Forey, as Harry glanced toward the speedometer.

"Yes," said Harry, "but I want you to see what I saw. Just as I finished this turn in the road, the lights

glared toward the bushes on the right. That's when I glimpsed the body."

Harry had slackened to ten miles an hour. Forey was staring with him into the headlight glow. Bushes

alone greeted their vision.

"I must have swung wide before," decided Harry. "I was traveling pretty fast. Funny, though, we didn't

see -"

"Five tenths," put in Forey.

Harry braked the car. He knew that he had reached the spot. He clambered from the driver's seat and

swung around the back of the coupe, glimmering his flashlight. Forey met him there; the deputies piled out

of the touring car and flickered their own torches.

"Right over in here," declared Harry, sweeping the beam of his light.

"Yeah?" questioned the sheriff. "I don't see a body lying round."

"It was here -"

Harry paused. A deputy had gone back to the touring car. There was a click as the man turned on the

searchlight that was mounted by the hood. A brilliant glare swept the side of the road for a space of a

hundred yards.

Bewildered, Harry Vincent turned to face Sheriff Tim Forey, who was staring at him steadily. For the first

time tonight, The Shadow's agent became confused.

"I was sure," stammered Harry, "sure that this was the spot. Positive, sheriff - yes - just as - just as

certain as we're standing here right now. Yet - yet -"

"The body isn't here," put in Forey. "Which means that you've dragged us out here on a hoax."

"No!" protested Harry. "Why should I be such a fool as to do that? I tell you, sheriff, the body was here!

Within ten feet of where I'm standing now! There's only one answer sheriff."

"Yeah? Let's hear it."

Harry saw that the man was unconvinced. Promptly, The Shadow's agent resolved upon a bold stroke

that he knew would bring Forey a jolt.

"One answer, sheriff," Harry repeated, in steady tones. "Someone has removed the body of Grantham

Breck!"

CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW LEARNS

"GRANTHAM BRECK!"

Sheriff Forey's square jaw dropped as the official repeated the name that Harry Vincent had uttered.

Until that moment, Forey had regarded Harry as the possible perpetrator of a hoax. Forey had begun to

doubt the story of an unidentified body in the road. But this mention of the name of Grantham Breck

produced sharp suspicion in the sheriff's mind.

"Grantham Breck," declared Harry, with a sober nod. "Yes, sheriff, I believe that he was the dead man."

"So you knew Breck, eh?" challenged Forey. "Then you had a reason to be coming through here. I

thought so. Say, fellow, what's your game? Come clean."

"I have no game," returned Harry. "I merely want to convince you that I actually found a body at this spot

where we are now standing. I want you to know that I have been keenly alert from the moment that I

made my discovery until -"

"You knew Breck -"

"I did not know him."

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DOOMONTHEHILLMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THESHORTROAD?CHAPTERII.THELONEHOUSE?CHAPTERIII.NEWMYSTERY?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWLEARNS?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWARRIVES?CHAPTERVI.NEWPERSONSENTER?CHAPTERVII.THESHADOWATWORK?CHAPTERVIII.CORPUSDELICTI?CHAPTERIX.THES...

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