Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 002 - The Eyes of the Shadow

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EYES OF THE SHADOW
Maxwell Grant
? Maxwell Grant
? CHAPTER I. A VISITOR AT NIGHT
? CHAPTER II. WORD FROM THE DEAD
? CHAPTER III. A STRANGE HERITAGE
? CHAPTER IV. VINCENT REMEMBERS A FACE
? CHAPTER V. MEN IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER VI. CRONIN TALKS TERMS
? CHAPTER VII. DOOMED TO DIE
? CHAPTER VIII. DUNCAN'S VISITOR
? CHAPTER IX. THREE MEN MISSING
? CHAPTER X. INTO THE SNARE
? CHAPTER XI. CRONIN SEES A SHADOW
? CHAPTER XII. VINCENT TAKES ACTION
? CHAPTER XIII. THE ENEMY REVEALED
? CHAPTER XIV. A NEW MENACE
? CHAPTER XV. BEYOND THE BARRIER
? CHAPTER XVI. THE OLD MAN'S STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XVII. MEN MARKED TO DIE
? CHAPTER XVIII. FELLOWS LEARNS SOMETHING
? CHAPTER XIX. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
? CHAPTER XX. TWISTED LIPS
? CHAPTER XXI. PLANS ARE ARRANGED
? CHAPTER XXII. A SCHEME FOR VENGEANCE
? CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE BLACK SHIP
? CHAPTER XXIV. A HORDE ATTACKS
? CHAPTER XXV. TUESDAY - MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XXVI. FELLOWS IS SUMMONED
? CHAPTER XXVII. NEW DISCOVERIES
? CHAPTER XXVIII. THE FIFTH MAN
? CHAPTER XXIX. LAMONT CRANSTON DISAPPEARS
? CHAPTER XXX. SINISTER SHADOWS
? CHAPTER XXXI. DUNCAN GOES ALONE
? CHAPTER XXXII. BURIED ALIVE
? CHAPTER XXXIII. LAMONT CRANSTON RETURNS
? CHAPTER XXXIV. TWO MEN TALK
? CHAPTER XXXV. THE SIXTH MAN
? CHAPTER XXXVI. THE SURPRISE
? CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TORTURE CHAMBER
? CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE FIGHT ON THE TOWER
? CHAPTER XXXIX. THE HAND OF THE SHADOW
CHAPTER I. A VISITOR AT NIGHT
THE room seemed strangely silent when Bruce Duncan awoke. It was uncanny in this front room of the
old house; he had noticed that before during the month he had lived there since his uncle's death. But the
silence had never seemed so ominous as now.
One comfort to his disturbed mind was the beam of light that came through the transom of the door to the
right of the bed. It fell upon the hearth of the old stone fireplace at the right wall of the room. Duncan
turned his eyes momentarily in that direction; an instant later, he was staring at the window again.
For he had heard a strangely sibilant whistle - close and ominous - as though it came from among the
bushes on the ground a full story below the window.
There was a rustle outside as if a slight breath of wind had stirred the thick ivy vines that covered the
stone masonry of the house. Then a head and shoulders were silhouetted in the dimness of the open
window. A grotesque form slipped over the sill.
The figure stole softly toward the bed. Duncan did not move. Somehow he seemed powerless to move.
He turned his eyes to follow the actions of the strange visitor from the night, and his gaze was transfixed
as the being came into the light from the transom.
The figure was that of an apelike man - a weird, stoop-shouldered creature whose arms were long and
whose fingers were bony claws. The face was wizened, and the eyes gleamed wickedly in the light.
The creature's head turned toward the bed. Instinctively, Bruce Duncan closed his eyes and lay as if
asleep. He had no will to move a muscle; he could only wait and wonder in the midst of this real
nightmare.
The side of the bed sagged slightly as though a form was pressing against it. The creature was stooping
over him now. Duncan could feel a warm breath against his forehead. His heart thumped furiously in this
moment of weird suspense, and he lay motionless as a waxwork figure, waiting for the clawlike fingers to
close about his neck.
But the thing from the night made no closer approach. It was like a game of strategy. Duncan felt that if
he made the slightest motion, death would follow. Only by feigning sleep could he escape.
WHAT was to be the next move? Duncan could only wait. Wait and watch.
The creature had moved onto the hearth of the fireplace. A bony hand appeared in the light. The claws
crawled up the right side of the fireplace until they reached the top. The hand pressed upward on the
metal border.
There was a sharp click. The creature turned quickly toward the bed, but Duncan's eyes closed instantly.
Again he lay motionless for fully fifteen seconds. Then he reopened his eyes and stared in fascination.
The gruesome creature was stooping now - stooping beside an opening in the hearth against the side of
the fireplace. Its bony hands dipped into the cavity in the floor. They emerged carrying a small package
and two envelopes.
The apish visitor again pressed the side of the fireplace, and Duncan saw the stone in the hearth close,
completely concealing the hole. As his eyes remained on the spot, he suddenly realized that the creature
was gone.
He glanced toward the window. A blotch appeared and immediately vanished downward. From outside
came that same hissing whistle. The ivy vines rustled. Then all was silent; the quiet of the night returned.
Only half awake, Duncan climbed out of bed, and switched on the light.
A dream, likely, thought Duncan. Well, there was only one way to test it.
He walked to the fireplace.
He placed his hand against the metal rim and tried to move it. It seemed solid enough. He yanked at it
and attempted to push it up and down. Suddenly it yielded as his hand was going upward. There was a
sharp click from the floor - a click that he recalled.
He looked at the hearth. One of the stones had swung upward on a hinge, impelled by a concealed
spring. There in the masonry was a neatly formed opening, beneath it a small cavity that gaped with
emptiness.
CHAPTER II. WORD FROM THE DEAD
THERE was a knock at the door the next morning. Duncan opened the door and admitted Abdul, his
Hindu servant. The man was carrying a breakfast tray.
"It was time for you to awake, sahib. I have brought breakfast."
"Abdul," asked Duncan, as he began his meal, "did you hear any one outside last night?"
"No, sahib. At what time of the night?"
"I don't know. Didn't you hear a whistle?"
"No, sahib. What did sahib eat last night?"
"Nothing that would have kept me awake," answered Duncan. "I had an early dinner in the city, and I
read for a while in the evening, after I came home. I did eat one of those peppermints in the dish over
there on the table not long before I went to bed."
The Hindu went to the table. He took a peppermint from the dish and tasted it.
"At what time did sahib go to bed?" he asked. "You will recall, sahib, that I was not here."
"That's right," replied Duncan. "You went out for the evening, after I came in, didn't you? I guess it was
about midnight when I retired."
"Sahib had dreams last night?"
Duncan hesitated a moment before replying.
"Unusual dreams," he said. "They were very vivid, as though they were real. They seemed like something
was going to happen - as if I were waiting."
"And time went very slowly?" questioned Abdul.
"Yes," admitted Duncan. "Why do you ask that, Abdul?"
"The peppermint," said the Hindu, "tastes to me different. It is like something that we have in India -
something from a bush that grows in the wild."
"What is it?" questioned Duncan.
"It makes men sleep. It makes them dream. To them the minutes seem like the hours. To them the hours
seem like the days. The things they see are strange."
A SUDDEN thought came to Duncan. "You mean hashish," he said.
"That is it, sahib," replied the Hindu.
"You think the peppermints contain hashish?"
"It seems to me like that, sahib."
"Then I was drugged last night. Who did it? Why? Where did you get these peppermints, Abdul? Who
brought them?"
"I shall answer you, sahib," replied the Hindu. "I shall tell you all. I was in the house all day. I came in this
room often, as you have told me to do. At the door of the house I found the package that you had told
the man to send. In it was the peppermints. So I brought them here."
"Yes," said Duncan, "I've been having them send mints up every day or two. I've been chewing them at
nights - makes the cigarettes taste better with a few mints in between. But how did these mints come to
be in the package?"
Abdul shrugged his shoulders.
Duncan was thoughtful when the Hindu left the room. He trusted his Hindu servant - Abdul had been with
him for five years - yet it was strange that the man should have so promptly diagnosed the cause of
Duncan's peculiar sleep the night before. But why had Abdul mentioned the fact if he had had anything to
do with it?
The Hindu returned with the morning mail. It contained a letter from Duncan's lawyer. The young man
read the message:
Please call at my office at your earliest convenience. This is very important, and I will expect to see you
shortly.
ROBERT CHALMERS TREMAINE.
Two hours later, Duncan was seated in the lawyer's office, facing Tremaine across a large mahogany
desk.
"Good morning, Mr. Duncan," said the lawyer in a voice that suited his pompous appearance. "I have
interesting news for you."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"Your uncle, Mr. Duncan, was an interesting man. You, as his heir, received rather unusual instructions,
which I understand you have followed, in order to comply with the terms of his legacy."
"Correct, Mr. Tremaine," said Duncan. "I have lived in Uncle Harvey's house since the day he died. I
have slept in the front room which he occupied, as his will instructed. During the day, my servant has
been there continually - except when I have been at home."
The lawyer smiled.
"Those instructions," he said, "were left with a purpose. What the purpose was, I do not know. I was
your uncle's attorney, but he did not take me into his confidence on that matter. Some time before his
death, however, your uncle told me that he intended to impart some information to you before he died.
He was unable to do this as he passed away the day you reached the city. He was calling for you when
he died."
"So I have been told," said Duncan soberly.
"Your uncle anticipated that something might prevent him giving you his message - which proved to be
the case - so he left a sealed envelope with me. It was to be delivered to you on this date."
Bruce Duncan studied the long, heavy envelope that Tremaine handed him.
The lawyer thereupon ushered him into a smaller room, to a table in the midst of book-lined walls.
"You will not be disturbed here."
Alone, the young man tore open the envelope which was of cloth texture inside. He withdrew several
folded sheets of paper. The inner page carried a message in clearly legible longhand. Bruce recognized it
as his uncle's writing.
As he scanned the firmly written lines, astonishment came over him. He began to understand not only
why his uncle had left such unusual instructions regarding the occupancy of the house, but, also, he gained
an inkling of the significance of last night's experience.
CHAPTER III. A STRANGE HERITAGE
THE terse, blunt statements of the letter told a strange story so plainly that they seemed like spoken
words. Bruce Duncan, as he read them, could imagine the very tones of his uncle's voice:
I am speaking to you, Bruce. I am writing in the front room of my house. The shades are drawn. It is late
at night. You and I are alone. These are the exact words that I hope to say to you before I die, in the
place that I have named. This message is written to be read if that hope is not realized.
I am a comparatively old man, Bruce. You are young and you are my only living relative. You are my
dead brother's son and, like him, you have the firm traits of our family.
I am a man with a mission, Bruce, as I write these words. When you read this message, my mission will
be yours; for I shall be dead.
For years I have lived in the front room of my home. I have been there always at nights, as you will be.
For that room contains a secret which must be guarded.
I have been many places in my life. I have had many adventures. I was in Russia during the Revolution. In
Moscow I saved the life of a great man - a member of the nobility - a general in the army of the czar.
I brought him to safety. I risked my life for him. I left him in Paris, and then I saw him some time later. He
was going back to Russia. He intended to join the forces of Admiral Kolchak in their fight against the
Red rule.
He had another purpose, also. He intended to reclaim a vast wealth. Money, in golden rubles; and
precious gems. An amazing fortune. He had left it hidden in Russia, and he was confident that no one
could have discovered the hiding place.
He told me that in his trials he had gained the help and friendship of seven men. To each of them he owed
an obligation. He regarded me as the most important of the seven.
He stated that he intended to divide his wealth into three parts - each a fortune. One was for the surviving
members of his family. Another was for the cause of the czarists. The third was to be divided into eight
portions - one each for six of the men who had befriended him; two for myself.
To me he intrusted the division of this fortune. He gave me a sealed box containing the insignia of a high
royal order, which he or his messenger would recognize. He gave me a sealed envelope containing the
names of the other six men with their descriptions.
Some day, he declared, I would receive a message simply stating a time and place for a meeting. There I
would find him or his messenger. The other six would be present, each notified independently. At that
time, I should open the box and reveal the insignia. The fortune would then be given to me without
question.
My next duty would be to open the envelope, learn the names of the other six friends, and identify them.
To each I should give his share. Should any be absent, it would depend upon me to find them and to give
their shares to them or to their heirs, if they had died.
I regarded this as a sacred trust. Upon my return to America, I constructed a hiding place and kept the
package and the envelope there. My health had failed, and I lived indoors, always remaining in that room.
For as years passed, the matter became to me the most important subject of my life.
My Russian friend was killed in the rout of the Kolchak forces. Still I maintained the trust, confident that
he had placed his affairs in the hands of some relative or trusted friend.
I have earned my reward. One week ago, I received a letter that stated the time and place of the
meeting. I added the letter to the package and the envelope which contained the names of the other six
men.
When you read this, I will be dead. Dead, before the meeting time. I rely upon you to fulfill the mission
and to receive the wealth that would have been my reward.
The secret hiding place is in my room. You must live there and guard the spot until the appointed time.
Do not regard this as an old man's whim. It is important. No one knows my secret, yet sometimes the
most secret things are discovered.
Use the utmost secrecy, Bruce. Be sure that you are alone, in my room. Go to the fireplace. Press upon
the metal border at the top of the right side. The hiding place will open. It is concealed by a stone in the
hearth.
Read the letter. Learn the time and place of the meeting. Carry the package and the sealed envelope and
go there - alone. You know your duty from then on. Destroy this letter after you have read it.
The signature of Harvey Duncan was at the bottom of the page.
THE young man stared at the words before him. He read the letter again. Each fact seemed to burn itself
into his brain. He tore the papers into fragments. He wondered what to do with them, then realized it did
not matter.
For the secret was no longer his alone. His uncle's fears had been realized. Some one had discovered the
hiding place. Bruce was positive now that he had been drugged the right before. Perhaps the hashish - if
that had been the drug - had made the strange visitor seem grotesque. But he was certain that some living
being had entered his room and had taken the documents and the package.
His only hope was that the thief had not fully understood the significance of the objects he had taken. This
seemed a faint hope. Where, then, had the information been gained? Bruce was sure that no one could
have read the letter which he had just perused. Tremaine, the lawyer, was unquestionably reliable. Abdul
could not have known of the secret. Perhaps the knowledge had been gained from Russia. No; that
would not have carried a clue to the hiding place in the hearth.
Bruce Duncan went into Tremaine's office. He was tempted to tell the lawyer what he had learned, for he
felt that he needed advice. The secret had been discovered; this fact might alter the instructions in the
letter, which demanded absolute secrecy. On second thought Duncan decided to say nothing.
"You have read your uncle's message?" asked Tremaine.
"I have."
The lawyer smiled.
"It was to be read by me," he said, "in case that you failed to abide by the terms of your uncle's will. I am
glad that you have seen fit to conform to his desires. Your uncle was my friend."
He walked to the door with Bruce.
"Did any one talk with my uncle before he died?" asked the young man.
"No," said the lawyer. "He talked very little the last few days while you were on your way from Japan. I
should have notified you sooner. He was delirious several times."
"Who came to see him?"
"I don't just recall any one person. Hopkins could tell you. He was your uncle's attendant. He had lived
there for several years, you know. A faithful servant and a willing worker."
Duncan recalled the old gray-haired retainer who had lived with his uncle. He had a card in his pocket
now, with the man's address on it. Hopkins had gone to live with his sister after the death of Harvey
Duncan.
A telephone booth was Bruce Duncan's first stopping place after leaving Tremaine's office. He found the
card with Hopkins's number and decided to call the old man.
A woman's voice answered.
"Mr. Hopkins?" questioned Duncan.
"Who is calling?" was the reply.
"Bruce Duncan. Nephew of Mr. Harvey Duncan."
"Oh, Mr. Duncan," came the voice. "He asked for you. Mr. Hopkins died two weeks ago. I thought you
had been notified. It was so sudden - a heart attack in the night -"
Duncan speculated on this strange coincidence as he drove homeward. A theory had formed in his mind.
Some one had visited his uncle, and had been left alone with him by Hopkins. In delirium, Harvey
Duncan had given the secret which he had intended to retain for his nephew.
Poor Hopkins! Bruce had almost suspected him when he had made the phone call.
Suddenly, a horrible suspicion filled the young man's mind. Perhaps his uncle had been murdered.
Perhaps the death of Hopkins had been planned!
Some fiend was at work; that was certain. Why then had his own life been spared by the creature of the
night? The answer came to him. The malefactor behind all this had not known of the envelope in
Tremaine's office. The criminal believed that no one knew Harvey Duncan's secret. He, Bruce Duncan,
had been drugged so that the paper could be stolen at night. Had he moved while the enemy was in the
room, his life would have been taken.
He began to detect the mystery of the peppermints. Each night, Bruce had sat by the window reading,
with the peppermints close at hand, as he smoked his cigarettes. He had rarely drawn the shades. Some
one had observed him; a clever person had opened the package from the drug store as it lay on the
steps. The doped peppermints had been substituted.
Some criminal mind was at work. It possessed the knowledge that belonged to Bruce Duncan as the heir
of his uncle.
Duncan realized the difficulty of his position. He had no clue except the gaping space beneath the hearth.
He did not even know the time or place of the meeting. He did not know the names of the six men who
could help him. He was sworn to secrecy by his uncle's message, and no provision had been made for
this dilemma.
CHAPTER IV. VINCENT REMEMBERS A FACE
THREE weeks had passed since Bruce Duncan's visit to his uncle's lawyer. Adventures had apparently
ended, so far as Duncan was concerned. Unless new factors developed, episodes of the past would pass
into oblivion.
New factors, however, were already entering the game. Oddly, strange incidents were beginning many
miles from New York - incidents that chance, alone, was guiding. Budding events had begun aboard a
train on the Pennsylvania Railroad, during its day trip east from Pittsburgh.
The Eastern Limited was swinging along the curving roadbed as it followed its course on the
mountainside above the river. The scene from the window of the sleeping car was one of rugged
grandeur, but it held no interest for a passenger named Harry Vincent.
He was the only person seated in the car; the other passengers - of whom there were very few - had
gone either to the diner or to the observation car.
For three hours during that afternoon, Harry had been watching a closed door. It was the door of the
drawing room at the end of the car, and his interest in what might be behind that door had kept him in his
seat.
At three o'clock, Harry had first discovered that there was a passenger in the drawing-room. The
conductor had gone to the door of the compartment and had knocked upon it. The door had been
opened slightly; the conductor had not entered. He had merely checked a ticket through the partly
opened door and had gone on his way.
Harry had observed a dim face in the drawing-room. Then the door had closed. From then on, he had
been puzzling over the matter.
The train was not so fast as some of the other limiteds that ran from Chicago to New York. Why should
a single passenger - and Harry held a hunch that there was but one person in the drawing-room - have
chosen a compartment all alone, on a car nearly empty?
With nothing to do but while away the time during the long day trip, Harry had pondered on this matter.
To him it spelled mystery. There was only one solution. The person in the drawing-room must have
chosen this train and taken the available compartment because it would mean seclusion from
observation.
Twice, between three and six o'clock, the door had opened slightly as though some one within were
studying the car to see who was there. There had been several persons in the car both times.
THE train stopped at Altoona, and Harry still sat alone in the car. He realized that they had passed the
famous Horseshoe Curve without the sight even attracting his attention.
Now they were on their way again, and it was growing dark. The closed door still intrigued Harry
Vincent, and he watched it more intently than before. He detected a motion. He buried his head suddenly
behind his newspaper.
Peering upward over the top of the paper, he saw the door open wide. A man stepped out, turning
quickly so that his back was toward Harry, and the door closed. Then the fellow disappeared along the
passage that led to the door of the car. Harry dropped his paper and followed. He reached the next car,
but no one was in sight when he came to the aisle. He walked through rapidly and entered the second
car. By this time he should have gained on the other man. But there was no one in the aisle.
He was puzzled for the moment. Then he retraced his footsteps. It was obvious that the other man had
not gone through the train.
When he reached his own car, Harry pushed back the curtain of the smoking compartment and entered.
A man was seated by the window, staring into the outside darkness.
The stranger had assumed a position that confirmed Harry's suspicions. The man had his forehead
pressed against the window, with both elbows on the sill, and his hands against his face.
As Harry sat down beside the man and lighted a cigar, the stranger relaxed himself. He did not turn in
Harry's direction. But as Harry sat drowsily looking at the floor, he was sure that the other man was
studying him in the mirror across the smoking compartment.
Harry spoke without looking at the other man.
"It's a long trip."
"Yeah," confirmed the other.
This was encouraging to Harry. Evidently the secretive passenger had satisfied himself that Harry was
simply an ordinary traveler.
"Do you make it often?" questioned Harry in a casual way.
"Once in a while," came the reply.
HARRY turned his head slightly toward his companion. Now he saw the man's face. It was a sallow,
smooth-shaven face. The man's eyes were dark and shifty. He did not seem intent upon hiding has
features now, but Harry did not watch him long.
Instead, he looked straight ahead and made occasional remarks that might enable him to involve the other
man in conversation. He received responses that were brief and few.
The porter entered the smoking compartment, and the stranger took that opportunity to leave. When
Harry went back into the car, he saw that the drawing-room door was closed and he felt sure that the
mysterious passenger had returned to his seclusion.
The porter came through the car, and Vincent called to him.
"What's the next stop, porter?"
"Harrisburg, sah."
"Many people getting off there?"
"No, sah. None off this car. All going through to New York, sah."
Harry went to the diner and enjoyed the meal which he had so long delayed. The train was pulling into
Harrisburg when he came back to his car.
In the passageway he encountered a man who had a small valise. He recognized him instantly as the
passenger of the drawing-room.
The stranger moved aside and turned his head away as he allowed him to pass. The train was slowing as
Harry reached his seat. Without hesitation the young man picked up his suitcase and hurried through to
the car ahead - directly opposite the exit by which the stranger was leaving.
CHAPTER V. MEN IN THE DARK
THE man who had occupied the drawing-room on the Eastern Limited entered a telephone booth in the
Harrisburg station. There was an empty booth behind him. Harry Vincent went into it, and pretended to
be calling a number.
The partitions in telephone booths are by no means sound-proof. Harry knew this and smiled when he
heard the number which the stranger called. There was something about the man's voice that seemed
familiar now.
The number had been obtained. Vincent heard words that gave him the final clue to the stranger's
identity.
"Hello, Wally," said the man. "This is Steve."
Steve! That filled the gap in Vincent's memory. He knew now that the fellow was Steve Cronin, the New
York gangster who was in hiding. Steve Cronin was known to Harry Vincent, but Cronin did not know
Vincent.
Some time ago, Cronin had murdered a man in a New York hotel, and had escaped for parts unknown.
Harry had seen Cronin then, but at that time the man had had a black mustache. Now he was
clean-shaven.
The New York police wanted Steve Cronin. That was not Harry's concern, however. His instructions
came from one source only - from a mysterious person called The Shadow. At present, Harry was under
no orders.
Yet The Shadow had been somewhat concerned with Cronin at the time of the murder in the Metrolite
摘要：

EYESOFTHESHADOWMaxwellGrant?MaxwellGrant?CHAPTERI.AVISITORATNIGHT?CHAPTERII.WORDFROMTHEDEAD?CHAPTERIII.ASTRANGEHERITAGE?CHAPTERIV.VINCENTREMEMBERSAFACE?CHAPTERV.MENINTHEDARK?CHAPTERVI.CRONINTALKSTERMS?CHAPTERVII.DOOMEDTODIE?CHAPTERVIII.DUNCAN'SVISITOR?CHAPTERIX.THREEMENMISSING?CHAPTERX.INTOTHESNARE?...

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