Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 287 - Guardian of Death

VIP免费
2024-12-22 0 0 152.54KB 59 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
GUARDIAN OF DEATH
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," January 1, 1945.
Two conniving collectors battle for the priceless secret of the
archives... Can Lamont Cranston, alias The Shadow, master the intricate
mechanism of the Winged Figure of Death?
CHAPTER I
LIGHTNING streaked the sky with a jagged flash, and Graydon Towers
mushroomed like an Aladdin's castle at a genii's thunderous call.
The sight was so fantastic that Harry Vincent still couldn't believe it
when he flung his arm across his eyes. The glare had left an after image of a
vivid object against a blackened background, a lurid collection of bloody
yellow turrets fashioned by some architect whose nightmares must have been his
guiding talent.
Smashing thunder delivered a deluge of rain that pelted the top of
Harry's
halted coupe and licked in through the crevices of the tight-closed windows.
Guardedly, Harry opened his eyes and blinked as another belt of lightning
slashed the horizon. The Towers itself blocked off most of this zigzag dazzle
and Harry saw that the edifice was as real as his imagination had proclaimed.
Roughly, Graydon Towers was a chunky pile rising like an irregular
pyramid, three stories high, or more, if the various towers were included. The
whole motif was square, more on the order of a French chateau than an English
castle, though there was a resemblance to both. This wasn't strange
considering
the varied tastes of Gifford Graydon, the strange man who had built the stone
monstrosity and died within its walls a quarter-century ago.
Without doubt this was Graydon Towers, for there could be no other
mansion
of similar size along this isolated countryside. Besides, the pillars of the
great stone gate by which Harry had drawn his car for shelter, bore the
stately
gryphons which old Graydon had borrowed from some heraldic source to form a
synthetic coat-of-arms.
It would have taken a gryphon in full wing to clear the huge wrought-iron
gates that barred the private driveway leading to the Towers. But the bars
were
wide enough for human passage and that fact enticed Harry from his car,
despite
the fury of the rain.
The storm was just the excuse that Harry needed for a visit to the
Towers.
If he could find the front of the place and bang on the door, Harry could
plead
admittance on the claim that the sudden rain had stalled his motor. The
heavier
the rain, the better the argument. Harry wasn't pleased when the downpour
suddenly slackened before he was half way to the Towers.
Anyway, the idea was still good; at least until the next thing happened.
It began with another sharp lightning flash, which caused Harry to shy
instinctively from a clump of trees near the final curve of the driveway. His
black slicker drawn tightly about him, Harry went rigid at what he saw.
There were shrubs flanking the last stretch of the drive and from one of
them came a tiny stab of flame like a puny left-over from the lightning. It
was
timed, that jab, to the pound of the ensuing thunder and so was the answering
spurt that tongued from a corner of the massive mansion. The accompanying
sounds were deadened and completely lost.
Those were gun-shots, flung through the teeth of the storm, an exchange
between two unknowns who like Harry - and perhaps more - had business around
Graydon Towers!
Cutting through the clump of trees, Harry made for a corner of the
mansion. He was traveling diagonally opposite the direction of the feud and
his
process promised quick shelter with a chance of gaining admittance indoors,
before anyone within Graydon Towers learned of outside trouble. Reporting such
an event might bring Harry a first-class welcome, a point which he didn't
overlook.
There was one point however that he did overlook. Harry was forgetting
the
lightning flashes.
One came when Harry was just past the man who was shooting from the
shrubs. The flaring sky etched Harry clearly, and the man at the house corner
mistook him for an extra enemy cutting across to try a flanking job. Along
with
the thunder, the man at the corner took a pot shot Harry's way, and, despite
the
mighty rumble, Harry heard the whine of a bullet much closer to his head than
the storm clouds.
Another flicker from the sky and with it, the man by the shrubbery turned
and fired after Harry. Now that the sound of gunfire had been heard, the rival
shooters didn't worry about covering up their future shots. Each jabbed a few
more at Harry; then both ducked to shelter.
Harry had reached shelter, too. Hurriedly timed to lightning flashes,
those wild shots could have clipped him only through some freak of ill-chance.
Harry was past a corner of the mansion; which corner, he didn't know, there
were so many of them. He certainly wasn't at the front door, for a reflected
waver of lightning showed him only an angle formed by two stone walls. One had
a barred window, some fifteen feet above the ground; the other was entirely
covered with an overgrowth of ivy vines.
How safe this spot was, Harry wasn't sure, but at least he could do
something to improve it. He drew his automatic. If either of the fighters who
had included him in their feud should choose to ferret him out, Harry would be
ready for them.
Harry peered past the corner from which he had arrived. Immediately he
was
rewarded with a better view than the lightning flashes provided; what the
present glow lacked in brilliance, it had in constancy.
This light came from windows of Graydon Towers, giving Harry one fact
that
he had been sent here to learn; namely, how well occupied the place was. From
the number of lights that appeared, the house must have several occupants.
It was obvious, too, that the windows were all barred. He noticed
criss-crossed lines in the light that was cast to the ground below them. But
what Harry particularly wanted to know was what had happened to the
wild-shooting gunners who had taken him as their new target.
With one sweeping glance, Harry spotted them by those window lights. One,
the man from the shrubbery, was loping over toward the cluster of trees. His
was a long, lean figure, conspicuous with hip-boots, baggy trousers, a leather
hunting jacket and what looked like a hunter's cap. This impression was
well-etched by a glare of lightning from the receding storm; then the lean man
was lost among the trees.
As for the other, Harry saw him sneaking back toward the far corner of
the
house, stooping below the level of the windows. The man was blocky, but that
could have been due to his crouch, for he lengthened somewhat as he made a
dash
for the corner.
This man was wearing a dark rain-coat and an oilskin hat, about all that
Harry could remember for future reference. Then, as the lights in the house
began going out slowly, one by one, some sudden thoughts struck Harry.
First; the chap in the hunting outfit could well have stayed among the
trees, waiting an opportunity to approach the house again. More important, the
fellow in the rain-coat had unquestionably started a sneak toward Harry's
corner, otherwise he wouldn't have been forced to such a long retreat when the
window lights appeared.
He could still reach Harry without crossing open ground. The route would
be longer but safer; in fact, the man in the rain-coat could already have
covered much of it. His route would be simply to come around the house and
spring up on Harry unaware.
Turning full about, Harry gripped his automatic and shifted around the
corner, intending to keep close to the wall and spring a surprise of his own,
the moment that the man appeared. The storm was distant now and a glare of
sheet lightning, mostly a refection from the clouds, revealed the figure that
loomed suddenly through the misty drizzle.
Only a few yards from Harry's elbow, turning toward his very corner, came
the stocky shape in rain-coat and wide-brimmed oilskin hat.
Catching that glimpse in the last moment of the lightning flare, Harry
saw
the glitter of a gun that was swinging in his direction and knew that he was
spotted, too. Shots in the dark weren't the right policy, not unless the
challenger fired first. Harry sidestepped and lunged in at an angle to meet
his
adversary's charge.
A gun spurted past Harry's elbow and hard upon that misplaced jab, he
landed on the figure in the darkness, his own gun lifted for a downswing. But
Harry's drive was potent in itself; under its force, his opponent sprawled and
lost his gun. Pulling his gunswing, Harry turned it into a glancing blow
against the head that wore the oilskin hat.
A few moments later, Harry Vincent was stooping beside this crumpled foe
who had capitulated almost without a struggle. The broad hat had rolled aside,
while he fished in his pocket for a flashlight.
No flashlight was needed. Another sweep of reflected lightning gave Harry
a full look at the face on the ground. It was Harry's strained imagination,
plus the illusion caused by the drizzle that had made him picture this foe as
a
stocky man with hard and vicious features.
Harry was wrong on every guess.
What Harry had bagged in the darkness was a very lovely girl whose looks
were good enough to stand the effects of the drizzle that had marred her
make-up. Her charm was increased by the wealth of red hair that had tumbled
from the oversized hat and her build was anything but stocky, considering how
the coat had fattened around her limp form.
Harry Vincent had been warned that anything might happen around Graydon
Towers.
It had.
CHAPTER II
RATHER difficult, talking in the drizzly darkness and waiting for
lightning flashes to see what effect your words had on the person who heard
them. Better though than bringing a flashlight into the conversation, which
would have been not only impolite but dangerous, when you didn't know who else
might be stalking about.
Harry Vincent wished the conversation could have been less one-sided. In
sense, he was doing all of it, for the girl's responses were merely nods and
head-shakes that showed when the sky glared.
"So you still won't tell me who you are?"
The lightning obliged just as Harry finished that question and the girl
gave a head-shake. She was sitting up, staring straight ahead, her lips
tight-closed.
"But you think you had a right to shoot me?"
The girl lost no time in answering that one. Her nod was emphatic; if
brief, it was only because the lightning flicker ended. He put another
question:
"Would you shoot me now if I gave you back your gun?"
The answer was a long time coming. When it did, it was worth it. The girl
shook her head, and there was plenty of sincerity in her silent reply. Her
lips
were solemn and her eyes, meeting Harry's squarely, carried a plea that she
seemed almost ready to express verbally. Until that moment, the red-haired
girl
had maintained an attitude that could have been classed either as pride or
challenge, but now she was willing to forego both.
Harry was reaching toward the girl with one hand, pocketing his gun with
the other, just as the lightning gave way to another blackout. Finding the
girl's hand in the dark, he drew her to her feet and planted her lost revolver
in her fist.
"All right, Reds," laughed Harry. "There's your gun and here's your hat"
-
stooping, he recovered the oversized oilskin and swung it in the girl's
direction - "so since we've come to an understanding, why not let it be the
beginning of a friendship? Not necessarily a beautiful friendship," Harry
added, "but at least a talkative one. You might say thank you -"
A flare from the sky interrupted, and with it the girl did say thank you.
Her lips were just as tight as ever, though now they had begun to smile. It
was
her eyes that spoke, and nicely. Her hands dangled a .32 revolver and an
oilskin
hat, so she had to toss her head to clear away the copper tresses from her
forehead. That gesture added just the needed touch to the gratitude that her
eyes expressed.
"You're weakening, Reds," began Harry, with a touch of mock rebuke, "but
after all, why shouldn't you? I set the example, didn't I?"
The girl was starting a slow nod, and Harry's hands were resting on her
shoulders, as though inspired by protective duty. After all, Reds had a right
to be terrified in the midst of a dark and dangerous night, and Harry deserved
part of the blame. It was only right that he should make amends.
At that moment something said "Whsssssooooo" directly overhead and
punctuated its thud with a crackle. It was a sound that meant the same in any
language, the whistle of a sniper's bullet from somewhere yonder in the night.
Harry shoved the girl to the rain-soaked turf. Turning about, he took a
side-hop that ended in a crouch.
"Duck for it, Reds," snapped Harry, "and stay there. I'll handle this
show. Don't shoot, you'll only give yourself away."
A flame spurted from somewhere out on the blackened lawn and Harry
blasted
a shot in return. Two hops to the right, then another jab from Harry's gun in
answer to a pair that talked together. Apparently the feud boys were ganging
up
on Harry - at least so he thought until his next shot. Harry took three hops
before he fired and three guns crackled in return. Bullets whined high and
wide, but they had a nuisance value, coming in such quantities.
"There's a mob of them; Reds," declared Harry, coolly. "Keep close to the
wall, before the lightning flashes. After that, we'll make a run for it."
Over against one wall, Harry turned for a look at the girl the moment
that
the lightning blinked. His hand was raised in beckoning gesture, ready to
point
the way they were to run, when Harry very suddenly forgot those guns out on
the
lawn. Something so singular had happened that the whole situation seemed a
fabric of Harry's imagination.
The red-haired girl had vanished!
He waited for the next few lightning flashes to make sure that his eyes
had not completely betrayed him. There wasn't anywhere that the girl could
have
gone in this angular nook of solid stone, unless she had clambered up the
creeping vines to the roof.
The only other possibility was that she had darted out to the open; this,
though surprising in itself, was far more feasible than the ivy route. But
Harry had no time to weigh such considerations.
Bullets were winging from the open, whining dangerously close, whacking
hard against the stone at Harry's back and bringing chipping echoes from the
walls. The girl had been smart to take to the open spaces and Harry decided to
do the same. Amid another lightning blink, he darted from the alcove and
started a dash across the lawn.
It was a blind run in more ways than one. Not only did Harry lack an
objective, he couldn't have found one in the blanketing blackness that was
broken only occasionally by the lightning flashes. Besides, Harry didn't want
a
goal, unless avoiding bullets could be counted as such.
Either those shots weren't meant for Harry or the men in the dark were
becoming worse in their aim, for no longer did Harry hear the whine of
bullets.
What finally stopped Harry's flight wasn't a leaden slug; it was a wooden
tree.
After covering about half an acre of the Graydon premises, Harry had
blundered squarely into the little grove where he had sought an earlier
refuge.
Landing suddenly upon the soggy ground, Harry took time to breathe and
turned his face into the drizzle to recuperate from his collision with the
tree
clump. Lightning was blinking only faintly from beyond the hill-tops
surrounding
Graydon Towers and the rumble of thunder had been demoted to an occasional
dull
growl. Yet Harry still heard gun-shots, distant and spasmodic, receding as
though drawn along by the storm.
It was then that Harry remembered something. The first man that he had
spotted, the one in a hunter's costume, had taken to the shelter of these very
trees after ducking away from the shrubbery.
The fellow couldn't be around here any longer, not with the shooting
happening elsewhere. He was probably stalking some other prey through the
drizzle. Harry came from beneath the sheltering trees and began a personal
prowl in the general direction of the gunfire, which was well away from the
mansion and down a slope in the lawn.
A few final shots were all that Harry heard. From then on it was a blind
hunt across the sodden lawn until he came to a stone wall. Beyond the wall
were
trees, dank and dismal, visible only as a jet-black bulk. Then, while Harry
listened amid the drip of the rainfall, he heard the sudden snort of a motor
somewhere among the trees.
That car had obviously been waiting on an old road in the woods, and its
departure represented the withdrawal of some participants in the recent fray.
At least the terrain was safer, but since Harry had come to learn what was
going on, there was no use in staying now.
Except that it wasn't quite all over.
As Harry turned away from the stone wall, intending to trace the way back
to his car, the glare of a flashlight poked in his direction. Licking along
the
wall the beam would have found Harry within a few more seconds, if he hadn't
pitched himself into a patch of tall grass that flanked the lawn.
Harry hit the ground, staying motionless, when the flashlight's glare
skimmed the tops of the weeds that hid him; then Harry heard the squdge of
footsteps going past.
Lifting his head, he caught a good glimpse of this prowler just as the
fellow swung the flashlight toward himself. He was the lanky man in the
hunter's costume and his face showed a scrubby black beard. It was the sort of
face that Harry was sure he could remember.
Crawling from the long grass, he stole after the bearded man guided by
the
constant squdge of the heavy-booted footsteps. One riddle was enough for a
single night and Harry had experienced his quota in the disappearance of the
red-haired girl. The bearded man wasn't going to get away as easily as she
had.
Whatever the riddle of Graydon Towers, this bearded prowler might have
the
answer. Gun in hand, Harry Vincent was prepared to put the question in no
uncertain terms, the moment the proper time arrived!
CHAPTER III
IF Harry Vincent had guided the footsteps of the man ahead, he couldn't
have directed them better to his liking. Even in the thick blackness of the
drizzle, Harry could gauge the route from the slope of the lawn, the drip of
tree branches overhead, the slap of wet shrubbery and finally the tone of the
mushy grind of waterlogged gravel.
The bearded pacemaker was leading his stealthy trailer right back to the
big gates that fronted Graydon Towers!
The climax, Harry decided, would come when the bearded character found
the
strange coupe parked on the road in front. It would then behoove Harry to
become
forcible, though he didn't want to overdo it, remembering how a man in oilskin
slicker and hat had become a red-haired girl.
At least the thought was pleasant, despite its lack of likelihood.
However, the whole idea evaporated like the fading drizzle by the time they
reached the gate. The man ahead didn't even see Harry's car; instead, he
veered
to the right as he wormed his way through the gate bars and turned his
flashlight on a decrepit old car parked across the road. Harry heard a muffled
chuckle as the lanky huntsman hurried in the direction of the motorized
junk-heap.
Harry hadn't spotted that other car at the time of his own arrival for
the
rain had been coming down in pitchfork style. But since the bush-faced
gentleman
had evidently decided to go somewhere in his antique car, Harry decided to let
him have a try. Getting into the coupe, Harry sat patiently at the wheel while
he heard a starter wheeze repeatedly from the darkness just across the road.
Then a motor coughed, fenders began to rattle, and dim headlights moved along
the road. Starting his own car smoothly, Harry put it into gear and followed,
guiding by the old car's wavering tail-light.
It was easy enough on the straightaway, but the business became tough
when
the other car began taking dips and bends. Harry let it gain some distance,
then
turned on his own dimmers and followed along. Harry knew where this road led.
It
was taking both cars into the town of Kanakee Junction, some four miles from
Graydon Towers by this roundabout road.
Judging by the rattley condition of the bearded man's car, it couldn't be
traveling much farther than the Junction and Harry's guess proved correct. As
he neared the sparse lights that represented the town, Harry saw the other car
jounce into a driveway that looked like an entrance to a coal-yard. Keeping
ahead, Harry parked under some large elms that obscured the nearest street
lamp
and in a few minutes, he was sneaking around the coal-yard fence, looking for
an
opening through it.
Harry wasn't the first to find one.
A slat flipped up from the wooden fence and out from the space poked the
bearded man, whiskers first. His eyes, squinting craftily front side to side,
were too late to spot Harry who, at the first clatter of the fence-pale, had
dropped behind a convenient barrel.
In stoop-shouldered style, the lanky man sneaked across a strip of
tree-sheltered grass and disappeared into an alley between two dilapidated
buildings on the far side of a narrow street. By then Harry was stalking him
tree by tree, ready to negotiate the alley's darkness.
The bearded man's caution inspired Harry to the same, particularly as the
alley was a blind one. It was a perfect lurking spot for anyone who wanted to
spring an ambush and Harry didn't doubt that he would be on the receiving end
if he moved unwisely. The alley mud was soft and carpeted Harry's footsteps,
but he was afraid that it might prove sludgy.
A squash from Harry's footsteps would be bad enough, but even worse was
the fact that none were coming from ahead. Remembering the swish-swash that
had
preceded him across the Graydon lawn, Harry was disturbed. The complete
silence
gave the definite effect that he of the stoop-shoulders and black-beard was
crouched somewhere in the muck ready to do mayhem to any follower.
Harry groped with the utmost care, working himself along one blank wall,
intending to try the inwards of the alley and come out by the other wall. At
the deepest part of the alley, Harry was probing what he thought was a fence
when a portion of it gave with a sharp, warning creak. Instantly alert, Harry
whipped around, gun in readiness to meet a sortie from the alley's outlet,
which he could dimly see by a reflected street light. Backing at the same
moment, Harry tripped across a low threshold and landed at a slant within a
door that shrieked on its old hinges.
Harry had struck a stairway leading upward. Gripping a step with one
hand,
he came to his feet, gun thrusting from his other fist. Then, sensing
something
cold and clammy, he pocketed his gun, drew out a blue-headed match and struck
it, to take a glance at his mud-stained hand.
The clammy stuff was just what Harry expected, mud from one of the boots
worn by the bearded huntsman. With all his caution the gunner from the Graydon
preserves hadn't tried to cover his tracks. The muddy footprints led right up
the stairs ahead of the flicker of Harry's match. Blowing out the flame, Harry
drew his gun again and started upward.
It was totally dark at the stair-top. Groping about, Harry found
different
doors and wondered which the man had used. Listening, Harry heard slight thuds
from beyond one door. A match flame proved the lock to be a simple type, the
sort made to order for the average skeleton key. Having a few such samples in
his pocket, Harry tried them quietly and the lock soon yielded. After that,
there was no need for a match; enough light came through the low windows
beneath a sloping ceiling at the opposite side of the room.
This looked like a store-room, poorly stocked, and it had two other
doors,
one in each side wall. Boldly, Harry tried the one on the left; it gave and he
yanked it wide, keeping his gun in readiness. At sight of a pair of boots
standing on the floor, Harry dropped back with a low, quick-voiced challenge;
then paused.
They were the hunter's boots, all right, but they were empty as was the
rest of the costume. All the stooped man's regalia was hanging in a closet.
Dripping a small quota of drizzle dampness was the black beard that had been
the most impressive part of the prowler's get-up.
Closing the closet door, Harry stalked across the room and opened the
door
on the other side. He used a few matches and found he was in a large room
devoted to grain and feed, packed in sacks and barrels. Over in one corner was
a square-cut hole with a ladder leading down to the floor below. Harry took
that route and found himself in a grain store which consisted mostly of a
counter and a pot-bellied stove. There were windows here, so rickety that
their
catches couldn't hold. Harry opened one, and then dropped out to the ground.
No
foot-marks being visible, he decided that his unbearded predecessor must have
used the door.
In the front street, Harry was almost caught in the huge glare of a
locomotive searchlight. The depot was just across the street and a big freight
engine was doing some shifting chores. Entering the station, Harry found the
ticket window open, with the agent busy at his telegraph key. Picking up some
telegraph blanks, Harry called to find out the price of a wire to New York.
The agent consulted a book and named the charge without turning from his
table. Harry addressed a telegram to Lamont Cranston, Cobalt Club, New York,
and wrote the following message:
I THINK YOU HAD BETTER COME AT ONCE
Clanking the right change on the counter, he waited while the agent came
over and took the telegram. Without looking up, the man counted the words and
said:
"You can still use two more."
"Two more?" returned Harry. "What about two less?"
With his pencil he crossed out the words "I think" and asked how that
was.
The agent nodded.
"All right I reckon," he said. "No law against crossing out words instead
of adding them. Kind of neat, the way you did it. Makes the message read
simpler."
"So it does," agreed Harry. "Suppose I knock out another pair."
With his pencil, Harry crossed out "You had" and the agent chuckled in
appreciation. Then, to show that he was impartial, Harry marked off another
pair, the words "At once." That really impressed the station agent.
"Say, mister," he declaimed, "I reckon that's about the shortest message
ever went out from here."
"It hasn't gone out yet," returned Harry, "so I'll make it one word
shorter."
Harry put his pencil through the word "Better" and left the agent gawking
at a telegram that consisted of the one word:
COME
It wasn't until Harry was going out the station door that the agent
looked
up and saw only his customer's back. Calling after Harry, the agent reminded
him
of an oversight.
"Guess you don't need them other nine words, mister, but there's
something
you've forgot. Most people put their names on the end of telegrams. What's
yours?"
"I'm an Indian;" called back Harry. "Named after a famous chief. My name
is Rain-in-the-face so just sign it that way for me."
The station agent was scratching his chin by the time the door slammed;
then, methodically, he wrote Rain-in-the-face under the word "Come." Going to
his table he sent the message; then shook his head. After brooding
considerably
over the strange telegram and its even more unusual signature, the agent
opened
a door and went out to the rain-soaked platform.
There, the station agent interrupted a tall, brawny man in overalls who
was helping two others load some crates into a freight, car. The tall man
asked:
"What is it, Jerry?"
"About this telegram, Rufe," explained the station agent. "Being as how
you're sheriff in your off-time, I thought you'd like to know about it."
"Guess I can take a few minutes from my railroad work if you say so,
Jerry. You're talking to Sheriff Dodson" - drawing back his overalls, Rufe
gave
a flash of his badge - "so let's see the telegram."
Jerry obliged and Rufe scratched his chin as the station agent had
earlier, but in broader style.
"Who gave this to you, Jerry?"
"Rain-in-the-face, only I didn't get a look at his face, sheriff. Talked
like a stranger, though."
The sheriff nodded.
"Guess he's staying at the Junction House," supplied Jerry. "He ain't the
first new guest as has arrived today. Been about a half-dozen of them."
Another nod from Sheriff Dodson. Then, indifferently, he passed the slip
back to the station agent.
"You sent it, didn't you, Jerry?"
"Of course."
"All right then." Sheriff Dodson turned to help heave another crate. "If
it was paid for, why bother me about it? If Indians want to send telegrams, I
say let 'em."
Such was the sheriff's official verdict, but it wasn't final. Under the
misty glow from the freight shed lights, the face of Rufe Dodson underwent a
series of changes as he continued piling crates into the box car.
At last a gleam came from the keen eyes that were the conspicuous factors
of the sheriff's long, sharp-chinned face. As representative of law and order
in this county. Rufe Dodson wasn't worrying about the current quota of
strangers.
That question would solve itself and soon. All Sheriff Dodson had to do
was wait.
CHAPTER IV
KANAKEE JUNCTION was one of those quaint little towns that had everything
except a main street.
Harry Vincent discovered this in the light of a bright and pleasant
morning when he took a pre-breakfast stroll around the hamlet. Whoever had
done
the city planning for Kanakee Junction just hadn't; and the reason was
obvious.
As its name implied, Kanakee Junction was formed by the crossing of two
railways, the station which Harry had visited serving for both. The town had
sprung up around that focal center and sprawled in every direction. Nobody
lived on the wrong side of the tracks because the railroads were the only
reason for the town's existence, but it was considered good form to reside
some
distance from the station.
Hence the buildings that looked like tic-tac-toe marks around the cross
formed by the railway lines were mostly business places. The hotel was one; so
was Hatwood's Grain and Feed Store, which flanked a newspaper building bearing
the name of the Junction Junto. Over across the tracks was a large general
store while at a diagonal Harry saw a town hall and a few assorted buildings
including a barber shop.
There were trees all around, with green sward under them, one sector
representing a park where there was a church, library and school house. An
old-fashioned cannon stood on that green together with a statue that looked
like a Minute Man. But Harry was more interested in the strip of grass that
lay
between two dirt streets that eventually met in a fork.
Beyond the other side was the Junction Coalyard, its far end jutting to
one of the railway lines and receiving a spur track along which coal cars
could
be shunted. That stretch was the one that Harry had crossed when trailing the
man with the false beard.
After such a survey it was only natural that Harry should stroll past the
grain store. He did and found that the front was boarded up, indicating that
Mr. Hatwood had gone out of business. By then, Harry was conscious of another
stroller, a limber man with a roundish face that was both quick in looking
places and in turning away.
So instead of hovering around the closed store, Harry sauntered back into
the hotel and glanced over his shoulder to see the stranger right behind him.
Then for the first time Harry noticed the stoop of the man's shoulders and the
sharpness of his narrowed eyes.
"Could be," thought Harry.
As a guest at the Junction House, this stranger might have had as much
reason as Harry for visiting Graydon Towers the night before; perhaps more.
But
before branding him as a gentleman who preferred black whiskers, Harry decided
to sound him out. In the hotel lobby he gave the man an inquiring look that
brought a complete change to the fellow's expression.
Serving Harry a broad grin, the round-faced man became quite genial, even
to the point of introducing himself in a slightly wheezy tone:
"My name's Jeff Gerster. What's yours?"
"Vincent. Harry Vincent."
"An art dealer?"
Harry shook his head.
"No?" Gerster appeared surprised, only to add brightly: "A collector
then?"
"Neither," replied Harry. "Just a salesman who stopped here because he
couldn't find any place else."
Gerster chuckled at that one. With a flip from his vest pocket, his
fingers extended a card to Harry. The card bore the man's name with the title
"Insurance Investigator." Not to be outdone, Harry produced a card identifying
摘要：

GUARDIANOFDEATHbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"January1,1945.Twoconnivingcollectorsbattleforthepricelesssecretofthearchives...CanLamontCranston,aliasTheShadow,mastertheintricatemechanismoftheWingedFigureofDeath?CHAPTERILIGHTNINGstreakedtheskywithajaggedflash,andGraydonTowers...

展开>> 收起<<
Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 287 - Guardian of Death.pdf

共59页,预览12页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：59 页 大小：152.54KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 59
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注