Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 281 - Town of Hate

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TOWN OF HATE

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? I.

? II.

? III.

? IV.

? V.

? VI.

? VII.

? VIII.

? IX.

? X.

? XI.

? XII.

? XIII.

? XIV.

? XV.

? XVI.

? XVII.

? XVIII.

? XIX.

? XX.

Two houses stood on the hill.

Strange houses, those, because of their contrast. Individually, each had qualities that captured the

admiration. Compared as a pair, they clashed.

The same was true of the owners.

Claude Bigby owned the old mansion and it reflected his conservatism. For a century the Bigby family

had lived on the slope above the town of Lamira in the great stone residence which looked lost among its

own gables. The original Bigbys had hewn the oak trees to form the clearing where the next generation

had reared a mansion to replace the paternal log cabin. By then, the paper mill in the Kawagha Valley

had become a source of large and steady income.

By the time the mill had thrived and died, the Bigbys had become huge land-owners. They developed

acres of farms, orchards, quarries and other operations, until these had been parceled off to smaller

investors. From then on, the family had conserved its wealth, which now belonged to Claude Bigby. He

had inherited tradition along with visible assets.

The Bigby tradition was founded on one invariable rule: What you can't use, sell to someone who can.

The system had worked perfectly until Claude Bigby--present incumbent of the gabled mansion, sound of

mind and body, in his forty-first year of wisdom--had sold the old family sheep pasture.

Of course it was more than an ordinary sheep pasture, and therefore it brought more than an ordinary

price. This was the very reason Claude Bigby should have suspected what might happen to it. The

pasture occupied the same slope as The Gables. It followed the side of the wooded hill that curved

around to the left. The dividing line between the mansion grounds and the old pasture was Stony Run, the

stream that cascaded down the hill to join the Kawagha River.

Perhaps the trouble was that Claude Bigby hadn't sold his sheep until he sold his pasture.

Sheep love to nibble a pasture clean, giving it the effect of a beautiful, well-kept lawn. That was what

attracted Preston Brett. He was a man of Claude's age and wealth, but none of the tradition. Mr. Bigby

should have guessed that Mr. Brett had no intention of raising sheep.

What Preston Brett raised was a residence of the most ultra-modern style. His new home was one of

those prefabricated propositions, constructed out of everything from indestructible glass to

unrecognizable plastics. It was all brought in sections like the parts of Solomon's Temple. The completed

whole included impossible balconies and a flat-topped roof with garage accommodations for the

post-war helicopter that Brett had ordered.

So now the broad slope had two mansions: Brett's dream-dwelling with its soap-bubble hues and strange

name of "Future Haven", opposed to Bigby's ivy-walled establishment which was called "The Gables".

Which house was the monstrosity depended on the viewpoint. One thing was certain: whoever lived in

one of those houses would normally view the other in contempt, house and all. Each being a normal man

in his own right, Bigby and Brett behaved accordingly.

Those houses, however, were but the personalized symbols of the feud that had grown between the old

and new.

The man who knew it all was Herbert Creswold. He was telling the full tale as he sat by the window of

the fifth floor room of the Kawagha Hotel. His interested listener was a visitor named Ralph Lenstrom.

He was a shrewd man, Creswold, with sharp eye and grizzled hair that denoted experience to back his

keen gaze. He had lived in Lamira long enough to learn its possibilities as well as its quirks.

"Look at this town." Creswold gave a gesture from the window. "Tell me what you see in it, Lenstrom."

Adjusting his glasses, Lenstrom raised his heavy eyebrows to offset the bags that lay beneath. His piggish

face gave the impression that he would have liked to wallow in the grassy soil that flanked the sides of

Lamira's main street. What Lenstrom was seeing, however, were buildings which were mostly of wood,

except the Star Theater and the Lamira State Bank. Those two structures were brick.

"Rather antiquated," observed Lenstrom. "Or should I say obsolete?"

"Either term will do," conceded Creswold. "The point is they're doing business. Agreed?"

Lenstrom couldn't help but agree. It wasn't yet evening, but lines were forming in front of the Star

Theater. That promised a capacity crowd for the supper show, at which the average theater would find

the attendance poor. People were also going in and out of the bank, which stayed open until nine every

evening. As for the stores that lined the street, they were receiving their full quota of customers. Judging

from the packages that people were bringing out, business was heavy.

"Yes, Lamira is a product of the past," observed Creswold, from Lenstrom's shoulder, "but that makes

its future all the brighter. Picture that main street with fine stores, more and larger theaters, a huge hotel to

replace this one--"

"It will get them," interrupted Lenstrom, "if Preston Brett has his way."

Creswold's answer was a chuckle. Lenstrom pointed out a sizeable modern mill. It was located where

the main street crossed the narrow Kawagha over an old, clumsy bridge. The mill bore Brett's name and

a horde of workers were coming from it. But that wasn't why Creswold laughed.

"You still think Brett is going to expand his industries, don't you?" queried Creswold. "That, just because

he is making the mill pay, he will soon own the timber and the quarries hereabouts? I'm telling you,

Lenstrom, that Brett has gone the limit--and more."

"How more?"

"Look over among those hills," suggested Creswold. "See those farms and orchards. The people who

own them don't want industry to rule this town. They'll make sure it doesn't."

"If enough of them remain, they may," admitted Lenstrom, "but they seem to be thinning out already.

Look at the ruins of those farmhouses that have burned in the last month."

There was a nod from Creswold as Lenstrom pointed out blackened patches among the farms. Then:

"Don't worry about those," remarked Creswold, cheerfully. "Claude Bigby will see that those farmers

rebuild. They are his friends, you know. Maybe Brett thinks he owns the town, but Bigby claims the

county and it includes the town."

As if by common consent, Creswold and Lenstrom looked off to the hill straight beyond the town. There,

the two houses representing the old and new occupied the same slope, with Stony Run carving the

quarter-mile stretch that divided the two properties.

From this distant observation post, the two buildings appeared quite close together, which made the

comparison the more odious for both. It was plain, however, that Bigby and Brett kept themselves

completely apart. There was no sign of a pathway between the houses. A journey by road would

necessarily be roundabout, for the driveway up to Bigby's began soon after the highway crossed the

river; whereas to reach Brett's, a car would have to follow the road around the base of the hill.

Creswold and Lenstrom were thinking in terms of men, not houses and the outlook was itself an

expression of their thoughts. Looming over the hill, as though to engulf the buildings and their occupants,

was a huge thunder cloud. It represented one of the frequent storms that struck the region. A sharp

crackle of lightning etched the hillside scene; shortly there came a salvo of distant thunder.

"Sounds like Bigby arguing with Brett," laughed Creswold, "I'll bet those two could out-shout the biggest

thunderstorm that ever struck Lamira."

"I've heard about those storms," said Lenstrom, nervously. "How big are they?"

"Plenty," assured Creswold. "We'd better stay indoors until this one passes. It will follow up the

Kawagha past the Old Bridge Tavern. That's where they all go and it's where they hit the hardest. But

let's get back to business."

"You mean Brett's business?"

"Or Bigby's." Creswold gave a canny smile. "They're both licked: Brett because he wants to rush

everything and make it grow too fast; Bigby because he won't uproot himself and turn reasonably

modern."

The sky was darkening rapidly and Lenstrom's face clouded with it. A flash of lightning revealed a

troubled expression on the man's countenance. Creswold was prompt to understand it.

"I wouldn't invest in Brett's expansion schemes," advised Creswold. "He's already having trouble from the

workers because he's been hiring outsiders. You've heard that, haven't you?"

Lenstrom gave a slow nod.

"It would be equally foolish to back Bigby if he wanted cash," added Creswold, glibly. "Those two are

going to cancel each other out like a couple of Kilkenny cats."

"And then?"

"Then there will be some sense in Lamira. The farmers and the town-folk will get together and really run

things right. The profit will be in local real estate and the enterprises that go with it. Now is the time to

buy into the real investments, while everybody is watching Bigby and Brett--"

There was a double interruption from the storm and Lenstrom's telephone. The coincidence of a lightning

flash and the jangle of the bell made the fat man hesitate. Smiling, Creswold picked up the telephone.

"I'll answer it," he said. "I've never had lightning shock me over the phone wires. Besides, the call is

probably for me. I left word that I'd be here and I have a lot of friends in this county. In fact"-- Creswold

was lifting the receiver-- "they call me everybody's friend."

The call was for Creswold and he had trouble making himself heard above the rumble of the thunder.

Away from the window, where rain was pelting furiously, Lenstrom caught snatches of the conversation.

At last Creswold said:

"Alright, I'll meet you there. Wait for me. I'm glad you have it fixed."

Turning toward Lenstrom, Creswold shrugged as he saw how heavily the storm was lashing at the

window. He had the air of a man accepting a task whether or not he liked it.

"I'll see you later, Lenstrom," said Creswold. "Meanwhile hold everything. I may have more to tell you.

One of my scouts has picked up a few new angles. There's a lot of them in this county--scouts and angles

both."

Lightning and thunder, teamed in a terrific broadside, followed Creswold's hurried departure from the

hotel room. Cringing beside the door, fearing to touch its metal knob, Lenstrom gave a fearful glance

toward the window.

Outside, the downpour had obliterated the entire scene. Those houses on the far hill were gone--not only

from Lenstrom's sight but from his mind as well. The fury of the cloudburst terrified the timid man with the

piggish face. He didn't like the town of Lamira, when it stormed.

Ralph Lenstrom wasn't going to like Lamira even afterward.

II.

A LITTLE matter like a terrific thunderstorm might alarm the soft townsfolk in Lamira--particularly

newcomers like Preston Brett, the man who thought he owned the town. But it didn't bother the county

crowd that patronized the Old Bridge Tavern. They were hill-folk, like Claude Bigby.

What if the storms did hurl their hardest bombardment through the narrow, sloping gorge; there, where

the old bridge crossed the turbulent Kawagha as it tumbled toward the mill valley? These people were

used to the river's roar. A rousing thunderstorm simply added to the accustomed tumult. Once in a while

a passing storm splintered a towering pine tree and crashed it somewhere near the inn; when it did, the

drinks were on the house.

It was just an old Kawagha custom, dating from the days when teamsters used to lash their horses to the

limit so they could reach the tavern by the old bridge and find an excuse for sampling its liquid wares,

with a chance for a free tripper. Ramshackle though the tavern was, it had stood the test of a century.

Only one building in this region was older; the house where Claude Bigby lived.

There were Bigby portraits in the Old Bridge Tavern, beginning with the glowering old original who had

felled Indians with his axe along with trees. He had been noted for saying--and proving--that an axe was

just the same as a tomahawk, except that it had a longer reach. They had been hard men, these Bigbys,

to others than their friends.

The last portrait in the line behind the tavern bar was a modern photograph. It was enlarged and

chrome-tinted. It had the straight Bigby nose, the broad eyes and the square chin, proving that the Bigby

line lost none of its determination in its present scion, Claude.

Old Clem Jolland, who ran the inn, had a habit of toasting Claude's picture in anticipation of his patron's

occasional visit. At those times the drinks were on Mr. Bigby instead of the house. But since Bigby had a

preference for riding out thunderstorms in his own residence, Clem was at present counting other faces.

There was a chance that he might soon be pouring an obituary for some stricken pine tree.

"Nine of you," said Clem, dourly. "Which guy snuk in, hoping for a free? There was only eight, last time I

counted. How about you, Zeke Stoyer?"

Clem shot the question at a stoop-shouldered man with a morbid, drawn face. With a shake of his head,

Zeke planked a half-dollar on the bar.

"I was here afore," he argued. "Guess I was using the telephone last time you counted. Anyway, here's

for a drink, out of my own money."

"Out of somebody else's money," sneered Clem, "Getting important, aren't you, using the telephone?

Who were you calling? Maybe to Mr. Bigby, huh, to apologize for falling asleep without counting his

sheep the last time you were tending them?"

"They found the sheep that got lost," returned Zeke. "Maybe I hain't worked for Mr. Bigby since, but it's

only because he can't find nothing for me to do."

"He says different, Mr. Bigby does," confided Clem. "He says that if you ever ask him for another job,

he'll horse-whip you over into the sheep pasture that this Brett guy has spoiled worse'n if he turned it over

to cows. By the way"--Clem's eye went angry--"you've been going around to Brett's a lot lately, huh?"

"Only to deliver packages," returned Zeke, tapping an expressman's badge on his cap. "Same as I do to

Bigby's house occasional. Same as I'm doing right now."

Zeke gestured to a square package lying on a chair near the bar. Eyeing it, Clem waited until approaching

thunder had followed a lightning flash. Then, the proprietor asked:

"A package for me?"

"Naw." Zeke shook his head. "Jest something I'm taking into Lamira. Didn't like to leave it laying in the

open truck. Guess I'll ride it on the seat alongside me. S'long, Clem, and I hope two pines get busted."

Clem's jaw dropped as Zeke picked up the package and sauntered out through a rear exit. Never before

had an eligible party walked out on a chance for a free drink at the Old Bridge Inn. Zeke's action amazed

the regulars, too, until one tilted his head, listened between thunder claps, and laughed.

"Don't hear no backfire from Zeke's truck," the fellow said. "Likely he's just parking the package and

coming back through the shed. He'll be waiting until a big tree goes and then coming in for his drink. You

counted him, Clem."

The guess wasn't entirely wrong. Zeke was in the shed that the customer mentioned, but he hadn't made

a return trip from his truck. In fact Zeke hadn't gone to the truck at all. As for the package, he didn't

intend to deliver it. In the shed, Zeke had wedged an old chair under the door knob so that if anyone

tried the door, it would stick. He was opening the package and getting it ready for business.

The contents of the package consisted chiefly of a square black box that Zeke handled very carefully. He

poked it between two upright timbers of the main wall. He then uncoiled a long wire that was around the

box and climbed a ladder until he reached the lean-to roof of the shed.

Right then, a vivid flash of lightning ripped. A few seconds later, the ensuing rumble of thunder sent

reverberations up the gorge. The storm was getting very close, so close that the ladder shook under

Zeke's knees. Though whether the thunder jarred it was a question. More likely the fault was Zeke's, for

he was acting nervously.

Hurriedly, Zeke thrust a short metal rod through the roof of the shed, through a knot-hole that he had

noted earlier. Scrambling down the ladder, he screwed a plug and cord into a hanging lamp socket. Like

the rod and wire, these were attached to the black box. It immediately began to hum.

There was another flash of lightning and by the time the thunder came, Zeke was half way through the

outer door. The storm was slowing. The low clouds met the narrow winding gorge, giving Zeke more

time than he expected. Hopping back into the shed, he grabbed heaps of newspapers that were stacked

in a corner. He skeltered them over the buzzing box. Grabbing a large kerosene can, Zeke poured its

entire contents on the floor. He let the liquid trickle under the chair-barred door.

With the next thunder-clap, Zeke was through the outer door and gone into the first sweep of rain that

lashed through the gorge. He couldn't have chosen a better moment for departure, because he merged

with the downpour as though it had swallowed him. The sprawling inn was gone from sight by the time

Zeke caught his breath and threw a hunted look across his bowed shoulder.

Zeke's truck wasn't parked in the one-time stable yard behind the inn, where it should have been. He had

left it at a turnout in the road, a short distance toward town. There, the highway made a level hairpin turn,

before taking the twisty slope down toward Lamira. Just before that grade stood the old bridge that

crossed the Kawagha. It lead into a side road that traced an offshoot of the gorge, but Zeke wasn't

concerned with those particulars.

Only the turnout was important and there was a reason why Zeke had chosen it. If Zeke had been

parked in the old yard, he would have been forced to drive out the other direction and go clear around

the inn, where the highway curved in plain sight of it. Zeke wanted to be as far away from the inn as

possible when something happened. He was therefore following a well-laid plan.

Loping along a path among the trees, Zeke was a hundred yards away when another flash of lightning

came, with the thunder close upon it. Stopping short, Zeke huddled tensely. Relaxing, he laughed

hoarsely and wiped the rain from his face as though mistaking it for a mass of perspiration.

Still ahead of his own game, Zeke had no cause for worry now. The lightning flash had shown him the

short but steep embankment leading down between two brush-flanked trees. It sloped squarely to the

road, where his truck was standing in the turnout on the other side. All Zeke had to do was clutch those

two slender trees, let himself down carefully, and hop over to the truck.

He calculated on accomplishing it before another lightning flash. Though the embankment was already

muddy, a slight slide wouldn't hurt.

In fact, the slide would have helped if Zeke had taken it, which he didn't.

As Zeke gripped the trees, the nearest bush stirred. The trees were at a slight angle and the bush was

therefore perfectly placed for the next thing that happened. In the preternatural twilight, beneath the heavy

storm cloud, a pair of heavily gloved hands took an angled grip upon Zeke's neck.

There was the strength of a vise in those clamping hands and the bulge in the gloves told why. The broad

palms of the thick gloves contained strips of soldering metal that was pliable under pressure. Those two

strips became the segments of a collar that included Zeke's windpipe. Nor could Zeke fight against them,

for when he threw back his own hands to attempt a struggle, he lost his footing on the edge of the

embankment. He could only claw madly to regain a hold upon the supporting trees.

Lightning zigzagged sharply and with its flash, Zeke writhed like the occupant of an electric chair. His

backward lurch obscured the murderous foe who clutched him. As Zeke sagged forward, a roll of

thunder boomed a ponderous knell. That writhe was Zeke's last; in the darkness, he became a different

type of victim, a figure that seemed dangling from a hangman's noose.

The hands unclamped, the gloves spreading the improvised metal collar. Zeke's feet were on the

embankment, so his fall was strictly a forward topple that didn't carry him far. His arms, twisted as crazily

as the boughs of the gnarled trees, caught against the trunks and steadied him, thanks to the directing

placement from the murderer's hands.

Only a slight jog was needed to pitch Zeke over the embankment brink, but in the blackness, the killer

waited before delivering that final touch. In fact, all was so silent that the body of Zeke Stoyer seemed

alone and forgotten.

Why had the murderer provided this strange sequel to his crime?

What could he be awaiting amid the soft whine of the wind that accompanied the patter of the drenching

rain?

The answer came cutting through the singular mist that accompanies a thunder storm only when it drives

itself into a pocket of rising land.

That answer was the smooth throb of an automobile motor. It purred above the muffled obbligato of the

Kawagha River as it tumbled through its deep and rocky gulch!

III.

MARGO LANE shrieked and the brakes sang a tune that was a perfect mimic of her cry.

Only Lamont Cranston could have saved them from the thing ahead--so Margo thought; but she was

prejudiced in Lamont's favor. What Cranston did wasn't really very remarkable; he was saving his best

trick for a later demonstration.

What actually impressed Margo was the thing that could have happened if Lamont hadn't come through.

Their trim coupe was following the side road which was registered as 6-E on the road map. The "E"

apparently stood for "endless." Amid a rain that Margo was mistaking for the Kawagha River, the road

suddenly ended--with nothing but an inadequate chunk of fence between the car and nowhere. The fence

was marked 6-E and in this case the "E" stood for "end."

The brakes weren't enough to halt a calamity that would have finished in the gorge. Unquestionably the

fence meant that the road turned, but which way did it go? If Margo had been at the wheel, she'd have

been thinking it over during the eighty-foot trip down into the gorge. Cranston didn't pause to ponder. He

swung the wheel and answered the riddle.

The road went the way the car did, to the left.

Lightning ripped the rain and mist asunder, a split-second later. There was the road! And with it, the

bridge that meant an immediate junction with the highway leading down to Lamira. The bridge was an old

one and Margo expected to hear it rattle, but she didn't. Any clatter from those old timbers was

completely drowned by the horrific blast of thunder that picked up where the lightning flash left off.

Margo caught her breath at the far end of the bridge. She grabbed Lamont's arm as he wheeled the car

to the left. She'd been studying the road map so constantly that a basic idea remained wedged in her

brain.

"Turn right!" shouted Margo, amid the dying thunder. "That's the way to Lamira!"

"We're stopping at the Old Bridge Tavern," returned Cranston, quietly, just as the thunderclap finished.

"No need to ride out the storm. We'll let it do the job itself."

Its fog-lights cleaving the mist, the car made the swerve. Spotting the embankment, Cranston hugged the

near-side of the hair-pin turn. The corner of his left eye was busy, though, just as it had been when he

made the bridge. In an instantaneous glance, Cranston spied a turnout over on the gorge side. He was

not deceived into considering it a part of the highway proper.

Perhaps his glimpse of a parked truck helped, but it also registered another impression; namely that the

truck might have a driver. When Margo shrieked from her side of the car, Cranston knew the reason. In

a flash, he spotted the missing driver who came plunging headlong from a high, steep embankment. He

was apparently in a hurry to reach his truck.

There couldn't have been fifteen feet to go. A direct hit on that flying figure could have been admitted and

accepted at any inquest. But Cranston missed, and that was when Margo learned what real skill at the

wheel could do.

The car tipped to an angle that would have dropped Margo in Cranston's lap if the wheel hadn't

intervened. The right side was up on the embankment like a racing car in a motordrome. The man who

should have been a victim was sprawling in the exact center of a practically unoccupied highway.

Letting the embankment veer away from him, Cranston leveled off and stopped the car.

Lightning flickered, thunder crashed, and what Margo might have said, she didn't, because she couldn't.

This was one of those things that called for a long halt and lots of quiet, but Cranston wasn't thinking in

such terms. His uncanny judgment was just becoming tuned, for very suddenly he flung the car door open

and leaped out to the road. Thinking the highway was going to cave completely, Margo sprang from her

side of the car; then better judgment told her that Lamont was simply going back to help the near-victim

to his feet.

Again, Margo's guess was wrong. As she saw Cranston dash past the prone figure, Margo heard the

sudden thrumm of a motor, coming from the direction of Lamira. Margo knew that the approaching car

must be very close, as everything else had been, so far. In fact, to her astonished ears, the sound seemed

to start very sharply. However, the car was coming faster than might be expected, which meant that its

driver must be someone who knew this road.

Cranston was moving fast, too, but in the other direction. Margo caught a distorted glimpse of him

against a pair of headlights and her deductions ended in a gasp. It wasn't her fear that Cranston might be

run down; somehow, she couldn't connect common accidents with Lamont. What Margo saw reminded

her of a memory which projected itself into the future.

Against the glare, Cranston's figure looked fantastically like a shrouded shape clad in a flowing cloak and

slouch hat. He was in that instance another personage entirely, a strange, amazing being known as The

Shadow.

The illusion was quickly gone, however, obliterated by rain and mist. The oncoming car came to a stop

well short of the inert shape that was lying in the highway. Margo hurried in that direction. She was just in

time to form a huddle with Cranston and a man who was getting out of the car.

They were all in the shine of the headlights. One look at the man from the car was all that Margo needed

not to like him. His eyes were shrewd. They became accusing, like his crisp, tight smile, which, though

devoid of humor, had no justification in the present situation. Removing his gloves and folding them in his

pocket, the man asked coolly:

"How hard did you hit him?"

Cranston simply gestured to the embankment and an obliging lightning flash enlarged the feeble scope of

the headlights to clearly show the tire tracks of Cranston's car. No statement was needed; none could

have helped, considering that the thunder was roaring all around as though the lightning had flashed from

almost overhead.

The man nodded until the peal had faded; then introduced himself as he stooped beside the body.

"My name is Herbert Creswold," he introduced. "I just drove up from Lamira. I know this fellow; his

name is Zeke Stoyer." Creswold came erect, rubbed his hands and added: "He's dead."

Margo looked toward the embankment; it seemed to loom tremendously in the steaming rain. She could

picture a broken neck as one of several logical ailments after a tumble from such a height.

"Zeke was probably in the Old Bridge Tavern," continued Creswold, "along with the other bar-flies who

would do anything for a drink. He was probably fool enough to come back to his truck for something,

before he went to collect."

Cranston's eyebrows lifted.

"Collect what?"

"His free drink," explained Creswold. "They hand one out every time the lightning cracks a tree. Judging

from the last flash, the next will be the pay-off if there is one."

There was a splitting smash from somewhere among the trees above the embankment. The concussion

seemed so close that Margo thought she felt its scorch. The air cleared itself and spread the peculiar odor

of ozone, as if nature had provided a bracer as compensation for the nervous shock of its misdeed.

"Whatever tree that hit," began Creswold, "it was certainly the biggest--"

Cranston's gesture interrupted. He was indicating a flare that lifted above the trees. Wild ideas regarding

spontaneous combustion swept through Margo's mind as she saw that the vivid glare was produced by a

rising flame. Creswold knew this locality and it was he who voiced the answer:

"The Old Bridge Tavern!"

It was Creswold who pointed out the driveway into the old stable-yard. There, Cranston halted the car.

Lightning was crackling from the upper reaches of the gorge. Thunder was rolling back its heavy, but no

longer fearful, tone. But the lightning flash was pale compared to the holocaust that greeted the arrivals.

The Old Bridge Tavern was finished. The flames were spreading right and left from a sizeable shed that

was already an inferno. A group of staggering men were rounding the corner of the disappearing inn.

They were giving the massive bonfire a wide berth as they stared at the display in total disbelief.

Behind them came old Clem Jolland, carrying a bottle. He overtook the dazed men as they formed a

crude circle, clutching their glasses in their hands. With a slow, steady nod, Clem counted the faces. His

own brightened as he completed the tally.

"All except Zeke," announced Clem. "I was right when I said he wasn't hiding in the shed. He was just

acting smart, figuring no pine tree was going to get hit. Well, Zeke was right, for oncet--only he was

wrong, too."

Steadying his hand, the old innkeeper made the rounds of the glasses and poured his customers the

contents of the bottle. Finding that he had a last inch for himself, Clem delivered a wise smile and

declared:

"Here's drinks on the house-- what's left of it!"

There wasn't anything left, in the way of drinks or house. The last rafters of the old tavern were falling into

a fiery pit as Clem swallowed the final drops from his bottle. It was singular how rapidly that fire had

spread and completed its annihilating work.

Lamont Cranston had a word for it which he spoke in an undertone that only Margo Lane was close

enough to hear.

That word was: "Thermite."

IV.

THE coroner's inquest was over. Its verdict was death through misadventure. In local parlance, this was

interpreted to mean that Zeke Stoyer had gone and busted his fool neck.

Of less importance, legally, was the destruction of the Old Bridge Inn. Indeed, that incident was taken

entirely for granted. The old tavern had "gotten it" after all these years. The law of averages had simply

caught up with it.

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TOWNOFHATEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?I.?II.?III.?IV.?V.?VI.?VII.?VIII.?IX.?X.?XI.?XII.?XIII.?XIV.?XV.?XVI.?XVII.?XVIII.?XIX.?XX.I.Twohousesstoodonthehill.Strangehouses,those,becauseoftheircontrast.Individually,eachhadqualitiesthatcapturedtheadmiration....

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 281 - Town of Hate.pdf

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 281 - Town of Hate

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