Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 280 - Voodoo Death

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VOODOO DEATH

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I

? CHAPTER II

? CHAPTER III

? CHAPTER IV

? CHAPTER V

? CHAPTER VI

? CHAPTER VII

? CHAPTER VIII

? CHAPTER IX

? CHAPTER X

? CHAPTER XI

? CHAPTER XII

? CHAPTER XIII

? CHAPTER XIV

? CHAPTERS XV

? CHAPTER XVI

? CHAPTER XVII

? CHAPTER XVIII

? CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER I

THERE was a hunted look in the gray eyes that stared from above the upturned collar of the raincoat;

eyes as nervous as their owner, whose manner was that of a man lost in a jungle and a prey to all its

terrors.

Yet the scene was Manhattan in daylight, a trifle gloomy from the clouds that were pelting rain along the

side street where the scared man halted, but with nothing sinister enough to induce such fright. True, the

neighborhood was dilapidated, its houses so old that they seemed to stand only because they were built

in a solid row; nevertheless the street lacked hiding places where enemies could lurk.

Nor were there any pedestrians except the hunted man himself. The scared eyes took in that detail as

they darted from left to right, but they lost none of their fear. There was something rabbity in the man's

manner, for when he heard a muffled rumble, he bounded up some steps and into the doorway of the

house where he had paused.

The rumble came from the East Side elevated, the last relic of such transportation in Manhattan. The

elevated structure followed the avenue at the end of this block and just as the scared man hopped from

sight an express clattered into view along the central track. At that distance the passengers couldn't have

identified the hunted man, but he wasn't taking any chances on being seen. It wasn't until the train had

rattled into the distance that he poked his eyes and thin-bridged nose out from the doorway for another

quick look; then, as rapidly, he was back into his chosen burrow.

It was actually dark in that doorway, so gloomy that the man had to strike a match with his trembling

hands to read the names that were listed on the board. After three attempts, the flame finally flickered

and showed a button above a single, pen-printed name:

MacAbre

Steadying his finger, the man in the muffler pressed the button. As instantly as if someone had been

waiting for this visit, there came a clack-clack from the automatic latch. Thrusting the door open, the

hunted man hurried to a flight of stairs and ascended them, unmindful of the creaks that followed him like

ghostly footsteps.

At the top was an open door, the entrance to a rear apartment. Within stood a dapper man whose

mustached face looked very dark in the dim light. When the visitor hesitated, his eyes showing a worried

lack of recognition, the dapper man inquired:

"You have come to see the antiques?"

"No." The visitor's tone was low and forced. "I have come to see Professor MacAbre."

"Ah, oui. Le professeur has said that he expected someone. And your name?"

"The professor already knows it."

As with the push button, the response was simultaneous. Across a room stocked with rare old furniture

and other antiques, a door opened suddenly to reveal a stooped man whose long hair seemed to crowd

his shoulders. In the dim light his face wore what could be mistaken for a smile, since his opening lips

cackled a chortled welcome. But that smile was a mask, as the visitor knew from previous experience

and could see again as he approached the far door.

In contrast to the watery gray of the visitor's hunted eyes, Professor MacAbre had a gaze that carried a

searing force. His eyes, black as coals, were hard in their glisten and so deep in their sockets that they

seemed to belong in a face beneath his own.

Indeed, there was a change in MacAbre's chortle as he bowed his visitor into a square-walled inner

room and closed the door. The tone was harsh, in keeping with those eyes of jet, yet withal it still carried

welcome. This customer was a man to MacAbre's liking.

Coincident with the closing of the door, a burst of flame came from the center of the room. The visitor

dropped back startled; then forced a laugh, for he had seen this trick before. Though the flame kindled

itself into a crackling fire, the whole arrangement was artificial, produced by imitation logs set teepee

fashion above an electrical device that combined a heating coil with incandescents set among the logs.

How this produced the effect of actual flames was something too complicated for the visitor to analyze;

nevertheless, he became more at ease.

It was Professor MacAbre's turn to laugh.

"So simple, is it not?" MacAbre put the question in a chortled purr. "Yet it is a replica of the voodoo fire

that inspires spells too great for humans to resist!"

MacAbre was facing his visitor across the artificial flame that provided the only illumination in the room.

The professor's black eyes were vivid, for they had enlarged to show the whites around them. In return,

gray eyes were frozen as though their watery content had become ice, and their hunted expression had

congealed with them.

"I have brought my voodoo magic with me." In the flickering glow, MacAbre's smile was definitely a leer.

"Brought it from the jungle where the rite is practiced along with all the atmosphere that gives it power!"

There was a broad, high sweep of the professor's arm, his long-nailed fingers barely missing the hanging

pendants of a great glass chandelier that was reflecting the artificial firelight from directly above. As

though by magic, there came the thrumm of muffled tom-toms and of a sudden, the surrounding walls

were transformed into a jungle setting where female dancers whirled in voodoo rhythm.

It was still illusion, for these were motion pictures, but the life-size figures and the full-color background

transplanted MacAbre's visitor into a state of mental realism. Gray eyes roved these living walls, while the

recorded beats of the tom-toms were augmented by the clatter of anklets and bracelets which flashed

from the lithe limbs of the mad dancers.

Professor MacAbre had turned the room into a contorted cyclorama brought straight from a Haitian

jungle through the man-made magic of the camera.

"This is the spell of voodoo," spoke MacAbre, in a convincing purr. "The longer it lasts, the more you will

understand - and believe."

His eyes no longer hunted, the visitor still stared at the dusky shapes that stirred the jungle green. The

flash of the gold bangles was capturing him with a hypnotic effect. MacAbre leaned closer across the

artificial fire.

"You have spoken of persons who bar your path to wealth," reminded MacAbre. "You have asked if I

can dispose of them one by one, through voodoo forces that can never be traced. I have named my

price. Are you prepared for the first test?"

With a wrench, the visitor brought his eyes from the captivating walls. Fumbling in his raincoat, he

brought out a packet of money and handed it to MacAbre, adding in a hoarse whisper:

"Ten thousand dollars."

"Take this in return." From the robe that he was wearing, Professor MacAbre produced a small figure of

hardened wax, dressed in an old fashioned frock coat and striped trousers. He handed it to his visitor

who stared amazed at the face above the miniature Piccadilly collar and thread-like necktie.

"Why - why it looks like -"

"Of course," said MacAbre in a tone that was low, but harsh. "You wished it to represent this man. He is

your first obstacle."

"But if anything happens to him -"

"It will be through Voodoo," supplied the arch-professor. "But the world will find a more convenient

explanation. They will blame it on the Tarn Emerald."

"You mean they will believe the curse exists?"

"Why not?" MacAbre's chuckle was as dry as his gaze. "Only you and I will know what happened here.

These witnesses will not see!"

By "witnesses" MacAbre meant the dancers, for he swept his hand around the walls. Gray eyes went

fearful as they followed the professor's gesture, but once more the hypnotic effect took hold. Small

wonder, for the rhythm had increased to a double beat of tom-toms and the abandon of the dance had

reached the fanciful.

Sharp as a rifle came the crackled tone of the man who called himself Professor MacAbre:

"Break it!"

Caught by the madness of the moment, the visitor flung the waxen image to the floor, where it broke in

half. The fracture was not visible, because of the doll's garments, but the fire-like flickers showed the

change of angle between the head and feet of the figurine.

A sweep of MacAbre's hand ended the beat of the drums and as they silenced, the whirling pictures

vanished with a final writhe. Taking his visitor by the arm, MacAbre guided him to the door by the

flickery light. As the professor opened the door, the artificial fire automatically extinguished itself.

His face muffled in his coat collar, the visitor stumbled out through the antique shop like a man in a trance.

Clutching the banister, he descended the stairs and continued out into the street. No longer was his

manner furtive; rather, he seemed stunned as he shambled off into the rain like a panhandler seeking the

shelter of the elevated.

Professor MacAbre was an interested witness to that departure. The Voodoo maker was watching from

between two closed curtains of a front room window. Beside the professor stood the dapper,

dark-faced man who had first received the visitor. The dapper man was watching the professor's hands

as they thumbed through the stack of bank notes.

"We have made a good start, Fandor," declared MacAbre, as though he knew where his companion's

interest lay. "A good start for all of us - and there will be more."

There, MacAbre paused, for the departed visitor was out of sight. Turning, the professor pressed the

curtains tightly and added dryly:

"Much more."

From the cryptic tone in which MacAbre spoke, it seemed that the strange professor believed his

Voodoo spell would be fulfilled!

CHAPTER II

NOBODY paid any attention to the armored truck that pulled up in front of the International Museum.

Whenever the museum received collections of statuary or other bulky exhibits, the stuff always came in

armored trucks.

Today, even the truck seemed superfluous, for there was nothing in it except two uniformed guards who

stepped out when the driver opened the back door. All three went into the museum, which might have

indicated that they intended to bring something out, but that guess was also wrong.

The men from the armored truck were bringing something very important to Doctor Gregg Henniman,

curator of the International Museum. At that moment, Henniman was discussing the subject with two

visitors in his office.

"I am honestly sorry!" declared Henniman, with a nod of his white haired head. "Honestly sorry that my

relatives are not here to congratulate me upon my good fortune. That is" - he faced a visitor and turned

the nod into a bow - "with the exception of you, Rex."

A slow smile spread itself across the broad features of Rex Tarn. It was the sort of smile that Margo

Lane didn't like, for it carried a "know-it-all" expression. Perhaps Margo exaggerated that point because

she knew Rex Tarn and was therefore prejudiced. For Rex, once a wealthy playboy, still considered

himself somebody of importance despite the fact that his only ability had been the squandering of a fairly

sizable fortune upon a batch of worthless acquaintances who were already deserting him.

Yet, despite herself, Margo was forced to admit that Rex was rather handsome, for his keen gray eyes

carried a friendly flash. Besides, he had his humorous moments.

"Maybe your relatives don't feel like congratulating you, Doctor," said Rex. "There are reasons, you

know."

"Reasons?" Henniman's tone was querulous. "What reasons?"

"Approximately half a million," Rex estimated. "You can give the exact number after you count the dollars

that you have inherited from the Tarn Estate."

"Money!" exclaimed Henniman. "Bah! All my relatives are wealthy, so why should they want more?

Besides, they know that I intend to add the half million to the museum's endowment fund."

"And do you think they care about that? All they want is the cash - and more of it."

"Then you mean my relatives aren't my friends?"

"Did you ever hear of relatives that were?"

"Why, yes." Henniman took off his reading glasses and gave Rex a frank stare. "You appear to be a

friend of mine."

"That's because we are very distant relatives," argued Rex. "So distant that we aren't relatives at all."

Margo Lane decided to take advantage of the pause. So far she hadn't managed to put in a word and the

discussion was going further beyond her depth. It wasn't that Margo was dumb, because everyone,

including Lamont Cranston, rated her with a high I.Q. - for a member of the brunette bracket. But Margo

was beginning to wonder.

"Will you explain this double talk?" she queried. "When is a relative not a relative? When he is or isn't a

Tarn?"

"It's very simple," explained Henniman, as he put his reading glasses in a case. "The Tarn Estate was left

to the eldest of several possible heirs. I happen to be the eldest, even though my name is not Tarn."

"And the same applies to Numbers Two, and Three," put in Rex. "They are both Tarns on the maternal

side, so their names don't happen to be Tarn."

"What about Number Four?" queried Margo. "Is he a Tarn?"

"Very much so," returned Rex, his gray eyes delivering an angry flash. "He happens to be my cousin,

Alexander Tarn. Maybe you've heard of him."

Margo didn't recall Alexander Tarn, but Doctor Henniman did. Opening his spectacle case he again put

on his tortoise-shell reading glasses and rummaged among a strew of papers that covered his desk.

"I have a letter from your cousin Alexander," Henniman told Rex. "Ah, here it is. He is like you, Rex,

because he says that he will be glad to call here at the museum today. Unfortunately he has a luncheon

appointment and can not arrive until afternoon. Nevertheless" - Henniman leaned back with a smile as he

removed his glasses - "Alexander is more than anxious to view the celebrated Tarn Emerald."

"The Tarn Emerald!" A hunted look swept Rex's eyes as he came up from his chair. "You mean to say

you have it here?"

"It is being delivered," returned Henniman blandly. "I have instructed the chief attendant to place it in the

bullet-proof display case which contained the dinosaur egg that was here on loan."

"But you know what that emerald means! It has always brought misfortune to its owner! Why, it's - it's a

"A hoodoo?" laughed Henniman. "Nonsense. The term 'hoodoo' is as ridiculous as the word that rhymes

with it, Voodoo. Indeed, according to their original definition, the two are synonyms." Placing the

tortoise-shell glasses in the case, Henniman snapped the latter shut and gestured toward a large

bookcase. "Look in the encyclopedia, Miss Lane, under the title 'Obeah' which covers all savage

rituals."

Before Margo could comply, Rex Tarn interrupted. His eyes had a watery glisten; his lips were quavering

as he spoke to Henniman, whose only response was to sit back with folded hands and smile at Rex's

intensity.

"It's more serious than you suppose," insisted Rex. "There's only one way to end that curse, Doctor

Henniman. That's for us all to share the burden by dividing it."

"Break up the Tarn Emerald?" ejaculated Henniman. "Impossible! Why it is one of the largest and most

magnificent gems of its kind!"

"I mean sell it," explained Rex. "Then divide the proceeds. You won't miss the difference, not with the

half million that is coming your way."

Henniman's gaze sharpened to a degree that made Rex's gray eyes waver. Scornfully, the old curator

demanded:

"Do you need money badly enough to play upon a superstition that you foolishly think I might believe?"

Rex stiffened at the pointed query.

"Ask Alex what he thinks," retorted Rex, hotly. "There's only one thing he and I agree on and that's the

Tarn Emerald. We're both sure it brings bad luck to the man who owns it. Alex has hung onto all his

money, so you'll have to admit that he's in a position to give an honest opinion - if he has one in him."

The addendum didn't help Rex's cause. It expressed his own distrust of his cousin Alex, so Henniman

gave a shrug to close the discussion. Before Rex could reopen the argument, a brawny, dark-faced man

stepped into the curator's office. Glad of the diversion, Henniman turned and queried:

"What is it, Jeno?"

"I have come for my letter of recommendation;" replied the dark man in a solemn tone. "You said you

would have it, sir."

"Of course, of course." Annoyed, Henniman gestured to the muddled desk. "You'll find it among these

papers, Jeno. I don't know what I'll do without you around to clear up."

"I am sorry, sir," acknowledged Jeno, soberly. "But the doctor insisted that I go south for my health -"

"I know, I know," interrupted Henniman, drawing back his chair so that Jeno could straighten the papers

while looking for the letter. "Well, Jeno, when your health improves, I hope you will return."

Margo was admiring the delicate way in which Jeno tidied the desk. He seemed to know where

everything belonged and was putting objects in various drawers as rapidly as he came across them. At

last Jeno found the letter and retired with a bow as profound as a Hindu salaam. Then, pausing at the

door he stated:

"I might mention, Doctor Henniman, that the Tarn Emerald has arrived and has been placed on display as

you instructed."

The effect upon Henniman was electric. Bounding from his chair, he started toward the door, almost

blundering into it because he wasn't wearing his glasses. Hopping back to his desk, he pawed around and

finally yanked open a drawer to find the spectacle case in its accustomed place. Muttering something

about "bifocals" Henniman looked at the glasses before he put them on and ran his fingers along their

rimless edges. Then, with a gesture to Margo and Rex, the curator led the way out through the door.

By then, the solemn-faced Jeno had gone. The stairway down to the main floor was deserted when

Henniman reached its top. It was a long, steep stairway from the high mezzanine where the curator's

office was located and it led to the center of the main display room. Twenty feet beyond the bottom of

the stairs stood a marble pedestal that matched the interior of the museum; built into the pedestal was the

burglar proof display case that contained the Tarn Emerald. Flanking it were the armed guards from the

armored truck, while the driver stood nearby, speaking with the attendants.

Even from the balcony rail, Margo Lane could see the green glister of the priceless gem that now

belonged to Doctor Henniman and was awaiting the inspection of its owner. Pausing, Margo gazed just

long enough to draw an astonished breath and in that interval, she was conscious that Rex Tarn had

passed her. Then, before Margo could turn, she witnessed sudden confusion below.

With excited shouts, guards and attendants sprang toward the bottom of the stairway. Hearing a loud

clatter, Margo looked in time to see Henniman taking a series of flying somersaults down the steep stairs.

There was a call from Rex who was arriving at the stair-top, a frenzied plea for those below to halt the

tragedy that he had been unable to avert.

It was all too late.

So steep were the stairs that Henniman's whirl turned into a final bound that cleared at least a dozen steps

and landed him with a half-twist upon the marble floor at the bottom. Striking shoulder first, the old

curator's body seemed to cave, finally settling with a contorted sag that left it quite misshapen at the very

feet of the rescuers who had failed to halt that flying fall.

In that horrible moment, Margo Lane knew that Gregg Henniman was dead. His motionless figure looked

very pitiful and small in its striped trousers and frock coat, with the pointed collar above the shoe-string

tie. Viewed from Margo's position at the balcony rail, the dead form looked much like a broken doll.

Though she did not know it, Margo Lane was gazing upon the exact reproduction of a scene that had

existed only the day before in the voodoo parlor of a certain Professor MacAbre!

CHAPTER III

LAMONT CRANSTON gazed calmly at the blood-stained marble where the body of Gregg Henniman

had laid a short while before. He turned toward the door where the body had been taken and caught a

slow shake from the head of the attendant who was standing there. The man came over to where

Cranston stood.

"There's no chance, Mr. Cranston," said the attendant. "Doctor Henniman has been pronounced dead.

It's the coroner who's looking him over now."

Cranston gave a slow nod; then looked toward the steep stairway. "He fell all the way from the top?" he

inquired.

"All the way, from the top," repeated the attendant. "The lot of us were standing down here when it

happened. He saw the emerald, that's what Doctor Henniman did, and he just couldn't wait to have a

closer look."

The attendant gestured toward the small display-case that was set in the marble pedestal. Approaching

the tilted box, Cranston looked through the thick unbreakable glass and studied the Tarn Emerald. It was

a magnificent stone, so huge that a skeptic would have argued that the glass had magnifying qualities. But

Cranston was no skeptic where the Tarn Emerald was concerned.

A connoisseur of gems, Cranston was familiar with the size and shape of every notable jewel, along with

the histories of all matchless stones. This was the first time he had ever viewed the Tarn Emerald, for the

gem had been buried in a vault for more than twenty years, but to Cranston it seemed an old friend.

Strange to regard an object with its history as a friend, but Cranston was a man of strange preferences.

The face of Lamont Cranston was as unfathomable as the great green eye that gazed unblinking from the

bullet-proof case. In a sense, those features were as impenetrable as the case itself, for Cranston's

countenance was truly a calm mask that hid the thoughts that lay behind it. Whatever the Tarn Emerald

had witnessed in the way of death, Cranston could match it.

For in his other self, Lamont Cranston was a personage known as The Shadow.

Deep were the secrets of this famous emerald; deep too were those of The Shadow. Those secrets had

much in common, for they involved the greed of men. Perhaps the curse of the Tarn Emerald existed only

as a magnetic force that drew the very sort of malefactors whose deeds should rightfully expose them to

The Shadow's justice. Such could have been the thoughts behind the inscrutable face of Lamont

Cranston, when the train was interrupted.

Rapid footsteps were entering the museum, they approached the spot where Cranston was standing.

Looking up, Cranston saw a young man whose features were quite handsome, though not in a rugged

way. Perhaps it was the pallor of the face that took away the strength that the strong jaw should have

indicated; as for the man's smile, though friendly, it had a tired expression that indicated overwork.

Cranston remembered that smile from a few occasional meetings with its owner, Alexander Tarn.

Apparently Alexander recognized Cranston, for his droopy eyes opened a trifle wider and he gave a nod.

Then:

"Doctor Henniman said you would be here," remarked Alex, in an affable tone. "I've heard of your

interest in gems, Mr. Cranston, so I should have known that you would find the Tarn Emerald the main

attraction."

Turning toward the stand, Alex gazed downward with his tired eyes. He didn't have to ask if this

happened to be the famous emerald; the size of the green bauble announced its identity. But he

shuddered as he found his hands approaching the case too closely. Turning again to Cranston, he said in

a hushed tone:

"You know its history of course. A single word will tell it: Tragedy."

"The plural would be preferable," corrected Cranston. "A whole line of tragedies have followed the Tarn

Emerald from its discovery until the present date."

Alex smiled as he added his own amendment.

"Until twenty years ago," he said. "That was when the emerald was buried in a vault, where I hope its

curse will remain and be forgotten. Should I say the same to Doctor Henniman or would it be more

tactful to ignore the subject?"

Alex's gaze suddenly narrowed. The expression on his pale face was a cross between awe and horror as

he stared beyond Cranston toward a door that had just opened. Out through that door, two attendants

were bringing a figure that lay crumpled on a stretcher and Alex Tarn recognized the face that lay tilted

half-askew.

"Doctor Henniman!" Startled though it was, Alex's exclamation carried a hush. "Tell me" - his hands

gripped Cranston's arm and trembled there - "did something happen after the emerald arrived?"

When Cranston gestured toward the stairway, Alex's eyes went to the top and came slowly downward,

the horror on his face increasing as he visualized the scene which Cranston did not have to describe. If

there was anything of doubt in Alex's mind it was dispelled by the stain that he saw upon the marble floor.

Weakly, his hands relaxed and withdrew from Cranston's arm, then suddenly they tightened into fists.

"Who did it?" Alex spoke coldly, firmly. "Tell me, who killed Doctor Henniman?"

"No one killed him," came a sharp response. "The coroner has heard the details. It was an accident."

The man who spoke was Rex Tarn. He had come from the room with the others, and close behind him

was Margo Lane, very pale and very glad to see Lamont Cranston. As Margo's arm reached his own,

Cranston drew the girl aside and calmly watched the meeting between the Tarn cousins.

"Why did you come here?" demanded Alex. "You certainly aren't interested in museums nor in

emeralds."

"Emeralds perhaps," replied Rex, solemnly.

"Not so unlikely." Alex narrowed his gaze. "What did you do, suggest that Henniman give you the

emerald to avoid the curse?"

"In a way, yes," admitted Rex. "Miss Lane will testify to the fact. I said we would all be willing to share

it."

"What right had you to speak for me - or any of the others?"

"None, I suppose, but anyway, Henniman wouldn't listen. When we came out from the office, he was so

anxious to view the emerald that he rushed ahead of us to the stairs -"

Rex paused; for a moment, his gray eyes showed the hunted waver that Margo had noted before; then,

catching himself, he said sharply:

"No, I didn't push him. Miss Lane will testify to that. So will the others who were here at the bottom."

Without a word, Alex marched to the stairs and continued to the top. There he turned and looked down

at the group, but his eyes were most interested in the display pedestal. Cranston could see the tightening

of Alex's lips when his close-lidded eyes observed the gleam of the emerald, even at that distance.

Despite himself, Alex seemed forced to the mental admission that there was something in Rex's story

about the emerald's lure.

One step forward; then Alex caught himself. He'd almost done the same as Henniman and the fact

brought a grim smile to Rex's rugged lips, which Margo chanced to notice. Then Alex was coming down

the stairs slowly, watching each step, until he paused in deliberate fashion and picked up an object that

had just escaped his foot. When Alex reached the bottom, Rex met him and demanded sharply:

"What have you got there, Alex?"

"Only a wire from Henniman's glasses," returned Alex. "I suppose there's another on the stairs if you want

to look for it. I suppose they fell and broke on the way down."

Rex went up a few steps and found the other wire, pausing as some broken glass crunched beneath his

foot. Alex was handing his wire to one of the attendants, so Rex did the same, adding in a rueful tone:

"Poor Doctor Henniman. If I'd thought the jinx was coming after him so soon, I wouldn't have dropped

the subject. Well, if the coroner has any further questions, he knows where to reach me."

The cousins departed separately and Margo expected Cranston to follow. Instead, he stood looking at

the stairs until finally he undertoned:

"Henniman was wearing the glasses when he came downstairs?"

"Why, yes," replied Margo. "I saw him put them on in the office."

"You mean he wasn't wearing them when you arrived here?"

"He was wearing reading glasses, tortoise-shells with big rims. He kept taking them off and putting them

on. That's why I noticed them."

"And did you notice anything else?"

Margo was starting to shake her head, when a recollection struck her, one that seemed a trifle ludicrous

despite the tragedy that had occurred since.

"Only that Doctor Henniman couldn't find his regular glasses," said Margo, with a slight laugh, "because

they happened to be in the right place, which is where Jeno put them."

"Who is Jeno?"

"One of the museum attendants who was leaving to take another job. He came to get a recommendation

from Doctor Henniman."

Cranston's steady eyes turned toward the stairs and followed them upward as though picturing what

might lie beyond. Before Margo could begin to form conclusions, Cranston's gaze was back upon the

baleful emerald that formed the nucleus of tragedy. Fantastic though the talk of an unknown curse might

be, there was a practical side to the emerald question.

"When death strikes," stated Cranston, "certain things are often forgotten during the stress that follows.

Sometimes they may prove the real object of a crime. This emerald for instance -"

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