Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 274 - Murder by Moonlight

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MURDER BY MOONLIGHT

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

? CHAPTER XV

? CHAPTER XVI

? CHAPTER XVII

? CHAPTER XVIII

? CHAPTER XIX

? CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER I

LAMONT CRANSTON halted his roadster on the brow of the high hill and studied the distant view that

lay etched in the brilliant moonlight. Beside him, Margo Lane smiled. She had been positive all along that

Lamont would swing back through Hilldale instead of returning to New York.

An invitation to Gray Towers, the country home of Gordon Waycroft, was something that Cranston had

sought for a long time, and having received one, he wasn't likely to pass it up at this late hour. For

Waycroft, a gentleman who thrived on excitement and adventure, was the sort of person who interested

Cranston, even though he might appear indifferent.

Scanning the distant landscape, Margo observed a curious structure on a far hill. It was a gabled building,

squatly and ill-shaped, that looked like something snatched from the last century. It was near the top of a

high slope, beyond an open, rolling lawn, and the building had the appearance of a sprawling beetle, dull

brown in color, though, of course, the moonlight could account for that peculiar shade. Viewed from this

hill, the sprawling manse was backed by encroaching trees that seemed like a monster ready to devour

it.

The sight struck Margo as ominous, particularly when she noted the dimness of the windows, their glow

so feeble that the moonlight drowned it. Aloud, Margo spoke the question that suddenly gripped her

mind:

"Can that be Gray Towers?"

There was a slight, dry laugh from Cranston. Turning, Margo saw no smile on the straight lips of her

usually impassive companion. Against the moonlight, Cranston's profile was strangely hawklike, adding to

its cryptic expression.

"No, Margo," Cranston responded. "You are looking at Beaverwood, the sanitarium owned by Dr.

Uther Marsh, as strange and as curious a man as the institution which he operates."

"You mean the place is an asylum?"

"Even that would be putting it mildly," returned Cranston. "Dr. Marsh is noted for one motto: 'All hope

abandon, ye who enter here.' Other physicians, specialists in psychiatry, occasionally promise that their

patients will recover. Dr. Marsh, never."

Margo shuddered and as she did, the sprawling building seemed to shimmer in the moonlight. The glow

itself became eerie when Margo thought in terms of the occupants of Beaverwood, men whose lives

were echoes of the past, whose futures were running out like sands of time with death as the only solace.

Somehow, Cranston must have sensed Margo's macabre mood, for he spoke with a tone of reassurance

"Don't let it sink you, Margo." Cranston's tone was singularly calm. "They are happy at Beaverwood, so

long as they comply with the rules imposed by Dr. Marsh. I have heard that he gives his patients free run

of the grounds and is an expert at humoring their bizarre notions. Some even say that Marsh is a bit mad

himself, and if so, his patients should surely find Beaverwood a haven."

A mad doctor with mad patients in a haven that was itself a mad creation! Having learned the true status

of Beaverwood, Margo could read lunacy into every line of the crazy structure. The building began to

grip her with a horrifying spell and she half expected it to loom from its slope and reach toward this

hillside like a living monster. If ever there was a place where Margo never hoped to be, that place was

Beaverwood.

"The full moon plays curious tricks," spoke Cranston, as though catching Margo's thought. "Forget

Beaverwood and look across the gorge. You will see Gray Towers over there."

BEFORE she could inquire where the gorge was, Margo realized that it must be a jagged streak of

blackness that cleaved the hill beyond Beaverwood. The gorge represented the course of Indian Creek,

famed for its hundred foot waterfall, which was indicated by a film of mist arising from an angle in the

blackened zigzag. But Margo's interest was taken by the sight beyond the cleft.

There stood Gray Towers, the home of Gordon Waycroft, imposing in its grandeur. Margo simply hadn't

looked far enough the first time, or she would not have mistaken Beaverwood for its magnificent

neighbor. Despite intervening trees and a half mile of added distance, Gray Towers was more of an

eye-catcher. It looked like an Old World castle transposed to the American countryside and its gray

walls gained a scintillation from the moonbeams. Nor was there any gloom about Gray Towers; its

windows shone with sharply glistening lights, signifying that a party was in full progress. Just as

Beaverwood had repelled Margo, so did Gray Towers offer the opposite effect. It was a thrill to be

invited to such an alluring spot on a glorious night like this.

Others must have felt the same, for among the park-like trees that fronted Gray Towers could be seen

the tiny lights of an automobile hastening up a curving driveway. Far below, through a long, narrow valley

that wound around the double hill, were other lights that dipped and bobbed, then finally swung up

among some trees that marked the entrance of Waycroft's estate.

Enthusiastically, Margo turned to Cranston:

"Let's go, Lamont!"

Deliberately, Cranston started the motor and began a trip down into the valley. It was a long way around

by road, at least a quarter-hour ride at the present pace, and Margo was piqued because Cranston did

not hurry. She thought he was giving her an unrequested lesson in patience, until he quietly explained the

real reason.

"We've waited quite a while for an invitation to Waycroft's," Cranston reminded. "It wouldn't do to

overstay our visit after we arrive."

"The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave," argued Margo. "Have you thought of that?"

"I have." Cranston eased the car into gear as it approached a railroad crossing. "It's the wrong thing to

do, Margo. Not to change the subject, has it ever struck you that Waycroft picks a most curious

assortment of friends?"

Looking at Cranston, Margo nodded slowly.

"Therefore we should arrive late," concluded Cranston, emphatically. "If we are the last to get there, we

can look over the whole crowd and form an opinion of them; an opinion which may have an important

bearing on the future."

The car had passed the grade crossing and the lights of the Hilldale station were fading in the

background. Cranston's comment had made a deep impression on Margo and with good reason. In his

other self, Lamont Cranston was known as The Shadow, that mysterious master who hunted down men

of crime. At gatherings such as Waycroft's party, where people from many walks of life hobnobbed,

there was always the possibility that some adventurer with a criminal trend might be looking for human

prey among the wealthy.

Perhaps The Shadow was already on such a trail!

THE thought thrilled Margo Lane. Leaning forward in her seat, she looked eagerly along the road ahead,

brushing back the brunette hair that the wind swept across her face. Smiling at the girl's enthusiasm,

Cranston gave the smooth-running roadster a trifle more speed, as he remarked:

"It isn't much farther, Margo. Just around the bend, down and across the covered bridge, and -"

The rest was drowned in a sharp screech of brakes. Turning the bend in question, Cranston had spied a

barrier straight ahead. It was a detour sign planted squarely across the highway, its arrow pointing to a

narrow side road that led up a steep slope to the right. Halting the car, Cranston opened the door on his

side and stepped out, As he stooped to draw something from beneath the front seat, Margo made a

protest.

"The road is closed," she said. "You can read the sign plainly, so why waste time? All we have to do is

go the way the sign points."

"It happens to point to Beaverwood." As he spoke, Cranston was sliding his arms into a black cloak.

"That makes it a dead end, Margo. Detour signs shouldn't point along roads that have no outlets.

Remember, there is a deep gorge between Beaverwood and Gray Towers."

"Then why the sign, Lamont?"

"That is something for us to learn." Cranston's voice had changed to a strange, sibilant whisper. "This

road happens to be open, because, while we were watching from the summit, we saw another car go

through here. So you're going through, Margo, and when you reach Waycroft's, you will extend my

regret at being unable to accompany you."

"And if anyone asks me about this road -"

"Simply say that you came from the other direction. You will hear from me later, Margo, after I have

looked into this riddle."

Placing a slouch hat on his head, Cranston moved forward into the gleam of the headlights. Shifting over

behind the steering wheel, Margo was asking another question, when she suddenly realized that her

companion was no longer at hand. Looking into the path of light, Margo gave a brief shudder.

Not that the girl was frightened at what she saw; it was merely that Margo always found herself startled

by one of Cranston's quick changes of personality. Moving toward the detour sign was a cloaked figure

that Margo knew must be Cranston, though it bore no resemblance to her friend.

Reaching the detour sign, The Shadow shifted it aside and beckoned. At the commanding gesture,

Margo started the car forward and kept on going past where The Shadow stood. His arm had a forceful

thrust that seemed to send the car along its route, even though darkness swallowed him completely the

moment that the lights had passed. Glancing in the mirror, Margo hoped for a glimpse of The Shadow,

but gained none. Blackness shrouded the spot where he had been; even the flicker of the moonlight was

cut off by the massed trees at the bend.

All that Margo heard was the whisper of a parting laugh, so vague and evasive that it might have been

inspired by her imagination and the murmur of the breeze!

THAT laugh was actual. Such whispered mirth was the token of The Shadow whenever he set forth

upon a mysterious errand. That his present mission promised adventure, there could be no doubt. Long

ago The Shadow had learned to gauge the symptoms of danger and they were present here. A detour

sign, planted mysteriously within a dozen minutes after a car had gone along an unobstructed road was

something quite out of the ordinary.

There was menace in that pointing arrow which guided unsuspecting strangers to the most forbidding of

places, the sanitarium owned by Dr. Uther Marsh!

Already The Shadow was moving along that road, but not by car, as was to be expected. He was

approaching on foot, silently, invisibly, his cloaked form eluding the filtered moonlight that trickled through

the tree boughs above the private road. Swift was The Shadow's course for he was eager to reach his

goal, whatever it might be, before another car came along to enter the trap which he had so carefully

avoided.

It was at least a mile to Beaverwood by The Shadow's calculation and that distance would merely bring

him to the entrance of the grounds, where great gates barred the way. That stopping point would mark

the first place where trouble might be expected, hence it was only a question of minutes before The

Shadow's mission might bring results. When crime threatened, the cloaked investigator preferred to be

ahead of it and his softly whispered laugh indicated that he was gaining that desired end.

The Shadow's laugh came too soon.

As he was jogging around a final bend that would bring the gates in sight, The Shadow heard the

evidence announcing that crime had beaten him to the goal.

It literally ripped the silence of the moonlit night, that shriek of human anguish. A man's cry, pitched to a

terrified falsetto that teemed with all the horror induced by the approach of sudden death. Midway, the

scream choked off with a sob of fearful consummation, telling in more than words that crime had gained

its way.

Murder by moonlight, fiendishly delivered, was ahead of The Shadow, master of the night!

CHAPTER II

THROB - throb - throb

The repeated sound, increasing as The Shadow neared it, was the muffled note of an idling motor. An

afterpiece to tragedy, it had supplanted the dying screech that quivered through the night. A throbbing

motor, at first unheard, was in itself full proof of the freakish circumstance that had nullified The Shadow's

plans.

Some other car must have come along the highway while The Shadow was coasting down from the

neighboring summit. The vehicle in question, coming later than the last car that rode along to Waycroft's,

had reached the fork just after the detour sign had been placed. Falling for the bait, its driver had taken

the side road up to Beaverwood, its lights unobserved by The Shadow, who at that time was deep in the

valley.

How serious this freak tragedy had proven was something that The Shadow learned as he came in sight

of the gates. There, in a clearing where the road widened, stood a light pickup truck, the vehicle with the

idling motor. Ahead of it were the gates, the truck nosed partly between them, for the gates opened

inward. Great gates, with sharp pointed spikes projecting upward, like those of the great picket fence

that flanked away from the gateposts.

There was a reason why the gates were only partly open. They were latched in a very singular fashion,

that kept their edges only a foot apart. The latch that held them was a human figure, horribly distorted.

The body was dangling in air, for it had been lifted high and brought down forcibly upon the near spikes

of the gate, where it hung impaled, the sharp prongs showing above.

As The Shadow reached the truck, he noted that it bore no name, though the dead man hanging from the

spikes was probably its owner. Moving toward the gates, The Shadow was conscious of a sharp,

repeated sound of something striking against metal. The sound was produced by drops of blood, falling

from the mangled body and beating a slow tattoo upon the hood of the truck, just behind the radiator.

Even in the soft moonlight, the dead man formed a gruesome sight, but to The Shadow, who had

observed murder in many hideous variations, this was simply a stimulus for immediate investigation. Death

was death and the more outrageous the method, the more chance there was of gaining clues. In this case,

The Shadow could immediately reconstruct important phases.

Very obviously, the truck driver had left his vehicle and started to open the gates, assuming that the false

detour continued through them. There were footprints along the gravel to indicate this and the reason the

truck had nosed farther was because the driveway was worn to a slight slope down to the gates

themselves. The attack must have come while the victim was opening the gates, so The Shadow looked

for evidence on the ground.

There he saw a chunk of stone that belonged to one of the gateposts, near the top. Perched on that post,

the attacker had caught the victim's attention and flung the stone directly at his head. It was during those

horrifying moments when he could neither run nor dodge, that the truck driver had delivered the wild

shriek for help that had terminated when the hurled stone reached his skull.

Looking to the opposite post. The Shadow saw that it also had a loose stone, lying on the top. This

pointed to two attackers, one from either side, which fitted further with the evidence. There had been no

chance for the victim to plead for life, not with two maniacs threatening him. The shriek was as logical as

it was spontaneous and it had been prolonged by the fact that the killers had kept their prey in a trap,

worrying him first from one side, then from the other.

They had forced their victim to seek an outlet between the gates and had therefore trained their aim upon

that spot. The moment the man had tried to dash in that direction, all chance of escape was ended and his

life with it. The first stone had found the victim's skull and the other, held in reserve, had proven

unnecessary.

THE impaling of the victim was simply an afterthought, the mutual expression of two demoniac minds.

The Shadow could picture the killers swinging down by the gates, picking up their victim and hoisting him

up to the hood of the truck. Standing on the fenders they had given the body an acrobatic fling that

pinned it on the gate spikes.

Swift work this, accomplished while The Shadow had been covering the last quarter mile, represented by

the long bend in the uphill road. Though there had been ample time for the heinous work, it was obviously

done in haste, for two reasons. First, the dripping blood, which did not come from the spike wounds, but

from the victim's battered head, which was hanging toward the car, evidence of how his body had been

flung, gripped on each side by hand and foot. Second, the killers had been able to get away before The

Shadow reached the spot, which was further proof that they had not delayed their preconceived plan of

handling the body.

The missing murderers couldn't have come through the clearing, or The Shadow would have heard them.

Therefore they must have squeezed between the gates, which allowed just sufficient space. It was dark

beyond the gates, like a narrow tunnel, but beyond was a spread of moonlight, marking the open ground

surrounding Beaverwood. Unless the murderers had fled up to the sanitarium, they would be edging

along the trees near the fence, which meant that The Shadow would still have opportunity to stalk them.

Drawing an automatic, The Shadow worked between the gates, taking care not to clang them. The dead

form above him quivered grotesquely, but its motion did not symbolize life. The Shadow had simply

jarred one gate with his passing shoulder.

A tiny flashlight glimmered on the gravel; guarded in the folds of The Shadow's cloak, the narrowed

beam flitted hither and thither, picking up footprints leading to the lawn, close by the shelter of the trees at

the left. Scuffed footprints, as though lazy men had kicked the gravel; these could be the tracks of

shamblers, who committed murder merely for pleasure. Looking up the slope past bushy trees that

dotted the rough lawn, The Shadow saw the dim lights of Beaverwood and wondered how many of its

occupants might prove to be homicidal maniacs. Perhaps the best plan would be to move up toward

Beaverwood and cut off the return of any residents who might still be at large.

Debating the two choices, The Shadow found a compromise. Starting toward the sanitarium, he was

prepared to change course with a long veer over to the left that would bring him to the skirting trees.

Thus in cutting off the fugitives he would be gaining on them at the same time, as effectively as if he

followed their actual trail. Such at least was The Shadow's preliminary plan, until new circumstances

ended it.

There was a snarl from the dark gray driveway that continued up to Beaverwood. Wheeling, The

Shadow saw a creature that materialized in a fashion as surprising as his own. Just as The Shadow could

loom suddenly from blackness, so was this attacker bounding from the dark gray background that

represented its own color. The creature was a mighty hound, its wide fangs showing sharply in the

moonlight.

THE huge dog's sharp eyes spotted The Shadow, only to lose him as he faded toward the gates. Baying

furiously, the beast turned for another spring; launching full force, it came up suddenly with a clang. The

Shadow had given those gates a sudden shift, widening one at the expense of the other; passing through,

he had let the hound meet the near gate full force, jamming it shut and bouncing the other part way open,

for in these actions of the gates, the distorted body on the spike tops was serving as a mechanical lever.

Dodging around the truck, The Shadow saw the body gyrate and nearly tumble, while the gates creaked

furiously on rusty hinges. It wasn't the hound that was coming through; instead, a bulky man with a

shotgun lunged out of darkness, in quest of The Shadow. Looking back, The Shadow saw a broad,

pasty face, leering in the moonlight. Mere sight of those ugly, pock-marked features gave the impression

that their owner would not stop at murder, if occasion demanded.

As he came, the ugly man gave a guttural cry that brought the great hound to his heels. Deftly, The

Shadow slipped back through the gates and halted momentarily as he saw flashlights glitter from the lawn.

Then came a voice, sharp, but with a trace of dignity:

"Dortha! Have you found someone?"

The ugly man supplied a unique answer. Instead of dashing around the truck, he sprang into it and

pressed the light switch. The brilliant glow cut through the bars of the gate, illuminating the black hole

beyond. There, between Dortha and a group of men who were headed by Dr. Marsh, stood The

Shadow, fully outlined in the glare!

The Shadow's plans had gone into complete reverse. His search for murderers had led to his own

discovery. Circumstantial evidence was against him, for The Shadow stood armed, a trespasser on the

Beaverwood property, and above him, grinning in macabre glee, was the tilted corpse impaled upon the

gate spikes, flinging down a silent accusation.

Rightly or wrongly, Marsh and his men were ready to throw the burden of crime upon this unwanted

visitor who had uncovered murder. There was a shout, in the doctor's commanding tone, ordering his

followers to fire at the stranger within their gates. As the call came, The Shadow knew that he was

trapped. Only chance could relieve him from this dilemma.

Chance did.

Always, The Shadow was quick to take advantage of unexpected opportunity and the man who

provided the needed ingredient was Dortha. In response to the shout from Dr. Marsh, the pock-faced

plug-ugly decided to beat the guns of Marsh's retainers. Dortha wanted credit in this case, hence was

overeager in his action. He had a weapon better than a shotgun, the truck that had brought a murder

victim to these premises.

Snapping the truck into gear, Dortha hurled it through the gates. As it whipped the barriers wide, the

truck dislodged the hanging body, which performed a lifelike somersault, struck the top of the truck and

tumbled into the rear, where it disappeared from sight. Against the moonlight beaming through the gates,

that spectacle was startling. Seemingly the dead figure had revived itself for the sudden plunge.

ALL eyes were riveted upon the phenomenon, except Dortha's. He was trying to keep The Shadow in

the glare of the headlights, but already the cloaked invader had wheeled away. Off into the fringing

darkness, he was gone from the range of the lights so suddenly that when others looked for him, they

blinked at his surprising disappearance. Angrily, Dortha backed the truck out through the gates, turning it

so that the lights would follow the line of trees; then, seized by another impulse, he wheeled the vehicle

about to drive down the road to the valley.

Not until then did Dortha remember the huge hound that had climbed into the seat beside him. In guttural

tones, Dortha sent the great dog to the chase. It bounded to the ground, loped through the gates, and

went snarling among the trees, drawing Marsh and the other men after it. They were leaving the truck to

Dortha; their quarry was The Shadow, but to find him was difficult, considering the start that he had

gained.

Flashlights spread in a semicircle, guided by the big dog's snarls. These searchers were following The

Shadow's own technique, but instead of a lone hand hunting for two or more fugitives, there were several

and they had only one man to find. Even without Dortha, they formed a formidable group, for all were

armed with shotguns which were ideal for close-range fire.

Saplings crackled as the big hound scrambled through, picking up the scent. There were moments when

the spreading men fancied they saw a fleeting figure following the curve of the lawn, and called the hound

to the new trail. After it had covered a wide area in a surprisingly short period, the hunt narrowed, far to

the left of Beaverwood.

There, the baying of the hound was muffled by the tumult of a great waterfall. The dog was keeping to

one spot, sure proof that it had trapped the fugitive. Flashlights converged into the clustered trees, gun

muzzles poked into the glare, while sharp voices called upon the fugitive to surrender. There was no

answer from The Shadow.

Skeptical men turned their flashlights upon the trees, thinking that their prey had climbed there, but the

boughs were devoid of any blackened mass. Besides, the hound was not baying at the trees; he was at

the brink of the waterfall, whining as he looked into the stream. Into the moonlight stepped Dr. Marsh, a

bearded man with a sharp and cunning eye.

Above the falls, Indian River formed a swift, deep current that would have swept the stoutest swimmer

with it. Below the brink, the cataract roared straight downward, shattering itself into mist upon the rocks

below. The brink itself was fifty feet across and formed the most menacing feature of all. There the water

swirled with the fury of a maelstrom among jagged, treacherous rocks, some of which were scarcely out

of water, while others were so precariously balanced that a mere touch might have sent them down into

the gorge.

The bearded lips of Dr. Uther Marsh formed a straight, set line, as his keen eyes summed up the details

of that scene. Confident that even a man of superhuman prowess couldn't have dared that crossing and

survived, Marsh snapped his fingers to call off the dog and turned to wave his followers back toward the

sanitarium.

Whatever his personal sentiments in the case, Dr. Marsh was sure that he had seen the last of an

overbold adventurer who styled himself The Shadow!

CHAPTER III

WHILE The Shadow was nearing the finish of his brief but rapid adventure, Margo Lane arrived at Gray

Towers. She'd driven carefully all the way, for despite Cranston's assurance to the contrary, Margo

believed in detour signs. Indeed, she was very much surprised when she crossed the covered bridge

below Indian Gorge and found its timbers sound; similarly, she was greatly pleased when she wheeled the

car into the long driveway leading up to Waycroft's mansion. As she reached the house itself, Margo

gave a grateful sigh that ended when she thought of Cranston.

Seized with the realization that Lamont was right, Margo recognized that he had chosen the path of

danger, if any menace lurked. Then her confidence in Cranston's other self, The Shadow, caused the girl

to smile at her own qualms.

Waycroft's front door was wide open and the numerous guests were hearty in their welcome. Among

them, Margo recognized faces that she knew, for many of Waycroft's friends were from New York cafe

society, which rated Margo as a member. Nevertheless, those gay personalities added an ominous note

to the occasion.

There was a reason why Margo Lane preferred cafe society. In that smart set that considered itself

smarter, many things could happen. Anything from petty jealousies to actual intrigue had been known to

touch off serious crimes, and always there were leeches surrounding the wealthy patrons of New York's

night clubs. Swindles, robberies, outright murders were a constant threat and it was Margo's business to

watch for their symptoms while she played the part of an attractive sophisticate.

Knowing that mystery was in the offing, Margo did not particularly welcome the familiar faces until she

happened to see Waycroft. The owner of Gray Towers was the essence of conviviality and his greeting

was so heartfelt that Margo's worries lulled. For Gordon Waycroft was a man of intuition, the sort who

could note any symptoms of brewing trouble. His mood was so lighthearted that it proved contagious.

Somehow, Margo felt that if there was menace in the neighborhood of Gray Towers, Waycroft would

certainly have sensed it.

He was a handsome man, Gordon Waycroft. There was youth in his manner, despite the gray hair that he

made no effort to minimize by a short-clipped haircut. Rather, Waycroft seemed proud of the bushy

locks that he stroked back with his fingers after giving Margo a polite bow. As proof of his intuition, a

twinkle arrived in his gray eyes, as he looked beyond Margo to the doorway that she had entered.

"Good evening, Miss Lane," said Waycroft, a touch of whimsy in his tone. "I trust this does not mark the

ending of a beautiful friendship."

"Why, no," said Margo. "I can't see what would make you think that I -" She caught herself suddenly

when she saw Waycroft smile. "Oh, now I understand. You're wondering where Lamont is."

"Precisely," acknowledged Waycroft. "You are arriving late and by yourself, two things that mark a

member of the lonely hearts' club. I sincerely hope that you and Cranston haven't agreed to disagree.

You used to get along so well together."

"We still do," insisted Margo, "whenever we manage to get together, but lately Lamont has preferred

another companion."

"A blonde?" asked Waycroft, blandly.

"That would hardly describe the police commissioner," laughed Margo. "In an off moment, he fancied that

Lamont was something of a criminologist. As a result, he's pestered Lamont ever since. Every time my

heavy date goes around to the Cobalt Club, the commissioner commandeers him for special duty."

WAYCROFT'S face went serious. He was handsome when he smiled, but even more so when his mood

became solemn. Then, his beaming face lost its upturned wrinkles and gained a rugged expression that

befitted his strong, square jaw. It gave him age, that look, because it bespoke experience. As she noted

the change, Margo felt that Waycroft had grown twenty years older in the space of several seconds, until

she realized that his jolly mood had created a false illusion of youth.

"I'm sorry Cranston did not come tonight," declared Waycroft, abruptly. "Whatever his talents at crime

detection, we could use them here. Perhaps I should have mentioned it when I invited him."

Margo threw a worried glance toward some of the chattering guests who thronged the reception hall.

Briefly, Waycroft's smile returned, but in a grim style that gave no hint of jollity. He was relaxing just

enough to ease Margo's apprehensions.

"Nothing is wrong here at Gray Towers," declared Waycroft, "but there have been some current rumors

covering the general vicinity. If I had thought for a moment that you were coming here alone, I would

have advised you to come by train."

"But why?" queried Margo, innocently. "It was a lovely drive by moonlight."

"There's not much light along the valley road," returned Waycroft, "and that's where all the rumors seem

to gather. People have seen skulking figures; glowing eyes peering from bushes. Some even say that they

have heard the echoes of crazy laughter, while they were driving through the covered bridge."

Margo gave a puzzled stare as she asked:

"What covered bridge?"

"So you came the other way!" exclaimed Waycroft. There was relief in his tone as he added in a lower

voice: "I would advise you to drive back by the same route. It may be dangerous along the valley road."

There was one technique that Margo had learned from Cranston and had used to frequent advantage.

That technique was to cover a bluff with a reversal. Anyone could pretend to know nothing, but the

policy could be carried too far. It was better to cover it with a glimmer of understanding and Margo had

practiced the trick to perfection.

"The valley road," mused Margo, half aloud. "You must mean the one that goes past Beaverwood."

There was a quick nod from Waycroft.

"You've heard of Beaverwood?"

"Of course," replied Margo. "They say it's a very special sort of sanitarium. I should know the names of

some of the people who have gone there."

"I could tell you several," returned Waycroft, grimly. "Some of their friends and relatives are here tonight,

holding a conference in my study." He gestured across the reception hall, to the far wing of the house. "In

fact, they came to learn how much truth was behind the local rumors. Too bad that Cranston isn't here to

help them analyze the case. But suppose we let them handle their own troubles, while we go out to the

garden."

LEADING the way through the reception hall, Waycroft beckoned to the other guests and the group

went through a rear doorway to a path that led to the Italian garden. The path itself was quaint for it was

composed of flat stones sunk in the turf and even by moonlight those small slabs gave indications of

varied colors. What attracted Margo most were stones of mica formation that shone beautifully under the

moon's glitter. As she paused to admire them, the rest of the group walked ahead with Waycroft, and

when Margo hurried after them, she found herself playing hopscotch on the glittering stones. Overtaking

the rest, Margo dropped her child's play and became serious as they reached the marble benches and

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MURDERBYMOONLIGHTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI?CHAPTERII?CHAPTERIII?CHAPTERIV?CHAPTERV?CHAPTERVI?CHAPTERVII?CHAPTERVIII?CHAPTERIX?CHAPTERX?CHAPTERXI?CHAPTERXII?CHAPTERXIII?CHAPTERXIV?CHAPTERXV?CHAPTERXVI?CHAPTERXVII?CHAPTERXVIII?CHAPTERXIX?CHAPTE...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 274 - Murder by Moonlight

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