Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 238 - The Book of Death

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THE BOOK OF DEATH
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE STRANGE VISITOR
? CHAPTER II. TRAPPED BY CHANCE
? CHAPTER III. VANISHED VISITORS
? CHAPTER IV. CRIME TAKES A HAND
? CHAPTER V. CHANGED TRAILS
? CHAPTER VI. WITNESSED BY THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VII. MEN FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER VIII. DEATH ON DISPLAY
? CHAPTER IX. A QUESTION OF MURDER
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW VANISHES
? CHAPTER XI. BACK TO LIFE
? CHAPTER XII. CRIME'S NEW GOAL
? CHAPTER XIII. THE CHANGED DEAL
? CHAPTER XIV. A MATTER OF AGREEMENT
? CHAPTER XV. DEATH'S DOUBLE DEAL
? CHAPTER XVI. DEATH MARCHES ON
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW'S GOAL
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE NARROWED TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW'S JUDGMENT
? CHAPTER XX. THE END OF THE BOOK
CHAPTER I. THE STRANGE VISITOR
THE man who entered the Graymoor Building was old, as his stooped shoulders indicated, but his stride
was youthful. It was that difference between carriage and gait that brought looks in his direction.
Doorman, elevator operators, and chance passers-by were anxious to observe the face of so curious a
person.
They saw but little of his features. The weather was frosty and the old man's chin was wrapped deeply in
a muffler. His nose, nipped by the cold, looked like a reddish button, and it was surmounted by a pair of
old-fashioned spectacles, which had large, dark-tinted lenses, obscuring the old gentleman's eyes.
There was an impression of white cheeks and an equally pallid forehead, but they were not so
conspicuous as the shaggy gray hair that spread beneath the brim of the old man's shabby derby hat. It
fitted his head so tightly that it seemed a part of it.
All in all, the old-timer was a human museum piece, and no one overlooked the burden that he carried,
along with his gnarled cane. The burden was a brief case without a handle, that filled the space from the
old man's armpit to his fur-gloved hand. It was thick but flat, and from the edges which showed through
the leather, the case obviously contained a large book.
To many who viewed him, the old gentleman looked strangely familiar, yet none could quite place him.
When the stranger had gone up in an elevator, the doorman stepped in from the street and said to the
elevator starter:
"I've seen that old gent somewhere."
"Yeah," returned the starter. "I've seen him, too—or maybe just his picture."
"I kind of remember him in a newsreel, a couple of years ago -"
"Around Christmas, huh? Don't tell me he's Santa Claus! I saw enough of his mug to know he didn't have
whiskers."
Laughing at his jest, the starter used his clicker to send another elevator upward, and the doorman left in
a bit of a huff. He was beginning to remember the old man more clearly, and he resolved that when he
did guess the codger's identity, he wouldn't tell the elevator starter.
As for the old gentleman, himself, he was making no actual effort to hide his identity. He had reached the
sixth floor and was halted in front of a pretentious suite that bore the legend:
WILVERN CO.
There, the old man was unmuffling his face to show a firm, rounded chin. Hooking his cane over his free
wrist, he opened the door and entered a fancy anteroom, where a middle-aged woman was seated at a
reception desk. In a slow, precise tone, the old man stated:
"I should like to see James Wilvern, personally."
Such a request was unheard of, in the offices of Wilvern Co. Even the heads of the industries that James
Wilvern controlled could meet him only by appointment with the proper secretary, for Wilvern was a man
of mammoth wealth, who handled corporation presidents like errand boys. Nevertheless, the woman at
the desk did not come back with a refusal.
She, too, could remember the old man. Seeing his full face, she needed only a jog of memory to name
him, and the visitor supplied the needed clue, when he drew a dusty calling card from his pocket and
passed it across the desk.
In bold type, the card read:
ASAPH DARWICK
A few minutes later, James Wilvern, a man of broad build, bristly eyebrows, and heavy jowls, was
staring at that selfsame card. Pressing the button of a desk speaker, Wilvern ordered in sharp tone:
"Summon Jurn, at once!"
Then, strumming the desk with heavy knuckles, Wilvern kept darting looks at the card, his expression
running a complete gamut from apprehension to delight, each mood immediately replacing itself by one of
the opposite category. The mere name of Asaph Darwick had produced such effect upon James
Wilvern, that the man of millions failed to hear a door open behind him.
A dapper man stepped through, approached the desk, and inquired in smooth tone:
"What's it this time, Mr. Wilvern?"
Snapping around in his chair, Wilvern caught himself and picked up the card. He handed it to the dapper
man.
"What do you make of this, Jurn?" Wilvern inquired. "He's outside, waiting to see me."
Jurn's eyes popped.
"You mean Asaph Darwick, in person?" he asked. "The mystery man who used to advise Alexander
Munston?"
"Exactly!" returned Wilvern. "Munston used to say that he owed his half-a-billion-dollar fortune to his
dear friend Asaph. Now that Munston is dead, we've been expecting Darwick to pop into sight and
clean up on his own."
"And here he is," nodded Jurn. "But he could never break you, J. W."
"Bah!" snorted Wilvern. "He could break a bundle of men as big as I am! All with a snap of his fingers,
from what I've heard about him. Get back in the rear room, Jurn. I'll open the microphone, so that you
can take notes on everything we say."
WHILE Jurn was retiring, Wilvern called the anteroom and said that he would receive Mr. Darwick.
When the old man entered, Jurn was out of sight and Wilvern, in a most affable mood, was ready with a
handshake for the visitor.
Ignoring the extended hand, Darwick gave a short nod, instead. Then, as Wilvern started to help him with
the brief case, Darwick said testily:
"I can handle this portfolio, Mr. Wilvern. Its contents are extremely valuable, and they concern my visit."
Reaching the desk, Darwick opened the portfolio and drew forth a thick volume bound in vellum.
Gesturing Wilvern to his chair, Darwick stood with one hand resting on the heavy book and spoke in his
precise style.
"This volume," declared Asaph Darwick, "explains my entire connection with the late Alexander
Munston. It is a complete record of how the principal fortunes in America were acquired, sparing nothing
regarding individuals concerned therewith."
Wilvern could only stare.
"The secret of Munston's success," continued Darwick, "lay in fully understanding the persons with whom
he dealt. It was my business to learn their tricks, to ferret out their swindles, and to tabulate their
misdeeds. This book tells all."
With a forced smile, Wilvern relaxed. He waved his hand indulgently.
"I never dealt with Alexander Munston," began Wilvern. "He dates many years before my time.
Therefore -"
"You inherited your original fortune," interrupted Darwick. "It was founded on the promotion schemes of
your uncle, who dealt in fraudulent mining stock. Here is the record, Mr. Wilvern."
Darwick swung the big book open. Wilvern observed that the first few dozen pages were missing,
apparently ripped from the book. Darwick thumbed through several pages, then came to batches that
were fixed together by seals. Reverting to the free pages, Darwick began to run through them for
Wilvern's benefit.
"Here are the names of the persons swindled," declared Darwick, "along with a list of their heirs. These
pages contain full proof of each fraudulent transaction and the amounts owing to those dupes."
Wilvern came upright in his chair. "You mean that you expect me to pay them off?" he stormed. "To hand
over all the money that you claim my uncle took from them -"
"And more," inserted Darwick bluntly. "The amounts have been computed to date, at compound interest.
You see, Mr. Wilvern, it is only fair that your ability at accumulating wealth should also benefit those who
were actually responsible for the start of your fortune."
During Darwick's little speech, Wilvern's attitude changed. He was nodding, very solemnly, when the old
man finished. Then:
"Clever of Alexander Munston," he said, "to have you pilot him through the snags of big business. But
why didn't he demand this restitution on the part of persons like myself?"
"Poor Alec," returned Darwick, with a sad shake of his head. "He was too worldly. I could never
convince him that justice was necessary. On his deathbed, however, he relented, and willed this book to
me, to do with as I chose."
A sneer played on Wilvern's heavy lips. He turned it into vocal sarcasm, when he said:
"So you have appointed yourself a one-man committee to arrange the restitution of fortunes to claimants
who never knew that those fortunes existed!"
"Precisely," affirmed Darwick, in a tone that fitted the word. "Since you may be interested in knowing the
sum total of your particular debt, I can give it to you, Mr. Wilvern."
Old Darwick was thumbing through the pages of the huge book. He ran a thin finger down a column and
announced:
"It is exactly two hundred and twenty-four thousand, three hundred fifty-six dollars, and seventy-nine
cents, computed to this day."
THE old man wasn't jesting. Leaning across the desk, Wilvern gave Darwick a dark-eyed glare, coupled
with a bristle of his heavy brows.
"So you expect me to deliver a quarter million to a raft of paupers!" roared Wilvern. "What do you take
me for? A fool?"
"I may have mistaken you for an honorable man," rejoined Darwick in his icy tone. "These gaps in the
book"—he riffled the stubs from which pages had been removed—"represent other accounts, which
have been settled at my request. Those pages were given to persons who paid their just debts, according
to accurate records."
"As for these"—he fluttered past Wilvern's pages and thumbed the batches that bore seals—"they
represent more accounts that should be settled, some totaling far more than yours, Mr. Wilvern."
For answer, Wilvern snatched across the desk as though to rip the pages dealing with him from the book.
Calmly, Darwick lifted the book from within Wilvern's reach. Then the old man brought some seals from
his pocket, affixed them to Wilvern's pages, and replaced the vellum-bound volume in its much-worn
portfolio. Hooking the leather case under his arm, he reached for his cane and gave a curt bow.
Wilvern overtook Darwick as the old man was stalking to the door. Bristly of manner, his jowls gone
purple, Wilvern roared accusingly:
"This is blackmail, Darwick! A demand for money, backed by threat!"
Darwick brushed Wilvern aside with a hand that carried considerable jab. Turning, the old man spoke in
a tone of finality.
"I have made no threat, Wilvern," declared Darwick. "I have merely appealed to something which you
may have lost, but which I hope you have only misplaced. I refer to your conscience. Should you regain
it, you may notify me and we can resume our business. Good day, Wilvern."
With Darwick gone through the maze of corridors leading to the anteroom, Wilvern wheeled back into
his private office and slammed the door. The sound was echoed by a click from the other side of the
room, as Jurn stepped out from hiding. Calming, Wilvern demanded:
"Well, Jurn, what do you think?"
"I heard it all," responded the dapper man. "It wasn't blackmail, Mr. Wilvern. You hit it on the head when
you told old Darwick that he was a one-man committee trying to do people good."
"Do them good, is right," repeated Wilvern, seating himself behind the desk. "Darwick tried to do me out
of a quarter million. If he'd only tried blackmail, Jurn, I could fight it. As it stands, Darwick has the upper
hand."
Wilvern didn't specify whether he feared new tactics on Darwick's part, or was troubled by the qualms of
his own conscience. Watching him, Jurn wasn't sure what was going on in Wilvern's mind. Finally,
however, Wilvern voiced an abrupt decision.
"I want that book, Jurn," he declared, "and you are the man who can get it."
"I may need some men to help me," returned Jurn.
"Then get them," ordered Wilvern. "The right sort of men, of course. But the less you tell them -"
"The better," completed Jurn. "I know."
Turning, Jurn started out through the door that formed his special route to and from Wilvern's private
preserves. There, the dapper man paused; suppressing a shrewd smile, he looked back at Wilvern.
"Suppose I have trouble bringing the book," suggested Jurn. "Will it be all right if I destroy it, instead?"
"You'll bring it here!" stormed Wilvern. "At any cost! Of course I want it destroyed!" He paused; then, as
if in afterthought: "But I should certainly examine its contents, first."
"Certainly, Mr. Wilvern."
Those parting words were all that masked Jurn's thoughts, for when he closed the door behind him, the
dapper man was smiling more shrewdly than before. Beginning with a mere surmise, Jurn was now quite
sure that he knew why James Wilvern wanted the strange, important book that belonged to Asaph
Darwick.
CHAPTER II. TRAPPED BY CHANCE
IT was after dark when Harry Vincent entered the Graymoor Building and stopped at the bulletin board
which listed the persons who had offices in the building. Asaph Darwick had left, hours before, and the
stir caused by his arrival and departure had long since ended.
No one particularly noticed Harry Vincent. Harry was youthful, clean-cut, and, above all, he appeared
prosperous, which was the best sort of passport that anyone could carry in New York. Naturally, Harry
didn't advertise the reason for his prosperity: namely, that he was a secret agent of The Shadow.
One name made crimedom tremble: The Shadow. Mysterious avenger who hunted down men of evil,
The Shadow was accredited with amazing ways of tracing crime to its source. One secret of The
Shadow's success was his use of competent agents, among whom Harry Vincent rated tops.
Scanning the name board, Harry Vincent reached the letter "J" and paused, as he read:
JURN, OTIS, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, 524.
Having heard of Jurn, though he had never met the man, Harry filed the name for mental reference. His
present concern, however, was not with Otis Jurn. Continuing to the next letter, Harry found the name he
wanted.
The board stated:
KERFORD, BLAINE, ATTORNEY AT LAW, 501.
Harry didn't continue to the bottom of the board, where the name of James Wilvern appeared. Kerford
was the man that Harry had come to meet, so The Shadow's agent took an elevator to the fifth floor, and
approached Suite 501.
Before he could enter, Harry heard a door open around a corner of the corridor. Stepping in the
opposite direction, he saw a tall man, with long-jawed face and grizzled hair, going toward the elevator.
The grizzled man was Blaine Kerford. He had come from a rear door that formed a private exit from his
suite, a route he used when avoiding persons waiting in the outer office. Having seen Kerford several
times, Harry recognized him and sauntered after him, taking the same elevator to the ground floor.
Though Kerford gave Harry a few sharp glances, he finally classed him as a chance passenger from the
fifth floor.
Outside the building, Kerford hailed a cab, and Harry, pausing at the door of a parked coupe, heard the
address that the lawyer gave to the cabby. As soon as the cab was away, Harry doubled back into the
building to make a telephone call.
IN another building, some twenty blocks away, a gentleman named Lamont Cranston was conferring
with his broker, Rutledge Mann.
It was difficult to picture Cranston and Mann as anything other than they appeared to be. Cranston was
the epitome of indolence, a typical clubman who seemed bored by such necessary bothers as
investments; while Mann, rotund in appearance, methodical in manner, was obviously a man whose
mathematical mind was geared to the fluctuations of the stock market.
Yet there was something in Cranston's manner, something in Mann's actions, that belied appearances.
Mere laziness might have accounted for the impassive expression on Cranston's face. Hawkish in
contour, his features were masklike; but through that mask gleamed a pair of burning eyes, symbolizing
keen intuition in the brain behind them.
Cranston's eyes were watching Mann, and the broker was busy, not with stocks and bonds but with
newspaper clippings that he had arranged in little groups. Clippings that came from different cities, all with
surprising headlines.
Numbered by dozens, these clippings all pertained to curious legacies, strange gifts, and the lucky
discovery of money, by persons throughout the country.
Most of the items were strictly local, in their respective towns, especially the sums that were under fifty
thousand dollars. Added together, however, the sums represented by the clippings summed up to a total
of more than half a million dollars, and both Cranston and Mann agreed that these recorded cases
indicated that there must be many others, wherein the recipients of anonymous gifts had not informed the
newspapers.
Cranston and Mann likewise agreed that these windfalls of cash had come from one source—or, rather,
Cranston held to that theory, and Mann accepted it. For Lamont Cranston, it so happened, was none
other than The Shadow, and Rutledge Mann was another of his trusted agents.
When Cranston spoke, his tone was casual, but his words direct. "The only plausible source of so much
wealth," spoke Cranston, "would be the estate of Alexander Munston. He had so many millions, Mann,
that he lost count of them." Still sorting clippings, Mann gave a nod.
"As for the manner of the gifts"—Cranston's hand gestured idly toward the clippings—"they indicate a
legal mind behind them. Which, in turn, points to Blaine Kerford, principal attorney for the late Alexander
Munston."
Mann's roundish face acquired a musing look. Cranston's keen eyes caught the reason.
"Yes, Mann," said Cranston. "Mystery funds might point to a mystery man in the case. I know that you
are thinking of Asaph Darwick. However, I can assure you that if Darwick had a hand in this matter,
Kerford would know about it -"
It was the telephone that interrupted. Answering it, Mann spoke methodically at first, then showed
eagerness in his tone. Dropping the conversation, he turned to Cranston.
"It's Vincent!" Mann exclaimed. "He says that Kerford has gone to visit Darwick!"
"Instructions," spoke Cranston calmly, gesturing for Mann to relay them. "Tell Vincent to meet Margo,
and both proceed to Darwick's. They are to watch out front and report anything unusual that occurs
there. They can also watch for signals from the house itself."
WITHIN half an hour, The Shadow was approaching the house where Asaph Darwick lived. It was an
old-fashioned house that formed part of a row, and its brownstone front had the formidable aspect of a
fortress. Viewing it from an angle, The Shadow glided through a space near the end of the row to have a
look at the house from the rear.
During that survey, The Shadow saw Harry's coupe, parked inconspicuously some distance from the
house. But neither Harry Vincent, nor his companion, Margo Lane, saw any sign of The Shadow.
He was no longer Lamont Cranston; he was a creature of darkness that moved through the shelter of
night, clad in a black cloak, his hawkish features obscured by the brim of a slouch hat.
Such was The Shadow; his mission, upon this evening, was simply the investigation of certain matters that
might have a bearing upon future crime. Though Asaph Darwick and Blaine Kerford might prove to be
men of integrity in their respective ways, the work in which each played a part might prove dire in its
consequences.
Where money went, crime frequently followed. Until The Shadow found the reason behind the bonanzas
which had fallen in the laps of so many persons, he would not be satisfied that all was well. Even then, he
would have no immediate surety that men of crime were not indulging in the same mission: that of seeking
the source of the surprising wealth.
Only a survey of the scene itself could assure The Shadow how matters stood, and he was ready to face
considerable hazard to obtain a firsthand knowledge of the situation.
Cracking into Darwick's old mansion was quite a problem in itself. From the rear court, The Shadow
studied the back wall of the building and saw barred windows, above. The cellar windows offered a
sample of what the bars were like. Stooping, The Shadow examined heavy gratings set permanently into
brick.
He tested one grating, to learn its strength, and under the leverage of The Shadow's powerful hands the
barrier suddenly yielded. The fault lay with the bricks, not with the bars. Loose mortar broke from the
inner wall; a small section of masonry gave and plunked to the cement of the cellar floor.
A few minutes later, The Shadow had the bars swinging inward, as though hinged on the side that was
still attached to the wall. Sliding through the narrow opening, he dropped to the cement and pressed the
loose bars back into place.
As a final touch, The Shadow set the chunks of brick where they belonged, studied the result with the
glow of a tiny flashlight, and gave a whispery laugh that denoted his approval.
More luck followed The Shadow's successful entry. He found stairs up from the cellar; an open door at
the top. He paused, drawing the door shut again as a plaintive "meow" came from the steps behind him.
Swinging the flashlight, The Shadow caught the reflected glow of a cat's eyes. Evidently a pet of
Darwick's, the cat was as black as The Shadow's cloak.
Rather than have the feline cause complications, The Shadow stroked the creature until it purred; then
placed the cat a few steps lower, while he turned and opened the door, closing it deftly, silently behind
him. The Shadow was in a dim-lit hall, facing toward the front of the house. From a curtained doorway,
ahead and to the left, he saw a stronger light, heard the faint buzz of voices. Moving forward, The
Shadow reached the curtain, slid between it and the doorway and practically projected himself into the
company of Asaph Darwick and his visitor, Blaine Kerford.
They were seated near a desk in the center of a fairly large room. Concentrated upon their conversation,
they had no inkling of The Shadow's arrival. The dark curtain shrouded the figure in black; the edge of a
large bookcase also obscured their sight of the doorway.
Looking about the room, The Shadow saw that it was something of an office. Along with bookcases and
desk, it had filing cabinets; while behind Darwick, in a deep corner of the alcove, was a large,
old-fashioned safe, equipped with three dials.
His shocky hair waving as he wagged his head, Darwick was waving a bony forefinger toward Kerford.
Old Darwick was displaying enthusiasm, though his eyes showed no sparkle, because of his dark glasses;
nor did his pale, drawn face furnish much expression. It was the tone of his voice, high of pitch, that
marked the enthusiasm.
"I TELL you, Blaine," Darwick was saying, "the plan is working to perfection! Until today, I encountered
no opposition from anyone. When I showed people the book"—he gestured toward the safe—"they
were willing to study the records fairly, and accept my view."
"Until today," repeated Kerford, in a dry tone. "Who gave you trouble today, Darwick?"
The old man shook his head.
"I have my clients, Kerford," he said, "just as you have yours. Everything must be confidential."
"Yes," snapped Kerford, "confidential, until they agree to hand over money to persons mentioned in that
ledger of yours! Then you call upon me to pass out the anonymous gifts."
"And why not, Kerford?"
The lawyer didn't answer right away. Instead, he arose from his chair and took a few paces, turning
toward the door as he did.
Though The Shadow eased back into the curtain, he gained a good look at Kerford's longish face and
watched the lawyer thrust his fingers through the gray-tinged hair above it. More than mere annoyance
was registered on Kerford's features.
Turning suddenly toward Darwick, Kerford gave way to a verbal outburst.
"It isn't fair to me, Darwick! Suppose it became known that I had a hand in these disbursements. People,
would suppose that I had appropriated huge funds belonging to the Munston estate and was giving them
out to straw men, letting each keep a small percent, in return. Such things have been done, you know."
There was logic in Kerford's argument, for such a possibility had already occurred to The Shadow,
which was another reason why he had concentrated upon Kerford, rather than Darwick. But Darwick,
himself, had an answer to the argument.
"If circumstances reached that point, Blaine," the old man said, "I would make public the whole case and
request the donors of the various gifts to declare themselves. They are all reputable persons, even though
their predecessors were not."
"And suppose," put Kerford narrowly, "that something should happen to you in the meantime, Darwick?
As an attorney, I always consider such eventualities."
"What could happen to me?"
"Almost anything, Darwick. Living alone here, known as a man of considerable wealth, you might
become the target of robbery; even of murder. You are totally unprotected. Why, tonight, the door was
wide open and I walked right into the house!"
Darwick had tilted his head back to give a long, chuckly laugh. He regarded Kerford's statement as
humorous, rather than serious, and the lawyer couldn't understand why, until Darwick finally explained.
"The door was open because I expected you, Kerford," Darwick declared, "and because I trusted you.
However, I should be quite safe if the door stayed open always. Turn around, look toward those
curtains, and watch!"
Darwick's hand went to a switch on the side of the desk. Kerford, not wanting to miss anything, wheeled
toward the curtains.
Simultaneously, The Shadow made a backward twist, a masterpiece of deftness, by which he intended to
regain the hallway without leaving a telltale rustle of the curtains. He expected Darwick to hold his
demonstration for a few seconds, so that Kerford would properly witness it; but the abrupt manner in
which the lawyer turned made delay unnecessary.
Old Darwick pressed the switch. Instantly, the thin streak of a photoelectric beam licked across the
doorway, from a tiny eye beside one curtain toward a similar orb near the other. The beam was cut the
moment it appeared, sliced by a figure that neither Darwick nor Kerford spotted: the twisting shape of
The Shadow.
The result was sudden. Actuated by the interrupted beam, a trapdoor opened in the doorway, dropping
its halves downward with a clatter. In the midst of a quick turn, The Shadow couldn't even clutch the
curtain as he went.
Headlong, the cloaked eavesdropper disappeared through the chasm in the floor, a blotch of human
blackness that seemed a part of the darkness below.
The Shadow was gone, as rapidly as he had come. Dropped through the chance trap that Darwick had
sprung, The Shadow was bound for the cement pitfall designed to receive unwanted intruders, like
himself!
CHAPTER III. VANISHED VISITORS
AS the sections of the floor trap slipped up into place, Kerford turned to Darwick with a look of
consternation.
"Why didn't you tell me about that thing before?" the lawyer exclaimed. "Why, I might have walked right
into it! The way it dropped when you pressed the switch -"
Waving a scrawny hand for silence, Darwick rose from his desk, staring intently at the closed floor.
"It shouldn't have happened that way, Kerford," Darwick declared. "I wanted you to see the
photoelectric beam traveling from one cell to the other. Only when the beam is interrupted, does the trap
function."
"Even worse!" put in Kerford. "You're admitting that the thing is out of order!"
"Not at all," returned Darwick steadily. "My eyes are not sharp enough to catch things that happen
rapidly, but I assure you that this apparatus has been thoroughly tested. Therefore, I am forced to the
conclusion that an intruder was hidden in those curtains; that in leaving them, he broke the beam and
made the trap function!"
Kerford looked from Darwick to the closed trap, then back again. In sharp tone, the lawyer asked:
"Where would the intruder be at present?"
"In the cellar," answered Darwick, "reposing on the cement. I would suggest, Kerford, that you step out
to the street and see if a policeman is in sight. A patrol car passes here quite frequently. Wait a minute,
though!"
One hand raised in warning, Darwick used the other to reverse the switch, so that the lawyer could safely
cross the trap in the floor.
Kerford made the passage in gingerly style, testing the floor with his foot. He reached the front door,
opened it and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
No police were anywhere in sight. Kerford saw some cars parked across the street, but they looked
摘要：

THEBOOKOFDEATHMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THESTRANGEVISITOR?CHAPTERII.TRAPPEDBYCHANCE?CHAPTERIII.VANISHEDVISITORS?CHAPTERIV.CRIMETAKESAHAND?CHAPTERV.CHANGEDTRAILS?CHAPTERVI.WITNESSEDBYTHESHADOW?CHAPTERVII.MENFROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERVIII.DEATHONDISPL...

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