Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 235 - Murder Mansion

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MURDER MANSION

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," December 1, 1941.

Crime had begun in this mansion of death! Could it complete its sway

despite the presence of The Shadow?

CHAPTER I

PATHS TO CRIME

CLIVE WALDEN was worried, as he stared from the window of his hotel room.

Worried, and with good reason. He had registered under his right name.

When worry gripped Clive, his face didn't show it. Instead, his lips took

on a half smile, his eyes became cold steel.

At present, Clive was alone, so far as the hotel room was concerned; but

there were plenty of persons outdoors. Clive was watching them, five floors

below, a typical sidewalk throng as seen on a side street of New York after

dusk.

One man detached himself from the throng and entered the hotel. Clive

thought he recognized the fellow by his stiff gait, but wasn't sure. Still,

Clive kept watching all the more intently. This was the time to watch: after

Hemble had arrived. Back and forth across the lighted area that fronted the

hotel, Clive's eyes roved restlessly in search of trailers.

He saw none, though his eyes studied the patchy darkness most intently.

Strange, the way that one segment of blackness seemed ready to edge into the

light!

There were moments when the man at the sixth-floor window fancied that

the

darkness became an encroaching streak, with a slow, forward glide; but always

faded, easing back into the deeper blackness like a fleeting shadow. Clive was

convinced that the wavering was entirely a thing of his imagination, when he

heard a rap at his door.

The rap meant Hemble.

His lips relaxing into an actual smile, his eyes switching from cold

glint

to friendly twinkle, Clive Walden was debonair in manner when he opened the

door

and extended a hand in greeting.

It was Hemble who entered, stiffly, as always; his blunt face showed its

usual solemn look. Hemble's expression had every mark of honesty, but with it

trace of dumbness.

Clive's wave gestured Hemble to a chair, and continued to a box of cigars

on the table. Hemble was helping himself to a smoke when Clive remarked in an

easy tone:

"I was getting worried, Hemble. I should have checked in under another

name, but since I didn't mention it when I talked to you by telephone, I was

afraid you wouldn't find me if I did."

The statement was a bit deep for Hemble. Evidently, he'd never heard of

people using names other than their own, and couldn't quite grasp its purpose.

Clive gave an indulgent laugh. He pulled an envelope from his pocket,

extracted

a batch of timeworn newspaper clippings, and spread them on the table.

"No use reading them," he told Hemble. "They're just for reference. They

all say the same thing. They allege that I, Clive Walden, disappeared after

removing the paltry sum of fifteen hundred dollars from the safe of the

Browland Clock Co. in Riverdale. That was six months ago."

Hemble nodded, though his blunt face was a trifle puzzled. He finally

asked:

"What does 'allege' mean?"

"It means the thing isn't proven," explained Clive. "So I won't be able

sue the newspaper for damages when I show I'm innocent. As if they hadn't

damaged my reputation already!" There was a flare of anger plain in Clive's

eyes.

"Look at this clipping, Hemble. It mentions that my uncle, Tobias

Browland, owns the clock company and has recently appointed my cousin, Elbert

Morion, as manager in my stead.

"It doesn't say, though, that I was leaving on a sales trip to get some

business for the firm. Nor does it state that my travelers' checks were in the

safe, which is why I opened it. I didn't touch a cent of company funds,

Hemble!

I'm sure you're one man who believes I didn't."

HEMBLE was proving the fact right then. He was pointing to the last

paragraph in the clipping, which referred to Hemble himself. It didn't mention

him by name; it simply spoke of the night watchman, which Hemble happened to

be.

Clive read the paragraph in question and clapped an approving hand on

Hemble's shoulder.

"Good enough, Hemble!"

"I only told them what it says there," affirmed Hemble. "I hadn't any

orders from Mr. Morion not to let you in the office after hours. I didn't

remember seeing the safe wide open after you left. It wasn't until morning

that

they found it Ñ"

"I know," interposed Clive wearily. "But only two persons had the

combination: Elbert Morion and myself. Elbert happened to be in the town all

night, so he couldn't possibly have come to the office, even without you

seeing

him."

"But there must have been somebody that I didn't see Ñ"

"Unfortunately, Hemble, there was somebody that you did see. I was that

somebody. So for six months, I've been dodging from one State to another so my

dear cousin, Elbert, can't catch up with me and have me arrested and tried for

a crime I didn't commit. There's been enough scandal, Hemble, without dragging

the thing through court."

Hemble shook his head.

"There's no chance of that any longer, Mr. Walden."

"I know you think it's blown over, Hemble," declared Clive. "But the

question is: are you sure?"

"Miss Trent will tell you the same thing."

Clive's eyes flashed.

"I'd like to see Gail," he said. "She's still out at the house in

Riverdale, isn't she?"

"Yes, and I think she wants to see you, Mr. Walden. I hear that a lawyer

is coming there tonight. It has something to do with old Mr. Browland's new

will."

Clive's lips took on a half smile, and something close to a snarl escaped

him.

"So Elbert has worked around to it at last," he said. "I knew he was

trying to cut me out with Uncle Tobias. This is the night for a showdown. Did

you bring your car here, Hemble?"

"Yes, sir. We can get out to Connecticut in a few hours. If you'll drop

at the factory, you can take the car over to the house. Nobody will see it if

you park it under the big elm trees."

"I'll go along," decided Clive. "Yes, Hemble, I'm going to have a

showdown. But I'll talk to Gail first; that is, if she'll talk to me. Maybe" Ñ

his tone was bitter Ñ "maybe Elbert has sold her a wrong bill of goods, like

did with Uncle Tobias."

Whatever his opinion of affairs in Riverdale, Clive Walden had full

confidence that he could handle them. His face lacked the hardness that meant

suspicion, when he and Hemble reached the hotel lobby. In fact, Clive didn't

bother to look around for any detectives who might have tracked Hemble from

Riverdale.

He half-believed that the thing had blown over, on the basis that Elbert

would be too interested in the matter of the new will to bother about his

missing cousin for the present. It might be dangerous when Clive reached

Connecticut; there, he would have to be wary, so he resolved to have Hemble

travel back to Riverdale by a roundabout road.

But he no longer feared arrest while in New York, a thing that would

involve extradition: a drawn-out process coupled with a lot of notoriety. Very

probably, Elbert wouldn't want his own name in the papers from now on. In the

opinion of Clive Walden, there was just one thing that Elbert Morion lived

for,

and that was the legacy that he would inherit from their uncle, Tobias

Browland.

Until tonight, Clive and Elbert had rated equally in the matter; it was a

known fact that their uncle had arranged to split his fortune between them.

According to Clive, Elbert was a man who believed that fifty-fifty should

add to one hundred percent Ñ for himself.

CLIVE was starting to express such opinions to Hemble as they crossed the

hotel lobby, and Hemble had already begun to nod, which was odd, considering

how long it usually took the dull-witted watchman to grasp things that were

told him.

It didn't occur to Clive that Hemble might be nodding for another reason,

for he never credited the fellow with being at all subtle.

It just happened that Hemble was much smarter than Clive supposed. Right

under his companion's nose, Hemble was giving the nod to two men who were

lounging in a far corner of the lobby. Had Clive seen that pair, he would have

looked at them four times; twice for each. But he didn't happen to see them.

They weren't detectives. That was certain; in fact, too certain. They had

the look of smart crooks, which they were. One was Lippy Carther, so called

because of his heavy lips. He was also noted for his ability with a gun. The

other was Mech Woodum; his nickname signified his mechanical skill in

scientific pursuits, such as blowing safes.

Singly, those two could behave themselves, and did. Lippy, a lazy,

stoop-shouldered type, with sallow, tired face, preferred the comfortable prop

of a pool table to practicing target shooting with human ducks.

Mech had a real yen for mechanical matters and liked to tinker around

repair shops; squatly of build, with broad face and strong, stubby hands, he

had the appearance of a bona fide mechanic.

But when the two combined, crime was their motive, and they spelled TNT.

Each liked to blast in his own particular way. It was crimedom's hope that the

pair would some day land in a penitentiary together. In that case, the

prediction was that Lippy would snipe the guards while Mech would blow a hole

so big in the prison wall that all the inmates could ride out in trucks.

So far, Lippy and Mech hadn't been put to such a test, but they had

handled plenty of others and were always ready upon call. Such were the men

who

took the nod from a cluck named Hemble, at present holding down a night

watchman's job in the town of Riverdale!

As soon as Hemble had gone out with Clive, Lippy sauntered over to the

desk and asked the hotel clerk if anyone had left him a message.

The clerk found an envelope addressed to Mr. Carther, and said that it

had

been left just a short while before. The clerk was right. Hemble had left that

envelope on the way upstairs.

Pocketing the envelope, Lippy sauntered from the lobby, and Mech

followed.

Without exchanging any comments, they turned along the street and finally

reached a parked car. Mech took the wheel, and Lippy slid in beside him. As

Mech started the car, Lippy gave a wary look back.

Lippy's eyes were good, but not good enough. After all, Clive Walden had

taken a much longer look from his hotel-room window and had also been

deceived.

The deceiving thing was the blackness just away from the lighted entrance to

the

hotel. Blackness that looked solid, as most blackness did. Not being worried,

Lippy gave it only a passing glance.

This blackness was solid.

As the crooks pulled away in their car, the inky thickness materialized

itself into a living shape. Skirting the lighted area like a cloud of oily

smoke, it showed itself briefly as a figure wearing a jet-hued cloak beneath a

slouch hat of the same shade.

Like a living ghost, the creature in black was swallowed again by

darkness, which, in this case, was represented by the interior of a waiting

taxicab. As the mobsters turned the corner, the cab started up, its driver

impelled by the whispered command of the strange passenger in the back seat.

Paths to crime had begun, and The Shadow, foe to men of evil, was on the

trail!

CHAPTER II

THE FIRST HURDLE

LIPPY had the envelope open and was reading its contents by the dash

light, while Mech cruised the car through traffic. Lippy gave a grunt that

brought a grin from Mech.

"Zeke still got you guessing, Lippy?"

"Yeah," returned Lippy. "I thought he'd put us hep to why he's holding

down that job in Connecticut. But he hasn't."

"Maybe he's doing it for a gag," suggested Mech. "A watchman at a clock

factory! A joke Ñ get it?"

"Making half a grand apiece ain't no joke. That's what Zeke Hemble will

hand us for tonight."

"Yeah? How many guys do we have to croak?"

It was Lippy's turn to grin.

"None," he replied. "This thing is a pipe. We've got to play it neat Ñ

that's all. Zeke is going to drop off at the clock plant and let a guy named

Walden take his car over to the house, five miles away. That's where we go

first Ñ to the house."

"Yeah? Why?"

"So one of us can do a drop-off and sneak the jellopy down the hill.

where

Walden can't find it. I'll handle that part."

"And what do I do?"

"You go over to the clock plant and bring Zeke. He'll grab his jellopy

and

whiz back where he belongs, while we lam. If there's any trouble, we'll handle

it. They won't have anything on Zeke. He'll be the same old watchman when they

find him."

The idea of Zeke Hemble posing as a night watchman, and actually handling

the task, pleased Mech Woodum immensely.

"What a set-up!" Mech chuckled. "Those Riverdale joskins taking Zeke for

boob, while he puts the kangaroo on this kack Walden!"

"Yeah," agreed Lippy. "But what's the dodge?"

"That's Zeke's business," returned Mech. "We'll handle our end of it, and

let him take care of his."

Swerving the car, Mech took to a side street, something that Lippy

couldn't understand. He remarked that they weren't on the route to Riverdale,

whereupon Mech retorted that he wasn't going to use his own car for the

expedition.

"I'm stopping off at a hot-car farm," he explained. "Those hustlers have

been clouting too many heaps. They've got some sizzlers they want frozen, so

might as well handle it."

Lippy began to argue that a stolen car might bring trouble, but Mech

promptly ruled him down.

"We don't get together often," said Mech. "Maybe some stoolie has been

waiting to spot us, so he can spill the word. They'll have this heap tagged,

but they won't be looking for us in a hot one. Get it?"

In his turn, Lippy argued that they'd be out of town before the police

could pick up their trail. Mech made a grim rejoinder.

"I'm not thinking about the cops," said Mech. "Ever hear of a guy called

The Shadow? He's heard of us."

Mere mention of the dread name made Lippy jittery. With gunnery his

specialty, Lippy had but narrowly escaped The Shadow on more than one

occasion.

Anxiously, he looked back through the rear window. He saw a cab among cars

that

were following them, but before he could notice it closely, something else

jarred his attention.

Lippy turned with a yelp to find his right hand surrounded by a mass of

flame. Madly, he beat out the fire, and found his fingers pressing a few ashes

of paper. Laughing, Mech tossed a dead match out of the car window.

"What's the idea?" demanded Lippy. "Trying to give me a hot mitt?"

"Just burning that note of Zeke's," returned Mech. "You won't need it any

longer."

Lippy pulled another paper from the envelope.

"Lucky you didn't burn the map," he said. "It shows the whole lay."

"Look it over, and remember it," suggested Mech. "Then get rid of it.

We're pretty near the farm."

THE "farm" proved to be a side-street garage. As Mech pulled in, Lippy

tore up the crude map and fluttered the pieces from the window. Mech blinked

his lights and the garage door opened. The car pulled in so quickly that Lippy

didn't sight a taxicab stopping a short way back.

From that cab came a figure cloaked in black.

The Shadow was deft at finding his way into garages. Suspecting that the

mobsters intended to switch cars, he planned to stop them before they came

out.

A narrow alley gave him access to a window; through it, he reached a floor

well

stocked with cars.

A rear door was opening to another street, and The Shadow saw a car

starting out. It wasn't the same car that had brought Lippy and Mech to the

old

garage.

With a sudden sweep, The Shadow was half across the floor, an automatic

his gloved fist. From his hidden lips rang a challenge that should have

stopped

the crooks right where they were: a mocking laugh that could only mean the

challenge.

Along with the terror that it gave to men of crime, that mirth usually

stupefied such bystanders as garage attendants, of whom there were four or

five

in sight.

This time, The Shadow's challenge brought a deluge in return. These

weren't ordinary garage men; they were hot-car hustlers, crooks with as much

stake as the men whom The Shadow sought to stop.

The men on the floor were the ones who yanked guns in answer to The

Shadow. Seeing the flash of their weapons, the cloaked fighter whirled.

Guns blasted from everywhere except the car that Lippy and Mech had

taken.

It kept on its way in a great hurry, while other gunners were aiming for The

Shadow. More correctly, men were aiming for where they saw The Shadow last.

His

whirl had become a fade in among the ranks of stolen cars that were undergoing

alterations.

Amid the barks of useless weapons came the answering power of an

automatic

that stabbed its messages from unexpected angles, winging the phony garage men

in their tracks.

Staggering, howling, crooks sought cover. Some sagged to their knees;

others propped themselves against car fenders and rallied to return the fire.

They thought they were fighting for their lives, which, in their

language,

meant they would have to give death to The Shadow. Wildly, they threw slugs

among the cars, spraying fenders, doors and windshields with a rain of lead.

They might as well have been tossing spitballs. The Shadow wasn't

anywhere

around.

He had taken a zigzag route to the rear door in pursuit of the departing

car. That door was the one place where the gunners didn't look for him, for

the

garage men thought that The Shadow's arrival marked a raid upon their own

racket.

There were times when The Shadow arrived somewhere by accident, but

crooks

never recognized it. Without realizing it, they were simply helping him pursue

the quarry that he really wanted.

Mech and Lippy had swung a corner when The Shadow reached the rear

street.

Pausing in darkness, while guns still beat a futile tattoo within the garage,

The Shadow looked for his cab.

It was piloted by Moe Shrevnitz, a fast-driving hackie in The Shadow's

sole employ, and Moe should have caught his cue by this time.

But Moe, for once, wasn't on the job. Instead of the cab's familiar

rumble, The Shadow heard only the wails of police sirens.

The hot-car farmers heard the sirens, too, and started for the rear exit.

There, they were met by a laugh from darkness, and the laugh had sting behind

it, in the way of gunfire. Stumbling thugs flopped back to shelter, tossing

their guns to the center of the floor in token of surrender.

Moe's cab suddenly wheeled into sight, just ahead of the police cars. The

Shadow sprang into the cab, leaving the garage situation to the competent

hands

of the police.

"Sorry, boss!" Moe was voicing his apology, as he whipped the cab around

the corner. "I was picking these up, when the shooting started."

The corner turned, Moe thrust a hand through the window and placed a

clump

of torn papers in The Shadow's gloved hand. Then, eyes glued ahead, Moe was

looking for a car that might be the one The Shadow wanted.

In his turn, The Shadow saw that the fugitive vehicle had passed from

sight. He told Moe simply to avoid the police cars and drop the chase.

While Moe was doing it, The Shadow deftly pieced the torn papers. They

proved a find, indeed. Rough though Zeke's map was, its features were

complete.

It marked the clock factory, the house, and the number of the highway

that

passed near both. Most important, it had a penciled road crossing that bore

the

name: "Riverdale."

TEN minutes later, Moe's cab stopped in front of a little restaurant.

Instead of The Shadow, a tall, leisurely passenger stepped out and went

through

the pretense of paying his taxi fare.

As he strolled into the restaurant, people recognized him by his calm,

hawkish face that was quite immobile in expression. His evening attire was

also

a characteristic touch.

The gentleman from the cab was Lamont Cranston, wealthy New York clubman.

Of late, Cranston had dined frequently at this restaurant, always with a young

lady named Margo Lane, who happened to be awaiting him at present.

They made a charming pair when they faced each other at a secluded table,

the fastidious Mr. Cranston and the alluring brunette across from him. But

their conversation, conducted in an undertone, was by no means trivial. It was

prompt and to the point.

"About Gail Trent," began Cranston in a casual tone, though Margo sensed

that he wanted a rapid answer. "Does that invitation to visit her still

stand?"

"It has for six months," returned Margo. "I've renewed it at the proper

intervals. But you told me, quite a while ago, Lamont, that the matter of

Clive

Walden was the sort that would run its own course."

"It's on the homestretch," Cranston announced, "and looks like a photo

finish. Speaking of photographs, I'm sorry I don't have one of Walden. I saw

him this evening, but didn't recognize him."

The paradox rather puzzled Margo until Cranston detailed that he had been

watching two other men, whose ultimate destination had proven to be Riverdale.

Having recalled a rather handsome chap who left the hotel earlier, Cranston

had

stopped back there on his way to meet Margo.

"I asked for Clive Walden," said Cranston, "and learned that he had

checked out. I take it that he's gone to Riverdale Ñ"

"Where those other two are to meet him!" put in Margo breathlessly.

"That's why he gave them the map!"

Cranston shook his head.

"We're not certain on that point, Margo. There was another chap with

Walden, who looked like a Riverdale product. Too much so, to suit me. He might

have passed the map to Lippy and Mech. For that matter, they may have picked

up elsewhere. We're going to Riverdale to find out."

"But they're already on the way," protested Margo, "and I'll have to call

Gail, to remind her of the invitation. What's more, I shall certainly have to

pack. Gail would think it odd if I didn't bring some luggage."

"You'll have plenty of time for those details, Margo. I'm going ahead,

alone."

Diners at other tables saw Cranston and Margo rise to leave the

restaurant, and supposed they had remembered an appointment that couldn't be

postponed for something trivial like dinner.

The surmise was correct, more or less, but it didn't account for the

reflective gaze on Margo's face, which turned suddenly to one of happy

inspiration as she neared the door.

Margo had been pondering on the emphasis which Cranston had given the

word

"ahead;" though its stress was slight, she had caught it, and at last was

understanding it.

Cranston expected to reach the Browland estate, in Riverdale, ahead of

others besides Margo. Specifically, he would be ahead of Lippy Carther and

Mech

Woodum, though he might not overtake Clive Walden.

Dropping off at her apartment, Margo Lane watched Cranston's cab swing

eastward and knew her theory was right. Cranston was going to the airport,

where he kept his wingless autogiro. Soon, that craft would be spinning in a

beeline, straight for Connecticut, aiming for a landing near Browland's

Riverdale estate.

There was another detail that Margo mentally added. She knew that her

friend Lamont Cranston would not appear as pilot of that ship. Instead, like

the giro itself, he would be a thing of darkness: The Shadow!

At this very moment, men of crime who were congratulating themselves upon

having eluded The Shadow were bound for another meeting with the same

black-clad foe who had sent them into flight!

CHAPTER III

WITHIN THE MANSION

IT was very dark under the great elms where Clive Walden parked Hemble's

car. Though Clive had small opinion of the watchman's brainwork, he was forced

to concede that the elms were a perfect choice. Reaching the trees was easy,

because they were on a slope, to which Clive coasted after cutting off the

motor.

Furthermore, the space could be left in the same silent fashion, and the

elms were located on a little-used drive where the parked car wasn't visible

anyone who entered the grounds by the usual route of the large gates down by

the

main highway.

Perhaps if Clive had seen Hemble's friends, the ones who knew the man as

Zeke, he would have sensed the full situation. As it was, Clive hadn't an idea

that Zeke was teamed up with crooks.

As least, Clive Walden was operating on his own, and needed no such

helpers for the showdown that he planned as his evening's work.

Stealing out between the elms, Clive saw the looming mansion Ñ a great,

scraggly bulk that magnified itself to towering proportions in the night. The

huge house was farther up the slope and thus added the hill's height to its

own. Clive couldn't recall having viewed it from the elms at night.

Previously, all his visits to his uncle's house had been quite open, his

method of approach directly from the front, where lawns formed a gentle slope

up to the imposing residence.

Against the hulking shape, Clive saw lights from windows; they looked

very

dim because the rooms were large and the lamps set deep.

Avoiding the front, Clive skirted toward a level space where a driveway

cut past a side door. In the old days it had been a porte-cochere, used as a

carriage entrance, with an extended roof set upon wooden pillars.

Much though Tobias Browland lived in the past, the old man had been

forced

to have that roof removed because the entrance was too narrow for automobiles.

All that remained of the porte-cochere was an ornamental cornice outside the

hallway window on the second floor. The cornice was of marble and showed white

against the gray stone of the mansion.

As Clive expected, the door was unlocked. He entered carefully, however,

ready at any moment to drop back and slide into the shrubbery that lined the

entrance. Encountering no challengers, he moved in from the high-stepped

entry,

through a dim-lit vestibule, and into a larger hall.

Across it, he saw the curtains that represented the dining room. There

were lights beyond the curtains, and voices told that the family was still at

dinner.

The curtains stirred, signifying that a servant was coming from the

dining

room. Clive took quickly to a passage at the left, tiptoeing softly because

the

floor was stone.

This was an old section of the house, preserved from Revolutionary days,

and it brought Clive flush against a door that was hardly wider than his

shoulders. The door had a closed bolt, heavy and old-fashioned. Carefully,

Clive drew it back and opened the door.

He went through sideways and half a dozen paces brought him to a narrow

stairway almost as steep as a ladder. Moving up the creaky steps, Clive felt

his shoulders brush the wall on either side. These were the old back stairs of

the Colonial period, and they were no longer used.

They had a tragic history: at least three members of the Browland family

had fallen down those stairs in the course of two centuries, and Clive

recalled

that none of the unfortunates had survived. Keeping those stairs closed-off

was

a habit with Tobias Browland.

At the top, Clive encountered a closed door, locked from the other side,

but it was no trick to open it. Using a pocketknife, he pushed it through the

keyhole and forced the key out from the other side, where it dropped with a

muffled thud upon a carpet.

Probing under the door with a pencil, Clive found the key and worked it

through, breaking the pencil point in the process.

From his side, he unlocked the door, and then came the only difficult

part. The door opened inward, over the stairs themselves, and swinging it

wasn't easy from this side, as Clive had to retire down the steps to do it.

His position was slightly precarious as the door swung toward his left,

but he grabbed to the right and caught a post of an old, forgotten balustrade

that ran along a ledge on the level of the second floor.

The door, in its turn, came flush with a narrow ledge on the other side,

and Clive ascended, drawing the door after him, taking care to replace the key

on the side where he had found it.

MOVING along the hallway, Clive passed his uncle's study. The door was

invitingly ajar and the room was lighted; but instead of stopping, Clive

continued past a corner and reached the top of the main stairway which went

down to the great hall below.

He listened again for voices, and heard them, Gail's among them. The

sounds carried well from the dining room, but Clive couldn't quite distinguish

the words.

Impatiently, he turned and went back to the study. Crossing its

threshold,

he gazed about at a scene that was all too familiar. Tobias Browland never

rearranged his study. It was exactly as Clive had seen it six months ago.

He saw the massive, flat-topped desk, with the ornate lamp upon it. The

roomlight came from the old-fashioned lamp, and it gleamed upon the antique

inkstand and the quill pen that stood upright in a little container filled

with

birdshot. Across the room was the large fireplace with its gargoyle andirons;

the tongs and shovel were meticulously placed, as usual.

There were the bookshelves, of course, behind Browland's desk, and the

volumes looked as though they had not been touched for years. In the far wall,

Clive saw Browland's ancient safe, the old one that he had brought here from

the factory. It occupied its own special alcove, and it was, indeed, a relic.

They made their safes fancy in the old days. This one had double doors,

with a dial in the center. It was painted black, and it was decorated with

gold. The name "Tobias Browland" ran in a curve across the front, above the

dial. Gilded ornaments were painted beneath, and even the gold border around

the safe front was done in ornamental style.

It wasn't the sort of safe that would bother a modern expert. Clive's

lips

gave a bitter twist when he remembered how another safe, the new one at the

office, had contributed to his present ill repute.

If anyone found him here, alone in a room containing a safe, he'd

probably

be accused of another crime. People wouldn't stop to consider that this safe

Browland's study held nothing of great value. Clive happened to know what its

contents were.

The study safe was simply the repository for old historical records of

the

clock factory, some old books that Browland had collected, and various family

heirlooms no more remarkable than the inkstand on the desk.

They were better than junk, those items; they might bring several hundred

dollars if sold to interested purchasers, but they weren't the sort of stuff

that a thief could fence at worthwhile profit. They were so definitely-tagged

that it would be obvious where they came from.

There were some sheets of writing paper lying on the desk. Taking one,

Clive drew a pencil from his pocket and started to write a note. Finding the

pencil broken, he used pen and ink instead, replacing the quill exactly as he

had found it.

Noting a black blotter on the desk, Clive decided it was safe to use it,

and did. He was folding the note when the clock chimed from the mantel.

It was a beautiful old clock, with posts of polished brass supporting its

glass panels. It had an ornamental face, with a border of rhinestones that had

become dull through age. Its chimes were clear and musical, but not overloud.

When they began, they awoke responses from other parts of the house.

Little clocks tinkled; from downstairs, a great grandfather's clock was

chiming, while a series of bongs toned from the direction of the kitchen. Like

the clock on the study mantel, those others bore the name "Tobias Browland" on

their faces, some in tiny letters, others in bold.

When the chorus of ding-dongs ended, Clive heard an echoing series of

tinkles from a distant room and knew that his uncle would be annoyed. Old

Browland always listened to the clocks, and didn't like it when one was so

late

that it sounded the hour all by itself.

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摘要：

MURDERMANSIONbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"December1,1941.Crimehadbeguninthismansionofdeath!CoulditcompleteitsswaydespitethepresenceofTheShadow?CHAPTERIPATHSTOCRIMECLIVEWALDENwasworried,ashestaredfromthewindowofhishotelroom.Worried,andwithgoodreason.Hehadregisteredunderhis...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 235 - Murder Mansion

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