Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 203 - Crime at Seven Oaks

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CRIME AT SEVEN OAKS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 1, 1940.
Murder strikes at random, bringing The Shadow swiftly to the scene!
CHAPTER I
TRAILS IN THE NIGHT
THE sleek sepia roadster slid to a stop near the crossroads. It stood
there, motor purring idly, while the driver leaned from the leather-cushioned
seat to read the weather-beaten signpost.
It was night, but strong moonlight predominated, etching the car and its
driver. The roadster was of the convertible type, an expensive custom-built
job. On its door the initials "C.T." were visible, and the lowered top allowed
a full view of the driver.
The man at the wheel was unquestionably "C.T."; he needed nothing more
than his appearance to prove himself the owner of the elaborate roadster. He
was handsome, his smooth face darkish; but it was tanned rather than sallow.
He
was hatless, and his black hair showed sleek in the moonlight.
His was a face of lines. Black eyebrows formed straight streaks above
narrow-lidded eyes; his nose was high, aristocratic. His lips, also straight,
marked C.T. as a man of experience, quite satisfied with his place in life.
There were other lines, such as furrows in his forehead, which formed another
index.
Either C.T. was older than he looked, or he had lived a life of strenuous
action. He appeared to be about thirty, though a skeptic might have added ten
years or so to that total and been right. Whatever his age or history, C.T.
looked quite competent to take care of himself.
Even the way in which he placed a cigarette between his lips, his manner
in reaching for the lighter on the dashboard, showed ease and poise. His
choice
of a car was an added key to his character.
This youngish man seemed intent on getting the most out of life with the
least expenditure of effort; but behind his smoothness, one sensed a latent
energy that could carry through to any purpose.
One arm of the signboard pointed to Northdale. It was the road that C.T.
wanted. Sliding the car into gear, he cruised along a narrow but well-paved
road, scanning the rolling landscape that spread beneath the moonlight.
The car reached a hilltop; in the far distance, the sleek man saw the
tiny
twinkles of the town. He reduced speed to a slow coast, as the car descended a
winding road through a thick woods.
Trees filtered the moonlight, almost blotting it out. The roadster's
headlights cut a gleaming swath ahead; out of the darkness, twin masses of
gray
rose like ghostly sentinels, to warn of a curve ahead. Pressing the brake
pedal,
the youngish man brought the car to a complete stop.
The gray things were pillars; between them ran a roadway that formed the
entrance to an estate. Above, stretching from post to post, was a grilled
archway that bore the name:
SEVEN OAKS
Instead of continuing along the road to Northdale, the sleek man veered
his roadster between the pillars. The turn was sharp; to make it, he had to
back the long roadster out into the road.
As he pushed the gear into reverse, he heard an approaching roar, saw
headlights curving in from the road that had brought him here.
Directly in the path of the arriving car, the sleek man calmly nudged his
roadster forward, expecting to be clear of any reckless driver. But the car
that took the turn did a most unusual thing.
Its driver saw the roadster dead ahead; instead of staying to the road,
he
slashed for the gateway, jerking his car to a halt as he arrived.
The incoming car was a rakish sedan. Clashing fenders with the roadster,
it blocked the fancy car from the driveway between the gates. Doors slapping
open, the sedan disgorged a quartet of active ruffians, who made a united
drive
for the man in the roadster. As they came, the fringing lights of headlamps
showed the glitter of revolvers swinging in their fists.
Against such odds, the man in the roadster had no chance. With one hand,
he grabbed for a revolver in the pocket of the roadster's door; with the
other,
he snatched a suitcase from the seat beside him. Such delay was all that the
attackers required to complete their onslaught.
Overwhelming their victim, they hauled him from his car. Hands plucked
away the gun before he could use it. The suitcase was torn from his clutch.
Slugging guns descended upon his head, as he tried to ward off the blows with
his arms. Another minute would have brought complete disaster to the sleek
man,
if a third car had not entered the scene.
It came from the same route that the other cars had used. The rapid spurt
of its motor, the sudden shriek of brakes, told that another combatant was
anxious to join the fray. Instinctively, the four attackers flung their
sagging
victim into a gully and swung, with aiming guns, to greet the new challenger.
Guns could not help them; not against an adversary who opened fire as he
came. The stabs of an automatic crashed the night air, and with those shots
figures began to stagger in the gleam of powerful headlights.
As a token that such shooting was the work of a master marksman, foemen
heard a mocking laugh.
Long, strident, the taunting mirth brought ghoulish echoes from the
surrounding slopes, as though the tongues of a thousand demons had joined in
the challenge. Out of those echoes came the hoarse cries of the scattering
fighters, who were learning the lone marksman's prowess:
"The Shadow!"
THERE were other men in the rakish sedan. Crouched low, they opened a
counterattack against the lone marksman, trying to flank him while their pals
found safety. But they did not reckon with the strategy of their superfoe, The
Shadow.
He was gone from his car before bullets raked it. Still flinging his
evasive laugh, the taunter swung suddenly into sight directly in front of the
headlights. Still voicing his sardonic mockery, he invited the depleted crooks
to shoot it out with him.
They saw The Shadow - a tall figure cloaked in black, a slouch hat
clamped
upon his head. His hands, thin-gloved, held a pair of automatics, their
muzzles
smoking, as a reminder of his marksmanship.
Eagerly, two men in the car lunged for the cloaked opponent, aiming as
they came. Others, stumbling or wounded, turned to aid in the new combat.
Guns blasted. Their spurts were livid tongues, adding color to the
brilliance of the headlights. The shots became a volley; but the only result
was another rise of that strange, outlandish mockery. Bullets had found
nothingness.
The Shadow was gone!
How, where he had vanished was a stunning mystery to his half dozen
foemen. They didn't stop to reason that The Shadow, cloaked in black, was a
veritable creature of night itself; that his sudden appearance in the glare
had
been a feint to draw them in the same direction, while he whisked back into
darkness.
They might have calculated it, particularly those who had been crippled
by
The Shadow's bullets, had he not followed his quick exploit with another of
those mocking laughs. The challenge riveted them, leaving them flat-footed
where they stood. They couldn't locate the mockery.
Terror overtook them, even the hardest of that thuggish crew. They were
ready to fling their guns away, to plead for mercy, rather than continue
strife
with an invisible foe who could be everywhere, yet nowhere.
Then, when victory was in The Shadow's grasp, a new gleam sliced from the
descending road. More mobsters were at hand, a reserve crew that the others
had
not expected so soon. By rights, those new arrivals should have pushed
themselves into the same plight as their pals; but luck turned against The
Shadow.
A swerve of the headlights caught the black-cloaked shape directly in the
glare, showed crime's chief enemy in the center of the roadway, away from any
shelter. Only The Shadow's swiftness saved him from calamity. He needed cover
and took it, against a background of trees; but this time, his enemies gauged
the direction and opened a barrage.
Even then, they could not outshoot their shifty foe. The Shadow was
somewhere in the gully, like the victim that the crooks had abandoned. Their
shots were high, but his aim proved accurate. Even the low shots that The
Shadow fired were dangerous, as they ricocheted from the road.
Counting upon the reserves to cover them, wounded crooks reeled to two
cars, the roadster and the sedan. Huddled low, they took to wild flight along
the road to Northdale.
By then, the reserves were tasting The Shadow's fire. They didn't attempt
to capture the cloaked fighter's car, which he had left in a turnout near the
gully. As frantic as the rest, the cover-up crew joined the flight. Rising
from
his improvised intrenchment, The Shadow fired final shots at the last of the
departing cars.
A jutting rock saved tires and gasoline tank from The Shadow's amazing
aim. By the time the cloaked marksman had an open target, his guns were empty.
Delivering a parting laugh that made fleeing evildoers expect immediate
pursuit; The Shadow climbed up to the road and stowed his guns beneath his
cloak.
Though crooks had not guessed it, The Shadow's car was ditched to stay a
while. The turnout had looked better than it was when the lone fighter chose
it
as a strategic spot.
The wheels on the right were mired, and getting them out was something
that would make pursuit useless. They had done better than they supposed,
those
fleeing fighters, when they took along the roadster.
One trail was lost, but The Shadow had another. He was thinking of the
man
that he had rescued. The highwaymen had not slain their victim; of that The
Shadow was certain.
He had seen the fellow sprawl into the gully before a single shot was
fired. There was a chance that the man in question could give some facts
concerning them.
THE SHADOW already knew the identity of the attackers. They were a band
of
dangerous criminals, operating under the leadership of Clint Flenn, long under
suspicion as a bank robber. Clint was a specialist in the art of alibi, and
the
law had never pinned a robbery on him.
Having learned, through secret sources, that Clint was leaving New York
with a picked crew, The Shadow had followed them along the route to Northdale.
Why they had chosen to attempt highway robbery was one problem; how they
had happened to pick their victim was another. The two matters could prove
links in an important chain. If the rescued man knew enough facts, he could
not
only help The Shadow to trace Clint Flenn, but might prove a valuable ally in
the quest.
Such was The Shadow's summary, when he reached the muddy spot where the
man had sprawled. There, The Shadow spoke in a whisper, announcing himself to
be a friend.
There was no answer from the mire. Blinking a tiny flashlight, The Shadow
turned its rays downward. All that the light showed was a patch of mud
recently
compressed by a flattened form.
The little light moved upward. It revealed loose sod above the gully,
where tufts of grass had been torn away by clutching hands. Beyond was broken
underbrush, showing where a man had scrambled, seeking flight amid the
gunfire.
Moving through the briers, The Shadow saw torn cloth among the brambles.
He reached the driveway beyond the gray stone pillars that bore the name:
"Seven Oaks."
The hard surface of the paved drive showed traces of muddy footprints,
which zigzagged. At intervals, the marks were well apart, indicating that
their
maker had taken long strides. Other spots showed where the victim had
stumbled.
Following those revealing marks, The Shadow saw moonlight penetrating the
thinning trees along the ascending driveway. In the distance, dim lights
showed
a mansion, the house called Seven Oaks. A whispered laugh came from The
Shadow's
hidden lips; the tone was lost in the wind that whipped the open hillside.
The Shadow had lost his trail to men of crime, but this route pleased him
better. It promised the unknown, and in the past, such trails had produced
remarkable consequences.
There was prophecy in The Shadow's laugh; yet even he could not foresee
the singular future that lay beyond this venture!
CHAPTER II
WAIL OF DEATH
DINNER was over at Seven Oaks, but a silent group still sat at the big
table in the dining room.
The man at the head of the table was elderly; his gray hair had a droop
that matched his tired-faced expression. He was Grover Melridge, owner of the
mansion, and age had crept upon him during the past few months.
Opposite Melridge was his wife, Lucretia, the cause of his worry. She
looked younger than her husband, but her very vigor spelled warning.
Lucretia Melridge was nervous, restless. Whenever her eyes steadied, they
took on a distant gaze, and her wan lips formed a smile. She had a way of
staring through people that Melridge did not like. She acted as though she
could see objects that were visible to no eyes other than her own.
Frequently, Melridge glanced at the others of the family: Robert and
Janice. They were twins, twenty years of age, and they had an understanding
that their parents lacked. Often, Melridge had noted, the twins seemed to
speak
through glances alone. Like Melridge, they were anxious about their mother.
This was one of Lucretia's bad evenings. Whatever her mental ailment, it
was aggravated by the howling wind and the rattle of doors and shutters. Those
were the sounds that made her smile, as though she heard whispering voices,
speaking to her alone.
There was a witness to the scene, who stood near a deep window watching
Lucretia Melridge. He was Dr. Martin Heverly, the family physician. Though
scarcely thirty, Heverly had a professional air that made him look much older;
but his manner was not a pose.
Heverly had already gained a reputation as a psychiatrist, and was a
consulting physician at the Northdale Sanitarium, noted for its treatment of
mental disorders.
Looking past the others, Heverly caught Robert's eye and gave a slight
beckon. Janice was gazing toward her mother, but she turned toward Robert the
moment that he arose and watched him join Heverly. As the two talked, Janice
could almost sense their conversation from her brother's expression.
"Don't worry, Bob," said Heverly, in an undertone. "I doubt that your
mother's condition is serious. It seems to be induced more by outside
circumstances than by her own subconscious moods."
"We've kept her quiet," whispered Bob. "For the past week there hasn't
been the slightest excitement here -"
"Which may be the real trouble," inserted Heverly. "I think it would be
better if she lived closer to the world. She needs something to offset her
imagination."
Janice saw Bob glance toward his mother, then turn back to Heverly with a
nod. Somehow, she caught what was in her brother's mind and knew why he was
agreeing with Heverly. She watched Heverly speak again, but this time, Janice
gained no impression of the words that Bob heard.
"A few minutes ago," said Heverly, "I thought I heard gunshots, probably
from the gate. I think we should investigate. I am going down there, and if
your mother should ask where I have gone, it would be best to tell her."
"Suppose I go," suggested Bob. "Then you can stay here and watch her
reactions."
While Heverly pondered, the others arose from the table. Heverly nudged
Bob, and they followed out into the hall. Janice joined them, just beyond the
doorway; quietly, she insisted upon knowing the reason for their conference.
"I shall tell her, Bob," decided Heverly. "You take my car and go down to
the gate. But don't mix into any trouble. Come back here, instead."
Nodding, Bob started toward the front door. As if timed to his action, a
surge of wind whistled about the house and rose to a weird howl.
As the blast ended, shutters beat a tattoo with their rattle, and from
the
medley came a shrill, prolonged shriek - wild laughter that ended with a
soprano
cackle.
LUCRETIA MELRIDGE was standing in the center of the hall, her arms
lifted,
hands clenched. Her eyes were agleam and her head tilted back. Her lips were
wide, for they had delivered that laugh, which she meant as a welcome. Her
fixed eyes seemed to pierce into the past, seeking some long-buried tradition.
Shivers swept Janice, and she saw that the others felt the same chilling
sensation. Bob was halted halfway to the door. Grover Melridge stood swaying,
very pale. Even Dr. Heverly, usually complacent, betrayed alarm. Then:
"The wail of the banshee," cackled Lucretia. "The wandering spirit that
comes to foretell death! I can see him hovering among the oaks, waiting for
someone to admit him! When the banshee summons the -"
Words failing at that moment, Lucretia gave another high-pitched laugh,
sharper than before. It was answered by a curious noise from the living room,
a
basso whimper, so deep that it sounded like a giant cough from the chimney.
Janice turned toward the living room.
"Quiet, Vulcan," she said soothingly. "Quiet!"
"I'm going out," gritted Bob, suddenly. He turned to Heverly. "If mother
asks where I've gone, tell her."
Lucretia was staring toward the door as Bob reached it, but she did not
seem to see him at all. Her mind took up the thread that she had momentarily
lost.
"When the banshee summons -"
It wasn't Lucretia's voice that riveted Bob. It was the thing that
interrupted; a sound so startling that it seemed an answer to a prophecy. From
the door came a muffled pounding, that finished with a scrape. Some hand,
wearied by an effort, had subsided with a last desperate clutch.
It was the scraping sound that made Bob realize that the thing outdoors
was human. With a quick jerk, he yanked the door open.
In with a gust of wind came a sprawling, bedraggled figure that took a
rising stumble, then stretched full-length upon the floor. Dr. Heverly was
watching Lucretia Melridge.
He saw the wild gaze leave her eyes; a look of sympathy replaced it. She
was the first to reach the unfortunate stranger who had plunged across the
Melridge threshold.
At a motion from Heverly, Bob mechanically closed the door. Profiting by
Lucretia's mood, Heverly had her help him place the man upon a couch. Her mind
returning to things about her, Lucretia Melridge again became mistress of the
mansion. She began to call the servants, telling them to bring hot water and
bandages.
Janice stepped over to the couch to help Heverly. By the time he had
bathed the victim's forehead, the physician had a verdict regarding the man's
condition.
"No deep cuts," he said. "Some bad bruises, but no chance of a fracture.
Probably a slight concussion" - Heverly was eyeing the man's closed eyes - "so
he should be kept quiet."
He propped the man's head higher. As he did, a wallet dropped from the
pocket of the victim's coat. Like the pocket, the wallet had been ripped
apart;
evidently the man had fought to get it back again.
It contained no money, but there were some cards, among them a driver's
license and an automobile owner's card. Both bore the same name.
"Carl Thayner," read Janice, aloud. "Hotel Clairmont, New York."
"Put in a long-distance call, Bob," suggested Melridge. "Find out what
they know about this chap."
Before Bob could reach the telephone, Thayner stirred. Janice saw his
eyes
open, watched a weary smile form upon his lips. Even with its pallor, his face
struck her as handsome. There was something plaintive in the way his hand
tried
to stroke back his blood-clotted hair.
"The Clairmont," muttered Thayner. "Haven't lived there... for months.
Been driving... everywhere. Fellows... from the other car... tonight - " He
settled back; his narrow eyes went shut. Then: "Look out for my bag," he said.
"Very valuable. Lots of money in it."
"Your bag?" queried Janice. "But where is it?"
THE question jolted Thayner like an electric shock. He came up stiffly
from the couch, staring at everyone about him. His eyes went to the door, as
he
tried to gain his feet. Thayner's action was startling enough, but it was but
part of what occurred.
Other eyes had been watching the entire scene - eyes from the blackness
beyond a window near the door. They were eyes that carried a burning glow: the
eyes of The Shadow.
Intent upon Thayner, no one had thought of looking toward the window. But
as Thayner started toward the door, one pair of eyes proved wayward. They
belonged to Lucretia Melridge.
Perhaps it was the rising wind, lifting to a new wail, that brought the
woman to her former trend. That, plus sight of the peering eyes, was certainly
enough to produce what followed.
Lucretia's shriek reached new heights; coupled with the wind's howl, the
words were like a call:
"The banshee -"
A vast roar interrupted. With a tremendous lope, a huge dog came from the
living room. The dog was a Great Dane, his coat a dark gray. Timed almost to
the dog's leaps, the door came clattering inward. Bob had left it loosely
latched, and the wind did the rest.
Thayner was staggering toward the door, when he saw the huge beast. The
wind seemed to spin the man about, blocking the dog's path.
As Janice shrieked, "Vulcan!" the Great Dane's lifting forepaws struck
Thayner's shoulders and flattened him upon the floor. Bob made a frantic dive
for the dog and went rolling with Vulcan, dragging the great beast from the
stranger.
Lucretia was pointing past Thayner to the door, as though she spied
something in the moonlight, flitting toward the great oaks far out on the
lawn.
"There will be death!" she cackled. "Death in this house - soon! I have
seen the banshee -"
Heverly slammed the door and bolted it. Melridge tried to quiet Lucretia;
he and the servants started her upstairs. Vulcan was supplying huge growls as
the door went shut, when Bob silenced him with a cuff and dragged him away.
From the stairs, Lucretia gave a strange chortle.
"I saw!" she announced. "So did Vulcan! There will be death... in this
house!"
Settled in her prophecy, Lucretia quieted. The maid went upstairs with
her, and Melridge returned. Thayner had risen groggily and was beginning an
apology, so heartfelt that it brought a quiver to Janice's lips.
For a man who had undergone misfortune at the hands of highwaymen,
Thayner's regret at having caused the household trouble was more than
gentlemanly. It was touching.
"I feel better," he said, "and I think I can be on my way. I thank you
all
for helping me. I shall be all right when I get to - " He paused, his hand to
his forehead. "What is the name of the town near here?"
"Northdale," said Janice. "I'm sorry about Vulcan, Mr. Thayner. He must
have seen something outdoors."
"Vulcan?" Thayner's gaze went blank; then his weary smile returned. "Oh,
yes, the dog. He rather startled me, but it was my fault. I'm the one to be
sorry, Miss... Miss -"
"Catch him, Melridge!" broke in Heverly, springing forward. "Quickly!
Before he falls!"
Melridge was too late to stop Thayner's sway. It was Heverly's quick
grasp
that broke the man's heavy sprawl. Bob came dashing in from the kitchen, to
help
the others lift Thayner back to the couch where he had been before.
"He's really out," declared Heverly, solemnly. "I was right; he has a
brain concussion."
"A gritty chap," approved Bob. "Say, what were you folks doing? Letting
him walk out into the cold?"
"Not at all," returned Janice, indignantly. "He's welcome to stay here as
long as he likes." She turned to Melridge. "Isn't he, dad?"
"He is," assured Melridge. "We have never been lacking in hospitality.
Prepare a room, Janice, and we shall bring our guest upstairs."
From the floor above came a high, trilling laugh, that marked the end of
Lucretia's hysterical outburst. There was a muffed bark from the kennel behind
the house, where Bob had chained Vulcan. The low, sullen moan of the wind was
followed by a rattle at the hallway window, as though a ghostly hand had
rapped
a reminder.
Those tokens passed unnoticed by the persons in the lower hall. They had
forgotten the prophecy of death as voiced by Lucretia Melridge. Yet that
prediction was to be recalled in the near future.
Already, the hand of death was hovering over Seven Oaks; nor would the
menace end until that hand had found a victim!
CHAPTER III
ALLIES OF DARKNESS
THE next half hour brought quiet to the mansion; even the troublemaking
wind had faded. In Melridge's study on the ground floor, Dr. Heverly was
talking about Lucretia's condition. Arms folded, Grover Melridge nodded his
approval of the physician's statements.
"The facts bear out my theory," declared Heverly. "You noticed how lucid
Mrs. Melridge became when an actual emergency arose. She needs life; not
gloom.
We have been giving her the wrong treatment."
"I agree," said Melridge. "Lucretia was herself again, the moment that
she
saw a stranger in trouble. I am glad that we are keeping Thayner here.
Lucretia
will probably ask about him, the first thing in the morning. The question is:
how long will Thayner stay?"
"Several days, at least," assured Heverly. "It would be unwise for him to
overtax himself. If he needs any persuasion to remain, let me talk to him."
Bob came into the study. He announced that Thayner was asleep, after
taking some pills that Dr. Heverly had prescribed. Bob had seated himself
beside the desk, when Janice arrived and spoke from the door.
"Mother is asleep," she said, "and I have a headache. I'm going to bed
and
get some rest, so you won't have another patient, Dr. Heverly. Good night."
As she spoke, Janice glanced upward, then was gone. Heverly noticed Bob
turn his head, as though inspired by his sister's gaze. Heverly had seen the
twins do that before, and the fact interested him. In this case, they had
simply chanced to look at a portrait on the wall behind their father's desk.
In the darkness of her second-floor room, Janice felt her headache
lessen.
Viewing the moonlit lawn, she wondered about the old theory of the full moon
taking sway upon strained minds. She was quite sure that her mother's
condition
was not serious; nevertheless, it had come at the time of the full moon.
There was another theory, too - that dogs were troubled by the moon. It
could account for Vulcan's actions this evening. The dog's kennel was just
around the corner of the house, and Janice listened for any sounds from that
direction. She was almost undressed when she heard the dog whine.
The sound startled her; it didn't seem like Vulcan. Even when he
whimpered, the big dog's tone was rumbly. But these whines were high, almost
yelps. Mechanically, Janice approached the window and raised it.
With the whines, she heard the clatter of Vulcan's chain. Puzzled, the
girl stared across the lawn at random. Then her eyes fixed as if magnetized.
It wasn't the breeze from the window that chilled her, although Janice
was
nearly unclad. The breeze was mild, compared to the harsher gusts that had
wailed earlier. Janice was frozen by the distant figure that she saw moving
past the oaks. It was a shape of blackness that had every quality of a
wandering ghost.
Janice wondered if her mother had seen that cloaked figure off beyond the
house. If so, her talk of a banshee hadn't been imagination, even though the
threat of death could be regarded as groundless.
Lucretia Melridge had read deeply into the lore of apparitions, and
believed that old mansions attracted specters from the night; but, so far, she
- and no one else - had claimed that such visitants were about.
This was Janice's turn to see the apparition, and the way that the
darkness suddenly swallowed the cloaked shape seemed further proof of its
spirit origin. Next, Janice caught the blinks of a tiny light, which made her
think of other ghostly manifestations.
Shakily, the girl came from the window and found kimono and slippers. By
the time she had put them on, fear overwhelmed her. She made a record dash
downstairs and arrived, panting, in the lighted study.
TRYING to pour her story in one breath, Janice made a botch of it. Her
father gripped her shoulders, found that she was trembling. He was looking
anxiously at Dr. Heverly, when Bob intervened, saying:
"Let me talk to her."
Again, the mental bond between the twins was demonstrated. Collecting her
wits, Janice spoke calmly to Bob, as if expressing thoughts to herself. There
was firmness on Bob's face when he turned to the others.
"She saw something," he said. "I know it as positively as if I had been
there myself. A figure in black, off by the oaks, that faded into the trees
below the drive, followed by tiny blinks of light. Two blinks, you said,
Janice?"
The girl nodded. Heverly reached for the telephone and gave a number that
the others recognized.
"I'm calling the sheriff," he stated. "I'll tell him to start a search,
beginning from the gateway. Apparently, some of those troublemakers are still
about. This proves Thayner's story."
Outside the mansion, Vulcan was still straining at his chain. The big dog
was whining no longer; he was putting full effort into his tugs, with an
intelligence that seemed almost human. Each jerk was wearing at the ring that
hooked the chain to the dog's collar.
Janice had mentioned Vulcan's whine, and she and the others were
listening
for it. Not hearing the sound, they thought that the Great Dane had quieted.
Yet Vulcan, in his way, was giving proof to Janice's story. He had seen
the fading figure and the dwindling lights that marked its disappearance.
The Shadow had returned to the gate. There, he was checking the ground
for
every possible clue. He was interested first in tire marks, and found those of
Thayner's roadster, where they cut in toward the gate, reversed, and made
another forward try.
He identified the tires of the other cars, made careful recordings of
their treads. In a ditch, he found a crook's revolver; farther along, he came
across a dark-gray hat, new and of expensive make.
Judging from the new condition of the tires, the modern revolver, and the
new hat, Clint Flenn had brought along a well-equipped crew. Probably they had
working clothes for any bank jobs, but they were certainly traveling as
well-to-do citizens and sparing no expense.
How they had come across Thayner and how much they had gained by robbing
him were questions that only the victim could answer, and such information
could wait until he recuperated from his adventure. Thayner's car, alone, was
quite a prize, but The Shadow doubted that Flenn would attempt to peddle it.
Clint Flenn was after more than ordinary game; that was a certainty. He
would do nothing that might put a crimp in his present activities. Handling
stolen cars wasn't one of Clint's rackets. He would avoid it.
Other clues were trivial, hardly worth the time that The Shadow spent in
finding them. The cloaked investigator started past the gateway, toward the
turnout where he had ditched his own car.
There was a stir from the underbrush; The Shadow wheeled, shoving his
hand
to a ready gun. Before he could even draw the weapon, a mighty mass sprang
toward him, with a roar.
Whipping his hands apart, gunless, The Shadow thrust one to the throat of
the giant creature that hit him like an avalanche. He wrapped his other arm
higher, folding it about an enormous muzzle that bristled with glistening
teeth.
Though braced for the onslaught, the black-cloaked fighter was swept from
his feet and rolled half-across the road by the hurtling bulk that met him.
It was Vulcan, loose with all the fiery spirit that he had shown earlier.
Such a dog, launched upon a self-appointed mission, could prove himself a
killer. Vulcan had given evidence of his ability, and The Shadow had witnessed
it, through a window. But he had also seen the way in which the beast was
handled when Bob had intervened.
Intuitively, The Shadow had provided the process: one grip to fling the
dog's head aside, another to muzzle him. As they struck, The Shadow gave a
shoulder roll that tightened his grip on the powerful dog.
But Bob's system wasn't the only one The Shadow used. Even before he
struck the ground, he had voiced a sibilant call that reached the dog's ear.
SOMETHING in that strange whisper spoke of mastery. The Shadow
demonstrated the needed prowess that went with it, and on the second roll, he
felt the dog relax. Half-beneath Vulcan's bulk, he released his grip, at the
same time speaking a calm, subdued command.
As Vulcan let his mouth yawn, The Shadow's arm eased in between the dog's
jaws. Playfully, Vulcan worried the cloaked arm without an attempt at a bite.
Rolling the dog to his feet, The Shadow came up with him. He drew a gun and
thrust it toward the Great Dane.
Vulcan did exactly what The Shadow expected; he caught his new friend's
wrist between easy-pressing teeth and gave a twist that sent the gun skidding
from The Shadow's hand.
Reclaiming the gun, The Shadow warded the dog away, speaking another
command. He turned toward his car, followed obediently by his new ally. In
Vulcan, The Shadow had found a most unusual dog - one trained in police
methods, which meant that he had intelligence in proportion to his bulk.
While The Shadow jacked the rear wheel of his car to insert gravel
between
the tire and the mire, Vulcan sat patiently by, wagging his tail as though
摘要：

CRIMEATSEVENOAKSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"August1,1940.Murderstrikesatrandom,bringingTheShadowswiftlytothescene!CHAPTERITRAILSINTHENIGHTTHEsleeksepiaroadsterslidtoastopnearthecrossroads.Itstoodthere,motorpurringidly,whilethedriverleanedfromtheleather-cushionedseattorea...

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