Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 197 - Death in the Stars

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Death in the Stars
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH RIDES THE AIR.
? CHAPTER II. THE STARS FORETELL.
? CHAPTER III. NIGHT OF CRIME.
? CHAPTER IV. HANDS IN THE DARK.
? CHAPTER V. COVERED FLIGHT.
? CHAPTER VI. THE LAKE MONSTER.
? CHAPTER VII. PROFESSOR SCORPIO APOLOGIZES.
? CHAPTER VIII. THE CHANCE TRAIL.
? CHAPTER IX. DOUBLE FLIGHT.
? CHAPTER X. CRIME'S CHOICE.
? CHAPTER XI. THE PROFESSOR AGREES.
? CHAPTER XII. LURKERS BY NIGHT.
? CHAPTER XIII. PLACES OF DARKNESS.
? CHAPTER XIV. AMONG THE GHOSTS.
? CHAPTER XV. THREEFOLD RESCUE.
? CHAPTER XVI. THE MAN WHO BELIEVED.
? CHAPTER XVII. OUTSIDE THE LAW.
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE COMMON GOAL.
? CHAPTER XIX. DEATH'S TRAIL.
? CHAPTER XX. THE LAST FLIGHT.
CHAPTER I. DEATH RIDES THE AIR.
The silvery plane hung high above the Sierras, like a hovering dragonfly. It always seemed to poise above
the mountain tops during this stage of the trip from Los Angeles to Lake Calada. Drury, the pilot, was
picking up altitude before beginning his glide to the sparkling bowl of water that nestled amid the
summits.
There were three passengers in the plane. Like most visitors to Lake Calada, they had chosen the air taxi
in preference to a day's trip of climbing roads that snaked through mountain passes. In fact, the air taxi
was the one inducement that had made Lake Calada a popular resort.
By air, the lake was within an hour's reach of Los Angeles; and the perpetual sunshine of California, plus
the skill of Drury, assured a safe and comfortable journey.
One of the passengers was a girl; the initials, "L. M.," on her handbag stood for Lois Melvin. At present,
the handbag was open, and the mirror that Lois brought from it showed a very attractive face, which
scarcely needed the make-up that the girl applied.
Limpid brown eyes beneath thin-penciled brows; lips that had a natural ruddiness, along with their
tantalizing smile; a background of jet-black hair-such were the features of Lois Melvin. They combined to
form a face that most men admired; but, so far, the girl's charm had not dented the reserve of the other
persons in the plane.
Lois wasn't vain, but she was accustomed to admirers. She was puzzled, rather than angry, as she
glanced toward the other passengers. Thinking it over, Lois was rather glad that the man across the aisle
had not noticed her.
Lois knew his name: Edward Barcla. He wasn't much liked at Lake Calada. Barcla was one of the
interlopers who had somehow managed to buy a piece of property on a back lot near the exclusive
Calada Colony. But Lois did not dislike him on that account. She wasn't a member of the wealthy set;
her natural sympathies veered toward Barcla's group. But Barcla, as an individual, was another matter.
He had a weasel face, with sharply sloping brow, scheming eyes, a mouth that showed oversized ugly
teeth when he drew back his lips. Barcla's pasty complexion increased the unlovely picture. Lois had
always disliked his looks; but on this trip, he had seemed uglier than ever.
The reason was, that Barcla had spent the hour muttering to himself and indulging in grins that were very
much like leers. If he had known how his facial contortions worked against him, he might have been more
careful.
His hands, too, were an index to a nasty character. The twitching of his ill-formed, sharp-nailed fingers
reminded Lois of evil claws clutching at the throat of an imaginary victim.
Yes, Lois was glad that Barcla had not tried to further an acquaintance during this air trip. But she would
have liked much to talk with the passenger who sat one seat ahead.
He was a man of dignity; his face, of hawkish contour, was so calm that it seemed almost mask-like. His
eyes, when Lois glimpsed them, were steady, and she could fancy a piercing power behind their
mildness. The hawk-faced man was a stranger; but Lois had learned his name when Drury addressed
him, at the start of the trip.
His name was Lamont Cranston; he had come in from Honolulu on the Clipper. He was visiting Lake
Calada to be the guest of Henry Denwood, one of the wealthy residents.
An odd contrast: Barcla, grimacing like an ape; Cranston, as immobile as a stone idol-yet each man
wrapped in his own thoughts. Ignoring the two, Lois looked toward the front of the compact plane, saw
Drury busy at the controls. The pilot's back was turned, but his actions indicated that they were near the
landing field.
Lois gazed from the cabin window. They were beyond the mountains. Below, the girl saw the sheen of
Lake Calada, set like a sapphire in the wooded slopes. The center of the lake made a long, clear stretch,
for it was very deep; but there were capes and islands at the fringes that produced coves and bays.
It was difficult, from this altitude, to realize that the lake was several miles in length. But Lois had traveled
it often, with Niles Rundon in his speedboat. The lake seemed to swing upward lazily as Drury banked
the plane, and Lois viewed many landmarks.
She saw the Lodi Lodge, which looked like a Mexican hacienda transferred to a woodland setting. Other
places were visible, including Rundon's, which was farther up the lake. Lois recognized Indian Rock,
which made a shelving bulwark at the inner end of Indian Cove. She spied the ruins of the Pioneer Mine
along the shore of another bay.
At the far end of the lake were the white buildings of the Community Center, where the landing field was
located. It was fortunate that the shore had one stretch of flat ground; otherwise, it would be difficult to
reach Lake Calada by air, since the altitude hampered seaplanes.
Then, as the ship thrummed across the center of the lake, Lois smiled at sight of a stone-walled building
resembling a medieval tower.
People called the place the "Castle," and it was the residence of Professor Scorpio. Lois dipped her
fingers into the handbag, brought out a folded sheet of paper. It was one of Scorpio's horoscopes, that
he had given her before she left Lake Calada. She hadn't bothered to read it; perhaps a perusal would
while away the last few minutes before Drury made his landing.
Lois opened the paper. Her forehead wrinkled, as her eyes widened. She was scanning printed
statements that actually astonished her. The chart said that her favorite color was olive-green, which
happened to be true; that her lucky number was six, which also was correct, when she considered
occurrences in which that number had figured.
Then, in larger type, Lois read:
"Be careful of your actions on the eleventh day of each month. On those days, make no hazardous
journeys."
A thought struck home to Lois. Today was the eleventh. A trip by plane could be regarded as a
hazardous journey. Lois was actually worried, as she looked toward Drury; then her anxiety faded.
About ready for his landing, the pilot had calmly taken a cigarette from a fresh pack he had just opened.
Drury inserted the cigarette between his lips, ready to light it the moment the plane grounded and came to
a stop. It was a daily ritual with him, this getting ready for a smoke.
Drury certainly was not worried over the routine maneuver that was about to come. There was no reason
for Lois to be alarmed.
Again, the girl glanced from the window. She could see the landing field almost below, with little dots,
representing people, near the veranda of the main community house.
There were boats, toylike in size, drawn up at the dock. Again, the whole scene lifted, as the plane
banked. Lois watched for it to straighten.
Instead, came a sight that the girl had never before observed. The landscape took a sudden whirl. Hills,
woods, lake, became a revolving jumble that made a daytime nightmare. Out of that blur of blue and
green Lois could glimpse the jagged points of mountain tops and white streaks, as the buildings of the
Community Center flashed before her vision.
The truth seemed to shout itself at Lois. Instead of swooping down to a landing, the plane had gone into a
spin. Drury, the ever-reliable pilot, had lost control of the ship!
CLUTCHING the seat, Lois looked ahead. She saw Drury crouched over the controls. Whether or not
his hand was frozen to the stick, she couldn't tell, for another man blocked full view. That man was
Cranston; the hawk-faced passenger had lunged forward from his seat to grab Drury by the shoulders.
Lois screamed. As if in answer to her call, another figure leaped toward the pilot's seat. It was Barcla;
despite the ferocious snarl that the fellow gave. Lois was all in his favor. If Barcla could only get Cranston
away from Drury and let the pilot land the ship!
Lake, land and sky were still engaged in their madcap whirl, as the spinning plane plummeted
groundward. Half from the seat, Lois tumbled forward of her own weight, as Barcla locked with
Cranston. With a fury that matched his apish manner, Barcla yanked Cranston away from Drury; but his
success was short-lived. Lois, reeling in upon the pair, saw a fist jab with the force of a pile driver.
The fist was Cranston's; its target, Barcla's chin. The blow crumpled Barcla; as he flattened, stunned, his
weasel face took on a look of distorted surprise. Then Lois had replaced him; she was struggling with
Cranston. Momentarily, she met blazing eyes from that masklike countenance; then, like Barcla, she was
sprawling in the aisle.
Cranston had simply flung the girl aside. He was doing the same with Drury. The pilot's form came
tumbling upon Lois, as Cranston twisted into the seat behind the controls. Her head thrust backward
under Drury's weight, Lois looked into the pilot's face.
What she saw would have produced another scream, had her lips been able to supply one. Of all the
horrors in those swift-moving seconds, that sight of Drury was the worst.
The pilot's face wasn't human. It had a glare that made Barcla's weasel countenance seem benign.
Drury's eyes were wide, goggly things that bulged like balls of glass. His features were frozen in a
grotesque expression that would have suited a demon. His lips were partly open, his teeth tight-clenched;
between the lips, like a touch of comedy relief, Lois saw the unlighted cigarette the pilot had put there a
few moments before.
Then, as the girl clawed wildly, Drury's body rolled away, its grinning face bobbing with a parting leer
that Lois understood, too well. Drury was dead; stone-dead. He had died at the controls before
Cranston could reach him.
Cranston's purpose had been to take over the ship: Barcla had tried to stop him. To Lois came the
sickening thought that she, like a fool, had tried to help the wrong man!
Then, as the girl tried to find her feet, she thumped her head against a seat that had somehow come
above her. She could feel the plane's dizzy spin, as she sank into a half-conscious state that promised to
mercifully dull her senses before the coming crash.
The plane was diving down, down, down, to a sure destruction; such was Lois' half-dazed thought. But
there was something else, as strange as the plane's sudden spin, as weird as that view of Drury's distorted
face.
It was a sound that trailed along with Lois into a black and bottomless pit: a tone of sinister laughter, that
seemed destined to accompany her into the hereafter.
Mirth that could have come only from one pair of lips; those of Lamont Cranston. Had Lois Melvin ever
heard that laugh before, she would have recognized its full significance.
The laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. THE STARS FORETELL.
To the throng by the community house, sight of the spinning plane was enough to provoke horror. They
knew the pilot, Drury, as a man of absolute reliability. Nothing could have induced Drury to stage a stunt
act with his plane; yet it seemed equally impossible that the pilot could have lost control just before his
landing.
Of the two evils, most viewers accepted the lesser. They thought that Drury must have departed from his
custom and decided to give them a thrill. A few actually chuckled while the spinning plane was glinting in
the sunlight; then, suddenly, all sounds turned to groans.
It was late afternoon; from the ground, the sun could not be seen beyond the mountain tops. Its spinning
dive unchecked, the plane had passed the spot where the sun reached it. A mighty pall of semi-dusk
caught it in a swallowing shroud that bespoke immediate destruction.
Then, the miraculous happened. No one remembered the exact details of those thrilling split seconds, that
seemed too short for any pilot to use to advantage. They could hear the roar of the motor that
accompanied the juggernaut from the sky; they could see the spin widen as the hapless plane neared
them.
But the writhe that the ship gave was something beyond description. Its wing produced a flipping illusion;
its veer became a swoop. There were persons who swore that they felt the graze of the propeller; others
who testified that a canted wing stroked them as they flattened on the ground. Whatever the case, the
doomed plane changed its status in a trice.
Its dive turned into the first stage of a pancake landing; in immediate sequence, the ship made a climb. It
blotted sight of the community house, toward which it headed; then, one wing lifting to clear the roof, the
plane swung full about and rode the surface of the lake with its tilted wing. Rising, it stabilized, found
itself, and came to a sensible landing before the awed spectators had really found their breath.
First to reach the plane was a man of rugged build, whose well-matured face marked his age as in the
early thirties. He yanked open the door, thrust his square jaw toward the aisle. Then his deep tone was
soothing, as his strong arms gathered in a girl who came crawling toward them.
The man was Niles Rundon. Other arrivals stood back as he helped Lois Melvin from the plane. They
could see the sympathy in Rundon's eyes, the strained look on his face. They heard Lois sob, and caught
the things she said. But the girl's words were incoherent. She was grateful to be alive; that was all.
Near the door lay a groggy man, who was promptly pulled from the plane. People knew him, too, and
had expected him as a passenger. But Edward Barcla was too stupefied to remember anything except his
aching jaw. He looked around as if he expected to see a mule standing with a ready hoof.
Others were in the plane, calling to the pilot. Some were angry at Drury; others were offering
congratulations. All stopped, open-mouthed, when they saw that the pilot wasn't Drury. They drew back,
quite puzzled, as a hawk-faced passenger stepped from the plane.
They realized then, that he was the guest expected by Mr. Denwood. They waited while a young man
stepped up to shake hands with the arrival. The young man was a likable-looking chap named Harry
Vincent, at present one of Denwood's house guests.
Listeners heard Vincent inquire:
"You're Mr. Cranston?"
There was a nod from the hawk-faced passenger who had landed the plane.
"You had better see to the pilot," remarked Cranston calmly. "I'm afraid that he is dead."
AMAZED onlookers brought Drury's body from the ship. They made way for a physician, one of the
members of the Calada colony.
The doctor examined the body, gave a solemn nod. He gave orders to call the county coroner. After
people moved away, the physician studied Drury's face, then muttered something very softly.
The case looked like murder, but the doctor wasn't entirely sure. He hadn't seen the cigarette that
dropped from Drury's lips when people dragged the body from the plane.
It happened that Lois was mentioning the cigarette to persons at the community house.
"Drury couldn't have expected the heart attack," the girl was saying. "Why, he had thrust a cigarette
between his lips one moment: then, when I looked again, he had sagged at the controls."
"I didn't realize what had happened." Her tone was rueful, as she turned to Cranston. "When I saw you
grabbing Drury, I thought he was still alive. But he couldn't have been! The plane had already started its
spin."
Lois' sincere tone brought an understanding smile from Cranston. Another man arose from a chair and
came forward a bit unsteadily, his hand extended. The man was Edward Barcla.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Cranston," said Barcla. "I made the same mistake that Miss Melvin did. That's why I
barged in the way I did. The punch you gave me hurt"-he was rubbing his jaw, as he gave a rueful
grin-"but it was a lot better than the wallop we would have taken if you hadn't socked me."
As the two men shook hands, Lois felt some sympathy for Barcla. The fellow's face looked pale, rather
than pasty: his tone, though probably forced, was somewhat gentlemanly.
But as she watched Barcla leave the community house, Lois experienced a renewal of her former
mistrust. She turned to Rundon, who was standing beside her, and spoke in a whisper.
"I don't like that chap Barcla," she said. "Maybe its silly of me, Niles, but I was watching him in the
plane-"
Rundon gave a quick whisper for silence. Another man had entered the community house. He was tall,
imposing in appearance, and clad in a suit of white linen. Topping the summer garb was a bearded face,
dark, like the deep eyes that peered from it. Instead of an ordinary hat, the bearded man wore a white
turban, glittering with a large ruby.
The arrival was Professor Scorpio, the mystic who rated as one of the founders of the Calada colony. He
had arrived in his motorboat, just after the plane landed.
Professor Scorpio faced Lois Melvin.
"I warned you," spoke Scorpio, in a sepulchral tone that seemed muffled by his thick black beard. "My
horoscope told you that it would be unwise to travel on this date."
"I know," admitted Lois. "But I did not read it until the plane had almost landed-"
"Which would have been too late," interposed Scorpio. "Your star"-he raised a forefinger-"foretold
death! I can only account for your good luck through the power of some intervening planet."
Looking about the group, Scorpio found his impressive gaze met by eyes as steady as his own. Those
eyes were Cranston's: they held the professor rigid. Then came Cranston's quiet tone.
"Perhaps it was the influence of my lucky star," spoke Cranston solemnly. "I have been advised, by very
good authorities, to always travel on the eleventh of the month."
Some of the listeners smiled, sensing a jest at Scorpio's expense. But the bearded professor proved
himself equal to the test.
"Such things do happen," he affirmed. "I regard Drury's death as sufficient proof of my prophecy that
danger would threaten Miss Melvin. All persons"-he threw a gaze around the group-"do well to heed the
revelations of Professor Scorpio!"
CRANSTON'S eyes were watching other faces when Professor Scorpio strode away. He noted that
most of the people present did heed the words and wisdom of Professor Scorpio. It fitted precisely with
rumors that concerned the colony on Lake Calada.
As The Shadow, the being who hunted down unusual crime, Lamont Cranston had heard that Professor
Scorpio had surrounded himself with many dupes. This scene was proof of it. Yet there were scoffers in
the group; one was Niles Rundon. The Shadow could tell it from the smile that Rundon gave to Lois
Melvin.
But the girl did not return the smile. Perhaps she would have scoffed at Professor Scorpio a few days
ago; but recent events had made her wonder.
Looking out from the community house, The Shadow saw Professor Scorpio step into a motorboat that
two servants had loaded with boxes of supplies. Harry Vincent side-toned that the commissary
department was located near the community house; that everyone came there for supplies.
"Denwood's boat is waiting," added Harry. "He is expecting us, right away. He has much to tell you, Mr.
Cranston."
They walked from the community house, past Drury's plane, where the physician was still waiting for the
coroner. Denwood's boat was waiting at the dock, as were others.
The Shadow saw Rundon and Lois leave with a small party of friends. But there was no sign of Edward
Barcla among any of the groups that were entering the boats. The Shadow inquired where the plane
passenger had gone.
"Off by the road," explained Harry, as they stepped into Denwood's boat. "Barcla doesn't have a
lake-front property. He lives in one of the back cabins."
They were in the boat; Harry was at the wheel. With no other persons present, Harry was no longer
disguising the fact that he was well acquainted with Lamont Cranston. Remembering The Shadow's
query, Harry began to wonder if Barcla had actually gone along the road. As the boat pulled away from
the dock, Harry thought of a possible link between Barcla and the dead pilot Drury.
As a secret agent of The Shadow, Harry Vincent seldom put questions to his chief. This time, he could
not restrain himself. Too much seemed at stake.
"What about that heart attack?" queried Harry. "Did Drury really have one? Or do you think that-"
The Shadow interrupted. His tone was no longer Cranston's. His voice was whispered; it carried a
sinister sibilance.
"Drury was murdered!"
It was not a completion of Harry's unfinished question. The Shadow's words were a statement of fact. It
meant that his presence at Lake Calada was known; that measures had already been taken to end his
career before he began an investigation of mysterious crimes that had lately troubled the mountain
colony.
Harry was staring straight ahead, guiding the speedboat through the darkening water. In the murk ahead,
be could visualize a picture from the past-that of a diving airplane which only The Shadow could have
pulled from destruction.
It was lucky that Drury's murderer had not guessed that Lamont Cranston, otherwise The Shadow, was
a skilled aviator in his own right. Otherwise, different measures might have been taken to prevent The
Shadow's arrival at Lake Calada.
ACROSS a narrow stretch of lake, another boat was pulling into its dock. It was the boat that carried
Professor Scorpio and the servants who had loaded the boxes. The Shadow reached for a pair of field
glasses that lay on the seat beside Harry.
Last streaks of sunlight showed Scorpio's dock more plainly than the professor supposed. Lifting the
glasses, The Shadow held them trained upon the dock. He saw Professor Scorpio step from the boat
and take a path to his bungalow in the woods. The servants followed, leaving the boxes as they were.
Still watching, as his own boat sped along, The Shadow saw the boxes stir. A figure crept from them,
rolled to the dock and crouched there. A few moments later, bunking lights from the bungalow
announced that the stowaway could follow. As the crouched man rose, his face was plain in the glass.
The Shadow recognized Edward Barcla. Then the crouching man had crept along the path. Barcla had
not gone to his cabin. He was keeping a rendezvous with Professor Scorpio.
Like the lake, the sky had darkened, when The Shadow stood on Denwood's dock, waiting for Harry to
moor the speedboat. Off beyond the line of mountain summits, The Shadow saw the sparkle of early
evening stars. The sight reminded him of Professor Scorpio, the bearded prophet who claimed to consult
the stars in making his predictions.
According to Scorpio, the stars could foretell. Perhaps the bearded professor was right. For The
Shadow, as he gazed, could gain an inkling of the future himself.
The Shadow foresaw that crime was due at Lake Calada; that the death of Drury was scarcely more
than the beginning of a heinous campaign. Crime that could be as deeply hidden as the vast depths of the
blackened lake.
But that was not the limit of The Shadow's forecast. However deep crime might lie, it could be solved.
Already, The Shadow had gained certain inklings that would prove useful, later.
Harry Vincent, rowing in from the mooring buoy, heard the soft whisper of The Shadow's laugh issuing
from darkness.
CHAPTER III. NIGHT OF CRIME.
DINNER was ended and Henry Denwood sat alone with his friend, Lamont Cranston. Through the cigar
smoke, Denwood watched his guest's face, and its impassive expression pleased him. For Denwood was
quite confident that this man who called himself Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.
In his turn, The Shadow was quite pleased with Denwood. He knew Denwood as a man of absolute
integrity. More than that, Denwood owed a great debt to The Shadow.
Only a few years before, Henry Denwood had been on the verge of disgrace and ruin. Crooks had not
only tried to steal his fortune; they had planned to blame Denwood for their crimes-when The Shadow
intervened. (City of Shadows, Vol. XXX, No. 2.)
Since then, Denwood had sworn to aid The Shadow in any way he could. Here, at Lake Calada, where
he was living in comfortable retirement, Denwood had observed the oncreep of subtle crime that
threatened to rise to huge proportions. Therewith, he had notified The Shadow, through a message to
Cranston.
Unable to arrive immediately, The Shadow had sent Harry Vincent in advance. His agent had seen
evidence of the very things that Denwood reported. At present, Harry was on watch outside of the room
where Denwood and Cranston were talking matters over.
A kindly man, white-haired and dignified, Denwood was the sort who often trusted persons too far.
Experience had taught him to be more careful; but he had not profited enough. At dinner tonight, one of
Denwood's servants had been missing, along with cash that belonged in Denwood's desk.
That was why The Shadow had posted Harry outside the study. He was quite sure that the missing thief
had served as an eavesdropper on previous evenings when Denwood talked with Harry.
So far, The Shadow had not mentioned Drury's death in terms of murder. He wanted to hear Denwood's
story first, and the white-haired man was giving it. A large map of Lake Calada was spread on the desk:
Denwood was pointing out the homes of certain residents.
"One month ago," stated Denwood, "the Gillespie house was robbed. The bonds that were taken were
valued at fifty thousand dollars. They are holding Gillespie's secretary in Los Angeles, but I don't think
that they can prove the crime against him."
Cranston's eyes seemed to question why. Denwood explained the reason.
"The secretary had taken half the bonds to Los Angeles," he said, "and delivered them there, before the
theft of the rest was discovered. No crook would have turned over one batch of fifty thousand dollars,
while stealing another."
Denwood's logic was solid. The Shadow suggested that he proceed with his account.
"The next case," declared Denwood, "concerns the Jamison paintings. They were shipped here by air.
When the crates were opened, the paintings were missing. But they were not opened until the day after
they arrived. No one knows what happened to them.
"Those paintings were valued at approximately one hundred thousand dollars. So were the Albion
statuettes, which were stolen next. Oddly, their case was just the reverse of the Jamison paintings. Mr.
Albion had the statuettes here, and decided to send them away. They were packed in a safe and the
whole thing shipped over the mountains, by truck, under proper guard.
"When the safe was opened at the Albion home in Los Angeles, it was found to contain blocks of lead,
instead of platinum statuettes. Where, and how, the robbery occurred is a mystery. So far, news of it has
been suppressed, except among influential members of this colony."
CRANSTON'S face was as impassive as ever, but Denwood could sense The Shadow's keen interest.
Leaning forward, Denwood drove home the most important point.
"There were three important nights," he emphasized. "One, when Gillespie's secretary left for Los
Angeles. The next, when the Jamison paintings arrived. The last was the night before the Albion statuettes
were shipped. On each of those nights-"
"Professor Scorpio gave a séance," interposed The Shadow, "at the residences of the persons in
question."
Henry Denwood smiled.
"I suppose that Vincent has already told you," he said. "So there is the whole story, Mr. Cranston. But
Scorpio is clever, damnably so! There isn't a scrap of tangible evidence against him."
"He could have accomplices-"
"His spirits, maybe. He produces them whenever he gives a séance. People suspect that they are fakes,
but it can't be proven. Besides, the spooks were always in sight, like the professor."
There was a pause. The Shadow's eyes steadied on Denwood; then came the question:
"What about your servant Mr. Denwood? I mean Horace, the chap who skipped this afternoon?"
"A petty thing," returned Denwood. "I had less than a hundred dollars in my desk drawer. Horace knew
that I intended to discharge him. He couldn't have figured in anything more important, even with his
eavesdropping-"
Denwood paused. He was considering Horace, wondering if the man had been important. Something in
Cranston's manner impressed Denwood. He began to realize that The Shadow might have some deep
answer to the Horace matter. He was about to inquire, when a knock at the door interrupted.
When Denwood gave the summons to enter, Harry ushered a bulky man into the room. Denwood was
surprised to see Claude Kirk, the county sheriff, who displayed a badge on one lapel and a gun butt on
the opposite hip. When Denwood introduced Cranston to the sheriff, Kirk promptly shook hands and
came to business.
"You're the man I want to talk to," declared the sheriff. "It's about Drury. He was murdered!"
The Shadow saw the wave of real surprise that swept over Denwood's face. Maybe Denwood would
begin to understand about Horace.
"Somebody gave Drury a package of poisoned cigarettes," explained the sheriff. "We found one of them
on the plane; the rest in Drury's pocket."
Denwood saw Cranston give a slow nod.
"I noticed the cigarette," declared The Shadow, in his calm tone. "Drury opened the pack and put an
unlighted cigarette in his mouth just before he collapsed. It must have contained a most virulent poison."
"It did," maintained the sheriff. "Thanks for the testimony. It confirms what Miss Melvin told us. But we
haven't found out where Drury got the package of cigarettes. Did you see him buy any in Los Angeles?"
There was a shake of Cranston's head.
"Drury could have gotten it here," mused the sheriff. "If that was his second pack, he wouldn't have
opened it until he was coming back."
"Perhaps," was Cranston's calm suggestion, "Barcla can tell you where Drury obtained the cigarettes."
"I'd like to find Barcla!" stormed the sheriff. "He isn't at that shack of his. I'd like to know why he made
that trip to L. A., in the first place. He rode out of here with Drury this morning came back again this
afternoon.
"If we don't find him soon, I'm going to scour the woods for him. I've posted deputies on the roads, so he
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DeathintheStarsMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHRIDESTHEAIR.?CHAPTERII.THESTARSFORETELL.?CHAPTERIII.NIGHTOFCRIME.?CHAPTERIV.HANDSINTHEDARK.?CHAPTERV.COVEREDFLIGHT.?CHAPTERVI.THELAKEMONSTER.?CHAPTERVII.PROFESSORSCORPIOAPOLOGIZES.?CHAPTERVIII.THE...

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