Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 174 - The Three Brothers

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THE THREE BROTHERS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 15, 1939.
Which of them was the evil one? Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER I
MILLIONS TO GAIN
DUSK was settling upon the New Jersey meadows. North of the Skyway, where
glittering lights of automobiles formed a continuous two-way parade, lay
spreading tracts of low wasteland, between two narrow rivers that seemed to
have widened apart to shun that miserable terrain.
Man had conquered those meadows with crisscrossed railroad lines, where
mammoth freight locomotives were chugging stolidly through the gloom, their
whistles adding a mournful wail to the ghostly pall of dusk.
Rising like specters to greet the approaching night were huge buildings
that bordered the railroad tracks. These were industrial plants, erected upon
the barren meadows because such sites brought them close to transportation
routes.
Largest of all such structures was the Jersey works of the Caxter
Chemical
Corporation. It stood, a miniature city in itself, between the elbow of a
river
and the junction of two rail lines. About it were yards filled with freight
cars; on the river's fringe, a line of barges accounted for the raw materials
that would later be shipped, as finished products, to many Eastern cities.
Once white, the Caxter buildings had become a grimy gray. Blocky, they
formed a pyramid to the central structure in their midst. The only relief in
their drab appearance was formed by a yellow mountain of sulphur piled against
a building wall, plus a few sparkles of light that came from the windows of
the
central tower.
Those tiny lights, however, were important. The room that they
illuminated
was a remarkable contrast to the dingy outside scene. Under the soft glow of
an
ornate ceiling lamp, men were seated about a mahogany table in an office as
elaborate as any that Wall Street could boast.
This was the private office of Gregg Caxter, president of the
corporation;
a man whose wealth was conservatively estimated at fifty million dollars.
Gregg
Caxter, himself, was presiding over the meeting; the men seated with him were
directors of the chemical corporation.
Short of build, Gregg Caxter seemed most impressive when seated. He was a
man of thirty-five; but his sallow, deep-lined face and thin, black hair gave
him an older look. So did his eyes, for their coal-black glint carried an
ambitious desire that indicated long and purposeful effort over a period of
many years.
Gregg Caxter!
The very name meant power to the assembled directors. It meant more than
that - tyranny almost, to two others who stood in the background; for they
were
merely employees, and they knew the driving force of Caxter's rule.
One man, pasty-faced and nervous, stood beside a table in the corner. On
that table was a variety of articles: solid blocks of sulphur, the size of
bricks; bottles of liquids, varying in color; a tiny metal tank, with a valve
attachment at the top; finally, most curious of all, a small crate that
contained a dozen guinea pigs, as stupid-looking as the crowd of directors.
The man who guarded these exhibits was Walters, one of the many
secretaries who worked for Gregg Caxter. If he had a first name, he had
probably forgotten it; for, like others close to Gregg Caxter, Walters was
constantly addressed by his last name only.
Across the room, silent in his corner, was a tall, droopy-faced man who
could actually boast a full name. He was Kirk Wydell, a consulting chemist.
Though merely Wydell to Gregg Caxter, the chemist was important enough to be
called Kirk by some of the lesser officials.
THE silence that gripped the sumptuous office was broken suddenly by the
sharp tone of Gregg Caxter. His voice usually held a harsh tone; but on this
occasion, it was tinged with a note of extreme annoyance. The listeners knew
that G. C., as they termed him, was about to review a subject that he did not
like.
"When family matters enter into business," announced Gregg, "there is
always trouble. That is why we are balked in our plans to build an Illinois
plant duplicating this one. As you gentlemen know, I have two brothers" -
there
was a touch of contempt in Gregg's tone - "who hold the rights to certain
basic
patents used in our chemical processes.
"Even though I control this corporation, I cannot proceed to spend five
million dollars without their permission. That was one of the wise provisions"
- Gregg's voice showed sarcasm - "made by my father! He knew that Howard, my
older brother, was a dreamer; that Philip, my younger brother, was a
spendthrift. So he gave me this business, when he divided the estate among us.
"And yet" - Gregg shook his head - "my father was unwise enough to let
them have a strangle hold on me. He thought that this business had reached its
greatest growth. To curb my efforts to enlarge it, he specially provided that
if I increased the capital stock of the Caxter Chemical Corporation, all
rights
to those patents would be lost."
Gregg concluded his statement with a hard pound of his fist; a stroke
that
made the mahogany table quiver. One of the directors finally gathered nerve
enough to make a mild objection.
"You've told us this before, G. C.; but you also said that if your
brothers grant permission, we can expand -"
"My brothers!" Gregg snarled the interruption. "How can we get anywhere
with them? We sent Payson and Lloyd to see them. What happened? They talked to
my brother Philip first, and that was the last we ever heard of them.
"I'll tell you what I think happened." Gregg wagged his forefinger.
"Philip bribed them. He paid them large sums, just to spite me; told them to
go
their way and get some fun out of life, instead of sticking in a stinky
chemical
plant. That's the way that fool Philip talks!"
Gregg sat back, his eyebrows pursed in a glower. The directors showed
serious expressions. The odor of the room, pungent with chemical smells,
proved
that there might be some logic in the remarks that Gregg had attributed to
Philip. But the directors, loyal to G. C. because they hoped for larger
salaries, were very careful to show no sympathy toward Gregg's younger
brother.
"Then we sent Tyburn," recalled Gregg, harshly. "We told him to go to see
Howard first. Tyburn ran into a different matter. Howard told him that things
weren't right here; that the plant didn't have enough safety measures. He said
that when such improvements were made, he would give his permission to
anything.
"Tyburn left Howard and called on Philip, who said that it sounded all
right to him. Philip had to agree, after what Howard had said. It's that
ridiculous family situation again: Philip, the youngest brother, sides with
Howard, the oldest. So we had to mark time and install new safety measures,
just to please my precious brothers!"
The directors looked relieved. After a few moments, the one who had
spoken
previously remarked:
"That ought to settle it, G. C.; if you send Tyburn back to your brother
Howard, to tell him that the safety measures have been adopted -"
"Tyburn can't go back," snapped Gregg, sharply. "The first thing the fool
did when he got here, was start an inspection tour of the plant. He walked
right into a leak of hydrogen sulphide; not enough to bother anyone else, but
it got him."
"You mean, G. C., that Tyburn is... is dead?"
"Yes!" Gregg came to his feet, leaning his squatty form forward. "What's
more, the news is out. Some reporter heard about it, and tomorrow everyone
will
know it! What's worse, they have taken a look at our pay rolls.
"They want to know about Payson and Lloyd, two men who are no longer
working for us. What became of them? That is what the newspapers have asked
us;
and what could we answer? Only that we don't know where they are. You know
what
that means. The headlines will say that three men died here; not just one."
DIRECTORS were exchanging furtive looks as Gregg settled back in his
chair. Perhaps they were thinking that the newspaper theory actually accounted
for the disappearances of Payson and Lloyd. Gregg's sharp eyes raked the group
in challenging fashion. The directors stiffened.
"We must send another man to see my brothers," announced Gregg, tersely.
"He must talk to them - Howard in particular - before this scandal breaks. He
must explain that Payson and Lloyd simply left us; that Tyburn's death was an
accident, due to conditions that have been rectified.
"I have chosen Wydell for this mission" - Gregg turned and beckoned to
the
tall man in the corner - "because he is a man who knows the situation
thoroughly. I have talked to him and he is willing to go through with it. Am I
right, Wydell?"
Wydell had stepped toward the table. He cleared his throat with an
apologetic cough, then said:
"Quite right, Mr. Caxter."
"And the matters which I have mentioned," prompted Gregg. "The fact that
Payson and Lloyd left us; that Tyburn's death was accidental - do you agree
with those statements?"
"Absolutely, sir!"
There was a buzz among the directors, with approving mention of "Good old
G. C.," which brought a smile to Gregg's sallow lips. In his plans for
increasing his huge wealth, Gregg did not care if the directors had doubted
his
word until Wydell substantiated it. They were at last convinced; that fact
satisfied him.
"You have your car here, Wydell?"
The chemist nodded, in response to Gregg's question.
"Then start at once," Gregg ordered. "Drive to Pennbury and call Howard's
house from there. He lives only a few miles from town; he might see you
tonight. If not, stay at the Pennbury Inn and make an appointment as early as
possible tomorrow."
Wydell looked toward the table where Walters stood.
"Never mind the exhibits," said Gregg. "It won't do to waste time showing
Howard any products from the plant. He'll only want to see more, and I haven't
assembled all that I wanted. It is better to take none than only half."
Wydell nodded. He took his hat and coat, which were on a chair in the
corner. Gregg waved him toward the door, voicing a harsh farewell:
"Good luck, Wydell!"
Gregg Caxter had risen, so the directors also stood. They saw the chunky
corporation president look around; then heard him demand:
"Where's Walters?"
One of the directors had seen the secretary go into another office. Gregg
gave a shrug, decided he didn't need Walters after all. The group left by the
same doorway that Wydell had taken.
Hardly had Gregg Caxter, last to leave, closed the outer door behind him,
when Walters peered in from the other office.
No longer was the pallid secretary nervous. His face was eager; its
twitches were a gloat. He was holding a telephone, the receiver to his ear,
waiting for a reply from a number that he had already called. As Walters
listened, a voice came across the wire - a voice that he recognized.
Quickly, the secretary gave the details of all that had happened at the
conference, concluding with the fact that Kirk Wydell had been sent to see
Howard Caxter. When asked if Wydell was to visit Philip Caxter later, Walters
answered in the affirmative.
Wydell, as Walters understood it, was to do exactly the same as Tyburn,
the previous emissary who had called on the two brothers. After that, Wydell
would return to the plant and report to Gregg Caxter. Finished with that
explanation, Walters asked if there were any instructions.
Orders came across the wire; as he received them, Walters indulged in an
evil grin. Any instructions pleased him, for he regarded all commands as moves
against Gregg Caxter, the employer whose tyranny he hated.
Evil was afoot tonight, and Walters, the traitorous secretary, was
pleased
because he had been ordered to play a hand in it!
CHAPTER II
DEATH FROM THE CLIFF
BELOW the central building that housed Gregg Caxter's palatial offices,
the ground was black, almost cavernous. Sheltering walls of the surrounding
buildings produced narrow confines that seemed remote from the wide expanses
of
the outlying meadows.
Darkness had become complete in those lower crannies. Even the building
walls could not be seen in the gloom. The ground, strewn with odd pieces of
junk, was the sort where prowlers could easily stumble, unless they used a
light; which, in turn, would normally reveal them quite as noticeably as any
blunders in the dark.
There was a figure, however, that moved through those lower stretches
with
untraceable silence. The light that this observer used was a tiny torch; its
thin, silvery beam was muffled, in part, by the folds of a black cloak.
Even against the gray of a building wall, his cloaked shoulders were
obscure, as was his head, which was topped by a slouch hat. This unseen
visitor
to the Caxter Chemical domain was The Shadow.
Where crime threatened, The Shadow followed. A deadly foe to crooks, The
Shadow possessed the uncanny faculty of ferreting out men who dealt in evil.
His visit here told that he had come upon one of his accustomed missions.
The Shadow was not the only lurker in the darkness. There were others -
mobbies from Manhattan, who had sneaked into the shelter of these grimy walls.
Whatever their purpose, The Shadow intended to learn it and frustrate their
plans. At this moment, as he moved about through obscure channels, he could
have picked out the exact position of four men, thugs who had no knowledge of
The Shadow's presence.
A shaft of light broke from a lower doorway in the central building.
Gregg
Caxter stepped into sight, accompanied by the departing directors. Shrouded in
a
sheltering corner, some fifty feet away, The Shadow was ready with muffled
flashlight and drawn automatic to pick out any crooks who offered trouble.
No trouble came. Skulkers kept to their posts, while Gregg Caxter and his
companions went to their parked cars. Soon, limousines were in motion, to take
their passengers across the meadows in the direction of the Skyway, which
offered the short route to Manhattan, by way of the Holland Tunnel.
A flashlight was moving, off past a building. One man who had come from
the tower offices was not leaving in a limousine. Perhaps he was the quarry
sought by crooks. Gauging his own course by the flashlight's glow, The Shadow
moved through darkness, following the lone man.
The fellow was Kirk Wydell. The Shadow saw the chemist's droopy face,
when
Wydell stepped into a shabby sedan and turned on the dome light. Wydell's car
was parked in a space used by employees; a few other automobiles were nearby.
Wydell didn't notice those other cars. He was busy consulting a road map.
The dome light went off before The Shadow could approach close enough to
observe Wydell's road map. Headlamps and taillights glittered suddenly; by the
glow of the latter, The Shadow saw that Wydell's car had New Jersey license
plates. Moving away, to be out of sight when Wydell turned the car, The Shadow
glanced upward to the tower.
Whether or not chance had inspired The Shadow's gaze, the result that he
gained was important. The lights of the upper offices switched off.
Immediately
afterward, a flashlight began to blink. Its signals were all dots, indicating
that the man above was flashing a number, not a name. By the time the second
figure had been blinked, The Shadow knew what the signal indicated.
Someone in the suite of offices was giving the very number that The
Shadow
had seen upon Wydell's license plate!
THERE was a stir in the darkness, as soon as Wydell's car had swung
about.
Men were moving, none too guardedly, toward a long, low-built touring car
parked
in an obscure corner of the lot.
Wydell didn't notice them, for his car had swung away. But The Shadow
knew
their purpose. They were the hoodlums that he had watched; they had just
received a tip-off to follow Wydell's car.
Rolling out through an open gateway, Wydell's sedan took a different
direction than the limousines which had left a few minutes before. He was
choosing a road that led northward to some through highway. Probably his
destination was somewhere in New Jersey, not New York.
Hardly had Wydell's taillight bobbed from view beyond a railroad
crossing,
before the rakish touring car poked through the same gateway, to take up
Wydell's trail. When the thug-manned vehicle had disappeared, another car
joined the caravan. The third automobile was a high-speed roadster. Its driver
was The Shadow.
For a few miles, The Shadow used precautions resembling those of the car
ahead. When a through highway was reached, the trail required no great care.
All that The Shadow had to do was keep the touring car in sight, while its
driver checked on Wydell.
The course was northward; whether it continued in that direction, or
veered to the west, was a matter of small consequence. Whichever way Wydell
went, The Shadow intended to follow.
His plan came to a sudden obstacle a few miles farther north. The touring
car made a sudden swing to the side of the highway; it was halted there when
The Shadow drove past. Speeding around a bend, he saw no sign of Wydell's car
ahead, so he chose a convenient spot of his own and pulled in there.
With lights extinguished, The Shadow waited. Soon, he saw the touring car
roll by at moderate speed. Behind it came another machine, a coupe, that
seemed, by its actions, to be following the thugs. Again The Shadow started
his
car, and became the third in line.
Then came another element of the unexpected. At a crossroad, the touring
car swung eastward, taking the one direction that The Shadow had not foreseen.
The coupe followed suit, proving The Shadow's impression that it was following
the touring car. Apparently, Wydell was out of the picture, so The Shadow's
only course was to trail the other cars and see what happened.
They were too far north to make a straight line for the George Washington
Bridge, which offered a route into Manhattan. The cars were closer to the
vicinity of Englewood, but if they kept to their present course, they would
eventually reach the boulevard running along the Palisades above the Hudson
River. There, again, would be a choice of direction; but once more, the
unexpected occurred.
Just short of the boulevard, the two cars swung into a byway. Following
them, The Shadow cut off his lights and picked the road by watching the two
taillights ahead. The cars had come to a stop, apparently at a dead end, and
were halted side by side.
Suddenly, the red glows vanished. Easing his car to the side of the road,
The Shadow applied the brakes and cut off the low-throbbing motor. Easing to
the road, he advanced on foot.
The growl of voices guided him straight to the two darkened cars. Men
were
standing between them, and as The Shadow pressed into the space, the flicker
of
a match revealed a rough, unshaven face.
The man with the match lighted a cigarette, then flicked away the flame.
He was facing the open window of the coupe; The Shadow heard him address the
car's driver.
"I'M Red Felgin," gruffed the man with the cigarette. "Your name is
Walters, ain't it?"
"Yes." The voice from the coupe carried annoyance. "But you were supposed
to tail the car that went out first. I flashed you the license number."
"Yeah, we know that. But the guy shook us."
"You can pick up the trail again. The man in the car is named Kirk
Wydell.
He's going to a place called Pennbury. If you cut west from here -"
Red Felgin interrupted with a guffaw. He must have nudged one of the men
beside him, for a flashlight suddenly gleamed. It showed the pale face of
Walters, half from the coupe window; then into the glow came a gun, gripped by
Red's hairy fist.
"We ain't tailing Wydell," sneered Red. "We're taking you for a one-way
ride! Get it, double-crosser?"
"But... but" - Walters was nervous in his stammer - "you're working for
the same man that I am -"
"Sure! But he don't trust nobody that pulls a double cross. Get it? He
used you while he needed you, but he don't need you any more! Shove over,
Walters. I'm going to wheel your car."
It was apparent to The Shadow that two men of that assembled group could
give real information regarding the big shot who ruled them. Those two were
Red
and Walters. The former was a notorious mob leader; the latter a traitor.
Both were crooked; if Red murdered Walters, as scheduled, the loss would
not be great. But such a deed would end The Shadow's trail. This moment was
the
time to intervene.
A fierce laugh shivered the darkness between the two cars. There was a
snarl from Red, as he wheeled away from the coupe. The thug who glimmered the
flashlight upon Walters came about, hoping to spot The Shadow with the glow;
for every startled crook knew that a challenge from the darkness, uttered with
such weird mockery, could come only from the black-cloaked fighter that all
mobland feared.
Red's gun barked. With its echoes, the gleam of the flashlight sliced
mere
space. The Shadow had vanished; like his shivery laugh, he seemed a thing of
nothingness, until he bobbed up suddenly from the ground where he had
flattened.
Flung forward in his dive, The Shadow was among the startled crooks. His
gloved fist took Red's wrist, shoved the mob leader's gun hand upward. With
his
other hand, The Shadow brandished an automatic into the faces of Red's huddled
followers before the crooks could scatter.
Then came the spurt of another revolver, from the coupe. Walters had
grabbed a gun, had chosen the closest target: the skull of Red Felgin, just
outside the window. The bullet settled the mob leader; he jounced sideways in
The Shadow's clutch. With a gleeful snarl, Walters poked farther from the
window. Quite impartial when it came to murder, the traitor wanted to take a
shot at The Shadow.
With a quick swing of his gun fist, The Shadow bashed the revolver from
his foeman's hand. Walters shrieked, as the heavy automatic mashed his
fingers.
Dropping behind the wheel, he shoved the coupe in gear, drove it forward
through
the detour barrier that made this road a temporary dead end.
The flashlight was gone. Thugs had scrambled into their car. One, trying
to ward off The Shadow, took a slugging blow that dropped him in the rear of
the touring car. A moment later, the hoodlums were away, leaving Red dead in
the road behind them. They were as anxious as Walters to escape The Shadow.
Reaching his own car, The Shadow started in pursuit. He swung across a
bumpy stretch of road, took a turn that led toward the boulevard. The cars
that
he pursued were still in sight, tearing for the highway. Then came the shriek
of
brakes. Too late to prevent catastrophe, they were the announcement of new
tragedy.
Walters, slicing across the boulevard, had lost control of his coupe. The
car struck a heavy rail that bordered the Palisades, but its momentum was too
great for the barrier to withstand. Amid a splintering crash that drowned out
other sound, the coupe catapulted through a shower of debris, to cross the
brink of a cliff that offered a sheer drop of three hundred feet.
Like Red Felgin, Walters had found a deserved doom. Both men who held the
key to crime were gone. Watching, The Shadow saw the thugs in the touring car
escape disaster as they veered safely into the lighted boulevard. There was no
need to pursue that car farther. Its small-fry occupants could tell nothing.
The Shadow's course lay elsewhere. From tonight's adventure, he had
learned the name of Kirk Wydell, the man who had gone to the town of Pennbury,
some thirty-odd miles northwest of Manhattan. There, perhaps, The Shadow could
obtain further clues that he required.
With a grim, whispered laugh, The Shadow turned his car about. Thwarted
by
double death, he was choosing a new trail, hoping to solve the riddle of
hidden
crime.
CHAPTER III
TWO MEN AGREE
IT was late the next afternoon, when Kirk Wydell left the little Pennbury
Inn and started his old sedan in the direction of Howard Caxter's estate. Last
night, Wydell had telephoned too late to make an evening appointment; this
morning, he had learned that Howard Caxter was busy and could not see him
until
afternoon.
He had been told to await a call from the Caxter mansion, and it had not
come until nearly five o'clock.
All day, Wydell had been making occasional long-distance calls to the
Caxter chemical plant, where Gregg had been chafing away the business hours
waiting to learn how Wydell made out with his brother Howard.
With every call, Wydell had been reminded that if he had any luck with
Howard, he was to go straight to New York and seek an interview with the
youngest brother, Philip.
Fortunately, Philip Caxter did not have Howard's habit of retiring early.
As for Gregg, he could be a night owl when occasion demanded. He promised
Wydell that he would remain at the plant, with the directors, until Wydell's
return.
Several of Wydell's telephone calls had been overheard in their entirety
by The Shadow, for he had taken an adjacent room at the Pennbury Inn. But The
Shadow was no longer in the little hotel when Wydell started his drive to
Howard's mansion. The Shadow had started ahead. Outside the big gate that led
into the huge grounds, he watched Wydell's car roll through.
It was almost dusk. The Shadow, free from observation, began a short cut
through the trees. Though he was traveling on foot, his route promised him
access to the mansion soon after Wydell arrived there; for the driveway took a
roundabout course to reach Howard's front door.
In fact, Wydell was rather amazed to find that he had driven a mile from
the gateway before he reached the mansion. A building of magnificent
proportions, Howard Caxter's home looked like a kingly palace, while its
grounds, Wydell estimated, probably covered half a county. On sober
reflection,
Wydell decided that such circumstances should not cause surprise.
Old Theobald Caxter, father of the three brothers, had divided his wealth
equally among them. Only a few years had passed since the father's death;
hence
Howard, also Philip, should each be worth about fifty million dollars, the
same
as their brother Gregg.
After ascending a flight of marble steps and passing great pillars of the
same stone, Wydell reached the front door. He was admitted by a servant
dressed
in drab livery, then conducted through a great hall decorated with statuary.
There were vast rooms on either side; finally, short steps of marble. At the
top, they reached a small garden entirely inclosed with glass.
There was a tinkling fountain in the center, with a pool filled with fish
as rare as the plants that stood beside the windows. There were stone benches
among the plants, except at one side, where a door opened to an outer garden,
and at the rear of the glass-walled room, where another door led to a wing of
the immense house.
Above was a dome-shaped skylight, at present dark because of the dusk;
but
the indoor garden was illuminated by lamps set in corner pillars. The whole
effect was one of indirect lighting, and the glow was as soft, as pleasant, as
the gentle tinkle of the central fountain.
A slender man, dressed in dark gray, stood leaning on a cane, one hand
extended in greeting to Wydell. A glance at the greeter's face told the
visitor
that he was meeting Howard Caxter. Though gaunt and thin-featured, with
complexion tawny rather than sallow, the man had the keen eyes and firm lips
that were characteristics of his second brother, Gregg.
"I expected Tyburn," spoke Howard, in a tone that was dry yet with none
of
the sarcasm that Gregg so frequently used. "That is why I postponed this
appointment. I could not understand why Gregg had sent another man instead,
until I learned" - he gestured toward a newspaper that lay on a stone bench -
"that Tyburn died several days ago."
"It was an accident," assured Wydell. "I am positive of that, Mr.
Caxter."
Howard's eyes were searching, but not unkindly so. They seemed to sense
that Wydell's statement was sincere.
"And these others?" questioned Howard. "What were their names" - he
reached for the newspaper - "the two who have so strangely disappeared?"
"Payson and Lloyd," supplied Wydell. "They went to see your brother,
Philip, before they came here."
"But they never came here -"
"That was because" - Wydell hesitated, then blurted - "because, according
to G. C., Philip paid them to forget that they ever worked for the Caxter
Chemical Corporation."
Howard Caxter did not resent the statement. Instead, he delivered a laugh
as musical as the tinkle of the fountain.
"That would be like Philip," he said. "He has often wanted to pension off
some of Gregg's employees. You will have a chance to meet Philip tonight, Mr.
Wydell. After that, you can hurry back to G. C., as you term my brother Gregg.
Come!" Turning, Howard pointed his cane to the door at the back of the garden.
"We can chat more comfortably in my study."
WHILE the two were passing through the doorway, there was a stir at the
side of the garden. It came from the door that led outside. Into the inclosure
glided The Shadow; he glanced about the indoor garden, then approached the
door
at the back.
The study door was slightly ajar. From the shelter of a semitropical
plant, The Shadow got a partial view of the study, yet retained the advantage
of concealment, should any servants chance to come into the garden from the
main portion of the house.
The study was lavishly furnished, but done in excellent taste. Its walls
were fitted with bookcases, all filled with handsomely bound volumes. One
corner had a desk; there was a reading alcove at the rear of the room, with a
door beyond it. A large table stood in the center of the room, and about it
were large deep-cushioned chairs that looked unusually comfortable.
Howard had motioned Wydell to one of those chairs, and the guest was
relaxed deep in the seat, his head reclining against the chair's cushioned
back. Howard, however, was standing close to the central table; the light was
such that he could see Wydell's face very clearly.
"I told Tyburn," declared Howard, "that I objected to certain processes
in
use at Gregg's chemical plant. One was the practice of utilizing a dangerous
gas
like hydrogen sulphide in the manufacture of sulphuric acid. Tyburn claimed
that
the leakage was insufficient to cause death."
"He was wrong," returned Wydell, solemnly. "It was hydrogen sulphide that
killed him when he was checking on the process."
"So I understand. That makes the tragedy all the worse. Therefore I must
know positively" - Howard was rapping the table with his knuckles - "if that
process has been eliminated."
"It has. We have already received large shipments of raw sulphur, to be
used in future manufacture of acid."
Studying Wydell's face, Howard decided that the chemist had told the
truth. Then:
"I also understand," he declared, "that Gregg is producing quantities of
poison gas for the government."
"Yes," returned Wydell, his tone a bit uneasy. "But I assure you that
every precaution has been taken. Improved valves are used for the tanks. I
understand, too, that a government contract cannot well be ignored."
"Perhaps not," agreed Howard. "But what about gas masks, which really
benefit mankind. Is Gregg equipped to manufacture them?"
Wydell shook his head.
"There lies the trouble," declared Howard, slowly. "Let me express my
views, Mr. Wydell, and I believe that you will understand. My father was a man
with only one ambition: to acquire wealth. That trait, it seems, was passed
along to Gregg.
"Wealth, to me, is something that should be used to aid humanity. I
learned that lesson" - Howard's eyes took on a reflective gaze, his tone
softened to a sentimental pitch - "from my tutor, Norman Selwood, as fine a
man
as ever lived!
"I was a weakling as a child. My father disliked my love for study, and
therefore disliked me. He preferred Gregg, who had a flare for business; he
cared for Philip, who was rugged and liked outdoor activities. Fairly enough,
however, he gave us what he thought we preferred.
"I own this estate, where I can dwell as a recluse, with a huge income at
my disposal. Gregg has the chemical plant and other businesses. Philip was
given the great ranch in Wyoming, where he spends much of his time. But my
father overlooked one fact."
Howard was smiling, his expression showing fondness for his father's
memory. Quite different, thought Wydell, from Gregg's contempt toward all that
concerned his family. A contrast, too, the fact that Howard felt that family
matters had a bearing on business; a thing that Gregg treated with annoyance.
"My studies," said Howard, "included chemistry. I know more about that
science than Gregg does, although the chemical plant is under his control. I
have watched the industry's development, and it is my opinion that chemistry
should be used to benefit humanity, rather than destroy it.
"That applies specifically in the case of poison gases. In my laboratory"
- he gestured toward the door in the rear alcove - "I have made extensive
experiments, not in destructive gases but in those which can neutralize the
effects of poison. Compounds, Mr. Wydell, that would amaze a chemist like
yourself!"
WYDELL'S gaze was pleased. He was hoping that Howard would take him to
摘要：

THETHREEBROTHERSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"May15,1939.Whichofthemwastheevilone?OnlyTheShadowknew!CHAPTERIMILLIONSTOGAINDUSKwassettlingupontheNewJerseymeadows.NorthoftheSkyway,whereglitteringlightsofautomobilesformedacontinuoustwo-wayparade,layspreadingtractsoflowwastela...

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