Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 130 - House Of Silence

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HOUSE OF SILENCE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," July 15, 1937.
Grim and foreboding as death itself, the House of Silence guarded well
its
impregnable secret. Then from hidden lips of The Shadow came mocking laughter
that pierced the stillness, to bring to light the terrible secret that long
had
remained hidden!
CHAPTER I
HOUSE OF DEATH
THE old house loomed gloomy in the drizzle. Heavy clouds had brought an
early dusk; increasing darkness hovered, ready to swallow the squatty mansion
that lay beneath its enveloping folds.
An odd house, this one. It formed a conspicuous landmark on the outskirts
of Aurora, a small and sleepy Southern city. The house, however, did not
differ
greatly from other old residences in this vicinity. It was one of those
decadent
mansions that dated back to the past century.
Two stories high, with an abbreviated third floor rising like a stumpy
conning tower from the front portion of the roof. Such was the house itself.
Gray walls gave it the appearance of a fortress. Iron shutters made it look as
though besieged, for those barriers were closed.
The house was situated on a corner; the grounds about it were girded by a
wall of the same gray stone as the house. Though the wall was more than six
feet high, it had evidently been regarded insufficient as a barrier; for the
bulwark was topped with a squatty, sharp-pointed picket fence. The wall had
one
gate; this was a heavy door with pickets running across the arch that topped
it.
The grounds, though narrow, were deep; and the house stood well back from
the front wall, on higher ground. That fact enabled passers to see the
shuttered windows of the lower floor. View of the lawn was impossible; but the
trunks of magnolia trees were visible, rising above the wall. The whiteness of
the magnolia blooms was the one feature that offset the grimness of the
squatty
house.
Oak trees towered the side street; also from an open lawn on the other
side of the fenced-off grounds. Dusk changed these rugged trees into fantastic
mammoths, extending their huge, gnarled limbs to encroach upon forbidden
preserves. The wall seemed like a stumbling block that staved off the invasion
of the oaks.
A fanciful picture, but it was very real to the young man who stood
across
the front street. He was slender of build, this visitor; his olive-drab
raincoat
gave his figure sleekness. His face was tanned; his eyes held an eager
glisten.
There was something reflective in his manner, as he puffed a stubby briar
pipe.
DUSK deepened as the young man gazed. At last, the observer turned about
and started to stroll away. He paused as he neared the corner across from the
old house. There he saw the lights of a small filling station.
A brawny man, clad in a dripping poncho, was staring moodily from the
doorway of the two-story shack that had been converted into a service station.
A car rolled in from the front street. The brawny man came out to wait on
the customer. The young man with the pipe saw opportunity for conversation.
He emptied his briar by tapping it against his heel; then strode into the
space
that fronted the filling station.
The brawny proprietor was talking to the customer in the car. The
automobile had stopped at the nearest gasoline standard, one which was
unlighted. The proprietor was motioning the driver farther up the line.
"We've got no Coronet gasoline," he was informing. "That tank's empty.
What's that?"
Then, in response to a query from the car, he added:
"Yeah we used to carry Coronet. But they didn't deliver regular. I quit
ordering from them. Pure Blue's a good gas... Ten gallons? All right."
The young man with the pipe watched the filling of the gasoline tank.
Looking toward the decrepit service station, he saw the name "R. HENGLE"
painted on a sign. He decided that the brawny man must be Hengle.
He waited until the car pulled away; then he stepped forward and accosted
the husky man before the latter could return to the service station.
"Mr. Hengle?"
The brawny man swung about, stared at his questioner, then snapped:
"How'd you know my name?"
"Saw it on the sign," returned the young man, pocketing his briar pipe.
"I
wanted to ask you a question about the old house across the way."
Hengle looked puzzled.
"How long has it been empty?" queried the young man.
"That house?" returned Hengle, gruffly. "It ain't empty. There's people
living in there."
It was the young man's turn to show surprise.
"Been there about five years," added Hengle. "Leastwise, that's what I've
heard. I've only owned this station during this past year."
"So people live there," mused the young man. "Who are they?"
"Don't ask me," grunted Hengle. Then, sharply: "But what is it to you,
anyway?"
The young man smiled.
"I was born in that house," he remarked, in reminiscent tone. "I lived
there, all through boyhood. Then I went away; afterward, the family sold the
old place. My name's Hallison. Jack Hallison."
THE young man turned toward Hengle as he spoke. The service station
proprietor looked blank.
"I suppose my name means nothing," decided the young man, bitterly. "It's
been ten years since our family moved out. Ten years - maybe longer. We used
to
be well-known in Aurora.
"You know, Mr. Hengle, I've often thought of buying back the old house
some day. Particularly with real estate as low as it is. I came into Aurora,
this afternoon; left my luggage at the Aurora Hotel and came out this way on
the trolley line.
"Just to take a look at the old homestead. I was rather glad when it
looked empty. But since there are people living there, I suppose I'd better go
in and introduce myself. I'd like to know their name, though."
Hengle delivered a guffaw.
"Not much chance of finding that out," he asserted. "Nor of going in
there, neither. Those folks live to themselves."
Jack Hallison raised his eyebrows, quizzically.
"Some old codger owns the place," added Hengle. "There's an old lady
lives
there, too; that is, if she ain't dead. Nobody's seen her about the place for
the last six months."
"If she were dead," remarked Jack, "there would have been a funeral."
"There was a funeral once, so people tell me. But there was two old
ladies
living there then. One of 'em died. There's an old servant in the place,
besides
the old man and the old lady. Then there's -"
"Others?" queried Jack, as Hengle paused.
"I'm just figgering," returned the brawny man. "The girl - yeah, she was
there before I came here. But the young fellow must have showed up later.
Yeah.
That's the way it was. Five of 'em now; two old folks, two young ones and the
servant. I heard his name from a huckster. It's Beale."
Hengle thumbed toward the gate.
"There's a bell in that wall," he stated "and you could ring it forever
without getting any answer. I've seen people try it. They've tried the gate,
too. It's always locked."
"But what about the huckster?"
"He went to the back. There's another gate there -"
"Is that gate locked?"
"Not in the daytime, I don't think. Because those people have got to eat.
The baker goes in there; the butcher, too. Sometimes the young fellow from the
drug store."
"And they meet Beale?"
"At the back door, I reckon. I never bothered much about it, though. If
folks wants to live to themselves, let them. That's my motto."
The young man stood staring at the house. Its bulk was almost invisible
for darkness was near fulfillment. Hengle stood by moodily. At last, Jack
Hallison spoke:
"Good night. Thanks for the information."
HALLISON strode away, leaving Hengle beside the unused gasoline standard.
Reaching the street, Jack turned in the direction of the trolley line. He
walked fifty yards, crossed over and strolled back toward the old house. When
he neared the barred gate, Jack looked across the street.
Hengle was no longer in view. The service station owner had gone back
into
his shack.
Jack chuckled softly to himself as he passed the gate. He kept on to the
corner, turned along the wall and followed it until he came to a little lane
in
back. There he found the rear gate.
Jack Hallison lighted a match, cupped the flame in his hands and studied
the stout barrier at close range.
Heavy gates, like the picket points above the wall, were innovations that
the present owner of the house had introduced. They were warnings to strangers
to keep away. Jack Hallison, however, did not regard himself as an entire
stranger about these premises.
He used another match to look for the bell beside the gate. He found
none.
Jack wondered how delivery men made their arrival known; for raps at this gate
could scarcely carry to the house. Perhaps the gate was left unlocked when
delivery men were expected.
Jack tried the gate. It gave. Almost mechanically, he stepped into the
grounds and softly closed the gate behind him. His fingers stroked a bolt on
the inner side. Probably the servant, Beale, had forgotten to lock the gate.
Jack decided that this was a lucky break.
Straight ahead, along a weedy gravel path so soft that it felt like a
lawn, then slightly to the right; that would bring Jack to the back door, near
the corner of the house.
Jack Hallison had walked this path often in the past. He crossed the
rain-soaked space, arrived at the door and felt about for a bell. There was
none. About to knock, Jack paused; he felt for the doorknob. Curiosity made
him
wonder whether this door, like the gate, had been left unlocked.
Slowly, Jack turned the knob. The door creaked inward. Jack felt the dank
mustiness of a passage. He recognized this darkened spot. It was an entry that
led to the kitchen at the left; to a hallway straight ahead.
Jack found the kitchen door; it was locked. He decided to move forward to
the hall. There he would find another door. If unlocked, that barrier would
give him access to the front of the house. He could see for himself if there
were lights within this ancient mansion; if people actually lived here, as
Hengle had declared. Jack had begun to doubt that the house was occupied.
Jack found the door in the darkness. He placed his hand upon the knob;
this door, like the one to the kitchen, was locked. As Jack still tried it
cautiously, he heard a creak behind him. Then a dull slam. It was the back
door, that he had left open.
SUDDEN doubt gripped Jack Hallison. The young man groped back to the door
through which he had entered. He seized the knob, rattled it; the door was
locked. The trick had been done automatically. Jack was in a trap.
Instinct warned him of imminent danger; but he could not guess from what
spot it might strike.
Jack groped forward toward the door of the entry. On his left was the
kitchen door; on his right, a smooth wall. The door at the inner end might be
the best outlet after all. If he rapped there, someone would surely answer.
Jack felt that he could explain matters to the satisfaction of any questioner.
Only five paces further to the door he wanted; yet Jack failed to reach
the barrier he wanted. He heard a creak ahead of him. He thought it might be
someone who had heard him, someone about to open the hallway door. Then, where
floor had been, Jack encountered nothingness.
The creak had been the lowering of a trapdoor in the floor. Jack uttered
a
sharp gasp as his left foot dropped downward. He groped madly as he lost his
balance; then sprawled downward, helplessly, into a pit of total blackness.
The drop ended abruptly, upon concrete eight feet below. Jack rolled
sideways as he took the jolt. His head thumped a wall. His momentary groan was
stifled. From above came a creak that Jack did not hear. It was the trap-door,
closing.
Hush was heavy in that space beneath the floor. Even the sound of
breathing seemed absent. Unconscious, Jack Hallison lay a prisoner in a house
that held the atmosphere of death.
CHAPTER II
THE GREEN FLARE
VIEWED from outside, the old house gave no token of the event that had
occurred within its walls. Solemn and sedate, sphinxlike in its silence, no
one
would have regarded it as a place of menace. Jack Hallison's misfortune was
something that no outsider could suspect.
In fact, the very seclusion of the house was lulling; it gave the
impression that complete quiet pervaded this entire district. A stranger,
passing the house on his way to the center of Aurora, would have supposed that
the town must also be in a state of calmness. Such an opinion, however, would
have been incorrect.
Less than a mile south of the old house was a lighted district where
excitement ruled. There stood the Aurora Hotel, the tallest building in the
town; and in its glittering lobby were groups of buzzing talkers. Their theme
was crime; in strained tones they discussed dread events that had struck close
to Aurora.
Within the past five days, two banks had been robbed less than thirty
miles from Aurora. A watchman had been murdered at one bank. Later, a State
policeman had been shot down in cold blood while patrolling a lonely highway.
An empty cottage had been marked as a hide-out; but criminals had left it.
Aurora, built upon a series of slopes, was in the center of a hilly
region. Towns were few; outlaws could find many spots of refuge. Posses would
be useless. The only hope of finding the crooks lay with Federal agents. Rumor
had it that Feds were about, working undercover. Such was the opinion of the
talkers in the hotel lobby.
Though none in Aurora guessed it, there was another factor upon which the
law could depend. From the window of a top-story room in the Aurora Hotel,
keen
eyes were peering out through the darkness that blanketed the street lights.
The
watcher was The Shadow, master investigator who hunted men of crime. News of
the
robberies had brought The Shadow to Aurora.
The Shadow was registered under the name of Henry Arnaud; he wore a
countenance that bore a masklike, hawkish appearance. Dressed in dark clothes,
he was equipped to foray through the thick darkness offered by a drizzly night
like this. For the present, however, The Shadow preferred the gloom of the
hotel room; and with good reason.
Stationed in a room numbered 1412, The Shadow had opened a window to
listen for sounds that might come from 1410. The room next door was also
occupied; its window, too, was open. The Shadow knew that a man was watching
from the other window. He had seen the fellow earlier, in the lobby.
The man next door was a crook known as "Blink" Torgue. Blunt of profile,
he had changed since The Shadow had last seen him; for Blink had somewhere
undergone an operation in plastic surgery that had eliminated heavy jowls and
raised overhanging eyebrows. But Blink had not lost the habit that had gained
him his nickname.
The Shadow had seen the fellow blink his eyes while in the lobby. Blink
was farsighted, which gave him unusual ability with a gun at long range; but
he
screwed his face when he observed objects close at hand.
Learning that Blink was registered in 1410, under the name of Holley, The
Shadow had trailed him upstairs and had entered the room next door. The Shadow
had divined that Blink was waiting for something. The Shadow was also on the
lookout for whatever might occur.
SOMETHING flickered from the blanketed darkness: a momentary dab of white
light. Then, a vivid splash from gloom, came a rising blaze like that of a
torch. It was a flare, its color a brilliant green. It wavered like a
will-o'-the-wisp. Suddenly, darkness swallowed it.
The light was a signal to Blink Torgue. Its color probably bore
significance. A green light; its direction was definite to The Shadow, but its
distance something that could not be calculated through rainy darkness. The
Shadow could class it only as a signal from a hillside.
The task was to watch Blink Torgue. Stepping to a ledge outside the
window. The Shadow followed a slippery parapet. Slowly, he reached the opened
window of 1410; listened, but heard nothing. Entering, The Shadow used a
flashlight.
Blink Torgue was gone.
The crook had departed with his luggage, the moment that he had spied the
green flare. Further proof that Blink Torgue, ex-racketeer from Manhattan, had
been on the lookout for the signal. The Shadow knew that Blink could not have
traveled far. The Shadow's course was to follow.
He went out by the door of 1410, rang for an elevator and descended to
the
lobby. Blink was not there. The Shadow walked to the street.
A man in a waiting coupe saw the face of Henry Arnaud and gave a hand
motion. The Shadow entered the coupe. The clean-cut driver was one of his
agents, a man named Harry Vincent. The Shadow had stationed him outside to be
on the watch for Blink Torgue.
Pointing to a car that had moved from the curb ahead, Harry reported:
"Blink hopped into that sedan. A fellow was waiting for him -"
The Shadow commanded with a single word:
"Follow!"
The sedan swung right, whirling southward, as if its driver was glad to
be
rid of the city traffic. Harry was half a block behind; he duplicated the
maneuver when they reached the corner. The sedan had stretched its advantage
to
a block. It was swinging left.
The thin suburbs of Aurora offered no delaying traffic. Two cars were
roaring forth into the night.
The sedan had gained more distance. Its headlights were bobbing above the
uneven surface of an old paved road. It was likely that Blink and his driver
realized that they were being followed.
HARRY VINCENT drove the accelerator to the floor board. Taking a slight
gradient, the coupe kept pace with the fleeing sedan. Harry darted a quick
glance to his right. He saw The Shadow's hand, gripping a .45 automatic. The
Shadow had thrust the weapon through the opened window.
Both cars were making seventy. The jouncing was terrific, but Harry
handled the wheel grimly. If he could carve a few dozen yards from the
intervening space, The Shadow would have opportunity. Shots from that
automatic
could find the sedan's rear tires, despite the difficulty of firing from the
speeding, jolting coupe.
The sedan whizzed past a slight turn in the road; for the moment, its
taillight was lost. Then the glow came into view again, gaining. Blink's
driver
knew the tricks of this road and was holding his advantage over Harry.
Another turn; this time, Harry, sped for it. The coupe shrieked as it hit
the curve, but Harry managed the twist with precision and the roadworthy car
responded. They held to the highway.
One momentary flash of the red taillight; then the sight was gone. The
sedan had turned into a side road, nearly one hundred yards ahead. Harry was
ready when he neared the spot. He wheeled hard to the right, he struck a muddy
gravel road that curved off through the woods.
The sedan was out of sight when they struck a straight stretch. Then came
a curve, another short piece of straight road, with a wooden bridge near the
end of it. Under Harry's impetus, the coupe leaped to cover the brief stretch
to the bridge.
Instantly came The Shadow's voice, with a single word:
"Brakes!"
Instinctively, Harry jammed the brake pedal, though he could see no
menace
in the glare of the brilliant headlights. As the coupe lessened its great
speed,
it jounced heavily toward the little bridge. The steering wheel was twisted
suddenly from Harry's grasp. The Shadow had clutched it; his hard turn threw
the car into a skid.
Slipping sideways, the coupe made a final turnabout. Rear wheels first,
it
slid onto the bridge. Brakes were locked; the coupe had not left the road. But
from the bridge came a splintering; beams gave, the car dropped downward and
tilted crazily.
Harry Vincent stared straight upward. The headlamps were pointing toward
a
patch of overhanging treetops. The Shadow had halted the coupe upon the brink
of
the wide creek. The bridge had collapsed beneath the car's weight, but the
coupe
itself was unwrecked.
THE reason came suddenly to Harry Vincent. The Shadow had seen a ford
that
crossed a stream, beside this bridge. The headlights had shown him wide tire
tracks; he had instantly foreseen danger.
Blink Torgue's sedan had crossed the creek through the shallow ford,
leaving a weakened bridge for the pursuing coupe. Crooks must have previously
removed a barrier from across the road.
The Shadow's laugh was grim and sibilant. The chase was off; it would be
an hour, perhaps, before he and Harry could lever the coupe up to the solid
road. But The Shadow had escaped the trap that men of crime had hoped would
doom all followers.
Blink Torgue would not guess the identity of the relentless investigator
who had gained and lost his trail.
The Shadow would plan new tactics for tomorrow. The crime that had
swamped
Aurora was due to give The Shadow a greater struggle than he had anticipated.
CHAPTER III
THE SNARE THAT FAILED
ALTHOUGH The Shadow's trail had been shortened, the master sleuth had
escaped a doom which Blink Torgue had certainly intended for any pursuer. A
crash at high speed would probably have meant death for both The Shadow and
Harry Vincent.
By quick work with the wheel, The Shadow had added to Harry's prompt
action with the brakes. Half a dozen miles outside of Aurora, they were faced
with no greater problem than that of righting the coupe and returning to the
city. But on the outskirts of the town itself, was a man whose life still lay
at stake.
That man was Jack Hallison. Stunned by his drop through the floor of the
old house, Jack had been slow to regain consciousness. His eyes, when they
opened, saw nothing; for Jack lay within complete darkness. His head aching
furiously, Jack would have closed his eyes again, except for an odd sound that
forced his attention.
Thrumm - thrumm -
The muffled beat was a long, sustained tattoo. A noise that came from
beyond some wall. Ominous in its regularity, the sound indicated that a
mechanism was at work. Jack sensed it as a threat.
The prisoner tried to rise. His left leg gave. The fall had given him a
severe knee sprain. Jack thrust his right hand sideways. His fingers touched a
metallic surface. The cold sheet carried a vibration, simultaneous with the
demonish thrumming.
There was pressure, barely perceptible at first. A proof that a metal
wall
was moving inward. Jack stretched his left arm. His hand encountered a similar
surface. It, too, was pushing inward. A grim gasp escaped the prisoner's lips.
Seated on the stone floor, Jack fumbled for his match box. He found it,
lighted a match; the flame was vivid in these limited confines. Raising the
match, Jack saw the extent of his prison.
At one end was a stone wall; at the other, a metal door equipped with a
small closed wicket. Above, hidden by fringes of gloom, was the trapdoor
through which he had dropped. It was out of Jack's reach.
At either side were the metal walls. They captured full attention, for
they were the menace of this prison. The dying match flame showed the
trembling
as the walls vibrated. Jack groaned. Those massive bulkheads were slowly
pressing toward him.
How long they had been at work, Jack did not know. He had not been
conscious, to examine the extent of his cell when he had first reached this
devilish pit. But from the steady pressure that the walls were receiving, Jack
could guess that a dozen minutes more would bring death.
Thrumm - thrumm -
Doom seemed sure. Those walls were heavy. They would crush when they came
together. They had been designed to squeeze the life from any unfortunate who
might lie within their paths. There was only one hope: the door with the
wicket.
JACK crawled toward the metal door. He clawed at its surface, fighting in
the darkness. Despite the twinges of his crippled knee, he came upright and
clung to the bars of the closed wicket. Frantically, he tried to call for aid.
He beat wildly at the wicket itself using one hand while the others clutched
the bars.
Half a minute of frenzy. The prisoner lost his hold. As his knee caved,
Jack sprawled backward. His right shoulder struck one wall; his left hand
pressed the other. The walls of doom had come closer!
Thrumm - thrumm -
The monotony of the mechanism was maddening. It was a beat of death; a
power against which there was no chance to strive. Jack's lips were counting,
gasping the strokes as if to number the last moments of life that remained to
him.
Click!
A new sound arrived unexpectedly, amid the thrums of the machine. With
it,
a shaft of light. The wicket had opened. Staring, Jack saw a face beyond the
bars. The features of a young man, frozen in horror.
Jack panted a call for aid. He knew that this arrival could see his
plight.
Click!
The wicket went shut. The face was gone. Jack groaned. His brain was
whirring. He wondered whether the face had been an illusion; or whether it had
been the countenance of some evil inquisitor, come to eye him at the point of
death.
Thrumm - thrumm - thrumm -
With final beat, the jamming walls were pressing hard against both of
Jack's shoulders. With a writhe, the prisoner rolled sideways, in a futile
effort to avoid that crushing squeeze that seemed sure to come. Then, from
beyond the walls, came a last token.
Thrumm -
The muffled menace ended. Vibration ceased within the sheets of metal
that
held their victim like an iron claw. Tense moments of stillness; then another
click at the wicket. Looking upward, Jack saw the face again. He heard hands
working at a lock.
Jack gasped his thanks. He was saved by this timely rescuer. The
streaming
light from the wicket showed Jack's face, pale and sweat-streaked. Rusted
bolts
shrieked. A door swung open, throwing more light into the narrowed cell.
Pressing his hands against the walls, Jack Hallison came almost upright;
then faltered and toppled outward into the strong arms of the man who had
saved
him.
WHEN Jack Hallison fully grasped his new surroundings, he found himself
propped against the wall of a large cellar. Beside Jack was the young man who
had aided him - a chap whose face was handsome, despite its expression of
concern.
Blur ended. Jack studied the well-formed countenance of his rescuer. He
saw a young, squarish, light-complexioned visage, with brown eyes that peered
from beneath, straight brows. The latter were matched by a trim, pointed
mustache above straight lips. Brows and mustache were dark and smooth, like
the
rescuer's hair.
The man was holding a cup filled with water. He pressed it to Jack's
lips.
Jack swallowed eagerly, then let his head sink back against the wall. His
rescuer stepped aside and placed the cup upon a broken table.
Jack could see beyond him, to the far wall. There, the door to the cell
stood open. Jack could observe the glisten of the metal walls that were
motionless within.
Jack's rescuer seated himself in a chair near the wall. He extended a
hand
in greeting. Jack gripped it, weakly.
"My name," remarked the rescuer, "is Gilbert Eldron. And yours?"
"Jack Hallison," panted Jack. "I - I used to live in this house, years
ago. That's why - wh -"
"Why you came here? I understand. But you made a great mistake! What
happened? Did you find the back door open?"
Jack nodded. Eldron clenched his fists and stared upward. His expression
was one of futile anger, toward someone whom Jack guessed must be on the floor
above.
"I thought there was a trap," muttered Eldron. "I tried to question
Beale,
because he could have told me. But it was no use. Beale is the tool of Peter
Langrew!"
He paused; then looked toward Jack.
"Death threatened you," declared Eldron, his tone strained. "I saved you
from it. But you are not yet clear. Nor am I. In a sense, we are both
helpless.
I have wondered, sometimes, what might happen to me if I tried to leave this
house. At last, I have discovered what my fate would be."
He gestured significantly toward the opened cell.
"I came here voluntarily," resumed Eldron, tensely. "I was admitted
because I was a distant relative of old Peter Langrew. He welcomed me; then
made it plain that I was never to leave without his permission, something that
he has not yet granted.
"I felt the menace of this house. I stayed, because of Beth Kindell. I
could not leave her in Langrew's power. But I shall tell you more of this
later. How I happened to rescue you is the most important matter."
ELDRON paused reflectively. He looked about and pointed out old cellar
windows. They were fortified with bulky iron shutters, bolted into place.
"I have free run," stated Eldron, bitterly, "because there is no way out.
I have kept on friendly terms with old Langrew. That is why he has allowed me
leeway. Tonight, I heard machinery begin to drum.
"I was unwatched. I came down here. I saw the wicket in the bolted door.
I
managed to open the wicket; then I spied you, Hallison, trapped between those
crushing walls. The bolts of the door were rusted. I could not have opened it
in time.
"But I saw the wall switch, half hidden by that shelf beside the door."
As
Eldron pointed, Jack noticed the switch. "I chanced it. The machinery stopped.
Then I had time to work upon the bolts. It was fortunate that I did not attack
them first. Had I done so, I would have been delayed too long to save you."
Jack managed to gasp feeble thanks. His eyes went half shut. Eldron
realized Jack's weakened condition. He leaned forward and clapped a hand upon
Jack's shoulder.
"You know this house," whispered Eldron. "Of course, you remember the old
corner room, past the back stairs?"
"On the second floor," mumbled Jack, "past the back stairs. The corner
room; I remember -"
"I can put you there. The room is furnished, but is used only as a
storeroom. No one will know that you are there."
Jack nodded feebly.
"I'll help you upstairs," added Eldron. "By the back way, Hallison; brace
yourself for the trip. I think that we can dodge Beale. He's the only person
who might spy us."
Thanks to Eldron, they made little noise ascending the stairs. They came
to a closed door, which Jack knew opened into the kitchen. He mumbled that
recollection to Eldron, who whispered for silence. Eldron snapped a light
switch. The glow from the cellar was extinguished.
"Steady, old man!"
As he whispered the admonition, Eldron turned the doorknob. He pressed
the
barrier; he and Jack peered into a kitchen. There they saw a stoop-shouldered
man seated at a bare table, reading. The fellow's face was solemn and
cadaverous. His head was almost bald; the thin hair that fringed it was
mottled
black and gray.
Eldron gripped Jack, to hold him on the topmost step. They waited,
watching, ready to slide back to cover. Then came a buzzing sound. The
cadaverous man arose and stalked through the front door of the kitchen.
"That was Beale," whispered Eldron. "I hoped that Langrew might summon
him. The old man calls him about this time every night. This is our chance.
Let's go."
JACK was already on the move, thrusting his right foot first. He knew the
way to the back stairs that led to the second floor. Warningly, Eldron
restrained Jack from too great progress.
They reached the second floor. Jack recognized the old hallway and
smiled.
He shifted toward the doorway of the corner room. Then a shrill voice startled
him:
摘要：

HOUSEOFSILENCEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"July15,1937.Grimandforebodingasdeathitself,theHouseofSilenceguardedwellitsimpregnablesecret.ThenfromhiddenlipsofTheShadowcamemockinglaughterthatpiercedthestillness,tobringtolighttheterriblesecretthatlonghadremainedhidden!CHAPTERI...

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