Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 122 - Murder House

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MURDER HOUSE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," March 15, 1937.
Like a shell-torn battleground, the peace and quiet of a countryside give
way to criminal warfare when The Shadow stalks through byways seeking the
ruler
of the Murder House.
CHAPTER I
CROOKS PREPARE
THE old sign post read: "MIDVALE, 3 MILES."
Kip Farrick grinned when he saw it. This was the crossing that he wanted.
An isolated meeting place of old dirt roads, where few cars traveled. Kip,
though, had been here before, in the same coupe that he was driving today.
The trip meant something, this time. Kip's ratty face showed a gleam as
he
looked toward the man who rode with him. He wanted to see if Nick Shoyden's
stolid, darkish features could lose their poker-faced expression and betray a
sign of real interest.
"Is this the corner, Kip?"
Nick's question was rasped in businesslike fashion. His blackish eyes
seemed snappy when they saw Kip's grinning lips.
"Sure!" returned the rattish driver. "We only got a half a mile to go,
toward Midvale. I clocked it, Nick - a couple times."
"Then what are we waiting for? Get going."
Kip turned to the left. He drove a quarter mile, squinting while the
sunlight glittered from the radiator cap. As the coupe passed a pair of wheel
tracks that led off to the right, Nick demanded:
"Where does that go to?"
"A road to the house," replied Kip. "The old farm covers more'n two
hundred acres. I found that out in Midvale, Nick."
Nick made no reply. He was watching the speedometer. It clocked off half
a
mile. Kip was prompt with the brakes; they screeched, as the coupe stopped
amid
a cloud of dust. Kip pointed to a jagged road that looked like the path of a
dry stream. The road wound downward, to the left.
"There she is," announced Kip, "an' I'll bet you a century against a fin
that we'll find old Brockbright down by the creek. Every Tuesday and Friday -"
"I know the rest," snapped Nick. "How do we get down to that patch of
woods without Brockbright seeing us?"
In answer, Kip started the coupe. He drove thirty yards and turned off
the
road into a patch of open ground that stood unfenced. Pulling the car beneath
a
clump of trees, Kip alighted and pointed to a path. Nick followed him.
Five minutes later, Nick Shoyden and Kip Farrick had reached the bank of
a
rocky, wooded creek. They crept along a stony path until they reached a big
boulder that jutted above their heads. Kip crawled a few feet up a slope of
turf, gripped a tree root and beckoned to Nick Shoyden, who joined him.
"Take a gander," whispered Farrick. "See if it ain't Brockbright."
Nick looked across the rock.
FIFTY feet away, the flattish ground formed a delightful nook beneath the
boughs of handsome beech trees. The babble of a tiny brook brought a melodious
tone; where the tumbling rill entered the wide creek, cleared trees offered a
view that would have inspired an artist.
The beauty of that mossy glade was lost upon Nick Shoyden. The dark eyes
that glittered from his poker-face were fixed upon a man who sat alone amid
the
scene.
The man was old and withery; his figure looked frail, as it sat hunched
upon a camp stool. The head above the stooped shoulders was erect; and its
face
told that the elderly man was by no means feeble. There was an eaglelike gleam
in the old-man's eyes. His lips wore a satisfied smile. Ruddiness showed in
the
cheeks that topped his well-trimmed beard.
His hair, like his beard, was gray. Nick Shoyden could see every feature
plainly. There was no disputing Kip Farrick's statement that the man was Cyrus
Brockbright, multimillionaire, whose Wall Street operations and real estate
developments had enabled him to pile up fortune upon fortune.
Beside Brockbright was a picnic basket. The millionaire shelled a
hard-boiled egg, sprinkled it with salt and ate methodically. He poured a
glass
of milk from a thermos bottle and reached into the basket for a piece of cake.
Evidently, he decided that he had eaten enough, for he regretfully replaced
the
cake as he finished the glass of milk.
Rising, Brockbright brushed crumbs from his lap, straightened briskly and
called in a shrill voice:
"Parkins! Where are you, Parkins?"
A uniformed chauffeur came from the end of the rough road above the glen.
He had been eating alone, for he was finishing a sandwich when he answered
Brockbright's call. Brockbright pointed to the basket and the camp stool.
"Remove them, Parkins."
As the chauffeur complied, Brockbright waited to survey the little glen.
He strolled to the creek's edge; he looked along the winding bank. His lips
were pursed in pleased fashion when he returned and walked up to the road.
Nick
and Kip saw him disappear beyond a fringe of bushes.
The thump of an automobile door followed. A motor started; its low gear
whined. The watchers sighted a long, sleek limousine moving up the rocky road.
The car turned from view; its noise faded. Only the trickle of the brook
sounded in the glade where Brockbright had been.
Nick came down from the rock, with the comment to Kip:
"Let's go back to the hill."
SEATED again in Kip's coupe, Nick showed that he had been thinking
considerably on the trip up the path. Speculatively, he growled:
"It was Cyrus Brockbright, right enough. I'm wondering why the old gink
comes here so often."
"What does it matter?" put in Kip. "He'll be here again. That's all we'll
need. You can get the outfit, Nick - guys that know their stuff. The snatch
will be a cinch. I've even got the castle fixed. Look over there."
Nick followed Kip's pointing finger. Through a space above the trees, he
could see a distant house, far on the other side of the creek. It was an old
mansion, almost surrounded by woods.
"The Hawkins Estate," elaborated Kip. "Been empty for years. Supposed to
be haunted. I've picked up a lot of dope while I've been hiding out in
Midvale.
I know the roads around here. A snatch would be a cinch. We can grab the
chauffeur when we kidnap Brockbright -"
"Forget that snatch stuff," rasped Nick. "That racket has been queered,
long ago! If you know so much about the country around here, tell me
something.
Has anybody picked up dough in real estate, lately?"
"Yeah," returned Kip. "Just south of Midvale, there's a little summer
resort. It's on this same creek, the Muskatinny. I was pricing bungalows
there,
in case we wanted one. The land is valued at six hundred bucks an acre; but
it's
cut up into smaller lots. And then there's the house besides."
"You've told me all I wanted to know, Kip. Six hundred dollars an acre.
Six hundred times two hundred - that is one hundred and twenty thousand.
According to that, this farm, with its two hundred acres, ought to be worth a
hundred and twenty grand."
Kip put an objection.
"Farms are cheap around here," he said. "Not worth more than fifty bucks
an acre. This farm could be had for less than ten grand, Nick."
"Great!" For the first time, Nick showed a grin. "That gives us the
tip-off on why old Brockbright was out here. He figures on buying this land
for
ten thousand dollars and selling it for a hundred and twenty thousand.
"Only, a hundred and twenty grand is small change for that old bird. This
won't be the only farm he'll buy. He'll grab them off on both sides of the
creek, all the way down. There'll be a million in it, before he's through.
"This place sits right in the middle." Nick's smile broadened. "That's
why
Brockbright comes to look it over, with a picnic basket as a blind. He'd talk
turkey if somebody grabbed this farm and held out for big dough. Start the
car,
Kip. We're going to buy a farm."
Kip drove back along the dirt road and turned in at the entrance to the
farmhouse. At the end of a quarter mile, the road ended beside a sprawling
house, where a tilled stretch of ground sloped down toward the creek. There
was
a barn connected to one side of the house; on the other, Nick saw a long,
low-roofed building that puzzled him because it stood only a few feet above
the
ground.
"What's that funny-looking shed?" he asked Kip. "What do they do - train
the cows to crawl in at night?"
"It's a mushroom cellar," returned Kip. "They grow a lot of mushrooms
around Midvale. Whatta you want me to do, Nick? Go in an' talk to the guy that
owns this shack?"
"Yeah. Price the place. I'll wait for you."
KIP clambered from the car and went toward the rambling house. A big man
in overalls came from the barn, eyed the stranger and gruffed:
"Who do you want to see?"
"The owner of the farm," returned Kip, eyeing a pitchfork that the husky
yokel carried. "Is he around here?"
The fellow with the pitchfork nodded; looked toward the house and called:
"Visitor to see you, Mr. Jorridon!"
A tall man appeared from a side door of the house. He was dressed in farm
clothes; but his manner showed that he was more important than the hired hand
who had accosted Kip. The crook knew that this must be Jorridon. Kip noted
that
Jorridon's eyes were sharp and direct of gaze; that the man had the square jaw
of a fighter.
Those features made Kip jittery. Jorridon reminded him too much of a
district attorney. It took Kip a few seconds to assure himself that Jorridon
could have no reason to class his visitor as a crook. Kip approached to shake
hands.
"My name's Farrick," he told Jorridon. "I come from New York. Been up
here
in Midvale the last few weeks, looking for a farm. Thought I'd find out if
this
one was for sale."
"Where did you hear about this farm?"
Jorridon's question worried Kip. Luckily, he knew a good bit about
Midvale. Moreover, he remembered having seen an old farm truck that bore the
name of Rex Jorridon. That truck came into town frequently. Kip had seen it
parked near the post office.
"I was talking with one of the fellows at the general store," lied Kip.
"Asked him about farms. He said I ought to see Rex Jorridon. Told me where
this
farm was -"
"And said it was for sale?"
"He said it might be. That's why I came here."
Another hired hand had joined the man who first met Kip. Jorridon saw the
pair standing by, and gestured them toward the barn.
"Get back to work, Hector," he told the first one. "Take Ezra along with
you." Turning to Kip, Jorridon added: "They told you wrong, Mr. Farrick. I'm
not trying to sell this farm."
"The fellow didn't say you were," began Kip. "He only said that I ought
to
see you -"
"And that was a mistake, too," interposed Jorridon. "I don't own this
farm. I only rent it. The farm belongs to the Midvale Title & Trust Co. They
wouldn't sell it the last time I talked to them."
Kip mumbled excuses and returned to the car. As he drove away, he gave a
sidelong look toward the house; saw Jorridon with arms akimbo, watching the
coupe's departure. Kip said nothing to Nick until they reached the dirt road;
then he gave the details.
"That guy Jorridon sure made me jittery," concluded Kip. "He's no hick!
He
looked more like a district attorney!"
"Trying to shove you off that's all," grunted Nick. "He's renting the
place and don't want to give it up. Drive into Midvale, Kip. Show me that
title
company."
WHEN they reached the town of Midvale, Nick Shoyden entered the bank
alone. He was gone about thirty minutes. When he returned, he motioned for Kip
to drive along. As soon as they were out of town, Nick chuckled and pulled an
official-looking document from his pocket.
"I bought the deed to the farm," he told Kip. "It cost me seventy-five
hundred. Cheaper than you thought. Took just half of the fifteen grand that I
brought with me from Chi. I'll need the rest when we get to New York."
Kip shot a nervous look toward his companion. New York was a hot spot for
both of them. Nick had been hiding out in Chicago, while Kip was in Midvale.
Nick saw the reason for Kip's anxiety.
"Don't get jittery again," growled Nick. "I didn't give my own name at
the
bank. I signed myself 'J. J. Burlow'; and it's legal to use any name in this
State. I gave the old Eighth Avenue address in New York City, that the bulls
don't know about. We'll head there, Kip.
"This hunk of paper isn't hot. We're working a racket that the law can't
touch. All we've got to do in New York is put up a front. Leave that to me,
Kip."
Kip was taking the road to New York, a proof that he intended to take
chances along with Nick. Pocketing the title deed, Nick added a last detail.
"Jorridon talked about buying the farm," he said. "They mentioned that at
the bank. But the guy has no dough. He's one of those educated guys from a
farm
college, that thinks he can make money out of growing mushrooms. All he could
raise to buy the farm was fifteen hundred bucks and the bank wouldn't take a
mortgage on the rest. So he had to keep on renting it.
"We'll let him stay there. I told the bank to collect the rent and keep
it
for me. Jorridon will think he's sitting pretty, until old Cyrus Brockbright
buys the farm. Then Jorridon will have a headache, when he learns what
Brockbright paid for it. I'm going to hold out for sixty grand, Kip, when I
deal with Brockbright."
Nick Shoyden spoke with assurance, as though he and Kip Farrick already
had fifty-two and a half thousand dollars in the bag. Kip did not share the
enthusiasm. Nick noticed it and growled:
"What makes you sour? More than twenty-five grand apiece is better than a
snatch, ain't it? There's a bigger chance of this going through; and we're
running no risk."
"Except that we're goin' into New York."
"We'll only stay there a week. I know that the cops are looking for the
guys who croaked Jim Kildean in his gambling joint; but they haven't pinned it
on us, yet. It will look better for us, if we're seen in New York."
Nick's words had logic. Kip's objections ended. The crooks were agreed
that the law would make no trouble for them during a short stay in New York.
Murderers, planning a different sort of crime, were sure that their new
activities would pass unwatched.
There was something that both Nick Shoyden and Kip Farrick had forgotten.
In New York dwelt a being called The Shadow, who ferreted out the misdeeds of
crooks and hunted down the perpetrators. Once he had gained the goods on
criminals, The Shadow never forgot them.
When The Shadow learned that this pair of rogues had returned to New
York,
Nick and Kip would be due for trouble that they did not expect.
CHAPTER II
AT THE LUCKY SEVEN CLUB
NICK SHOYDEN had predicted a week's stay in New York. His estimate was
short. It took longer than a week to deal with Cyrus Brockbright. Just seven
days after he had bought the farm in Midvale, Nick was seated in a small
office
he had rented, glumness showing on his normally expressionless face.
He was mulling over the real estate matter. He had sent Brockbright a
letter, representing himself as head of the "Interstate Resort Development
Co.," and asking for an appointment, as he had some property that the
millionaire would be interested in. Nick, however, did not intimate where the
property lay.
The answer came in the form of a letter from Brockbright's secretary,
Klauden, saying his employer was not interested in any property. Nick had then
sent Kip Farrick to interview the secretary and try to make an appointment
with
Brockbright for Nick. In this, Kip was successful. Nick was to see the
millionaire to-morrow.
Kip had gone to the Lucky Seven Club; Nick was to meet him there tonight.
Both thought it best to be seen in public; that if the coppers saw them boldly
in the open, they might not suspect their connection with the murder of Jim
Kildean.
Nick locked his office, started for the elevator. A tall, gangling man in
the hallway made him suspicious he was being spied upon; but when the man
mumbled he was looking for a bookbinding company, Nick shrugged off his
suspicions as jitters caused by his return to New York after Kildean had been
murdered.
Nick made for the Lucky Seven Club, to meet Kip.
THE Lucky Seven Club was outwardly a dining resort of high caliber. But
for those in the know, the third floor of the club was outfitted for gambling
on a complete scale.
An hour after Nick Shoyden arrived there, a tall stranger, dressed to
perfection in evening clothes, entered the club, showed credentials to
Morridy,
the owner, and ascended to the gaming rooms. Most of the seats around a
roulette
wheel being occupied, the tall visitor merely watched the game with other
spectators who were awaiting a chance to play.
At the far end of the short floor was a curtained room that served for
poker players. The curtains were only partly drawn; beyond them could be seen
the faces of men who were seated around an oval table. Some discussion must
have passed among the group, for a man came from the poker room and closed the
curtain behind him. He crossed to the doorway of a little room at the side,
glancing toward the roulette table as he went past.
The man from the poker room was Nick Shoyden. A slight smile appeared
upon
the lips of the tall stranger at the roulette table - an expression which Nick
did not observe. The visitor with the masklike face was The Shadow. Through
information received from his contact men, he knew Kip and Nick would be here
this evening.
As soon as Nick had gone into the little room, The Shadow stepped away
from the table. He saw an empty room that adjoined the one that Nick had
entered. Casually, The Shadow strolled toward the vacant room. Unnoticed, he
stepped into its darkness. In the gloom, he spied a connecting door to the
room
that Nick had entered. The Shadow moved toward that inner door.
NICK had joined Kip Farrick, who was playing solitaire in a lighted
corner
of the little room. As Nick sat down, Kip looked up eagerly, as if he expected
news.
"Just talked with Jake Prenzel and some of his pals," announced Nick.
"They've made this their regular joint. They looked glad to see me. Wanted me
in the poker game."
"Any cracks about Jim Kildean?"
"Not a one, Kip. They haven't tied that on us. Talked like they thought
I'd been out in Chi on business. It wouldn't matter much, though, if those
boys
did wise-crack. They've rubbed out plenty of mugs on their own."
"Yeah," agreed Kip. "They wouldn't squawk. It wouldn't be a bad stunt to
sound them out, though, just to find out what they've heard."
"I'm going to. You stick here while I handle the poker session. After
that, we can head for the hide-out down near old Tully's pawnshop."
Nick was about to start back to the poker room, when Kip stopped him. In
a
low tone, the rattish crook queried:
"Say, Nick - who d'you think the lug was down at the office? The one you
was tellin' me about?"
"He might've been anybody," growled Nick. "That is, anybody except a
bull.
I figured that he was casing us, but maybe I was wrong. He could have been
looking for that bookbinding office, like he said."
"You don't think he was from The Shadow?"
Nick started a snort; then curbed it. Kip's words made him glare angrily;
but the suggestion was one that could not be laughed off. The threat of The
Shadow was always imminent to men of crime.
"They say The Shadow has stooges workin' for him," insisted Kip. "Guys
that get aroun' everywhere, an' don't let nobody lamp 'em too close. That bird
could've been one - maybe he was The Shadow, even!"
"Cut it!" rasped Nick, his voice low with its harshness. "You'll be
telling me next that The Shadow is in this joint!"
"Maybe he is. They say he gets in anywhere he wants."
Nick indulged in a harsh guffaw.
"I'll pipe that to Jake Prenzel and his crew," he promised. "It'll give
them a laugh! If you spot The Shadow, Kip, hop into the poker room and tell
us!"
Kip subsided. Weakly, he tried to excuse his fears with the remark:
"I was only thinkin' about to-morrow, Nick. Remember, you gotta swing
that
deal with old -"
Nick gestured savagely, in time to prevent Kip's mention of Cyrus
Brockbright. Kip caught the cue and broke off. He chewed his lips nervously
and
went back to his game of solitaire. Nick watched him, with contemptuous eyes.
If Kip had not mentioned The Shadow so specifically, Nick would never
have
noticed a peculiar manifestation that occurred beyond the solitaire table.
There, upon the floor beside the connecting door, Nick spied a splotch of
blackness that bore a striking resemblance to a silhouette.
The black patch was creeping slowly away when Nick spotted it. Looking
slightly above, Nick thought that he observed a motion of the door.
FOR a moment, the racketeer felt the grip of nervousness; then, with a
well-faked grunt of contempt at Kip's worriment, Nick went out into the main
gaming room. This time, he gave the roulette table a closer look. Nick noticed
a gap among the observers at the end.
Nick had a recollection of a face. He recalled a tall individual in
evening clothes, who had caught his passing attention. That personage was
gone.
His absence gave Nick a decided hunch. Nick intended to go through with his
mention of The Shadow to Jake Prenzel; but not as a jest.
Back at his solitaire, Kip Farrick was oblivious to the tokens that Nick
had seen. Kip's shoulder was toward the connecting door. The rattish crook
noted nothing as the barrier opened farther. He caught no sight of the
shrouded
figure that edged slowly into the patch of light.
There was a curtained recess by the windows. The Shadow preferred it as
an
observation post before Nick returned. An hour's vigil would be worth while,
if
crooks made mention of the man whom Nick intended to meet to-morrow.
Once The Shadow learned the name of Cyrus Brockbright, he would be in a
position to thwart plans of crime. For the present, all depended on a stealthy
trip past Kip; and that was the reason for The Shadow's slow-motion tactics.
Two minutes passed before he was through the door. He began to close the
door so skillfully that its motion was almost indetectible. That move was to
require a full minute more. All the while, The Shadow watched the outer door
of
Kip's room to make sure that it did not move. Nick had closed that door on
departure.
Fully within the room where Kip sat, The Shadow had little chance to keep
track of the darkened room behind him. He was not watching it as he began to
close the connecting door; nevertheless, his ears caught a sound that occurred
there.
Instantly, The Shadow removed his hand from the door, slipped it to a
deep-pocketed holster under his long-tailed coat.
At that instant, a light blazed on in the other room. Nick Shoyden had
reached through to press the switch. The poker-faced racketeer was springing
through, aiming a revolver. As Nick took a bead for the spot where The Shadow
stood, the crook saw the muzzle of an automatic whip into view.
The Shadow had overtaken Nick's advantage. His aim was gun to gun with
the
crook's.
"GET him, Kip! The Shadow!"
Nick howled the order instinctively, knowing that Kip would respond. Nick
sprang out into the main gaming room, firing as he went. The Shadow feinted
toward Kip's room, using his own gun in Nick's direction. Both shots went
wide.
The Shadow, like Nick, had seen that the most pressing need was to avoid the
other's aim.
The Shadow, though, glimpsed the door where Nick went through. Beyond it
were other men: Jake Prenzel and his murderous followers. All had come to that
one door, because Nick had told them that The Shadow was watching Kip.
Swinging
back into the room where Nick had turned on the light, The Shadow jabbed quick
shots toward the crooks. The door slammed shut.
The Shadow wheeled to the connecting door; made a sudden side shift as
Kip
came through. He had allowed the rattish crook time, knowing that Kip would
not
be ready on the instant. As Kip arrived, The Shadow swung in upon him; caught
the fellow completely off guard.
It would have gone badly with Kip at that moment, if The Shadow had been
dealing with him alone. Fortunately for Kip, The Shadow had other plans, which
made it necessary to let him live.
Coming in from Kip's very elbow, The Shadow stroked the crook's gun arm
upward. Catching Kip in a quick grip, be whirled him, sprawling, to the very
door of the empty room. Kip came to hands and knees; half dizzy, he did
exactly
as The Shadow hoped. He turned toward the connecting doorway and began to
blaze
wild shots as fast as he could pump them.
The Shadow was through the doorway before Kip started his fire. Passing
the solitaire table, he made for the outer door. He wrenched it open, came
squarely upon the scene that he expected.
Nick and Jake, hearing Kip's shots, were invading the room where the
battle had commenced. They had left only two guards at the door of Kip's room.
One of those was turned away.
The Shadow met the only watcher with the force of a thunderbolt. He
sledged the rowdy with a single stroke; sprang across him as he dropped and
fell upon the second guard. Catching the crook as he turned, The Shadow pinned
his arms behind him, using only one hand and forearm for the grab.
Beyond the snagged crook's shoulder, The Shadow aimed the .45; began an
instant fire as he staggered the shielding man sidewise.
Nick Shoyden was in the room where Kip Farrick was shooting blindly. It
was Jake Prenzel who turned to see the side-stepping figure of his own
henchman, with The Shadow's arm attached.
Jake fell wounded at the first shot. Other crooks, springing to gain
flank
aim at The Shadow, lost their chance to fire. The Shadow clipped the foremost
pair, then hurled his human shield to the floor. The Shadow was at the
roulette
table, from which the players had scattered.
FOES still remained - plenty of them, even though The Shadow had handled
most of Jake Prenzel's outfit. The attendants in the gambling room, from
roulette croupiers to bouncers, were thugs to a man. They had heard the cry:
"The Shadow!" They wanted their chance at the superfoe whose name all gangdom
hated. But their chance for victory was gone.
The Shadow flung his emptied automatic straight for the head of the
nearest enemy, the only thug who had started fresh aim. As the man ducked, The
Shadow grabbed the roulette wheel, yanked it upright and hauled it toward the
wall. One hand no longer needed to drag the massive wheel and its frame, The
Shadow pulled out a fresh automatic.
Crooks had resumed their fire. Their slugs splintered the thick mahogany
of the roulette wheel; clanged from the metal trimmings. The bulwark resisted
the barrage; it was tougher than they supposed. Barking guns ruined a wheel
that had cost Morridy two thousand dollars; but The Shadow remained unscathed.
Crooks wasted precious seconds in trying to shoot through the roulette
wheel. They learned that, when The Shadow's .45 began to speak.
Each flash from the big gun dropped a foeman. One crook staggered; then
another; as a third jolted, clawing at a wounded shoulder, some one shouted:
"Douse the glims!"
The suggestion was instantly approved. The lights went out. Guns barked
wildly, uselessly, as crooks tried to find the spot where The Shadow crouched.
Every time his automatic answered, its flame tongued from a new location.
Gun crackles ceased suddenly. Pounding footsteps from the stairway told
that the police had arrived. They were crashing at the door when The Shadow
turned on a flashlight. Except for the wounded crooks and scared customers in
the corners, the gaming room was empty. The Shadow saw a wide-open door beside
the poker room. It showed a stairway that fleeing men had taken.
The Shadow chose that exit. One flight down, it led into another house;
then to the ground floor, where an open door gave exit to an alleyway that the
police had not yet invaded. Crooks were gone, so The Shadow made his own
departure.
MEN of crime had been routed at the Lucky Seven Club. The Shadow had
conquered overwhelming odds. The result, though, was barren; for Nick Shoyden
and Kip Farrick had been the first to gain the clear. To find them, The Shadow
would have to begin a new trail.
At this moment, such a task did not appear to offer complications. The
fight at the Lucky Seven seemed but a temporary delay. The future was to prove
otherwise.
The Shadow would have to cover a range of unexpected territory, with new
problems rising on his way, before he finished the quest that this night had
begun.
CHAPTER III
NICK TALKS TERMS
AT three o'clock the next afternoon, Nick Shoyden arrived at the Wall
Street offices of Cyrus Brockbright. While waiting to see the millionaire,
Nick
read a newspaper. It told of the raid at the Lucky Seven Club. Jake Prenzel
and
some of his outfit had been captured, charged with starting the gunfray. This
didn't please Nick, for he didn't want to incur the enmity of crooks of his
own
sort.
Klauden, Brockbright's secretary - a frail, spunkless-looking man -
interrupted to say that the millionaire would see Nick now.
The interview was a peculiar one - filled with humor on Brockbright's
side
and with anger on Nick's. For the millionaire denied completely that he knew
of
the farm near Midvale that Nick wanted to sell him. He stated that he drove
around in his car a good bit for pleasure, picked out picnic spots here and
there - but that he never remembered where most of them were, for he slumbered
in the back of the car.
It tickled him to think Nick suspected him of attempting to gain property
near Midvale. And he laughed till tears came when Nick asked him for sixty
thousand dollars for the farm. He had been inspecting the deed Nick had handed
him.
Nick, letting his temper overrule his original judgment of price, in
desperation offered the farm for thirty thousand dollars.
Brockbright chuckled, handed back the deed.
"Here is your deed, Mr. Shoyden - or Burlow, if you prefer to use your
alias. Our interview is ended. I begin to understand why you wished to see me
privately. I may add, I am pleased to see a swindler tricked by his own game.
Good day, Mr. Shoyden. My secretary will show you out."
Nick came up angrily from his chair. His hard eyes were fixed on
Brockbright. Forgetting himself, Nick started a threat:
"There's been other guys who tried to cross Nick Shoyden! They never got
away with it. I'm going to get my dough out of this buy" - he flourished the
titled deed beneath Brockbright's nose - "and I'm going to show a profit on
it,
or else! You heard what I said. Or else! That means I'll find a way to make
you
cough up a lot more dough than what I've asked for -"
Brockbright was jabbing a bell-button, ringing lustily for Klauden.
Though
contemptuous of the secretary, Nick gained the sudden thought that the
frequent
bell jabs might be an alarm. If others came with Klauden, it might go bad for
Nick.
The crook saw that Brockbright was trembling; but anger accounted for his
shakiness as much as fear. Nick began to lose some of his own self-confidence.
He made a quick effort to smooth things over before Klauden and the others
arrived.
"I guess you've put it straight, Mr Brockbright," gruffed Nick, in a
rueful tone. "I want too much for the property. It's worth money, though."
Nick
paused, hearing the door of the office open behind him. "I looked the place
over
before I bought it, and it struck me as a good buy."
Brockbright cocked his head slightly. Always a shrewd buyer in the matter
of real estate, the millionaire was analyzing what Nick had said. The crook
must have seen some signs of real estate activity in Midvale, otherwise he
摘要：

MURDERHOUSEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"March15,1937.Likeashell-tornbattleground,thepeaceandquietofacountrysidegivewaytocriminalwarfarewhenTheShadowstalksthroughbywaysseekingtheruleroftheMurderHouse.CHAPTERICROOKSPREPARETHEoldsignpostread:"MIDVALE,3MILES."KipFarrickgrinne...

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