Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 112 - Death By Proxy

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DEATH BY PROXY
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. MANSION OF GLOOM
? CHAPTER II. DEATH BY MISADVENTURE
? CHAPTER III. FACTS FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER IV. THE MUDDY TRAIL
? CHAPTER V. THE SHROUDED VISITOR
? CHAPTER VI. THE OUTSIDE WATCH
? CHAPTER VII. THE INSIDE SPY
? CHAPTER VIII. THE MESSAGE AT DUSK
? CHAPTER IX. FACES IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER X. THE VANISHED SHADOW
? CHAPTER XI. CROOKS COUNTER
? CHAPTER XII. THE BROKEN STRONGHOLD
? CHAPTER XIII. DOOM FROM THE EAST
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW RETURNS
? CHAPTER XV. FROM THE DEAD
? CHAPTER XVI. THE DEATH BLAST
? CHAPTER XVII. DOOMED TO THE TOMB
? CHAPTER XVIII. BENEATH THE MANSION
? CHAPTER XIX. MURDER'S PROOF
? CHAPTER XX. THE LAST DEATH
CHAPTER I. MANSION OF GLOOM
ALL the residents of Glynwold knew this mansion by sight. They knew, by sight, every member of the
family that lived in it. They knew, too, of the tragic events which had fallen upon it. But no one imagined
the menace that hung over it. No one knew—no one even guessed—what was to come.
It was a massive gray-stone mansion, rambling, topped with conical turrets. Spacious lawns, well-placed
landscaping, gardens and woodland walks were part of the estate. But there was a grimness about it,
accentuated now by a steady drizzle which made the gray-stone mansion seem like a crouching monster,
ready to take hapless victims into its maw.
Through the constant rain a small coupe drove to the entrance. A young man stepped out. Tall, slouchy,
loose of frame and gait, bulgy brows, high-bridged nose, sharp cheekbones, and high forehead damp
with the rain, Owen Lengood strolled through the unlocked door and into the mansion.
Seated at one side of the fireplace were two men, both younger than Owen. They turned when he
entered; the firelight showed the similarity of their faces. Not only did they look alike; their features also
matched Owen's. Near the two men was a girl; she had Lengood features.
“Hello, Roy... Hello, Walter.” Owen Lengood was brisk with his greeting. “Well, well. My cousins look
glum to-day.” He turned to the girl and smiled. “Hello, Eleanor. Guess you were worrying about me,
weren't you, sis? I know I should have driven in here yesterday, but—”
A voice interrupted from the other side of the fireplace. Owen looked toward a heavy-built, elderly man
who had risen from his chair. The man was gray-haired, blunt-faced with heavy chin. But his face showed
kindliness and sorrow. His voice, though deep, was modulated.
“We have bad news for you, Owen,” announced the elderly man. “It was unfortunate that you did not
arrive home yesterday.”
“What is it, Mr. Joland?” queried Owen, puzzled. “Something about the estate?”
“Yes and no. It concerns James. He died yesterday.”
“At the sanitarium?”
“Yes. Doctor Denburton received report that his condition was serious. I went there at once, taking Roy
and Walter with me. They were beside their brother when he passed away.”
Owen shook his head.
“Poor Jim,” he said, sadly. I scarcely thought that he would go suddenly. I supposed that there was hope
for him. I am sorry to learn this.”
Owen strolled to the fire; began to warm his hands there. His cousin Roy arose suddenly and
approached him.
“So you're sorry about Jim?” quizzed Roy, in a gritted tone. “You don't seem to show it, Owen. You
haven't asked what he said before he died. You haven't asked about the funeral—”
“Easy, Roy,” interjected Walter, rising to draw back his brother. “People take things differently, you
know. Don't be harsh with Owen.”
Owen turned from the fireplace. His eyes showed anger; then relaxed.
“I intended to ask those questions,” he told Roy. “I should like to know what Jim's last words were; also
when the funeral will be.”
“Jim told us to remember him to you,” put in Joland, stepping between the cousins. “He kept asking for
you; said that he wanted to see you before he went.”
“And you never came!” exclaimed Roy, hotly. “If you'd put yourself out enough to telephone here from
wherever you were, you'd have learned that Jim was dying—”
“I'm sorry, Roy—”
“Sorry? Why should you be? All you're thinking is that there's one less of us to share the estate. As for
the funeral, you're spared some trouble there. We buried Jim this morning.”
Owen's fists had tightened. He struggled to suppress his rage. Joland was helping Walter to calm Roy;
Eleanor came over and grasped Owen's arm. Slowly, Owen eased. When he spoke, his tone was crisp.
“You are forgetting one thing, Roy,” he declared. “One year ago, there were six of us in this house.
Eleanor and I had an older brother, like you and Walter had. We cared for Howard as much as you
cared for Jim.
“When Howard was thrown from his horse in the polo match, he was killed instantly. He had no chance
to speak to any one. That was a year ago; my grief has never lessened. But not once would I ever have
accused you of being glad that Howard was dead.
“I thought that all of us had grieved for him. I have learned that I was wrong. You never grieved for
Howard; and it is your own guilty conscience that has caused you to think that I am glad because Jim has
died.”
COLDLY, Owen turned away from his cousin and walked from the room. Roy stared; then sank to his
chair, where he stooped and clasped his hands to his forehead. Walter remained beside him; Eleanor
hurried after Owen. She overtook her brother near the front door.
“You must forgive Roy,” pleaded the girl. “He is not himself to-day, Owen. He is broken by Jim's death.”
“I understand,” returned Owen. “I feel it, too, Eleanor. That is why I am going out. I can talk to Roy
when I return to-morrow.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Baltimore, as I originally intended. You knew that I had to be there to-night to see that chap who
talked about buying my stock in the speedboat company.”
“But it is only a matter of a few thousand dollars, Owen. Since Jim has died, you should stay here.”
“I would stay, Eleanor. I was going to postpone the Baltimore appointment; but it's better for me to go
to-day. It will give Roy a chance to come to his senses.”
Joland arrived from the living room just as Eleanor began a new plea for her brother to remain. Quietly,
the elderly man joined sides with the girl; but Owen shook his head.
“I'm on my way,” he announced firmly. “I'll stop a few minutes to see Doctor Denburton when I drive by
his house. You will be able to reach me at the Colonial Hotel in Baltimore, this evening.”
Owen strode from the house. They heard his car drive away. Joland shook his head; then turned to
Eleanor.
“You Lengoods are temperamental,” he told the girl. “Just like your grandfather. That is, all of you except
Roger. I have never met him during the few years that I have been the administrator of the Lengood
estate.”
Eleanor managed a smile. Joland's reference was to her brother Roger, younger than Owen but older
than Eleanor. Five years ago, Roger had gone to China; Eleanor had heard from him only at long-spaced
intervals since his departure. She imagined that Roger might be the most temperamental of all the
Lengood family.
Joland and Eleanor walked back to the living room, to find Roy apologetic; sorry that he had quarreled
with Owen. He wanted to talk to his cousin; Joland decided that a telephone conversation would be the
best means. Going out into the hall, Joland picked up the telephone and called a number. The others
heard him speak.
“Hello... Doctor Denburton?” There was a short pause; some one was summoning the doctor. “Hello,
Doctor... Yes. This is Louis Joland... Is Owen Lengood there?”
“I see... You talked to him out front... He drove away just as you came into the house to answer this
call... Yes. He told us he was going to Baltimore... Thank you, Doctor...”
Joland hung up and returned to the living room. He placed his hand upon Roy's shoulder; told the young
man to forget his worry until evening, when he could call Owen by long distance to Baltimore. While
Joland was speaking to Roy, the telephone rang. Eleanor started to answer it; but stopped when she
heard a crackly voice in the hallway. It was Peters, the butler.
A few moments later, Peters appeared at the doorway. Stoop-shouldered, with wrinkled face topped by
white hair, he surveyed the group with eyes that showed surprising sharpness for a man so old.
“It's for Mr. Owen,” he stated. “A gentleman named Mr. Cranston, calling from New York. I believe
that he said something about the speed-boat company.”
“Tell him that Owen has gone to Baltimore,” returned Joland. “That he can reach him at the Colonial
Hotel in about three hours.”
“Very well, sir.”
Peters went back to the telephone. There, the old wrinkled servant delivered the message. He heard an
even-toned voice express its thanks across the wire. As he hung up the receiver, his face showed
puzzlement.
STANDING in the deep gloom of the great hallway, Peters received a strange impression of a weird
echo that sounded like a grim, foreboding laugh. So distant had it seemed, that the servant could not
believe it real. He glanced suspiciously about the hall then looked at the telephone. After that, he shook
his head. He believed that the sound had been a product of his own imagination.
Peters was wrong. Grim and sinister, that solemn laugh had come from the telephone receiver that he had
delayed in placing on the hook. It was like a prophecy, that tone; for it foretold the entrance of a master
being into the affairs of the Lengood heirs.
The speaker who had called himself Cranston was actually The Shadow. Master sleuth who delved into
all matters that signified the presence of hidden crime, The Shadow had decided to investigate the death
of James Lengood.
One year ago, Howard Lengood had died an accidental death only a few weeks before he reached the
age of twenty-five. Yesterday, his cousin James had died in a sanitarium; like Howard, James was not
quite twenty-five.
In choosing to contact Owen Lengood, The Shadow had picked that young man as the oldest of those
who remained. Within the next week, Owen Lengood would be twenty-five. In New York, The Shadow
had learned of Owen's interest in a speed-boat company. He had chosen to use that factor as a means of
contact.
Owen's quarrel with Roy had disturbed The Shadow's plan. The call from the supposed Cranston was
just too late to make the contact. There was reason for the foreboding tone of The Shadow's mirthless
laugh. The Shadow foresaw immediate danger to Owen Lengood.
Circumstances had left an interval wherein doom could strike another person who dwelt within the
mansion of gloom. Owen Lengood, en route to Baltimore, might be facing hazards which even The
Shadow could not forestall at this late hour.
CHAPTER II. DEATH BY MISADVENTURE
LESS than two hours after its departure from Glynwold, Owen Lengood's powerful coupe swung into a
paved highway in southern Pennsylvania. A detour sign pointed to the right; the arrow showed the
direction to Conowingo.
As the coupe turned right, it passed another sign that marked the limit of a town called Duxton Square.
Though it boasted a population of two thousand, Duxton Square was a sleepy place, for it was off the
main highway. Flooded streams had forced detours which temporarily brought through traffic to the
town.
Owen's coupe whined in high-speed second gear. Though the highway was narrow and shouldered with
rows of trees, the driver preferred fast progress. The coupe whizzed past two other cars; its gears shot
into high.
The car was doing forty on a slippery road where signs warned that the speed limit was twenty miles an
hour. Straight ahead was a parked truck, with two men standing beside it working on the motor.
Cars were coming from the opposite direction. The truckmen observed that fact suddenly, just as
Owen's car was bearing to the left to pass the stalled truck. Simultaneously, the two men shouted
warnings. One waved his arms at Owen's car; the other gave wild hand signals toward the automobiles
that were coming from the south.
Oncoming traffic stopped. Owen's coupe roared rapidly past the truck; the two men leaped for safety. A
crash looked certain. All that prevented it was prompt action by the driver of the coupe.
Owen's car skewed across the road. Skidding half about, the driver shot his powerful machine through a
space between two trees. The car floundered through a ditch, demolished a picket fence and lacerated
the soil of a rain-soaked lawn.
For the moment, it looked as though the coupe had swung to safety; it was headed for an old farmhouse,
but the building was forty feet away and the distance was sufficient for the car to halt.
Then disaster intervened.
The coupe careened as its tires slithered in the slippery turf. Bearing to the left, it crashed head-on against
a large tree. Radiator and hood were crumpled; the halted car tipped crazily.
As the coupe righted itself, the door by the driver's seat ripped open. The driver tumbled headlong, to
sprawl upon the lawn.
ONE truckman made a motion as if to start toward the wrecked car. The other grabbed his arm and
growled:
“Hold it, Blimp. Let some of the mugs get there first.”
The eager truckman subsided and gave a short nod.
“O.K., Slug,” he responded. “You're runnin' it.”
The pair stood motionless, while motorists leaped from their stalled cars and dashed toward Owen's
coupe. Suddenly, “Slug” gave “Blimp” a nudge. Slug had seen a tall, bald-headed man come from the
front door of the house. The fellow was standing on the porch, looking toward the scene of the crash.
“There's the horse doctor,” growled Slug. “In his office, like we'd figured he'd be. Come on, Blimp.
Here's where we do our stuff.”
The truckman hurried to the wrecked car. Arrived there, they found men bent above a motionless figure
on the ground. The face of Owen Lengood was turned upward, with eyes fixed in a glassy stare.
“Give him air,” growled Slug, shouldering his way through the circle of onlookers. “Say—this guy looks
like he's croaked!”
The bald-headed man had arrived from the porch; he, too, was pushing his way through the throng.
Blimp made a motion to stop him; then questioned:
“You a doctor?”
“I'm a veterinarian,” replied the baldheaded man, briskly. “Perhaps I can serve in this emergency. Carry
the man into my office.”
Slug and Blimp followed the order. They lifted the body with effort. Slug made comment to the
veterinarian:
“Feels like a dead weight, doc—”
Other witnesses followed the truckmen into the house, passing a door where a weather-beaten sign
announced the veterinarian's name as “J. R. Kolbel.” At Kolbel's order, Slug and Blimp placed their
burden upon a rickety surgical table in the center of a room that was surrounded by cages.
Penned dogs began to growl and whimper, sensing that something had gone wrong. Doctor Kolbel
began a prompt examination of the crash victim. A timid-faced witness shouldered through the doorway,
passing Slug and Blimp, to lay a wallet upon one of the dog pens.
“I found it on the ground,” explained the witness in a whisper. “His license cards are in it. His name is
Owen Lengood; he's from Philadelphia.”
Doctor Kolbel was staring in puzzlement at the face of Owen Lengood. The vet shook his head; then
placed his fingers above the victim's ears. As he moved his hands down toward the man's neck, Kolbel
stopped suddenly. His nod was solemn.
“A chance blow at the base of the skull,” he announced, seriously. “Always a bad spot. He must have
struck his head heavily at the time the door broke open.”
“Say, doc,” gulped Slug, “you don't mean that the guy's dead?”
“He is quite dead,” assured Kolbel. “I recognized that fact almost immediately. I was merely seeking to
ascertain the cause of his death.”
“I was going to suggest taking him to a hospital, doc. We got a truck out on the highway. Maybe we'd
better take him anyway.”
“That would be unnecessary. There is a morgue in town. That is the proper place to take the body.”
SLUG and Blimp motioned other witnesses away. They were about to lift the body from the table when
there was a stir at the door. A State policeman shoved his way into the room. He looked at the body,
then turned to Doctor Kolbel.
“Dead?” queried the policeman. Kolbel nodded.
“I told these truckmen they could take him to the morgue,” said the veterinarian. “The man's name is
Owen Lengood; here is the wallet with his license cards. Most of these people witnessed the accident.”
“I'll talk to them,” declared the trooper. He looked doubtfully at the body. “You're sure the man's dead,
doc?”
“Positive! There is a swelling at the base of his skull. Any physician will make the same statement.”
“You're not a physician?”
“I am a veterinarian.”
The trooper shook his head.
“I'm not doubting your word, doc,” he declared, “but I'm not letting this body out of my sight until I get a
medical doctor's statement.”
The officer paused, to turn to Slug and Blimp.
“Take the body out to the patrol car,” he ordered. “I'm carrying it into Duxton Square myself.”
Slug and Blimp hoisted the body. When they reached the porch, Blimp looked over his shoulder and saw
that the trooper had lagged.
“What about it, Slug?” he questioned anxiously. “Do we make a run for it?”
“Not a chance,” returned Slug. “We know where the morgue is. That's where we go.”
They reached the trooper's car, a roadster; they propped the body beside the driver's seat. The
policeman arrived and took the wheel. Witnesses had thronged about; he ordered them all to drive into
Duxton Square and give their testimony at the morgue.
THE crash had occurred in the late afternoon. The steady drizzle was bringing early dusk. Streets were
gloomy when the State policeman reached the old funeral parlor that served as the town morgue. Other
cars arrived, bringing witnesses. The officer looked for the truck. It had not arrived. Deciding not to wait
for the truckmen, he ordered two other witnesses to help him carry the body into the morgue.
A lone attendant met the procession; he conducted them to a small basement room, where three flat slabs
were in a row along the floor. The attendant pulled out the middle slab; they laid the body on it. The
attendant pushed the slab back in place. The trooper motioned to his companions.
“We'll go upstairs,” he told them. “Doctor Kolbel has called a local physician; he'll be here any minute to
make his examination.”
The group ascended the stairs, the morgue keeper with them. A single electric light cast its insufficient
glow through the musty room. It showed the upturned face of Owen Lengood, its aristocratic profile
distorted and whitened.
The light showed a flight of steep steps at the back of the basement room. Above them was a slanted
door. A scraping came from beyond the barrier; so slight was the sound that it might not have been heard
even if persons were present.
The door lifted a few inches. Some one outside peered through. The door was fully raised. A man came
down the steps. It was Slug. Following him came Blimp; the two were lugging a body between them.
The two came to the nearest slab. They stretched the body upon it. Blimp looked nervously toward the
stairs that led up to the office of the morgue. Slug motioned him to wait. The pair stepped back from the
slab.
Side by side upon the flat surfaces lay two bodies. Both were dressed alike; but the similarity did not end
there. Feature for feature, the motionless faces were the same. Two dead Owen Lengoods lay stretched
upon the slabs of the morgue!
Slug studied the body that the State policeman had brought. Stooping, he adjusted the new corpse that
he and Blimp had just carried in from their truck. He turned the head a trifle to one side. He raised an
arm and laid it along the side of the slab. Standing back, he compared the positions of the two bodies.
They suited him.
Slug leaned above the first of the two forms. Close to the center slab, he spoke in an undertone:
“All right, Dagbar.”
INSTANTLY, a change came over the motionless victim of the automobile crash. The eyes lost their
glassy stare. Arms moved slowly. The first of the two Owen Lengoods came to life. Rising to a sitting
position, the man called Dagbar grinned. He looked at the body that lay beside him—the one that
represented the real Owen Lengood.
Climbing from the center slab, Dagbar began to dig in his pockets, bringing out various items: money,
watch, keys and handkerchief. As he produced these items, he gave an order in a low, harsh tone:
“Get busy, you two! Shift those slabs! Put Lengood's in the center.”
The wheels of the flat carriers squeaked slightly as Slug and Blimp pushed them along the floor; but the
truckmen managed the shift without great noise. Dagbar stooped above the body of Owen. He began to
put the articles that he had taken from his own pockets into those of the dead man.
Halfway through the task, Dagbar heard sounds from above. He stopped to listen, then motioned toward
the back door.
“Scram, you two!” he hissed to Slug and Blimp. “Be ready to travel as soon as I join you.”
Slug and Blimp made for the rear door. Dagbar was alone with the body of Owen Lengood. The scene
was grotesque as the living man bent above his dead double. Quickly, Dagbar stuffed the handkerchief
into Owen's pocket; shoved the watch into the dead man's vest.
There were footsteps on the stairs, voices: the State trooper talking to the physician who had just arrived.
Coming up from beside Owen's body, Dagbar took a long, loping course toward the exit that Slug and
Blimp had used. His lengthy strides were on tiptoe; they made but little noise.
With catlike speed and silence, the fake dead man clambered up the steep steps. He swung through the
doorway above, shut the barrier behind him. All was silent when the doctor and the trooper reached the
bottom of the stairway.
The physician began an examination of Owen's skull. After a few moments, he nodded to show that he
agreed with the veterinarian's statement regarding the cause of death. All the while, there were slight
sounds from beyond the door through which Dagbar had gone; but the trooper, like the physician, was
too intent in his study of Owen's body. Neither heard the scrapes.
Outside, in back of the morgue, Slug and Blimp were in the front seat of their truck. The street was
gloomy and deserted. The truck was lightless. Listening, the pair heard a sound at the rear of the truck.
Some one clambered aboard. It was Dagbar. His order came:
“All right, Slug. Get going.”
The truck rumbled away, heading for the town limits of Duxton Square. It had brought in the real Owen
Lengood, dead. It was carrying away Dagbar, the man who had faked death as Owen's double.
Misty drizzle seemed to enshroud the departing truck in mystery. How Dagbar—not Owen—had
happened to be in the coupe; how Dagbar had faked the game so cleverly; what was the real cause of
Owen's death— these were questions that remained in darkness.
They were questions that would doubly tax any sleuth, for an investigator would first have to suspect that
the questions existed before he sought to solve them.
Strange facts would have to be uncovered by The Shadow, the master sleuth who had already
anticipated danger for Owen Lengood.
CHAPTER III. FACTS FROM THE PAST
EVENING found a group assembled in the borough hall at Duxton Square. Seated at the head of the
long table was the local coroner. With him was the State trooper who had brought Dagbar's body to the
morgue; also the veterinarian and the physician who had made separate examinations: one of Dagbar, the
other of Owen.
The morgue keeper was also present; he was seated with a few witnesses who had remained in Duxton
Square after the accident. Chief attention, however, was centered upon two visitors who had arrived
from the neighborhood of Philadelphia.
One was Louis Joland, administrator of the Lengood estate. For the second time in two days, Joland had
been summoned because death had struck one of the Lengood heirs. With Joland was another man who
had undergone the same experience. He was Doctor Rufus Denburton, the Lengood family physician.
Denburton formed a contrast to Joland. The physician was a dozen years younger than the gray-haired
administrator. Where Joland was patient and easy of manner, Denburton was brisk and abrupt. He was
of middle height, but bulky; his face was flat-featured. There was a hard challenge in the dark-brown
eyes that shone from beneath Denburton's heavy brows and shocky black hair.
Witnesses had been heard. The coroner was prepared to sum the story and deliver his verdict, when an
attendant entered to announce a visitor. He gave a card to the coroner, who turned to Louis Joland.
“A man named Lamont Cranston,” declared the coroner. “He states that he was a friend of the
deceased. Is that right, Mr. Joland?”
“Lamont Cranston?” Joland repeated the name in puzzled tone; then gave a sudden nod. “Ah, yes. He
called from New York to-day. He wanted to talk to Owen about a small business matter. I suppose that
he was one of Owen's New York friends. It is quite all right for Mr. Cranston to join us.”
The attendant ushered in a tall, calm-faced visitor whose face was immobile, almost masklike. Joland
arose, shook hands with the newcomer. He introduced himself, then did the same with Doctor
Denburton. The Shadow sat down with the group.
“To sum the testimony,” declared the coroner, “we have witnesses who state that Owen Lengood was
driving at an excessive rate of speed. The accident was entirely his own fault; he must be credited with
wrecking his own car in order to avoid injuring others.
“Death was instantaneous, caused by a sharp blow at the base of the skull. This fact was recognized by
the veterinary surgeon who examined the body immediately after the accident. His statement was
substantiated by the medical examiner.
“Therefore, the verdict is death by misadventure, unless statements can be given to show other
contributory causes.”
AS the coroner looked about, Louis Joland spoke.
“The account of the accident seems definite,” he announced. “Nevertheless, there is peculiar coincidence
in this death. One year ago, Owen Lengood's brother, Howard, was killed instantly by a fall from a polo
pony. Only yesterday, Owen's cousin, James, died suddenly after a long siege of heart trouble.”
“Those deaths show no bearing on this case,” intervened the coroner. “We are concerned only with facts
that relate to Owen Lengood.”
“There is a bearing,” persisted Joland. “All three of these young men died just before they attained the
age of twenty-five, when each was due to gain his share of the Lengood estate.”
The coroner showed a flicker of interest.
“The estate,” added Joland, “totals approximately eight million dollars.”
“Tell me,” questioned the coroner, “who will receive the shares that were intended for the deceased?”
“The remaining heirs,” replied Joland. “Each will receive a proportionate share of the total when he or she
reaches the age of twenty-five.”
“Then the fewer the heirs, the greater the amount that each will receive?”
“Precisely. Unless all should die. In that case, the money will be divided among charities and institutions,
in accordance with the stipulations of the grandfather's will.”
The coroner drummed the table. Suddenly, he asked: “Had any threat been made against the life of
Owen Lengood?”
“None,” replied Joland. “I must admit that if he had feared danger, he would not have left for Baltimore
alone.”
“Then why do you see significance in the death?”
“Owen quarreled with his cousin, Roy,” remarked Joland, slowly. “Still, that could hardly be regarded as
important. What puzzles me chiefly is why Owen took so long to reach Duxton Square after leaving
Philadelphia.”
“Bad roads delayed him,” put in Doctor Denburton suddenly, swinging toward Joland. “You saw their
condition yourself, Joland, when we drove down here.”
“We made as good time as Owen did,” objected Joland, “and he always drove much faster as a rule.”
“Not to-day,” retorted Denburton. “I talked to Owen, just before he left. He was dejected over the
death of his cousin, James. A man seldom drives rapidly when he feels morose.”
“Owen was driving at forty miles an hour after he entered this town. He was making that speed through
traffic and against signs that called for a twenty-mile limit.”
There was logic in Joland's statement; then Denburton squashed it with a decisive argument.
“Owen had reached the end of the detour,” declared the physician. “He probably realized that he had
摘要：

DEATHBYPROXYMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.MANSIONOFGLOOM?CHAPTERII.DEATHBYMISADVENTURE?CHAPTERIII.FACTSFROMTHEPAST?CHAPTERIV.THEMUDDYTRAIL?CHAPTERV.THESHROUDEDVISITOR?CHAPTERVI.THEOUTSIDEWATCH?CHAPTERVII.THEINSIDESPY?CHAPTERVIII.THEMESSAGEATDUSK?...

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