Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 088 - The House That Vanished

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THE HOUSE THAT VANISHED
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. HOUSE OF DOOM
? CHAPTER II. LIVING AND DEAD
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ARRIVES
? CHAPTER IV. THE VANISHED HOUSE
? CHAPTER V. THE MAN IN THE SEDAN
? CHAPTER VI. DEATH BEARS WITNESS
? CHAPTER VII. KILLERS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER VIII. THE LAW PREPARES
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW'S FINDING
? CHAPTER X. KERMAL DECIDES
? CHAPTER XI. LANFORD AGREES
? CHAPTER XII. FROM THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S PROMISE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE LAW'S QUEST
? CHAPTER XV. THE LAST DAY
? CHAPTER XVI. THE ZERO HOUR
? CHAPTER XVII. MEN FROM THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XVIII. COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE
? CHAPTER XIX. FACTS COME OUT
? CHAPTER XX. AFTER MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XXI. WORD TO THE VICTORS
? CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW DEPARTS
CHAPTER I. HOUSE OF DOOM
SHEETS of rain were sweeping with blinding downpour as the small coupe sloshed through the midnight
blackness. The glare of headlights was drowned amid the deluge. Two men, the driver and the passenger
beside him, were straining as they watched the road ahead.
"Ten yards is as far as I can see," remarked the driver, in a tense tone. "But I'm keeping up to twenty
miles an hour. The sooner we're through with this, the better. How about it, Fred?"
"You're the driver, Jay," replied the passenger. "You pick the speed you want. You're lucky that you can
see ten yards. I can't even spot the road through this side of the windshield."
"The wiper's a big help," stated Jay. "I'm watching the macadam of the road. That's what counts when -"
"Hold it!" broke in Fred. "Look out ahead!"
Staring into further blackness, the passenger had seen what the driver had not. A read lantern was
waving in the darkness, its holder completely lost amid the storm. Jay looked up as he heard Fred's
warning. He jammed on the brakes. The car skidded halfway across the road before it came to a stop.
Fred lowered the window as the red lantern came swinging forward. He turned on the dome light. As
rain drizzled into the coupe, a man thrust his head and shoulders through the window. A rough but
friendly face showed below the dripping brim of an oilskin hat.
"Didn't want to jolt you off the road, friend," announced the man with the lantern, "but I had to flag you
before you got past. The bridge is out down the road."
"Have you reported it?" queried Jay, from the driver's wheel.
"That's what I'm doing now," laughed the informant, gruffly. "We were coming over from Westbury in a
truck when we saw that the bridge was gone. Pete, he started back; but I waded through the creek to
get over on this side. I'm heading into Sheffield, I am."
"You should have telephoned word," declared Jay.
"Ain't no houses along this stretch of road," retorted the man in oilskins. "Say - who do you reckon you
are to be telling me what I ought to have been doing?"
"My name is Goodling," replied the man at the wheel of the coupe. "Jay Goodling. I -"
"That's different," growled the man in oilskins, his rough tone apologetic. "I hadn't no idea who you were.
Jay Goodling, eh? The new county prosecutor. I kind of reckoned Jay Goodling was an older man than
you. My name's Turner, Mr. Goodling."
TURNER thrust a beefy, rain-soaked paw through the window. Goodling smiled as he received the
fellow's shake. The dome light showed Goodling's features as those of a man in his early thirties; but his
face, though youthful, bore the firmness that befitted his legal position.
"This is Fred Lanford," introduced Goodling, indicating the passenger. Lanford was younger and less
challenging than the prosecutor. "We're on our way to Westbury. Our best plan is to leave you here to
stop other cars while we go ahead and find some house from which we can telephone."
"Suits me, Mr. Goodling," acknowledged Turner. "Being a night like this and after midnight, I don't
reckon there'll be any more cars along. But I'll watch for them. Only thing is, where are you going to find
the house to call from?"
"What about that old dirt road that cuts off to the right?" questioned Goodling. "The one that was the old
route into Westbury?"
"Nobody uses it any longer," informed Turner. "Leastwise, nobody except those folks that live on it. It's
like all those other dirt roads leading off. There's a raft of them that don't go anywhere."
"But there are houses on the old Westbury road. Some of them ought to have telephones."
"Like as not, Mr. Goodling. Well, I'm staying here, like you said to."
Turner drew away with his lantern. Goodling straightened the car and started off through the storm while
Lanford raised the window and turned out the dome light.
"The old Westbury road," mused Goodling, as he drove along. "Well, Fred, we won't have very much
trouble finding it. That old sign will tell us when we get there. It still has its pointer marked Westbury."
"Maybe we'll see the sign," returned Lanford, peering at the sweeping downpour, "but it's a cinch we
won't see the road. Look over there on the right, Fred. You can't even see the edge. We're liable to be
passing a road right now, without knowing it."
"Look for the sign," ordered Goodling. "It's painted white and it's right at the turn. You'll see it."
Lanford lowered the window while the car rolled along. Despite the insweep of the rain, he kept peering
at an angle ahead, watching the extreme right corner of the restricted glare that the headlights offered.
MINUTES passed, Goodling watched the road while Lanford kept a lookout. Suddenly the passenger
uttered. an exclamation. Goodling applied the brakes. Lanford pointed.
"There's the sign, Jay," he indicated. "You can even read it. Westbury. But you'll have to fish for the road.
I can't make it out, even though I know it's here."
Goodling backed the car a dozen feet; then turned the wheel to the right. As he started forward, the
headlights, swinging to the right, revealed the beginning of a curved dirt road. As the coupe rolled from
the macadam, the winding course of the old highway showed its rocks and ruts.
In second gear, traveling at fifteen miles an hour, Goodling fumed as he tried to control the coupe. The
road was upgrade; down it poured a sweeping torrent. At every dozen yards, the car went into a
temporary skid.
"Like driving through a creek," asserted Goodling, grimly. "Keep that window open, Fred. Look for a
house - the first one you see."
"That's a tough assignment, Jay," returned Lanford. "These farmers turn in early. If their lights are out,
how are we going to see their houses?"
"Watch for entrances. Maybe you'll see a driveway."
"Not much chance. I couldn't even see this road when we came to it."
"Well, there's always a possibility. If you keep watching, you'll -"
Goodling ended abruptly. The coupe had gone into a skid. This was a bad one; water sloshed high as the
car jabbed toward the left of the road. Front wheels hit an embankment; the car careened. Goodling held
tight to the wheel, releasing the brakes momentarily while Lanford gripped the door.
Instead of toppling, the coupe slipped sidewise. The right side jounced; then the wheels struck a level
space. Goodling applied the brakes as the car rolled from the road, headed directly to the left of the
highway. The coupe came to a slithering stop.
THE two men blinked as they stared straight ahead. They had gained the luckiest of breaks. Directly in
front of the headlights was the surface of a muddy driveway. Beyond it, at the edge of glow, the outline of
porch steps.
"How was that for hitting it?" chuckled Goodling. "Right into the front yard. We wanted a house and we
found one. Say - that was a lucky skid."
"Turn out the lights," suggested Lanford. "Maybe we'll be able to see if anyone is home."
Goodling complied. His pressure of the light switch brought thick blackness up ahead. But as the men
stared through the rain-swished windshield, they saw the sign that they wanted.
A tiny crack of light gave dim indication of a window. It came from the side of a lowered blind. It was
further than the distance to the steps. This glimmer was from a front window that opened on the porch. It
was proof that the house was occupied.
"Come on," suggested Goodling. "I'll leave the lights off. We won't need them. Get out on your side,
Fred, and I'll meet you at the front of the car."
The two men disembarked. Splashing through mud, they groped their way to the front of the coupe.
From there they stumbled forward until they struck the house steps. The sweeping beat of the rain ended
as they gained the shelter beneath a porch roof.
Goodling struck a match. The flame showed a front door. The youthful prosecutor approached and
hammered against the barrier. While he waited for an answer, he spoke to his companion.
"Do you know, Fred," remarked Goodling, "I would wager that neither of us would recognize this place if
we saw it in daylight. Steps - a porch - a window - that's all. We don't know if the house is a big one or
a small one."
"Or whether it's stone or wood," laughed Lanford. "We do know that it's somewhere on the old road to
Westbury. We saw the sign. But outside of that -"
He broke off. A sound was coming from beyond the door. Listening, the young men heard the grate of
rusty bolts. Above the sweep and beat of the rain the sound was strangely ominous.
Then the door swung inward. A burst of light glared from the hall within. It showed the strained faces of
the two arrivals. It also revealed the figure of the person who had answered their knock.
A HUGE, stoop-shouldered fellow was standing just within the doorway, his big fists clenched.
Glowering eyes peered from a scarred face. Bloated lips showed a fierce scowl of challenge. The man
spoke harshly:
"Come in."
Almost mechanically, the two obeyed. Hardly were they across the threshold before the huge man thrust
the door shut and pressed the bolts. Swinging about, he faced the two who were watching them. He
uttered a gruff laugh.
"Go in there" - the man pointed to the door of a dimly lighted room - "while I go and tell that you are
here. Stay in that room."
The eyes retained their glower. The big fists tightened. Fred Lanford turned about instinctively and
entered the door that the huge fellow had indicated. Jay Goodling, almost ready to meet the man's
challenge, decided better. He turned about and followed Lanford.
The room was a parlor, sparse of furnishing; but its few chairs were expensive ones. Goodling sat down;
Lanford followed suit. Both watched the door through which they had come. The big man was still
standing there; his attitude that of a huge hound ready to make an attack.
Neither Goodling nor Lanford made a move. Satisfied at last, the big man stepped away. His figure
passed from view, while the visitors still stared, like statues in their chairs.
The big man's heavy footsteps faded in the uncarpeted hall. The listeners heard a sound that resembled
the creaking of a stairway. Then came silence, tempered only by the unceasing patter of the heavy rain
upon the outside porch.
The glimmer of two floor lamps showed the room in somber outline. A deep depression had fallen upon
those two men who had stepped into this outlandish setting.
The parlor seemed unreal, like a fanciful room plucked from a terrifying dream. The hush that filled it was
a portion of the silence that seemed to pervade the whole building.
Neither Goodling nor Lanford spoke during those first minutes of ghastly silence. Yet the thoughts that
they held were identical, forced by the pall of these strange surroundings.
Stupefied by the atmosphere that gripped them, these chance arrivals felt themselves within a house of
doom.
CHAPTER II. LIVING AND DEAD
"WHAT do you make of it, Jay?"
Fred Lanford whispered the question huskily. Tense and nervous, he had managed to find his voice. He
was looking at Jay Goodling as he spoke.
Goodling held up his hand for silence. The youthful prosecutor had become stolid. He was listening for
sounds that might indicate the return of the huge servant who had introduced them to this room.
Hearing nothing, Goodling arose from his chair. He stared toward the open door that led to the hallway.
Then he looked about the room and spied two heavy curtains that indicated a wide doorway at the rear.
Directly opposite the front window, these draperies showed that there was another apartment adjoining
the parlor. Softly, Goodling trod in that direction. He drew back the curtains to disclose a pair of sliding
doors. These barriers were shut.
"I wonder what's in back of these," he remarked quietly. "Suppose I take a look, Fred, while we're
waiting."
"It might mean trouble, Jay," rejoined Lanford. "We've barged into something by accident. The best thing
we can do is to sit tight."
"And wait for trouble? I don't see it that way, Fred. We did not come here as intruders. We made one
mistake by not asserting ourselves before we entered."
"If you start prying, Jay, you'll be making a new mistake."
"You forget my status, Fred. This house is certainly within the limits of Sheffield County. My position as
prosecutor entitles me to -"
He broke off, swinging from the sliding doors. The curtains dropped as Goodling released them. The
prosecutor had heard a sound from the hallway. Lanford joined him in staring toward the door through
which they had entered this parlor.
STANDING in the doorway was a dark-haired girl of twenty. The beauty of her face was apparent
despite her paleness. She was attired in a black traveling dress; like her hair, the darkness of this costume
accentuated her pallor.
Goodling bowed and smiled. Lanford came to his feet. He was smiling also; but the girl's face remained
troubled. The girl darted a quick look back into the hall; then stepped into the parlor.
"You must go!" she said, tensely. "It is not safe here. Go. At once. Before Croy returns."
"Croy?" quizzed Goodling. "You mean the big fellow who opened the door for us?"
The brunette nodded.
"I think that we'll stay," decided Goodling. "We came here as strangers; but we were told that our arrival
would be announced. I think that we are entitled to something of an explanation."
The girl shook her head.
"You don't agree with me?" questioned Goodling. "Well, perhaps if I explain who we are and how we
happened to come here, you will understand the circumstances. May I do so, Miss -"
Goodling paused quizzically, hoping that the girl would announce her name, just as she had stated the
name of the servant. Instead, the brunette continued to shake her head.
"I can not tell you who I am," she declared emphatically. "I can only say that you would be wise to leave.
If you go, I can explain your departure. You must leave at once."
This time it was Goodling who shook his head. The girl sighed, hopelessly, and looked appealingly
toward Lanford. For a moment, Fred was on the point of arguing with Goodling; but he saw the
determined look on the prosecutor's face and knew that persuasion would be useless.
"Very well," said the girl, wearily. "I have advised you to go. Your own stubbornness will be to blame if
your stay here becomes unpleasant."
She turned about and started toward the door. Goodling moved forward, about to speak. He saw the
girl stop short; he did the same. A man had stepped into view from the hallway.
THIS chap was the antithesis of Croy. He was of no more than medium height; he was light in build,
almost frail. His face was a sensitive one, but exceedingly pale. His left arm was in a sling. Freshly
wrapped bandages ran from his wrist to his elbow.
Yet there was sternness in the pale man's gaze as he looked to the girl. His eyes, brilliant in their pallid
setting, were half accusing, half inquiring.
"Why did you come in here?" the man asked calmly. "You knew that these visitors were to be
announced. You should not have talked to them."
"I saw Croy admit them," returned the girl. "I came to warn them, Daggart. I told them it would be best
for them to leave."
The pale man winced at mention of his name. Then his stern expression returned.
"I shall talk with them," he announced. "It would be best for you to return upstairs."
"Very well," challenged the girl. "I shall talk with Mr. Kermal, since you have come from him, Daggart."
Croy - Daggart - Kermal - the three names were buzzing through the minds of both Goodling and
Lanford as the girl departed into the hall. Goodling no longer felt tense. He drew a cigarette from his
pocket and lighted it as he faced Daggart.
The pale man shifted his arm in his sling; then spoke quietly to Goodling and Lanford. Daggart's tone was
reserved, yet friendly.
"You are strangers here," he told the two men. "Your unexpected arrival, at so late an hour, was a bit
disconcerting to our servant. That is why he ushered you in here so abruptly.
"I am the secretary of the gentleman who is the master of this house. I have come to inform you that he
will be here shortly. Kindly be seated and forget the odd incidents which followed your arrival. The
master of the house will interview you presently."
Goodling nodded as he sat down. Lanford took a chair; Daggart bowed and walked out into the hallway.
They heard the secretary's footsteps fade toward the distant stairway.
"Fred!" Goodling's whisper was tense. "That fellow didn't intend to come in here. He was sent down to
look us over."
"Why did he enter then?" queried Lanford, in a low tone.
"Because the girl was talking to us," explained Goodling. "Daggart has gone up to report. That big fellow,
Croy, is still upstairs. We'll hear this man Kermal when he comes down. We've a few minutes yet."
"For what?"
"To take a look around. Come."
RISING, Goodling made for the curtains at the rear of the room. Spreading them, he tried the sliding
doors. There was a catch on the other side of the barriers; but the doors were old and shaky. Goodling
juggled them; the curtains muffled the sound.
"Go easy, Jay," warned Lanford. "Somebody's liable to hear you -"
A click ended Lanford's statement. The catch had juggled loose. Goodling slid one door open, slowly
and carefully. The two men peered into a dimly lighted living room.
The new apartment afforded a beautiful setting. Contrasted with the stuffy front parlor, it was luxurious.
Tapestries adorned the walls. Antique Oriental rugs were spread about the floor. The furniture, though of
light construction, was exquisite in its workmanship.
Goodling noted chairs and a large couch, the back of which was toward the parlor. He saw a writing
desk in the corner. By the farther wall, near a door beyond, was a Russian wolf-hound, reposing on a
large mat.
The dog, apparently, had been trained to accept strangers, for it merely raised its head to survey the
intruders; then placed its nose between its paws. Goodling shrugged his shoulders as he stepped a few
paces into the room. He was about to turn and go back into the parlor when Lanford uttered a hoarse
whisper:
"Look!"
Goodling stared as Lanford pointed. From their new angle, they could see just past the end of the couch.
There, on the floor, they spied a man's feet. The tips of the shoes were pointed upward.
Goodling sprang forward, Lanford close behind him. Reaching the end of the couch, they stared in
horror. The feet were those of a dead body. A man almost as huge as the servant, Croy, was lying on his
back, his unseeing eyes staring upward.
"Who - who is he?" gasped Lanford. "Another - another servant? Or - or someone who came here - like
ourselves -"
Goodling held up a hand, warning for silence. He approached and kneeled beside the dead body.
Lanford joined him. They surveyed a face that had once been handsome, despite the over-largeness of its
features. Death, however, had given a ghastly ugliness to the countenance.
The man had black hair, tanned skin, large nose and square jaw. He had eyes that seemed dark, despite
the conspicuous whiteness that their bulge produced, and heavy black eyebrows. These were points that
Goodling checked mentally.
The prosecutor raised the dead man's right arm. It swung stiffly; then thumped as if on a spring, when
Goodling released it. Goodling noticed that the blue-serge coat was buttoned. He opened it; then grunted
as he saw the man's vest. A gaping, ugly wound showed upon the dead man's breast.
"Shot through the heart," whispered Goodling. "Look at those singes, Fred. Close range - probably a
revolver of large caliber -"
"Shh!" gasped Lanford, faintly. "Someone is coming - down the staircase -"
Goodling threw the coat front over the wound. He popped up from beside the corpse. Lanford was pale,
shaking, unable to respond. Goodling caught his arm and dragged him toward the parlor.
Footsteps were already in the hall as the two reached the front room. There was no time to close the
sliding doors. Goodling thrust Lanford into a chair; then pulled a curtain over the adjoining door. He was
lighting a cigarette when the footsteps reached the hallway door.
THE man who entered was a newcomer. Though almost six feet tall, he looked shorter because of his
thick-set build. He was well dressed, but his hair was shaggy and unkempt. His face was sallow; his
tousled hair an iron-gray.
"Mr. Kermal?" inquired Goodling, casually.
"Yes." The bulky man's voice was a harsh rasp. His features, though well formed, looked ugly as he
scowled. "So you know my name, eh? The girl told you?"
"She did," replied Goodling, with a nod. He was stalling, so that Kermal would not notice Lanford, who
was staring, pale faced, from his chair. "Allow me, sir, to introduce myself. Also to tell you why I came
here."
"That is not necessary!" Kermal's tone was fierce. "I do not care why you came! Your actions here are
what concerns me!"
"Our actions?" queried Goodling, feigning surprise.
"Yes," sneered Kermal. "My servant heard you from the stairs. He realized that you had managed to pry
into the next room. He has entered there already."
Kermal looked toward the curtains. Goodling wheeled about. He saw Croy, coming through. The
servant's face looked even uglier than before. Croy nodded to Kermal.
"You are sure they saw?" quizzed Kermal.
"Coat unbuttoned," responded Croy, gruffly.
Kermal smiled. He was looking at Lanford. Fred's paleness was a giveaway that he had seen the corpse
in the next room.
"Well, gentlemen," decided Kermal, "who you are and why you came here does not matter, now.
Circumstances compel me to keep you in temporary custody until -"
He did not finish the sentence. Goodling was bounding forward uttering a sharp cry to Lanford to aid
him. From his pocket, the prosecutor was whipping a stub-nosed revolver, a weapon that he always
carried.
CROY hurtled in from the curtains. Before Lanford could intervene, the servant was upon Goodling.
Seizing the prosecutor as one would pounce upon a trouble-making child, Croy twisted Goodling's gun
away. Then, as the prosecutor still struggled, Croy hurled him across the room. Goodling's head thumped
the wall. He rolled half stunned, upon the floor.
Goodling's gun had struck thin carpeting. Lanford bounced from his chair and seized it. He came up,
aiming at Croy. Again, the big servant was quick in action.
Lunging furiously, he hoisted Lanford upward and backward. Fred hit the chair back and sprawled to the
floor, the chair rolling upon him. Like Goodling, Lanford lost hold of the revolver and lay half senseless
from the force of the blow.
"Turn out the lights," ordered Kermal. Arms folded, the shaggy-haired man was standing at the door.
"Watch these fellows, Croy, until I return."
Croy extinguished the lamps. Standing by the door, he blocked most of the dim hallway light. Jay
Goodling, slowly recovering, heard footsteps as they returned. Trying to rise, Goodling saw Croy enter.
Then he felt himself in the big servant's clutch.
Something was happening to Lanford. Figures had entered; Goodling saw the flicker of a flashlight and
caught the tones of whispered voices. He struggled against Croy; the big man's grasp tightened.
His head thrust back, Goodling could see nothing but the ceiling. He felt hands tugging at his coat sleeve;
then came the rip of the shirt sleeve beneath it. Again, he fought with Croy. It was useless.
The flashlight blinked on Jay Goodling's bare arm. Croy's grip tightened. A hand appeared in the light,
bearing a hypodermic syringe. The needle jabbed deep into Goodling's flesh.
Croy still gripped the victim as others stole from the darkened room. Then the servant's hold relaxed. Jay
Goodling had subsided. Croy arose and went to the hall. He nodded to Kermal, who was standing there
alone. Kermal pointed to the front door.
The servant returned to the parlor and reappeared with Lanford's limp form over his shoulder. Kermal
unbolted the front door. Croy carried Lanford out into the driving rain. A few minutes later, he returned,
entered the parlor and picked up Goodling.
Croy carried the prosecutor out into the darkness. Kermal chuckled as he bolted the front door.
Listening, the shaggy-haired man heard the roar of a motor. Croy had started Goodling's coupe. The car
was backing out into the din road.
However Kermal had hoped to deal with these intruders, the fight had definitely forced him to one plan.
Goodling and Lanford had been overpowered in the fray. Both were doped. Croy had removed them at
his master's order.
Whatever Kermal's plans might be, the bulky man seemed satisfied with his procedure. His chuckle
sounded in the gloomy hall as he crossed the uncarpeted floor toward the stairway beyond that living
room in which a man lay dead.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW ARRIVES
IT was morning in Manhattan. A quiet, round-faced man was seated at an office desk. From beyond his
window loomed the sky line of the city; but the view did not concern this worker. The round-faced man
was studying a map which showed the terrain about the town of Sheffield.
A rap sounded at the door. The man at the desk folded the map then gave an order to enter. A
stenographer appeared.
"Mr. Vincent is calling," said the girl. "Shall I tell him to come in, Mr. Mann?"
"Certainly," responded Mann. "At once."
A few minutes later, a clean-cut young man was facing Mann in the inner office. Vincent's appearance
was one that denoted an active temperament quite a contrast to the lethargic expression of Mann's
chubby visage.
Yet both were workers in the same service. Rutledge Mann and Harry Vincent were agents of The
Shadow. Mann, an investment broker, was a contact who relayed orders to the active aids such as
Harry.
"You have seen this clipping?" inquired Mann. "It appeared in this morning's newspaper."
"I saw it," smiled Harry, as he viewed the item that Mann passed him, "but I passed it up as something of
a hoax. Two men reporting a murder in an isolated house, only to find that the building had vanished."
"Read more closely," suggested Mann. "You will note that one of the two men was the county
prosecutor."
"That's right," acknowledged Harry, studying the clipping. "Say - that puts a new light on the case,
doesn't it? This ought to have been front page stuff, Mann."
"It will be soon," stated the broker. "The New York newspapers are sending men to Sheffield. Clyde
Burke is going for the Classic."
"Burke has already supplied further details," stated Mann, unfolding the map on his desk. "So I suggest,
Vincent, that you listen to my full account. I can amplify facts that the newspapers merely skimmed over
in the first story. Like yourself, they took it as a hoax at the start.
"Here" - Mann pointed to the map - "is the town of Sheffield. A paved road runs southward from
Sheffield, then curves west and reaches Westbury, some dozen miles distant. You will notice that there
are dirt roads going to the right from the main highway. One of them - this one - is important. It is the old
road to Westbury."
Harry nodded.
"Saturday night, after midnight," resumed Mann, "Jay Goodling, county prosecutor and his friend, Fred
Lanford, were riding along the paved road. They were going southward, from Sheffield to Westbury,
when a man named Turner flagged them with a lantern. Somewhere in this neighborhood."
Mann tapped the map with his pencil. Harry watched while the investment broker made a mark, then
摘要：

THEHOUSETHATVANISHEDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.HOUSEOFDOOM?CHAPTERII.LIVINGANDDEAD?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWARRIVES?CHAPTERIV.THEVANISHEDHOUSE?CHAPTERV.THEMANINTHESEDAN?CHAPTERVI.DEATHBEARSWITNESS?CHAPTERVII.KILLERSINTHEDARK?CHAPTERVIII.THELAWPREPA...

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