Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 289 - Five Keys to Crime

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FIVE KEYS TO CRIME
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? I.
? II.
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? XX.
I.
LARRY GRAY sat in his roomette on the Eastern Limited and stared at his legacy. It wasn't much to
look at, but it was better than the dusk-streaked Jersey Meadows across which the crack train was
racing on the final lap of its trip into New York.
It was odd that Larry's uncle, old Mortimer Gray, should have bothered to send him this assortment of
minor junk, a mere remnant of the heritage that Larry's father presumably had left.
Perhaps the letter explained it.
The letter was maudlin, more and more so every time that Larry read it over, but that in itself was an
answer. Uncle Mortimer could never have written such a letter had he been in his right mind just before
his death.
A letter scrawled in a shaky hand, referring to some scraps of paper that accompanied it, which for all
Larry knew or could tell, were merely the handiest items that his uncle might have picked to
accommodate the last stages of his delirium. Yet there was a certain cryptic flourish to this last testament,
where it stated:
"There are five keys that you must seek. Any one of them can unlock the secret of your father's wealth.
Perhaps my trust in men has been too great but there are times when fear can compel strange actions as I
in truth can testify. Sometimes to say too much is to say too little, should word of it reach those who
know too much--or too little. Find the five keys and you will understand."
There was an innuendo to that paragraph, indicating that the keys, as mentioned, might be keys to crime
as well as wealth. But certainly the exhibits with it could hardly represent wealth, with one exception.
That item was a receipt, written in a finely embellished hand, stating that one box with contents duly listed
had been delivered and was hereby acknowledged. But the receipt bore no signature nor did it specify if
the box in question had a key.
It could possibly refer to the little rosewood box in which Uncle Mortimer had sent the letter and other
items. That box was lying right in front of Larry, an old-fashioned music box with brass cylinder and tiny
pins that contacted steel prongs to produce a tinkly tune.
As he had done more than occasionally during this long train trip, Larry started the music box. It began
with a plaintive prelude of four notes that seemed to carry an off-key lilt; then, after a momentary pause,
it tinkled into one of the several melodies that were listed on the label inside the lifted cover.
The music box had no keyhole, therefore there couldn't be a key that unlocked it. Considering the other
items in Uncle Mortimer's crack-pot collection, Larry came next to a telegram--or duplicate of one--that
lay folded within the box lid. The telegram too was somewhat curious.
The teletyped message read:
SHIPPING TEN CRATES COCOANUTS. CAN DUPLICATE ORDER WITHIN TWO WEEKS.
The telegram was addressed to no one nor did it bear the signature of a sender. It was rubber-stamped
with the statement "Received and Filed" with a line left for the date, which was not filled in. Laying aside
the telegram, Larry picked up a small paper packet tucked in a corner of the music box, unfolded it, and
methodically studied its contents.
This object was half a small sea-shell, slender and tapering at both ends. It was light brown in color and
as smoothly polished as any sea-shell that Larry had ever seen. Maybe this was the sort of stuff that
Indians once used for wampum, but if so, it didn't add much to Larry's patrimony.
The music-box finished "Flow Gently Sweet Afton" as Larry was putting away the sea-shell and shaking
his head sadly as he thought of Uncle Mortimer. Again, four pins of the cylinder, tinkled the off-key lilt
that seemed like a signature and Larry found himself repeating it:
"Fa--sol--do--fa--"
Maybe Larry was off-key, but his hum didn't sound worse than the music box's tinkle. That last note, a
repetition of the first, gave an effect that was sour but catchy, something that you didn't expect. Odd that
it should be inserted between the various melodies of the music box's repertoire.
Right now the box was starting a tune that Larry didn't know by name so he looked at the printed list and
saw that it was "Londonderry Air." The label was a trifle loose and as Larry fingered it, he found that it
was really so. It flapped downward, as though hinged, and on the back of it, Larry found something that
had passed his previous inspections.
This something consisted of three initials, written in what Larry recognized as his uncle's shaky scrawl.
The initials were:
W Z V
Doubtless they constituted a secret message, most probably a clue to someone whom Uncle Mortimer
had hesitated to mention in his letter. From the smudges on the interior of the rosewood lid, Larry could
tell that the glue of years had dried and the label had simply been pasted back in place, probably left
loose with the very hope that it would be examined just as Larry was doing with it now.
So Larry added "W.Z.V." to his mental list of follow-ups and cut off the music, supplying the four-note
signature with a hum of his own. As he clamped the box shut, the train was swallowed in the blackness of
the Hudson Tunnel and the porter tapped on the door to announce that they were coming into New
York.
There were interested eyes turned Larry's way as he limped from Pullman S-238 onto the platform in
Penn Station. His fellow-travelers had learned that he was ex-Captain Gray, whose return to civilization,
several months before, had been made across the Borneo mountains on a crude stretcher rigged and
carried by a quartet of friendly wild men.
It was somewhat whimsical, this trip to New York on the strength of an eccentric letter, an antique
music-box, an unidentified telegram, and the half of a brown sea-shell. Not much of a legacy, except that
Larry was positive that his father had left him something more, all in custody of Uncle Mortimer, until
Larry should come of age, which he had, two years ago. He had postponed such matters as an
inheritance due to more important business in the Army Air Corps.
Now the clue to somebody who answered to the initials of W.Z.V. could be added to the flimsy
collection for whatever it was worth, which might be very little, except that those initials seemed to fit the
"de-da-do-deee" tune that belonged with the music-box.
Larry was intoning it under his breath: "Double-you-zee-vee--" when the sharp-eyed red-cap spied him
and took over his heavy suit-case. It didn't surprise Larry to get such rapid service from station porters;
they'd been giving it at every stop-over from California. Larry's limp, his gaunt face with a curious pallor
showing through its tropical tan, marked him as a convalescent, even to those who didn't know his
history.
But this red-cap was quicker than the rest, acting almost as though he expected to meet Larry, which
might even be the case. After all, Larry was expected in New York by his uncle's old friend, Barnaby
Lantz. They'd been professors in the same college, Lantz and Larry's uncle, and were members of the
same honor fraternity, Lambda Zeta Mu. If anybody could help unravel the threads of Mortimer Gray's
last testament, that man would be Barnaby Lantz.
Right now Larry's debate was whether he should go directly to Lantz's house or stop at a hotel. He was
thinking it over as he followed the red-cap up the escalator, and finally decided on a compromise. He'd
go to a hotel first and see if he could get a room, which someone has said wasn't too easy, the way New
York was crowded with visitors at present.
From the hotel Larry would phone Lantz--remembering of course, to call him Doctor Lantz--and an
invitation for the night would be very welcome, should the hotel prove to be filled. In fact Larry rather
hoped to meet Doctor Lantz tonight and get his opinion on the contents of the music-box. If Lantz knew
any friend of Uncle Mortimer's whose last name began with the letter V, Larry would be really well along
the trail.
It didn't occur to Larry Gray that he might be well along that trail already. In fact there were such things
as a trail coming right up smack to meet you, the way the Borneo mountain had loomed out of its fog to
welcome Larry's plane. Only this was New York, not Borneo, which made a difference.
The difference perhaps was in Borneo's favor. Though Larry didn't know it, he was due to find that out
very soon. Larry Gray wasn't the only person who was concerned with finding five keys to crime.
II.
THE helpful red-cap steered Larry to the right when they emerged in the concourse of the Pennsylvania
Station. The porter was taking him to the ramp where the incoming cabs arrived and discharged their
passengers.
An empty cab was already there, parked in a corner ahead of the line. With a broad grin as though he
knew all about it, the porter gestured to the cab and announced:
"There you are, mister."
Larry fumbled in his pocket for some change only to receive another surprise.
"Never mind," said the porter, with a head-shake. "It's all been paid for."
In his puzzlement, Larry didn't notice the slip of paper that fluttered from his vest pocket. It happened to
be a slip on which Larry had jotted Lantz's address, although he knew it by heart. The porter saw it and
stooped to recover the paper before putting Larry's suit-case in the cab.
That had a lot to do with what happened next. Larry was getting into the cab, expecting the suit-case to
follow when the girl arrived instead, so suddenly that she landed in the cab seat almost as quickly as
Larry. What was more, she slammed the door shut after her.
Turning about, Larry looked into eyes that carried a violet sparkle in the dim light and the face that he
saw with those eyes was equally attractive. Where the girl had arrived from or why she had picked this
cab were very minor questions under the circumstances. Most important was the fact that the girl was in
a hurry and very earnest about it.
"Get me away from here!" Her low-voiced tone was tense. "And quickly! I'll explain everything in a few
minutes"--the girl drew her breath sharply, tossed a glance across her shoulder which delivered an
accompanying shudder; then turned to Larry and added: "Only hurry!"
Even before that admonition, Larry was leaning toward the front seat.
"All right, driver," ordered Larry. "Head for Times Square. I'll give you the address later."
Larry wasn't even thinking about his suit-case or the prepaid porter who had brought it. Evidently the
cab-driver supposed that the bag was already in the car, for he snapped to immediate action. Before the
astonished porter could shout after it, the cab whisked around into the outgoing tunnel and didn't emerge
until it reached the ramp. It was coming out from the pillars that fronted on Seventh Avenue when the girl
leaned back and gave a relieved sigh.
Passing street lights helped Larry add to his first appraisal and with interest.
The girl was about Larry's age or younger. Her rounded features seemed built for the grateful smile that
wreathed them, wiping away the worry that her voice had indicated. But there was something of
determination in her eyes, emphasized by the sudden tightening of her lips and the slight frown.
"This was quite unexpected," began Larry. "In fact I might say very unexpected, Miss--"
Larry left an open space like the unfilled date line on the rubber-stamped telegram that he had found in
his uncle's music-box. The girl took the cue.
"Verril," she said. "Jane Verril."
The name gave Larry a start. He'd just been thinking of names beginning with V, trying to fit them to the
flat note, and here was one already. Larry must have shown his surprise, for the girl spoke again and
pointedly.
"My father was Damon Verril," said Jane, steadily. "Perhaps you have heard of him."
Larry only shook his head. That name, Damon, didn't fit with the first initial of W.Z.V., which was most
essential.
"Odd you never heard of him, continued the girl. "Your uncle knew my father well."
"You wouldn't have an uncle of your own?" inquired Larry, a bit inclined to banter. "With a name like
Wallace--or Winthrop--or anything else beginning with W?"
It was the girl's turn to shake her head, but as she did, Larry saw something in her eyes that said she
wasn't pleased. Relaxing his smile, Larry began:
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"
With that, Larry stopped himself short. His dark eyes showed suspicion of their own as he demanded:
"How do you know about my uncle?"
"You're Larry Gray," returned the girl. "Or aren't you?"
"Why, yes, of course I'm Larry Gray. How did you know?"
"I've been following you," Jane replied. "In the newspapers, I mean. I saw your photograph and a
mention of the train that you were taking to New York."
Larry's eyes narrowed. He felt he was beginning to understand about the accommodating porter and the
waiting cab. Then the girl herself dispelled that notion, though Larry still wasn't sure.
"I was watching for you at the train gate," continued Jane. "I followed you right to the cab and I wasn't
surprised to find that you were in a hurry. You probably weren't anxious to meet people."
"I wasn't," admitted Larry. "They talk too much about the Borneo business--"
"I'm talking about other business," Jane interrupted. "I said I was in a hurry just because I knew you were
and that seemed the simplest way to go in the same cab."
"It worked all right." Larry gave an indulgent laugh. "So let's end the comedy. What would you like? An
autograph?"
The girl laughed.
"That would be nice. We autograph hunters do almost anything nowadays. We're as bad as the Borneo
head-hunters, aren't we?"
"They weren't so bad," conceded Larry. "Well, Miss Verril, if you'll supply the autograph album, I'll
supply the pen. Or do you carry both?"
"Of course," returned Jane. She was opening her purse and fishing deep in it. "As for an autograph
album, I'd carry one even if they declared it illegal. If you don't believe me, take a look at this."
Larry took a straight look at what came from the purse. It was cute, like its owner, but equally
dangerous. Jane's hand was clutching a glittering .22 revolver and mere sight of the muzzle tended to
make Larry cross-eyed, since it was moving squarely toward the center of his forehead.
"Talking won't do you any good," Jane's tone was firm, and as cold as the steel of the gun. "You've
talked enough to tell me all I need to know. You wouldn't have tried to laugh things off so lightly if you
weren't the man responsible.
"No, no--not a word!" The gun as much as Jane's sharp voice silenced Larry before he could speak. It
was pressing now, against his forehead, and he could sense the tightening of the girl's trigger finger at the
other end. "I'll do the talking," Jane added. "Understand?"
Larry understood. The gun pressure indicated fully that any motion would prove fatal.
"Your uncle swindled my father," continued Jane, "but you were the man behind it. You thought that
being in the service would be your alibi, but you found a way to come back when the time was right to
complete your schemes. You expected your uncle to commit suicide, as he did, but you didn't think that
he would leave the proof of your crimes!"
Larry almost forgot the gun as he heard that double-barreled sentence. That his uncle had committed
suicide was startling enough, if true, but to find himself branded as a criminal was beyond belief, but there
was no way to argue either point.
The girl's revolver meant business, more so than a double-edged Borneo kris. A civilized weapon in the
hands of an owner turned savage was worse than a savage weapon wielded by a native who had
cultivated a smattering of civilized ways. Larry could testify to that if he ever found the opportunity, which
he doubted that he would.
For it would be fatal to try to grab Jane's gun before she could fire and there was something so deadly in
her mood that Larry's chances dwindled to less than one percent. That fraction depended on the girl, the
chance that some mere fleeting thought might snap her from the murderous determination which was
inspired by her urge for imaginary vengeance.
As rigid as some stalked creature in the frozen silence of a breathless jungle, Larry waited, counting the
seconds that marked his sagging hope. At the very moment that Larry expected it, he heard Jane's voice
speak as though from far away.
"I am going to kill you," the voice decreed. "I am going to kill you right now."
The cab's brakes shrieked as though inspired by that statement and Jane's own startled cry echoed the
sound. In with it came the sharp burst of the gun and from somewhere Larry saw a spurt of flame. He
and the girl were flying through the air, launched by the sudden stop that the cab had made.
That jolt had ruined Jane's short-range marksmanship along with Larry's equilibrium. The cab's twist had
whipped Larry right around and away from the pressing muzzle, flinging Jane at a cross-angle.
Where the girl went, Larry didn't know, but he was brought up against the front partition as solidly as if
he'd hit another Borneo mountain.
And that was all Larry Gray knew.
III.
OUT of a mental fog, he seemed to be going through a repetition of the cab crash, but this time the sound
of brakes was slighter, the halt less sudden.
As for the blackness, it seemed to swarm about him like a living thing, carrying arms that caught him and
piloted him out through the door. Sagging temporarily in the arms of the cab driver, Larry gained the
curious impression of a figure cloaked in black that almost immediately regained him as a burden.
A stumble across a curb, faltering steps through a doorway, a stumble along a darkened hall and into a
dim-lit room. Next, Larry was sagging on what seemed to be a cot, and again blackness overwhelmed
him, though there were voices from its midst.
Gradually the void dispelled and Larry distinguished the quiet voice that queried:
"Well, Doctor Sayre?"
"He's coming around, Mr. Cranston." The words had the air of the professional physician. "I wouldn't
advise having him talk much though."
"That won't be necessary--as yet."
Larry opened his eyes.
It was easy, weak though Larry was, to tell which was Sayre and which was Cranston.
Obviously, Sayre was the physician beside Larry's cot, the man with the broad face and mustache.
Cranston was the tall man standing farther away, whose features, immobile of expression, looked as calm
as his voice sounded.
Neither Sayre nor Cranston fitted Larry's impression of what could best be termed a human blur, a
singular figure in black which had lifted Larry from the cab and brought him in here. However, Larry was
willing to write that off to his imagination, stimulated by such factors as daze and darkness. Maybe his
cloaked friend had simply parked him outside Sayre's office and then gone his way.
The man who would know was the taxi-driver, if Larry could ever find him; but that was something to be
considered later.
The cab business was to be settled sooner than Larry supposed.
Keen eyes were turning Larry's way, eyes that Larry might have associated with the mystery figure of the
darkness if they hadn't eased to a reflected mildness when they met Larry's own. Those eyes were
Cranston's and they carried a placid encouragement that made Larry want to talk. Finding his voice and
discovering it rather strained, Larry addressed Sayre and Cranston much as he once opened negotiations
with a pair of Borneo tribesmen.
"Guess I'm all right," began Larry. "Kind of a jolt, though, the way that cab stopped. You'd have thought
it hit a brick wall"--he paused reminiscently--"or a mountain, maybe."
Cranston's eyes understood. He'd caught the reference whereby Larry was admitting his own identity in
case Cranston already knew. That did enough to cement a growing friendship, so Larry decided to probe
a bit.
"Funny how I got into that cab in the first place," Larry speculated, "or even more, how she landed there.
The girl I mean.
Cranston's eyebrows raised in the mildest of inquiries; then, before Larry could continue, the calm-faced
man supplied a partial explanation of his own.
"I arranged for the cab," stated Cranston. "The driver happens to be a friend of mine. He picked the
red-cap and tipped him to watch for you."
Larry wanted to say something, but restrained himself; then substituted a query which he put a bit testily:
"Why all the special service?"
"I knew about your uncle," came Cranston's calm reply. "When a man of means and standing dies
destitute from an overdose of medicine supplied by someone unknown, it calls for precautions in regard
to other persons who might be involved." Turning as he spoke, Cranston added: "Wouldn't you say so,
Dr. Sayre?"
There wasn't a flicker from Sayre's staid countenance. Professional as ever, the physician merely
answered:
"Your opinion stands demonstrated, Cranston."
Larry's impressions were keen again and very sharply so. Sayre's dropping of the term 'Mr.' indicated a
close friendship between him and Cranston. Somehow, this man Cranston seemed to plan for everything,
even to having a doctor in reserve should his plans of protection miss. So Larry, though sharp of mind,
became blunt of speech when he demanded:
"What about the girl?"
"She was her own idea," replied Cranston. "Her name was Jane Verril, wasn't it?"
Larry nodded as though asking how Cranston knew.
"Shrevvy told me," Cranston explained. "He's the cab driver and usually quite efficient. He thought the girl
was with you or he wouldn't have put you in such jeopardy. However he did nicely with that quick stop."
It dawned almost gradually on Larry that the cab's sudden upheaval hadn't been a freak accident.
Obviously the cabby had overheard the conversation in the rear seat and timed his own action to the vital
moment. In fact, Cranston more or less covered that point when he added:
"The girl went right out through the door and Shrevvy didn't have a chance to stop her. The only mystery
seems to be your suit-case. Shrevvy can't understand how the girl could have carried it with her--"
Larry interrupted by coming bolt upright on his cot.
"It's back at Penn Station!" he exclaimed. "The porter never had a chance to put it in the cab!"
Cranston's slight smile was accompanied by a nod which indicated that he would attend to the reclaiming
of the suit-case. Then came the calm query:
"There was something important?"
"Something my uncle sent me," replied Larry. Then, a bit disparagingly: "Only a music-box with a few
odd items inside it. A letter with something about five keys--only it didn't make much sense."
Cranston didn't press the matter. His eyes alone showed briefly that details which were obscure to others
might mean much to him. What Cranston didn't say was sometimes more expressive than his words; this
time, his silence meant that since he was to reclaim the suit-case, the question of the mysterious
music-box could wait until Larry came to get it back. Then Cranston could request an inspection of the
contents, but he didn't dwell on that point, even silently.
"Your uncle had a very esteemed friend," Cranston said to Larry. "I refer to Doctor Barnaby Lantz, the
distinguished anthropologist, here in New York."
Larry nodded.
"Doctor Lantz is expecting you?"
Another nod from Larry.
"Perhaps I should take you there," suggested Cranston, "provided that Doctor Sayre says you are well
enough to leave here."
Sayre decided that Larry could go, so go he did, but not in Shrevvy's cab. This ride was in a sumptuous
limousine which Cranston summoned from a place called the Cobalt Club. It was piloted by an efficient
chauffeur named Stanley, who seemed to be on a lookout for any madcap strangers who might try to pile
into the car with a drawn gun. But Larry's confidence didn't rest in Stanley.
It was Cranston's presence that created confidence. Larry's brief spell of excitement had brought back
the weakness from the tropical fever that had hounded him throughout his trip across Borneo. But with
Cranston on hand, Larry was at ease.
There was in Cranston a stamp of a reserve strength, a potential power that his silence seemed to shout.
Larry caught a brief flash of it when the limousine stopped at the massive brownstone residence of
Barnaby Lantz. Larry's knees gave as he stepped to the curb and he was suddenly buoyed up by a hand
that took his arm. It was the same going up the brownstone steps, where Cranston pressed the bell
button.
A servant answered the door.
Giving his name and receiving a prompt request to enter, Larry turned to thank Cranston for his trouble.
All he saw was the closing door of the limousine as the big car started away. The smooth departure
brought a flash-back to Larry's mind while Lantz's servant was conducting him through an oak-paneled
hallway with the explanation that the master was waiting in his study.
Larry wasn't thinking of Lantz, he was considering Cranston, marking the similarity of the tall, silent man's
departure with the earlier disappearance of a black-cloaked figure that had helped him from Shrevvy's
cab into Sayre's office. Then, before Larry could form further conclusions, the whole thought was
banished from his mind.
Connecting the present with the past brought something more startling than a mere recollection. It
happened when a voice from the study called "Come in" as a response to the servant's knock.
When the servant opened the door, Larry saw Barnaby Lantz, a smiling, gray-haired man who sat
beyond an ancient desk, in a room that was heavily furnished with antiques; but it wasn't what he saw that
stopped Larry short.
It was what he heard.
The sound was the tinkle of a music-box finishing "Londonderry Air". As the melody ended, the
clockwork instrument delivered the four-note signature with the final off-tone that had persisted its
strumming through Larry's brain.
Just another mystery to top the rest, for it was Larry's music-box-- or more specifically his uncle's,
without the slightest shade of doubt. Beside it, resting on the antique desk, were the odds and ends that
Mortimer Gray had included as part payment toward the legacy belonging to his brother's son, Larry!
IV.
TWENTY hours after Larry Gray's first meeting with Barnaby Lantz they were in the study again with
twilight dimming the cloistered windows.
The music-box was tinkling into the last tune on its list, as though picking up from last night, which was
exactly what Lantz and Larry were doing. The final air was "Oh, Promise Me" and Lantz, his gray eyes
fixed in a fond, faraway stare, was speaking words, rather than singing them, but with a remarkable
low-toned harmony:
"We sing our praises now to you
Our honored Lambda Zeta Mu,
And promise we shall ever be
True to our one fraternity--"
Lantz didn't go on with the rest. Instead, he gazed through the old-fashioned reading glasses he was
wearing and spoke in a tone that chimed with the melody:
"Your uncle wrote those words, Larry. Rather juvenile, some of our members thought, for an honor
fraternity restricted exclusively to Doctors of Philosophy. But the spirit was in them and it was the spirit of
youth that we should all take care never to lose."
The spirit of youth included impatience, which was bothering Larry badly right now; nevertheless, he
waited politely while the music-box tinkled to its stop which came after the final "fa-sol-do-fa" that was
irking him more than ever.
"Our one fraternity." Lantz pivoted in his big chair and gestured a broad hand to the bronze plaque that
glistened above the mantel. There, Larry saw the Greek letters that represented Lambda Zeta Mu and
gave another polite nod.
"We were charter members, Mortimer and I," continued Lantz, "and I only wish that we had carried that
spirit of fraternity beyond the realm of philosophy. Into business, for instance."
This was getting to the point and with it Lantz turned to the exhibits on the desk.
"I remember this music-box," acknowledged Lantz, "and I was surprised to find it when I opened your
suit-case to identify its contents, after they sent it here from Pennsylvania Station. The red-cap picked up
a slip of paper that you dropped, one bearing my address, you know."
Larry knew and tried not to be bored. He and Lantz had been all through that last night, during their chat
before Larry turned in for a rest.
"If I had known of your uncle's dire circumstances," continued Lantz, "I could have helped him. The
摘要：

FIVEKEYSTOCRIMEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?I.?II.?III.?IV.?V.?VI.?VII.?VIII.?IX.?X.?XI.?XII.?XIII.?XIV.?XV.?XVI.?XVII.?XVIII.?XIX.?XX.I.LARRYGRAYsatinhisroometteontheEasternLimitedandstaredathislegacy.Itwasn'tmuchtolookat,butitwasbetterthanthedusk-strea...

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