Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 279 - The Freak Show Murders

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FREAK SHOW MURDERS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 1944.
The masked fiend had a perfect score, until the Shadow realized that the
route of the Carnival coincided with the trail of death!
CHAPTER I
JUST before he reached Treft's mansion, Steve Kilroy saw The Harlequin.
Steve didn't realize it at the time, for his mind was on other matters;
besides
he'd never heard of The Harlequin, that curious criminal character who was
later
to be confused with Steve himself.
In fact, The Harlequin himself was confusing at first sight. Even in the
glare from the headlights of Steve's car it was impossible to identify him as
a
human figure, for his costume formed a perfect camouflage in its present
setting. Treft's curving driveway was flanked with magnolias and the blossoms
of
those trees produced a colorful weave with which The Harlequin blended. He
simply seemed to shake himself loose from them and the glare of the lights as
well, as Steve swung the car around the final bend and out from under the
magnolia trees.
Steve laughed at what he thought was a brief illusion. Here was Treft's
mansion looming large in the Carolina moonlight, which though somewhat clouded
was bright enough to show the open lawn. The living thing that had scudded
from
the driveway must have been imaginary, otherwise Steve would have spotted it
again.
So at least Steve thought, without considering the huge azalea beds that
flanked the mansion. They, much more than the magnolias, were made to order as
a
background for the figure that Steve had actually seen. In the moonlight the
flowers formed a patchwork of black and white, but when the veering headlights
swept them, they became a galaxy of purple, pink and crimson, with splotches
of
pure white. Where the bed was thickest, there were a few dabs of colors not
common to azaleas, but Steve didn't picture them as belonging to a huddled
figure, motionless in its harlequin costume.
More important to Steve Kilroy were the lighted windows in the corner of
the mansion, just above the nearest flower bed. He was sure that they must
represent the room where Milton Treft was waiting to discuss a sale that would
conservatively involve a million dollars.
As he brought the car to the big pillars that fronted the mansion, Steve
jammed the brakes in real alarm. This time there was no mistaking the figure
that sprang into view; it was human and it carried a double-barreled shotgun.
A
moment later the muzzles were poking in through the car window and a gruff
voice
was demanding Steve's business in these parts.
Very gingerly, to show he wasn't reaching for a revolver, Steve dipped
his
thumb and forefinger into his vest pocket and brought out a coin about the
size
of a silver dollar. He held it in the dash-light so that the man with the
shotgun could see the symbols stamped on it. One side bore a feather, the
other
the initials M. T.
The shotgun muzzles gave a nudge, indicating that Steve was to get out of
his car and enter the mansion, instructions which the watchman amplified with
his gruff tone. So Steve got out and went up the wooden steps between the
pillars, where his footfalls must have announced his approach for the big
front
door opened as soon as he arrived. Confronted by a brawny servant who was
wearing what appeared to be a butler's uniform, Steve showed his lucky coin
and
was immediately conducted toward the corner where he had seen the lighted
windows.
Everything in this huge house seemed geared to clockwork precision, for
as
the butler opened a large door to usher Steve into a reception room, another
door opened on the far side and a tall, gray-haired man stepped into sight.
Obviously this was Milton Treft, coming from a smaller room in the corner of
the
house. As Treft saw the coin that Steve displayed, he gave a wave that
dismissed
the butler; then, with a gesture to the coin, Treft said in a blunt tone:
"Spin it."
Steve gave the coin a spin.
The result was very curious.
Impelled by the flip of Steve's thumb, the disk whirled upward as any
coin
would have, but it began to lose its impetus very rapidly. For a moment the
coin
seemed to hang in air; then it came turning lazily downward until it actually
fluttered like a bit of paper. When Steve held out his hand he had to wait for
the metal token to drift into it.
Treft smiled at the result. His eyes, keen and narrow, studied Steve's
square-jawed, youthful face. Treft had expected Steve to be an older man, but
the spinning of the coin had satisfied him. It would be easy enough to stamp a
duplicate coin with the emblem of a feather and the initials M. T., but only
one
coin in all the world would behave in that tantalizing fashion. That coin
happened to be the one that Steve was carrying to introduce himself to Treft.
"Well, Kilroy," said Treft, affably, "I take it that your company is
satisfied."
"They're satisfied on one thing," acknowledged Steve. "This alloy you
term
alumite is so much lighter than any known metal that it's a shame to even
compare them."
"Does that mean they are interested in buying the formula?"
"It means they would be if you delivered enough alumite for them to give
it
the required tests."
Treft nodded as though he had received the very answer that he expected.
Gesturing Steve to an easy chair, Treft stepped to the corner of the room and
pointed out a life-sized bust that stood on a marble pedestal.
"An excellent bronze," remarked Treft. "It represents Absalom Pettigrew,
the man who invented alumite, or I might say discovered it."
Steve raised his eyebrows.
"Is there a difference?"
"In this case, yes," replied Treft. "Pettigrew was a sculptor and he came
across a process of inflating metal, which works only with a certain alloy.
That
is the real secret of alumite; it is an expanded substance, honeycombed with
microscopic air pores which in no way reduce its tensile strength, because of
their irregular arrangement."
As he finished, Treft lifted the bust from its pedestal and with a sudden
fling sent it straight at Steve. Ducking involuntarily, Steve looked past his
upraised hands to see the object practically drifting at him. Grabbing, he
caught it and was amazed at its featherweight.
"Solid alumite," chuckled Treft. "Old Pettigrew gave it a bronze spray,
as
he did with the Twelve Hours."
"The Twelve Hours?"
"Twelve full-sized statues representing the hours of the day," explained
Treft. "Being a sculptor, Pettigrew naturally turned his discovery to
statuary.
It remained for us to recognize its commercial possibilities."
"For us?"
"I mean myself and my associates. In my letter to your company I stated
that I could supply a sufficient quantity of alumite for whatever tests might
be
demanded. I take it that you supposed I had the alumite here."
Steve nodded.
"I have purposely furthered that impression," continued Treft, with a
smile, "even among my servants, in order to protect my fellow-investors, who
own
the statues that I have mentioned. I have the formula" - Treft's smile
broadened
- "but they have the alumite, that is, most of it."
Treft finished with a gesture to the bust that Steve was holding, to
indicate that it represented his only supply of the priceless alloy. Then,
folding his arms, Treft demanded in his blunt tone:
"Have I made my terms clear? If your company receives every ounce of
alumite in existence and finds that it meets requirements, will they pay my
price for the formula?"
Slowly, Steve nodded. Clamped between his hands, looking up at him with
accusing eyes, was the bronze sprayed face of old Absalom Pettigrew, the real
inventor of alumite, the substance in which his own likeness had been
perpetuated. Somehow Steve had the sinking feeling that Milton Treft, along
with
his unnamed associates, had filched the old sculptor's discovery. Treft must
have seen something in Steve's expression, for the tall man promptly met the
situation.
"Poor Pettigrew is dead." Treft shook his head sadly. "Otherwise he would
share in this good fortune. He left no relatives, more's the pity, or we would
see to their future welfare. But we paid Pettigrew handsomely for his
sculptures
and he entrusted his formula to us, hoping we would use it to benefit the
world
of the future. You understand, of course."
Steve understood too well. First to benefit would be Treft and his
associates to the tune of a million dollars. Next would be Steve's company,
Associated Metallurgy, which would pay the million and promptly double its
investment. An obscure inventor named Pettigrew would be forgotten, so far as
profits were concerned.
"Since you will first receive all the alumite there is," reminded Treft,
narrowly, "no one can dispute your claim to the formula, once you acquire it.
We
stand in back of our guarantee, to the full amount that Associated Metallurgy
will pay. In fact I suggested that the clause be included in the contract."
Clever of Treft to put it that way. It was up to Steve to take it or
leave
it and if he left it some other company would probably buy alumite on his
terms, since he held the formula that might be anybody's. Since Steve was
working for the interests of Associated Metallurgy, his only choice was to
take
it.
"It's in the contract," said Steve, stiffly. "I have it right here in my
pocket."
Steve couldn't reach in his pocket because he was burdened with the
featherweight bust. He extended Pettigrew's image to Treft, but instead of
taking it, the tall man stepped to the door in the far corner, beckoning for
Steve to follow.
"Bring Pettigrew with you," said Treft, in a tone which Steve branded as
mock sincerity. "It is too bad we cannot have the man himself as a witness to
this transaction that he would certainly have approved. Right here in my
study"
- Treft was opening the door as he spoke - "I have all the letters from my
associates along with the alumite formula.
"I shall give you the letters so that you can contact the men personally
and obtain the twelve statues. As for the formula, I shall show it to you, but
it will stay in my possession until your company requires it. I might add that
it is the only copy of the formula in existence. That yellow envelope on my
desk
is worth exactly one million dollars!"
Dramatically Treft gestured toward the desk, turning as he did. At that
moment, Steve was stepping through the doorway, so his gaze naturally swung in
the same direction. But the sight that froze them both was not the envelope
that
Treft had just mentioned. In fact they didn't see the envelope at all.
What they did see was a leveled revolver, gripped in the fist of a man
whose singular costume jogged Steve's memory with a startling flash.
It was all in one piece, that costume, the attire of a harlequin, made up
of varicolored patchwork. Even the hand that held the gun was covered with a
glove that formed an extension of the costume's sleeve. As for the intruder's
face, it was completely hidden by a tight-fitting hood that came snugly below
the wearer's chin, with only eye-slits as gaps in its patchwork surface.
Through those slits peered eyes that reflected the light with stabs, but
they were but samples of the flashes that The Harlequin would deliver. Without
a
word, without a flicker of his ugly, villainous gaze, The Harlequin swung his
gun toward Milton Treft and fired twice, sending both bullets straight to the
victim's heart.
CHAPTER II
TO Steve Kilroy those two quick shots seemed widely spaced. The time
between them was only that required for a second trigger pull, but the horror
of
the interval gave it intensity. Besides, Steve was watching Treft.
With the first shot, Treft rocked backward; then began a forward topple.
The second bullet caught him before he could collapse and gave him another
spasmodic jerk. To Steve, those involuntary motions were tokens of life, not
death and the wild hope that this was all unreal produced in Steve's mind the
prolonged effect of a waking dream.
Reality struck home when Treft's body curled to the floor and flattened
in
a distorted sprawl that no living man could have duplicated. As motionless as
the bronze-dyed bust that he clutched in his already clammy hands, Steve stood
staring downward at the human evidence of murder, gradually ceasing to wonder
why Treft didn't rise and end the farce.
At least it seemed gradually, but the slow-motion was really the effect
of
Steve's sped-up brain. When he suddenly took Treft's death for granted, Steve
looked for The Harlequin and saw him behind the desk, the gun still smoking in
his hand. Odd, that gray wisp curling from the muzzle, for The Harlequin
hadn't
fired since that second shot which seemed so long ago.
Only it wasn't long ago.
With a surge, Steve's wit returned. All these happenings that were
spreading themselves into the events of hours, shriveled suddenly into brief
seconds. And with that return of reason Steve felt the impulse that if he
dealt
in seconds, he could pack them faster than the Harlequin had.
Driving straight for the desk, Steve expected to see The Harlequin behave
in the slow, labored fashion that had dominated those previous sensations.
Instead, The Harlequin whipped away from the desk with a speed that outdid
Steve's drive. The Harlequin's objective was an open window in the side wall
of
the room, but he paused with his free hand on the sill and took quick aim
across
the desk.
When The Harlequin aimed, he fired.
Two gun-stabs, close together. This time Steve heard them in terms of
rapid
fire. With the reports came echoing clangs as Steve reeled back, wondering why
he wasn't dead, like Treft. There was a reason, and a good one.
Alumite was taking its first test and meeting requirements. Pettigrew's
bust, still clutched in Steve's arms, was the target of The Harlequin's
too-perfect aim. It stopped the bullets and it stopped The Harlequin too.
As Steve staggered from the impact, the man at the window paused to clap
his hand against the side of his tight-fitting costume. There, a bulge
discernible amid the patchwork, represented the papers that he had taken from
Treft's desk; letters, formula and all. But The Harlequin knew now that he was
missing something; that bust, wavering so lightly between Steve's numbed
hands,
was certainly alumite and not the bronze it looked to be.
With savage smoothness, The Harlequin sprang toward the desk again, so
swift and lithe that he clearly intended to clear it in a leap. Urged by
self-preservation, Steve hurled his only weapon, the alumite bust that had
served him one good turn.
It served another.
Dodging the flying bust, The Harlequin fired wide. A moment later, Steve
was at the desk, shoving it at his murderous foe. The Harlequin fired another
shot off balance as he dropped back to the window and his eyes, tilted upward,
saw the bust still in the air. It was slow-motion in reality, a detail which
Steve had forgotten, the way that featherweight metal drifted, despite its
bulk.
But there was nothing slow about The Harlequin's response.
With one hand he flung his gun full force at Steve, who dropped back with
a
warding arm. No longer menaced by the desk, The Harlequin caught the bust with
his free arm, then used his gun hand to vault the window-sill with a leap that
cleared the azalea bed beyond. All in one lithe operation, the murderer was
off
into the night, carrying the alumite bust as a bonus.
What Steve had was The Harlequin's gun. Snatching it up, he was turning
toward the window, when men came pounding through the door from the reception
room. Looking around, Steve saw the husky butler followed by the watchman who
bore the shotgun. Excitedly, Steve pointed to the window, but they didn't give
him time to explain.
They had seen Treft's body. They had heard shots and they were finding
Steve with the gun.
The butler grabbed Steve first. Together they went reeling toward the
window. Oddly it wasn't any thought of escape that made Steve swing the
struggle
in that direction. His own plight seemed mild compared with the fact that The
Harlequin was escaping, and he hoped that at the window, they might spot the
fleeing murderer. But when the butler tried to haul Steve back, using his
throat
as a handle so he couldn't even talk, the folly of it maddened Steve.
Driving the heel of his hand right to the butler's chin, Steve sent the
fellow back against the desk. Finding himself free, Steve vaulted the sill in
The Harlequin's style, beckoning, for Treft's men to follow.
What followed was a big-throated blast from the shotgun. Fortunately
Steve
was below the window level when it came, but he remembered that the shotgun
had
two barrels. Rather than take chances with the second, Steve made for the
magnolias and was flattening among them when the second blast came roaring
from
the window.
The tree boughs crackled overhead and amid a shower of withering
blossoms,
Steve decided not to wait until his pursuer reloaded. Besides, Steve wanted to
find The Harlequin, so he took off down the driveway, which seemed the logical
path that the murderer would have taken.
From then on, the real nightmare began.
Treft's premises were more amply guarded than Steve supposed and the
gunfire from the mansion had roused all drowsing retainers. Dashing down the
driveway, Steve saw flashlights glaring from a gateway through which he had
driven on his way here. Turning, he fled back to the house, just as shotguns
ripped; thanks to the curve of the driveway, the volley didn't reach him.
But there were other lights ahead and they meant gunners from the
mansion,
so Steve took to a side driveway that he fancied would lead him to a distant
gate, which it would have, if he followed it. He didn't because he saw other
lights approaching him, so in desperation, Steve stumbled off among the trees,
hoping he would arrive anywhere except among Treft's men.
By then, Steve had lost all sense of direction. He was combining two
policies; one, to keep going as fast as he could run or stumble; the other, to
avoid all lights. As a result, his course became a swift but uncertain zigzag
that must have turned him full about. For the lights seemed everywhere,
blinking
distantly through the trees, and Steve shied from them as if they were the
shotguns that they represented.
There were shouts, too, that seemed to indicate some diabolical design on
the part of Steve's misguided hunters. They were trying to box him somewhere
and
wherever it was, Steve didn't want to find the place. He remembered that
Treft's
extensive estate was fenced with high iron pickets, because he had driven half
way around it to reach the front road. Obviously Treft's aggregation was
trying
to corner him somewhere between gates.
All Steve wanted was to find that fence. He didn't want a gate, because
he
was sure somebody would be there. Judging by the lights, Treft's men were
sufficient to replenish a regiment, unless Steve had been spotting the same
searchers six times over. But if Steve found the fence, he'd be willing to
scale
it, pickets or no pickets.
Steve didn't find the fence.
Out of the range of lights, plunging between trees that he could see in
the
struggling moonlight, stumbling across rocks that the glow didn't show, Steve
was still wondering where the fence was when his flight ended as suddenly as
it
had begun.
It ended when the ground gave under him.
There was horror in that plunge. It began with a black void that would
have
warned any other fugitive, but to Steve, whose fear was registered in terms of
light, blackness was welcome and the deeper the better.
This blackness was really deep.
Steve was right out in it when the ground gave. In a sense, what happened
was that Steve jumped clear of the ground and it came along to catch him. Next
he was spilling downward at a sharp angle that he recognized as Carolina clay,
because he had seen huge banks of it while driving along roads that bore signs
reading: "Danger. Slides."
This was a slide and Steve was part of it. He was going over the
equivalent
of a waterfall in terms of soft, flowing earth. Already picturing himself as
trapped, Steve felt like an insect sliding into one of those curious sand
funnels provided by a more conniving species to receive unwary prey. All about
the earth was stifling, for more of it was overtaking Steve, much like a
torrent. Madly he was struggling to climb out of it and going down a dozen
times
as fast as he could climb.
Out of a rush that sounded like padded thunder, Steve heard a mournful
blare from far away, approaching like a horn of judgment. In the midst of a
repeated shriek, his plunge ended, much more happily than he had hoped.
Steve stopped with a jolt that at least was softened by the mass of clay
that had preceded him. As he caught his breath, he was flung forward by the
increasing mass that followed him and he landed harder, headlong. This time
the
jolt produced a terrific, clattering shock, that jarred Steve's nerves more
than
his body. Wiping clay from his mouth, he came to his hands and knees, then
sagged back as the clang was repeated almost overhead.
Something really shocked him that time, something that caused him to
recoil
as if he had clasped a slimy snake. It was something that he did clasp, as
cold
and hard as steel, because it was. Dropping back into the subsiding clay,
Steve
clapped his hand to his chest, glad that he still had it. A slow, hard
grinding
sound, creeping in front of him, made him realize that instinct, plus luck,
were
still factors in his favor.
This was a railroad cut, away down below a high clay bank that flanked
Treft's premises. The distant blare was a locomotive whistle, around a bend,
announcing that a halted train was about to start. The jolting shock so close
to
Steve had been the clatter of couplings, taking up slack. The cold, hard steel
that Steve had clutched was the near rail of the track underneath a car. The
creeping, grind was a wheel, beginning an onward roll just after Steve had
whipped his hand away.
Lying back against the clay, Steve could see the big black hulks of cars
moving slowly and laboriously above him, like great stupid creatures that
considered him too insignificant to notice. He had counted three of them when
he
realized that to ignore them wasn't the proper way to return their
indifference.
Coming to his feet, Steve felt one leg bend under him, but he clamped his
hands into the clay to gain additional support. One shoulder nearly buckled
under the strain, but Steve fought off the stabs of pain until his weak leg
could do its part. With the clay giving under foot, he was in danger of
toppling
forward, but he didn't care, not if he could time it to the ladder of a
box-car.
Only there weren't any box-cars. Nothing but flats, with great shrouded
shapes upon them, silent monsters being carried through the night. But flats
had
ladders, short ones, and Steve saw the glistening rungs he wanted. He grabbed
with his good hand and as the ladder dragged him from the clay, he remembered
that one foot could still serve him. Kicking for a toehold, Steve found it on
the bottom rung and with a corkscrew motion rolled himself on top of the flat,
glad that it wasn't a box-car which he never could have climbed
Crawling toward one of the shrouded monsters, Steve touched its skirt and
recognized it as canvas. Probing further, he found the spokes of a wooden
wheel.
The thing was a wagon, braced with cleats so that it wouldn't roll. Satisfied
that the cleats were solid, Steve crawled between the wheels and encountered
something that yielded when he poked it.
Steve heard a hard, snoring breath that ended in a growled voice:
"Shove over, guy. Ain't there enough wagons to sleep under without
crowding?"
Replying with an apologetic grunt, Steve let the jarring of the train
roll
him the other way. His numbed senses yielded all at once, under his sudden
relief from strain and the knowledge that he had found the safety that he
thought he could never gain.
Soon the musical clatter of the wheels was driving all other thoughts
from
Steve's tired brain, including his recollections of The Harlequin, that
piebald
creature of murder.
CHAPTER III
LAMONT CRANSTON sat in a corner of Treft's reception room and listened
idly
to the reports concerning the murder of the mansion's owner.
Outside, the afternoon sky was darkened by heavy rain clouds that
maintained an incessant drizzle, the continuation of a downpour that had begun
the night before. In the room, the local coroner continued to repeat the facts
that Treft's servants had recited.
Of the several strangers present, all were stockholders in Associated
Metallurgy, the company that had delegated Steve Kilroy to negotiate with
Milton
Treft regarding the purchase of a wonder-metal called alumite. Having missed
their opportunity to acquire that important prize, these men were naturally
interested in the case; at least all were except Cranston.
Outwardly, Cranston appeared bored, which led his companions to wonder
why
he had come all the way from New York over a matter which didn't interest him.
It began to strike them that Cranston had another reason; perhaps he felt
slighted because the directors of Associated Metallurgy had not informed him
beforehand of their intention to purchase alumite.
Cranston didn't feel slighted on that point; he was regretful. If he had
been notified of this deal in advance, Treft wouldn't have been murdered, for
Cranston would have come here ahead of Steve Kilroy, not as himself, but as
another personality known as The Shadow. Therefore Cranston's present purpose
was to rectify an oversight on the part of others and he was bored because the
investigation had stalled.
The stalling point was Steve Kilroy. Sheer weight of evidence caused the
directors of Associated Metallurgy to yield to the local opinion that Steve
was
the murderer. To Cranston, such a theory was nonsense. In his mind's eye, he
could picture an unknown factor in the case, though he had never met nor heard
of the piebald criminal who by his costume deserved the name "The Harlequin."
There came an end to the coroner's report and with it, Cranston's
indolence
lessened, though his tone was still somewhat bored when he inquired:
"Tell me, coroner, what was the motive behind this murder?"
"Robbery, suh!" returned the coroner. "Downright robbery. Downright and
outright."
"Robbery of what?"
"Of Mr. Treft's strong-room in the cellar. It's clean empty, bare as a
parcel of burnt-out out timber land."
"What was taken from it?"
"Whatever Mr. Treft kept there. Nobody would have an empty room under
lock
and key with a dozen servants guarding it. I guess we all agree on that."
Everyone nodded except Cranston. His indifference had gradually faded and
he was ready to dispute the point.
"An active chap, this Kilroy," commented Cranston. "In the course of
staging a complete disappearance, he unlocked the strong room, took whatever
was
in it, and locked the door again. Where were the keys, by the way?"
"They were on Mr. Treft," replied the coroner. "But you aren't allowing
for
the proper facts, Mr. Cranston. The robbery was done beforehand by
accomplices."
"So Kilroy's accomplices were seen last night?"
"Not last night, suh, but previous. That was why Mr. Treft had put new
men
on duty. Suspicious characters were seen about these premises a few nights
ago,
soon after Mr. Treft had written to your company in New York."
"Then Kilroy's murder of Treft was just a cover-up?"
"A good way to put it, allowing for the circumstances."
"Suppose we allow for something else." Rising from his chair, Cranston
was
strolling over to the table where the coroner had spread a map. "Assuming that
Treft's strong room did contain something, the contents must have been bulky,
weren't they?"
"That's hard to say," returned the coroner doubtfully. "It's not a
question
for snap judgment."
"I'm using your own logic, coroner. A man wouldn't lock an empty strong
room, would he?"
"I've already agreed on that point."
"Good. Nor would the same man use a large strong room to store small
objects?"
"Seems most unlikely, I do admit."
"The strong room is a large one, isn't it?"
"Right large. Biggest room in the cellar, I reckon."
"Then there's your answer, coroner. The robbers must have stolen at least
a
truck-load of goods."
The coroner swelled as though he had personally completed the deductive
argument. Immediately, the men from New York chimed in with supporting
opinions.
Cranston's term "truck-load" fitted with the thing that Treft had promised to
deliver, a large supply of alumite. Bulky, it would have required a large
store
room; light, it could have been easily carried from the house to wherever the
truck was waiting.
Cranston let all these opinions gather and establish themselves, without
betraying that he didn't share them. Exacting in every detail, Cranston still
held to the premise that the locked store room must be considered empty all
along, until proven otherwise, just as Steve Kilroy should be regarded
innocent
unless actual facts of his guilt could be established.
Through frequent analysis, Cranston had long since learned that
circumstantial evidence was a product found in clusters; that one false fact
was
often paralleled by others. Cracking one would throw doubt on another; hence
to
prove that robbery hadn't happened would be the right step toward selling the
idea that Steve Kilroy might not be the murderer. Certainly the part didn't
fit
the young but well-trusted legal representative of Associated Metallurgy
"So the robbers must have trucked the goods away," remarked Cranston, as
soon as comment had subsided. "Very well, coroner, perhaps you can show me the
road they would have followed."
Rubbing his chin, the coroner began to run his finger here and there upon
the map, muttering that the rains had been right heavy lately and that the
clay
roads would have mired even a light truck. He was considering the better
highways, when Cranston added:
"Remember, coroner, these prowlers were seen. It follows that their truck
would also have been seen or heard if it came too close to this house."
That caused a change in the corner's calculations, forcing his finger to
range wider on the map. Little dots worried him, marks representing the gates
in
Treft's very extensive fence, until suddenly the coroner brought his finger to
a
line that looked like an endless centipede, running within a quarter mile of
the
mansion.
"They railroaded the goods!" exclaimed the coroner. "That's what the
varmints did. Put the stuff right on a freight that was waiting while the crew
went ahead to look for landslides. They stop right here in the cut on Monday
nights, which was when the prowlers was about!"
"Only on Mondays?" inquired Cranston.
"Mondays and Thursdays," replied the coroner. "That's when the freights
run
southbound. They come north Tuesdays and Fridays, so they stop further below.
Last night was Wednesday, the day there isn't any freight."
"You're getting results, coroner," complimented Cranston. "Perhaps you
ought to inform the sheriff."
The coroner had a dash of nonchalance. He demonstrated it by turning over
his coat lapel. On the under side was a glistening badge that bore the word
"Sheriff." That reminder of his double capacity put his mind on a new trend.
His
finger formed a large circle on the map.
"We've covered all this area hunting for Kilroy," declared the
摘要：

FREAKSHOWMURDERSbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"May1944.Themaskedfiendhadaperfectscore,untiltheShadowrealizedthattherouteoftheCarnivalcoincidedwiththetrailofdeath!CHAPTERIJUSTbeforehereachedTreft'smansion,SteveKilroysawTheHarlequin.Stevedidn'trealizeitatthetime,forhismindwas...

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