Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 101 - The Gray Ghost

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THE GRAY GHOST
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE RAIDER IN GRAY
? CHAPTER II. CRIME COMPLETE
? CHAPTER III. THE LAW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER V. MISTAKEN IDENTITY
? CHAPTER VI. HARRY REPORTS
? CHAPTER VII. A BROKEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER VIII. NEWS TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER IX. THE NEEDED LINK
? CHAPTER X. FACTS FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XI. CRIME FORETOLD
? CHAPTER XII. THE GHOST APPEARS
? CHAPTER XIII. FLIGHT IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIV. THE TRAP IS LAID
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW'S PRESENCE
? CHAPTER XVI. THE GHOST GAMBOLS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE VANISHED OUTLAW
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER XIX. HARRY SEES DOUBLE
? CHAPTER XX. MID-CHANNEL
CHAPTER I. THE RAIDER IN GRAY
“THEY call him the Gray Ghost, sir.” It was a solemn-faced butler who made the statement. He was
facing a group of four young people, who were seated, smiling, in the mellow lamp glow that lighted an
enclosed porch.
Opened windows gained a wafted breeze; the tang of the air, the distant blasts of steamship whistles,
betokened that the house was near Long Island Sound.
“Yes, Mr. Gilden.” Solemnly, the butler nodded to the tuxedoed young man who formed the center of
the group. “The Gray Ghost is what they call him.”
“The Gray Ghost,” chuckled Gilden. “Come, Furbison! Don't tell me that you believe in spooks!”
“There are those who do, sir. Butlers, housemaids, chauffeurs—here on Long Island. They have seen the
Gray Ghost prowling about—”
Gilden stopped the butler with a laugh. The young man turned to the other persons beside him. One was
a young man his own age; the other two were girls who looked like sisters, both in their early twenties.
“Fancy it,” chuckled Gilden. “We are living in the twentieth century. Here am I, Pierce Gilden; and
you”—he gestured toward the other man—“Alan Reeth, both of us imbued with the realism of the
modern age. We come to the home of Martin Debrossler, a wealthy banker.”
Pausing, Gilden swept his hand about to indicate the surroundings.
“We are chatting with the banker's beautiful daughters,” continued Gilden, with a bow toward each of the
girls. “On my right, Jane Debrossler; on my left, her sister, Louise. The scene is one of modern romance,
until it is disturbed by a man who believes in ghosts and sprites. A superstitious person who should have
lived in the Middle Ages, when they had ghouls and werewolves, warlocks and witches—”
GILDEN stopped short, laughing; the others had joined in his mirth. They were looking at the butler,
whose face had reddened, whose manner was apologetic. Gilden straightened his face.
“I mean you, Furbison!” he accused, in a tone of mock seriousness. “You tell us of the Gray Ghost—a
fabulous, impossible creature! You expect us to believe—”
“Really, sir,” interposed Furbison. “I meant no ill. I hope that I have not disturbed you—”
“Mr. Gilden is joking,” interrupted Jane, the younger of the sisters. “He is merely having fun at your
expense, Furbison. We know that you don't believe in ghosts.”
“Quite right, miss,” nodded Furbison, relieved. “I was merely repeating the remarks that had been told
me.”
“We understand,” smiled Jane, “and it was my fault, Furbison, for starting the talk. I am sorry. You may
go now, Furbison.
“Thank you, miss.”
Furbison departed. Jane turned to Gilden.
“Really, Pierce,” declared the girl, “this matter is becoming quite serious. All the domestics believe that
there is a Gray Ghost.”
“And they hold him responsible for recent robberies?”
“Yes. It may seem outlandish; nevertheless, the robberies have occurred!”
It was Louise who added the next remark.
“The robberies have been alarming,” declared the elder sister. “Somehow, they don't seem to be the
work of an ordinary human.”
Gilden nodded.
“I know,” he said. “Mrs. Tyndale's pearls, for instance.”
“Yes,” agreed Louise. “She is positive that none of the servants knew where they were hidden. Yet they
were stolen, and there was talk that the Gray Ghost was seen that night.”
“And the Trelawney paintings,” added Jane. “They were spirited away in the middle of the night!”
“From an empty house,” objected Gilden. “That was not remarkable.”
“There were two caretakers, Pierce.”
“Both were probably asleep. They didn't talk about the Gray Ghost, did they?”
“No. But others did, according to Furbison—”
Jane stopped as two elderly men appeared at the door of the sun porch. Gilden and Reeth arose. Jane
smiled and spoke to the first of the two who entered.
“Hello, father,” said the girl. “You know Pierce Gilden. And this is Alan Reeth.”
Martin Debrossler shook hands with the young men. He introduced the man who was with him as James
Pennybrook, his attorney. While they were chatting, a horn honked from the front of the house. It was
Debrossler's limousine, ready to take the young people into the city. The four went from the sun porch,
leaving Debrossler and Pennybrook alone.
“MORE talk about the Gray Ghost,” remarked Debrossler, as he and Pennybrook heard the car pull
away with its merry party. “The girls love to bait Furbison.”
“Your butler believes that there is a ghost?”
“I think he does. It annoys me, Pennybrook.”
“Why should it?”
“Because Furbison has more sense than an ordinary servant. He should not listen to such fables.”
Pennybrook shook his head.
“I am not so sure that it is a fable,” he declared. “There have been robberies. Some one has
accomplished them.”
“Not a ghost!”
“Of course not. But a person, perhaps, who has been mistaken for one. Your must remember,
Debrossler, that they call this person the Gray Ghost.”
“What does that signify?”
“That he must present a definite appearance. We must picture him always in some grayish garb.
Otherwise, all the reports would not conform.”
“I believe that you are right, Pennybrook.”
Debrossler sat nodding. His eyes were keen; they sparkled beneath his shocky gray hair. Pennybrook
watched him rather stolidly. The lawyer, owlish-faced and almost bald, formed a distinct contrast to his
companion.
“You are right, Pennybrook,” repeated Debrossler, “and that fact troubles me. The Gray Ghost is a
cunning thief, whoever he may be. He is a menace, here on Long Island.”
“Not to those who keep their business secret,” objected Pennybrook, “and that certainly applies to you,
Debrossler.”
“Of course. Even my daughters know nothing of my business. They have callers—such as young Gilden
and this chap Reeth, who is from somewhere in the Middle West—but none of the visitors know
anything about my affairs.”
“Unless some one comes here to talk business—”
“That never happens, Pennybrook, except on evenings when I know that Jane and Louise will not be at
home. Take to-night, for instance. I knew the girls were going to the theater. I ordered the chauffeur to
be here with the car. Jane and Louise have gone; the young men are with them. I shall not be disturbed
when Hiram Windler calls.”
Debrossler paused to consult his watch.
“Nearly half past eight,” he remarked. “Windler should be here in a few minutes. Let us go upstairs to my
study.”
“Why not talk with him down here?” inquired Pennybrook, rising with Debrossler. “You say that we shall
not be disturbed.”
“I have the money in my study,” stated Debrossler, in a cautious tone. “One hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?” queried Pennybrook, stopping short. “You brought cash from the bank?”
“Of course! Windler is a hoarder—you know that, Pennybrook.”
“But he must have a bank account.”
“Apparently not. He said that he wanted cash for his properties; that he would not sign the papers unless
I produced the entire sum. Go and get your briefcase, Pennybrook, and meet me in the study.”
THE lawyer stopped in a hallway vestibule while Debrossler ascended gloomy stairs to the second floor.
At the top, Debrossler paused in a dim side passage, while he produced a key to unlock a heavy door.
He paused a moment, waiting for Pennybrook. Deciding that the lawyer had mislaid his briefcase,
Debrossler unlocked the door.
The barrier swung inward; Debrossler stopped on the threshold in profound amazement. The study was
lighted; that fact startled him immediately. His eyes looked toward the center of the room, instinctively
seeking the desk where he had placed his money.
There Debrossler saw the sight that made him gape. Standing beyond the desk was a half-crouched
figure, clad in a jerseylike suit of mottled gray. The man was masked by a hood that projected
downward from a rounded cap, all a part of his odd garb. Glaring eyes shone through slits in the cloth.
In his right hand, which was covered by a glove that formed part of the sleeved jersey, the intruder held a
gleaming revolver. His left hand, also covered with finger-pieces of gray, was half drawn from an opened
drawer of the desk.
The gun was covering the door at which Debrossler stood. The other hand was clutching a thick batch of
crisp green currency. The intruder had found the money that Debrossler had brought home from the
bank.
One hundred bills, each of thousand dollar denomination; money intended for payment to a visitor named
Hiram Windler—such was the swag that the gray-garbed thief had gained. Martin Debrossler, horrified,
was watching his own wealth as it was plucked from before his very eyes.
But it was not the vicious daring of the theft that riveted the banker; nor was it the menace of the pointed
revolver. Stark fear, the facing of the incredible, was the emotion that made Debrossler incapable of
action. Debrossler had rejected the impossible; yet it stood before him. He knew the identity of the man
whom he saw.
The intruder answered vague descriptions that Debrossler had heard. He tallied with the mental pictures
that the banker had formed of a person whose existence he had ridiculed.
The hooded, jersey-clad robber was the Gray Ghost!
CHAPTER II. CRIME COMPLETE
A SNARL came from the covered lips of the Gray Ghost. The utterance proved a fact that Debrossler
had recognized; that the intruder was a human being, not a wraith.
The lighted study showed the jerseyed form too well to make it appear deceptive. Yet Debrossler was
gripped by the thought that this prowler, seen in duller illumination, could easily be accepted as a ghost, if
viewed by superstitious persons.
The rumors voiced by servants were thus established. That knowledge, however, did not bring comfort
to Debrossler. The banker would have preferred to face a specter, rather than this human vandal who
had come to pilfer cash. The revolver, clutched by a human hand, was a physical menace that made
Debrossler quail.
Satisfied that his victim would make no move, the Gray Ghost bounded from behind the desk. Thrusting
the sheaves of currency beneath a broad fold of his jersey, the thief sidled toward the window, all the
while holding Debrossler motionless with the gun.
The window was open; that proved how the crook had entered, for Debrossler kept the window locked.
Quick work with the jimmy was evidently one of the Gray Ghost's specialties.
To reach the window, the Gray Ghost was forced to pass close to Debrossler. With another snarl, the
robber warned the banker to stand his ground. Debrossler would have done so, but for an interruption
that both he and the Gray Ghost heard.
Footsteps from the stairway.
Debrossler took the sounds as an indication of Pennybrook's approach. He saw the Gray Ghost hesitate
and glance toward the door. For a moment, the revolver no longer covered the banker. Debrossler
gained sudden alarm; he foresaw death for Pennybrook should the lawyer make too rapid an entry. With
that dread for another man, Debrossler spied opportunity for himself.
With a sharp cry, the banker hurled himself upon the Gray Ghost. He grabbed for the crook's gun arm.
THE Gray Ghost swung viciously with his revolver. His blow was hasty, for he was half wrestling his
wrist from Debrossler's grasp. The banker stopped the blow and clutched the Gray Ghost's throat. With
a hard twist, the crook flayed his left arm sidewise and delivered a forearm uppercut to Debrossler's chin.
The banker did a diving sprawl across the floor.
The Gray Ghost leaped for the door and pressed the light switch. As he did, another man entered.
Gasping, looking up from the darkness, Debrossler saw a struggle just within the door.
“Hold him, Pennybrook!” cried the banker. “Hold him—”
The shout was too late. Something thudded in the darkness. There was a groan; a figure slumped to the
floor. The Gray Ghost leaped away from the man whom he had slugged with the revolver. He grabbed
the door and slammed it shut. Debrossler, on his feet, made another dive for the intruder.
Again, the Gray Ghost sent the banker sprawling. This time, Debrossler rolled over and thumped against
the desk. His head spun; dizzily, he heard a clamber at the window. He tried to rise; but slumped.
Some one was pounding at the door. Debrossler heard an anxious voice. It was Furbison. The butler
was unable to unlock the door. It had latched with the Gray Ghost's slam.
“Outside!” gasped Debrossler. “Summon aid! At once, Furbison!”
A muffled clatter told that the butler was running downstairs. Debrossler hoped that he would not
encounter the Gray Ghost. Furbison, alone, would be no match for the desperado.
In the darkness, Debrossler managed to find his feet. He steadied himself against the desk; then stumbled
toward the door. Halfway, he tripped over a prone, unconscious body. Sprawled, Debrossler found new
trouble in rising. He crawled to the door, pulled himself up in rickety fashion and found the light switch.
He clicked it.
Looking toward the floor, Debrossler saw Pennybrook. The lawyer had received a hard slug from the
revolver. His bald head showed a lump as large as a bantam's egg. Debrossler approached the lawyer
but found himself unable to lift Pennybrook's dead weight. While he struggled with the task, there were
new footsteps outside the door. Debrossler dropped Pennybrook and opened the door.
On the threshold stood a stocky man, with swarthy, square-set countenance; behind him was Furbison,
anxious-eyed. The man at the doorway flashed a badge.
“You're—you're a detective?”
Debrossler gasped the query. The stocky man nodded.
“Acting Inspector Cardona,” he replied. “Driving out here from headquarters. You're Martin
Debrossler?”
Debrossler nodded.
“Your butler stopped my car,” explained Cardona. “Told me he thought there was murder going on
inside. Who's this man?”
He indicated Pennybrook. Debrossler gave the lawyer's name and explained how he had entered the
fray. Furbison brought in Pennybrook's briefcase, which had been dropped at the head of the stairs.
Cardona, meanwhile, had lifted the lawyer to a couch in the corner of the room.
“He'll come around in a few minutes,” decided the acting inspector. “That bump looks like a surface one.
We'd better send for a physician, though.”
CARDONA picked up the telephone on Debrossler's desk. The line was dead.
“Cut wires,” grunted Cardona. Then, after a glance toward the window, he queried: “Who was the fellow
who made the get-away? Could you identify him?”
“He was masked,” replied Debrossler. “His face hooded. He was dressed in a tight-fitting suit of gray.”
A gasp from Furbison: “The Gray Ghost!”
Cardona swung about and eyed the butler. Slowly, he began to nod.
“I've heard those rumors,” announced Cardona. “It's the Gray Ghost, all right. But he's no ghost.”
There was a groan from the couch. Pennybrook was rising, rubbing his sore head. The lawyer stared at
Debrossler; then questioned weakly:
“The money?”
“Gone,” replied Debrossler. “The Gray Ghost stole it.”
Then, rousing himself to a pitch of excitement, the banker turned to Cardona.
“Look!” Debrossler pointed to the desk. “There is the drawer he rifled! The Gray Ghost ripped it open,
lock and all! He seized my money! We must overtake him!”
For the first time, Cardona realized that a robbery had been completed. Swinging to Furbison, he
ordered:
“Get over to the next house. Call the local precinct. Tell them to put the patrol cars on the hunt. Describe
the Gray Ghost.”
Furbison scurried away. Cardona put another question to Debrossler:
“How much did the Gray Ghost get?”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” answered the banker. “All in currency.”
Cardona stared. He had supposed that the crook had netted nothing more than spare cash.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Debrossler, grimly, “and only one man knew that I had the
money here. Find him, inspector, and you will have a clue. Perhaps he is even working with the crook.”
“Who is he?”
“A man who lives only a mile from here. He had business with me. He insisted that I bring one hundred
thousand dollars here, to my home.”
“What is his name?”
Cardona showed impatience. Debrossler nodded willingly.
“The man,” declared the banker, “is Hiram Windler. He is—”
Debrossler stopped. Cardona had raised an interrupting hand.
“Tell me,” demanded the acting inspector. “What time was Windler due here?”
“At half past eight,” replied Debrossler. “That is why I came up here to the study. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” returned Cardona, “I was on my way to Windler's when your butler stopped me. It was on
account of Windler that I came to Long Island.”
“Windler summoned you?”
“No. Unfortunately, he was unable to do so.”
Debrossler stared, puzzled; so did Pennybrook, half slumped upon the couch.
“Windler could not summon you?” queried Debrossler. “What do you mean by that, inspector?”
“I mean,” replied Cardona, solemnly, “that Hiram Windler is dead.”
Then, as the listeners stared in total silence, the acting inspector added:
“He was murdered at eight o'clock to-night.”
CHAPTER III. THE LAW'S TRAIL
IT was ten o'clock when a coupe pulled up in front of a squatly house near Long Island Sound. A tall
driver alighted; he was immediately challenged by a uniformed policeman, who put the query:
“What do you want here, sir?”
“My name is Lamont Cranston,” spoke the arrival, in a leisurely tone. “I have come to see Police
Commissioner Weston. I am a friend of the commissioner's; I observed his car in the driveway.”
The policeman hesitated; then decided to admit the visitor. Cranston was attired in evening clothes. He
looked like a friend of the fashionable commissioner.
Inside the house, the tall arrival ran into Acting Inspector Cardona. The stocky man gave immediate
greeting. Lamont Cranston was known to Joe Cardona.
Dim hall light showed a slight smile upon the hawklike features of the arrival. Cranston followed Cardona
to a parlor, where he was greeted by a man of military appearance: Commissioner Ralph Weston. The
commissioner tugged at the tips of his pointed mustache.
“How did you happen to come here, Cranston?”
“I was driving out on Long Island,” replied the visitor, quietly. “Coming into the city, I took this route
through Holmwood. I saw your car; I chanced to remember that Holmwood is within the New York City
limits.”
“So you scented crime. You were right, Cranston. There was murder here to-night. The owner of this
house was slain. His name was Hiram Windler.”
“And the murderer?”
“Appears to have been a rogue who styles himself the Gray Ghost. Be seated, Cranston, and you can
listen to the summary which we are just beginning.”
To Commissioner Weston, Lamont Cranston was simply a friend who had shown some interest in the
solution of criminal cases. Actually, this personage who posed as Cranston was The Shadow. He was a
master sleuth who moved by night, bringing disaster to men of crime.
TALK of the Gray Ghost had brought The Shadow to Long Island. But he had traveled farther than
Holmwood, in his quest for signs of the phantom crook. Passing through Holmwood on his return
journey, The Shadow had stopped in a store. He had heard discussion of Windler's murder, for the news
had already spread.
These were matters that The Shadow did not mention to his friend the commissioner.
Weston had motioned to Cardona. The acting inspector brought two persons into the room. Both
appeared to be servants. One was a Chinese cook; the other a Swedish housemaid. The Shadow
recognized that they had already been quizzed.
“Hiram Windler had no family,” summarized Weston. “These are the only other occupants of the house:
Lee Wan, the cook; Lempe, the maid. However, until a week ago, Windler had a secretary, a young
man named Culden.
“Windler owned property. It was Culden's task to classify those holdings and to arrange matters
pertaining to their sale. Culden finished the work six days ago. To-night, for some unknown reason, he
returned.”
“I bane see heem,” announced Lempe, nodding. “Ya, I bane see Mr. Culden in room right here. I tank
he come for dinner.”
“That was at six-thirty,” stated Weston. “Lempe was the only one of the two servants who saw Culden.”
“Me cookee flied lice,” chimed in Lee Wan. “Busy in kitchee. No see Mr. Culden halfee past six.”
Weston silenced the cook with an impatient gesture. Continuing, the commissioner stated:
“Windler remained downstairs after dinner. At eight o'clock, he went upstairs to his bedroom, since he
always rested at that hour. Lee Wan had opened the door of the back stairs. He heard a shot;
accompanied by Lempe, he found Windler dead.
“The local precinct was notified by these servants. The investigation showed an opened window; the
murderer had evidently jumped to the ground. The earth in a flower bed is scuffed; but bears no trace of
footprints.
“Inasmuch as Windler often retired at eight o'clock, the investigation was confined to these grounds,
despite the fact that Windler's hat and overcoat were in the bedroom. It was not until later that we
learned of Windler's intention to go out this evening. He had an appointment with Martin Debrossler, a
banker who lives about a mile from here. Cardona can tell us what occurred at Debrossler's.”
Cardona nodded. He added a brief statement to Weston's.
“I was coming past Debrossler's at twenty minutes of nine,” declared Joe. “A butler stopped my car. He
was Furbison, who works for Debrossler. Trouble in the house; I entered and found Debrossler and his
lawyer, Pennybrook.
“Both were in the second floor study. They'd been bowled over by a robber who answered the
description of the Gray Ghost. The fellow had gone out the window with a hundred thousand dollars
intended for Windler.
“No footprints there. We've searched all the roads between this house and Debrossler's. Patrol cars have
covered highways, stopping cars leaving this area. The crook was too fast for us. He made a get-away.”
THERE was a pause following Cardona's statement. Then Weston continued the summary.
“Police boats have also patrolled the Sound,” declared the commissioner. “We have given them a fair
description of Culden; but the details are meager. Lempe and Lee Wan class him as of medium height,
slender build, dark complexion and with brown eyes and dark hair. That, however, could fit any number
of persons.
“Since Lempe did not see Culden leave the house, there is a chance that he remained here. We suspect
him of being the murderer; also of having played the part of the Gray Ghost. Having lived on Long Island
for several months, Culden could be the man responsible for previous robberies.
“There was time for him to murder Windler; then go to Debrossler's on foot; therefore, he may have had
no car. To leave Holmwood, without an automobile or a boat, Culden would have had to take the train.
Cardona, give me the report of your visit to the railroad station.”
Cardona produced a wadded paper and a local time-table.
“A train went in to the city at seven twenty-six,” stated Joe. “The next was at eight twenty-six. Culden
couldn't have taken either of them. He was here at eight o'clock and at Debrossler's at eight-thirty.”
“Precisely,” approved Weston. “Proceed, Cardona.”
“There was a train at nine twenty-six,” continued Cardona, “but Culden wasn't on it. The station agent
was out on the platform; only three people went aboard and he knew all of them. There's another train at
ten twenty-six; a last one at eleven twenty-six. I've posted men to watch both of them.”
“Culden will not be on either train,” predicted Weston. “He would have been a fool to leave here by
railroad. We can count upon it that he will not appear at the station to-night. Nevertheless, we shall leave
the men on duty.
“Come. Let us go to Debrossler's. You may accompany us, Cranston.”
DRIVING his own car, The Shadow followed the commissioner to Debrossler's. The course led away
from the direction of the railroad station, in a rather roundabout circuit. Both houses were one street back
from the Sound; but there was no road that followed the shore line.
This meant that the cars were forced to go a few blocks inland, to a wide, tree-lined avenue. Halfway to
Debrossler's, a single street went out to the Sound; passing that thoroughfare, The Shadow saw lights in
the distance. From previous knowledge of this district, he knew that the street led to the Holmwood
Beach Club, which had a private club house near its pier on Long Island Sound.
At Debrossler's, another street made a dead end when it neared the Sound. Debrossler's house was
lighted; The Shadow pulled in alongside Weston's car. There was a question that needed explanation;
namely, why Cardona had happened to be coming past Debrossler's house.
The question was answered shortly after The Shadow had been introduced—as Cranston—to
Debrossler and Pennybrook. Cardona mentioned that he had taken the wrong road to Holmwood. He
had come into town from a road that passed beyond Holmwood.
Debrossler and Pennybrook were seated in the enclosed porch. The banker was grumbly; the lawyer,
moody. Both attitudes were explainable: Debrossler's by his loss of a hundred thousand dollars;
Pennybrook's by the blow that he had taken on the head. Debrossler heard Weston's theory concerning
Culden and agreed with it.
“Confound it!” expressed Debrossler. “I knew that Windler had a secretary; but I never saw the fellow,
nor did I know his name.”
“Could Windler have told him about this transaction?” queried Weston.
“Certainly,” assured Debrossler. “I talked with Windler more than a week ago. That was when we made
this appointment.”
摘要：

THEGRAYGHOSTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THERAIDERINGRAY?CHAPTERII.CRIMECOMPLETE?CHAPTERIII.THELAW'STRAIL?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOW'STRAIL?CHAPTERV.MISTAKENIDENTITY?CHAPTERVI.HARRYREPORTS?CHAPTERVII.ABROKENTRAIL?CHAPTERVIII.NEWSTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERIX.T...

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