Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 084 - The Creeper

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THE CREEPER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME'S GOAL
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW OBSERVES
? CHAPTER III. LOST LEGACIES
? CHAPTER IV. THE SEARCH BEGINS
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER VI. DEATH INTERRUPTS
? CHAPTER VII. THE CREEPER MOVES
? CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW MOVES
? CHAPTER IX. AIDS OF EVIL
? CHAPTER X. FOES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XI. THE NEXT LINK
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S VISIT
? CHAPTER XIII. A CASH DEAL
? CHAPTER XIV. THE CREEPER'S THRUST
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW'S RESCUE
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW KNOWS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE CREEPER'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER XVIII. DOLLARS AND DEATH
? CHAPTER XIX. THE CREEPER'S GOAL
? CHAPTER XX. AFTER MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XXI. SPOILS OF THE CREEPER
? CHAPTER XXII. AN OLD FRIEND
CHAPTER I. CRIME'S GOAL
DUSK had dulled Manhattan. Shaded skyscrapers stood bleak against the darkening sky. Where lights
appeared in windows, they were scarcely noticeable, for daylight had not fully faded. Most windows,
though, were dark; it was after five o'clock and many offices had closed for the day.
Street lamps shone from the ground below the buildings; blinking electric signs were flashing early
messages to homeward-wending workers. Darkness, however, had not yet gained full reign; man-made
lights lacked the setting that they required as background for their nightly brilliance.
It was that hour of transition that comes daily to New York—when sunlight no longer shimmers on
reflecting spires; yet the sky is still too clear to reflect the feeble, budding glow of the metropolis. Soon
observers from high towers would watch the growing sparkle of increasing light; for the present,
Manhattan lay beneath a pall.
Near the window of a fortieth-story office, a typist was busy at her desk. The machine was clicking
steadily; the girl had no interest in watching the outdoor scene. Finishing a long day's work, she was
looking forward to a speedy subway ride at the end of the traffic rush.
The office lights were on; the typist was attentive to her work. So engrossed was she that the opening of
the door from the corridor did not disturb her. It was not until a man's voice spoke that the girl realized
that some one had entered. She swung about with a startled gasp; then smiled sheepishly as she
recognized her employer.
"Working late, Miss Chapwell?" came the pleasant query.
"Yes, Mr. Parrin," replied the typist. "The other girls left at five; I told them that I would remain until you
came in."
"In case of important messages?"
"Yes, sir. There are also some letters for you to sign."
The girl finished the last few lines of the sheet that she was typing and placed it with others in a basket on
the desk. Parrin glanced rapidly over the letters, signing each in turn. The girl sealed them in stamped
envelopes, ready for the mail.
"A telephone call at five-twenty," stated Miss Chapwell. "The speaker refused to give his name. Simply
hung up when he learned that you were not here, Mr. Parrin."
"Was it a long-distance call?"
"I don't think so. More like a local call."
Parrin shrugged his shoulders, as though the matter were one of little consequence. The typist had
gathered up hat and coat; she was starting for the door with the letters. Suddenly she stopped.
"I almost forgot about Mr. Carning," she stated. "He is here, sir. He came in at half-past five. I told him to
wait in your office."
"Very well. Good night, Miss Chapwell."
The girl went out through the door to the hall. The glass panel showed its lettered statement; then, as the
door closed behind the departing typist, those words appeared in dull reverse. They were still legible to
Parrin, however. He chuckled as he noted them:
INTERSTATE SALES CORPORATION
Rickard Parrin
Manager
SWINGING about, Parrin crossed the outer office and entered a door marked "Private." The office
within was lighted; a man seated by the window waved a hand in silent greeting. It was Carning, the
arrival whom the typist had mentioned.
Parrin seemed to take the visitor's presence as something he had expected, for he seated himself at the
desk and lighted a cigar while he surveyed Carning without comment.
Rickard Parrin looked the part of a sales executive. He was deliberate in manner, yet possessed of
forceful expression. His build was bulky; his face long-jawed and firm-set. Hook-nosed, with an
outthrust lower lip, Parrin looked like a challenger. He formed a contrast to his visitor.
For Carning was a dry, dull-faced fellow whose whole manner denoted laziness. The cigarette that he
was smoking hung loose from his pasty lips. His expression was one of weariness, accentuated by
half-closed eyelids. But Carning was not so indolent as he appeared. From between his slitted eyelids, he
peered shrewdly; this fact indicated that his indolence was purely a pose.
"I didn't expect you, Carning," stated Parrin, abruptly. "Still, it's all right, since you're here. Nothing
suspicious about members of my sales force blowing in after five o'clock."
"You told me you wanted to talk to me, Rick," returned Carning. "When I didn't hear from you over at
the room, I thought maybe you'd forgotten me. That's why I came over here."
"I don't forget anything, Carning. I was detained at an advertising office. I have to deal with those fellows
to keep up a front; and they're tough to get away from. But I should have been back here at five. A call
came in."
"Not since I've been here, Rick."
"It was before you came in; and I ought to have been on hand to answer it."
"It was from -"
"From The Creeper." Rick spoke in a low tone, following Carning's pause. "That's his way—he always
hangs up if I'm not on hand to answer."
"He'll call again, won't he?"
"Sure. That is, maybe. On the other hand, he may come here."
Carning's eyes opened wide. Rick grinned as he saw the fellow shift uneasily. With a shake of his head,
the hook-nosed man gestured with one hand. His motion indicated that Carning was to remain where he
sat.
"Don't worry," assured Rick. "The Creeper won't mind you being here. He knows you're on the pay
roll."
"But if he wants to talk to you -"
"He won't. He'll leave a message. I have a hunch that telephone call was just to tell me that I'd better stay
around. He probably has a lot to say to-day. Something big is coming, Carning."
THE man by the window nodded. Rick Parrin noticed the pasty face against the darkened pane.
Outside, dusk had deepened. Sparkles of light were plainly evident from distant buildings. The very
atmosphere had become foreboding.
"I picked an office here in the Dolban Building," remarked Rick, "just because they don't bother you with
red tape until after nine o'clock. That gives The Creeper a chance to come in and out when I'm here late.
Some things can't be told over the telephone, Carning.
"Particularly what's coming to-night. I think we're about due for the pay-off. Not all at once; there'll be a
build-up to it, like there always is. But this is the date that The Creeper's been waiting for. He slipped me
that news not so long ago."
"He lets you in on a lot, Rick?"
"No. That's the funny part about it, Carning. Figure it for yourself and you'll see that I'm only one card in
his hand. What have I got? A front, to make me look like a big sales executive. Half a dozen
salesmen—like you—on the road, working for me. Sure, we get wind of soft pickings; and we do some
heavy work, too, when The Creeper needs us. But we're just one of his bets, Carning. That's all."
"It sounds likely, Rick. I guess there's no racket The Creeper will pass up. Not if there's dough in it."
"Big dough! Con games, blackmail, robbery—they're all the same to The Creeper. Say—remember that
time Gus was out at the millionaire's home in Cleveland? Gus was just a visiting advertising delegate, who
heard a few things said there, along with others. He slipped the word to me; it was meat for The
Creeper. Blackmail that trip."
"And burglary down in Miami, Rick. The time that Tyler sold the carload of metalware. He spotted the
layout of the jewelry department in the store, didn't he?"
"Yeah. But none of us had anything to do with the job that came afterward. The Creeper put somebody
else on it. That's his way, Carning. But it's not wise to talk too much about -"
RICK broke off. His face became tense as he held up his hand for silence. Carning strained forward in
his chair. The lull of outside blackness seemed a gripping force about this room.
Carning was looking beyond Parrin, toward a door that opened into a side corridor. Rick swung in his
swivel chair, to stare at the same spot.
Both had heard a strange sound. The noise was coming from the hall. It signified the approach of some
one; yet neither listener could have made a guess as to the appearance of the person whose footfalls they
so dimly heard. The sound was a creeping; slow, yet unhesitating. It was like an audible mask, a mode of
progress that made its author unrecognizable.
Moreover, the exact location of the sound was a mystery. It might have been coming from far down the
corridor; it might almost have been outside the door. Though it continued, indicating steady motion, its
intensity remained the same. It was not until the scuffled sound suddenly ceased that Rick and Carning
realized that The Creeper had reached his goal.
Instinctively, the two rogues knew that their expected visitor was directly outside the glass-paneled door
that led from this office into the side corridor. They waited tensely, listening for some new token. Then a
white hand appeared against the darkness of the panel.
Carning repressed a gasp as he saw a tight fist, doubled like a claw. A hand that held the fate of
henchmen in the balance, it remained there through long moments. Then fingers moved; like a thing
detached, the claw crept up the panel; its clicking nails reproduced in miniature that same creeping sound
that had been heard before.
Rick Parrin leaned back. He placed his own fist upon the glass top of his mahogany desk. As the hand
on the door stopped its motion, Rick performed a crawling action with his own fingers. His scratching
was an answer to "The Creeper's" signal. The white fist moved from view beyond the glass panel.
The flap of a brass letter chute clicked inward. An envelope swished through the air and slid along the
floor, to wind up with a lazy flutter at Rick Parrin's feet.
The hook-nosed man did not pick it up at once; instead, he sat listening, and Carning copied his example.
From outside the door they heard new sounds of disguised footsteps. The Creeper was departing.
Oddly, the sound again retained its same intensity. When close, The Creeper moved more softly; when
far away, he made his motion create a louder noise. The illusion was perfect; Rick and Carning could not
even guess which direction The Creeper had taken. Suddenly the baffling sound faded.
Had The Creeper gone? Or had he faked a departure, to remain outside the door of this private office?
Two minds asked the same question as Rick turned about and met Carning's puzzled stare. The insidious
influence of The Creeper seemed strangely present. Neither man dared speak.
Mechanically, Rick picked up the envelope. He opened it and withdrew a typewritten message. He
scanned the lines; then tore the paper into shreds. He burned the pieces in an ash tray; then picked up an
evening newspaper that was lying on the desk.
Carning watched him turn to a page. Rick read; then spoke in a harsh whisper.
"THE job is for you, Carning," he informed. "To-night, at eight o'clock. Call at the home of Tobias
Clavelock, the lawyer." Rick paused to write an address. "Tell him you've come in place of Richard
Batesly."
"Who is Richard Batesly?" inquired Carning.
"A court stenographer," replied Rick. "Fellow who does work for old Clavelock. Batesly likes the races;
he went there to-day and won't be back. You're to tell Clavelock that he was taken ill and that you came
in his place."
"What about afterward? When Batesly sees Clavelock?"
"Don't worry. Batesly will have the same excuse for himself. Clavelock would fire him if he knew the
fellow played the ponies. I guess Batesly picked some winners to-day; and he's met some friends who
have detained him. Celebrating—that's something else Clavelock wouldn't like."
Rick chuckled. His tone was significant. Carning recognized that other agents of The Creeper must have
been at work—men whom even Rick did not know. Their job had been to see that Batesly forgot his
appointment to work for Clavelock this evening. Then Carning ceased speculation as Rick handed the
newspaper to him.
"Read that, Carning."
"Say!" The pasty-faced man's eyes popped. "Clavelock's the lawyer for the Doyd heirs! The bunch that's
supposed to be coming into millions when the estate is settled!"
"That's right," nodded Rick. "The get-together is to-night; that's when the lucky relations learn the news
about the dough. Clavelock will have a lot to say. Some one will have to take it down in shorthand."
"Meaning me, Rick?"
"Meaning you, Carning."
Rick chuckled as he rose. He led Carning to the door into the side hall. He opened the barrier almost
gingerly and peered out. No one was there.
Rick turned off the light switch; the room darkened, save for a mellow glow at the window. Night had
gained its grip; Manhattan's lights were at last a sparkling galaxy.
"Scram, Carning," whispered Rick. "I'll follow later. Remember: bring your notes along with you. You're
good enough at shorthand to pinch hit for this fellow Batesly. Don't slip on a detail."
Carning nodded and departed. Rick Parrin returned and sat in the darkened office, to wait five minutes
before making his own departure. The window chair was the post that Rick had taken. Surveying the
brilliance of the city, the fake sales executive chuckled.
Millions of lights—millions of dollars. Such was the connection of Rick Parrin's thoughts. For he knew
the game that lay at stake. Lucky heirs were to share a vast fortune, as legatees of Bigelow Doyd, the
soap king, recently deceased.
They would be lucky if they held the wealth that would be their gain. For some one else was planning to
gain his share of the spoils. The goal would be a big one, for it was sought by a man of supercrime: the
evil chief whom Rick Parrin knew only as The Creeper.
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW OBSERVES
EVENING had deepened. It was eight o'clock, the time when Carning, as Rick Parrin's tool, was due at
the home of Tobias Clavelock. In obedience to The Creeper's order, Carning would soon be engaged in
his temporary task as secretary to the old lawyer who represented the estate of Bigelow Doyd.
Traffic-thronged streets were blaring with the sounds of raucous horns. The approach of the theater hour
had brought jammed confusion to Manhattan. There were spots, however, that the noise of tumult did not
reach. One such place was the reading room of the exclusive Cobalt Club.
Within that room, sour-faced old gentlemen were reading copies of Punch and the London Graphic, amid
silence that was tomblike. Noise was forbidden in the reading room of the Cobalt Club. None defied that
order; not even the one individual who seemed out of place with such elderly companions. He was a
hawk-nosed personage, whose age—though difficult to guess—must have been many years less than that
of the fossil-faced habitues about him.
This member of the Cobalt Club was known as Lamont Cranston; he was a millionaire globe-trotter who
frequented the Cobalt Club whenever he was in New York.
To-night, Cranston was seated beneath the glare of a reading lamp. The rays of the light showed his
countenance to be chiseled and inflexible of expression—almost masklike. A curious study, that firmly
molded visage, had any chosen to observe it. But the members of the Cobalt Club were too concerned
with their own reading to pay attention to the presence of others.
Keen eyes peered from the visage of Lamont Cranston. They were centered upon a newspaper, held
between long-fingered hands. Those eyes were reading a brief news report; a statement that a meeting
would be held this very evening, at the home of Bigelow Doyd, deceased. The heirs of the Doyd estate
were to learn of the various legacies which the dead millionaire had left.
An attendant entered the reading room. He approached the seated figure of Lamont Cranston; that
worthy laid aside his newspaper. The attendant spoke in a whisper: Mr. Cranston was wanted on the
telephone.
With a nod, the hawk-faced personage arose and strolled from the reading room. He arrived at a
telephone booth where a receiver was off the book. Entering, he closed the door of the booth and spoke
a calm hello. A quiet voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report."
The tone was no longer Cranston's. It was a strange, eerie whisper that carried a strong command. It
was the voice of The Shadow, master of mystery, who used the disguise of Lamont Cranston as a cover
for his true identity. Foe of crime, The Shadow was gaining word from his contact agent, Burbank.
"Report from Burke," came Burbank's methodical statement. "He is leaving for the Doyd mansion.
Clavelock finally agreed to make an exception in Burke's case. His story to be subject to Clavelock's
approval."
"Report received."
REVERTING to the languid manner of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow hung up and strolled from the
telephone booth. He did not return to the reading room; instead, he stopped at the cloakroom, where he
donned a hat and tossed a coat over his arm.
After that, he strolled from the club and nodded to the doorman who stood beneath the outside canopy.
The doorman signaled. A big limousine wheeled from across the street. The Shadow stepped aboard and
spoke an order through the speaking tube. The car rolled away with its passenger; the chauffeur headed
cross-town to a broad avenue, then drove northward.
While the limousine was traveling, The Shadow opened a suitcase that lay on the back seat. Discarding
his hat and overcoat, he donned black garments from the bag. His tall figure faded into obscurity, just as
the limousine turned right into a one-way street and came to a stop in a chance parking space by the
curb.
The rear door opened. From it emerged a blackened form. Silently, the door closed. Unseen by the
chauffeur, The Shadow reached the sidewalk and traced a path back toward the avenue.
A street lamp glimmered momentarily upon his passing figure; it showed a shrouded shape, cloaked in
black. Face and eyes were hidden beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat. Then the fleeting image had
passed. Again obscured by darkness, The Shadow reached the avenue.
Buildings on the near side were dark. Silently, The Shadow discovered a gloomy doorway. His shape
edged into blackness. His keen eyes gazed streetward. Across the avenue, The Shadow saw the front of
a huge mansion. A relic of the nineteenth century, that building was the pretentious home that had once
been the residence of Bigelow Doyd.
The Doyd mansion was already occupied. Lights from the interior proved that fact. As The Shadow
watched, new arrivals appeared. First came an old-fashioned automobile, a landaulet. An old lady
stepped from the car; the chauffeur helped her up the steps. She was admitted to the house; the chauffeur
returned to the car and parked further down the street.
A coupe arrived a few minutes later. From it stepped a young man, who wore a tuxedo and carried a
coat over one arm, walking stick in the other hand. He nodded to the driver; the coupe rolled away. The
young man entered the house.
Almost immediately, a taxicab pulled into the emptied space. Two men alighted. One was an old fellow,
stooped and dry-faced. A light above the front steps revealed him as plainly as it had the others. The
Shadow knew that this must be Tobias Clavelock, the lawyer. Clavelock's companion was evidently the
lawyer's secretary, for he was carrying a large briefcase under his arm. The Shadow did not glimpse this
man's face, for the fellow merely followed the lawyer up the steps.
Three minutes passed after this pair had been admitted. Then another taxicab arrived; a young man
jumped out and hurriedly paid the driver.
The Shadow caught sight of a keen, wise face above a wiry body. He watched the new arrival ascend
the steps of the house. Like the others, the wiry man was admitted by a liveried servant. The Shadow
waited; minutes passed. The young man did not reappear.
SOFTLY, The Shadow whispered a laugh. That last arrival was Clyde Burke, reporter of the New York
Classic.
Secretly, Clyde was an agent of The Shadow. Keenly interested in the affairs of the Doyd estate, The
Shadow had himself planned to witness to-night's meeting if other alternatives failed. Clyde Burke,
however, had managed to arrange matters with Tobias Clavelock.
Arriving later than Clavelock, Clyde had gained admittance through the lawyer's intercession. The taboo
against reporters had been lifted in his case. The fact that Clyde had not reappeared was proof that he
was going to stay. As an agent of The Shadow, Clyde would bring back a report of all that happened
within the portals of that ancient residence.
There was a lull in traffic on the avenue. Ghostlike, The Shadow moved from his hiding spot and glided
across the broad thoroughfare. He edged away from the lighted front of the Doyd house, found a
passage at the side of the building and entered it. He passed beneath the gloom of dully-lighted
windows.
Near the back of the house, The Shadow paused; he noted a side door that led into the old mansion.
Satisfied with his survey, The Shadow retraced his course. He clung to the darkness at the front of the
passage until there was another break in the intermittent traffic of the avenue. Then The Shadow crossed,
picked the darkness of building fronts and made his way back to the limousine.
The chauffeur, dozing at the wheel, did not sense his return until The Shadow used the speaking tube to
give instructions in the quiet tone of Cranston.
"New Jersey, Stanley."
The chauffeur nodded. That was the order to return home, via the Holland Tube, for Lamont Cranston
maintained a pretentious residence in New Jersey.
The car pulled away; Stanley did not even speculate on why his master had ordered this brief stop on a
side street of New York. Stanley had long since ceased to wonder about the eccentricities of his
millionaire master.
A soft laugh crept through the interior of the big limousine as the car rolled southward. That whispered
mirth denoted The Shadow's satisfaction. He knew that certain heirs were already present; two had
arrived while he was watching. Then Clavelock, with his secretary; after that, Clyde Burke. With the
reporter there, The Shadow had decided that no preliminary survey of his own would be necessary. He
could rely on Clyde Burke.
For once The Shadow was mistaken. Strange facts were due to break to-night. Clyde was to learn of
surface troubles and bring back his version of them. But already, events were brewing beneath the
surface, events which only The Shadow himself could have discerned.
A dilemma was due to perplex the heirs of Bigelow Doyd. The simple settlement of an estate was
destined to become a troublesome problem. So Clyde Burke would learn; and through him, The Shadow
would gain important facts with which to begin a campaign of adventure. The Shadow had foreseen that
the affairs of the Doyd estate might lead to cross-purposes; he had been wise in his decision to gain
firsthand facts.
But just as Carning, posing as Clavelock's secretary, had managed to slip The Shadow's notice, so
would The Creeper, hidden master of crime, keep his devices under cover, so far as Clyde Burke was
concerned. Already the menace of that supercrook hovered above the affairs of the Doyd heirs.
The Shadow had foreseen complications that were actually due. To The Shadow, those complexities
would offer opportunity for keen solution, a work that intrigued The Shadow always. But those same
complications would give The Creeper opportunity also. The eventual result would be a conflict of two
mighty brains. The Shadow versus The Creeper!
CHAPTER III. LOST LEGACIES
HAD Clyde Burke gained immediate recognition upon his entry to the Doyd mansion, he might have
gleaned some interesting facts prior to the meeting of the heirs. As it was, the liveried servant who
admitted him showed suspicion the moment that he learned Clyde was a reporter.
Clyde mentioned Tobias Clavelock by name; that introduction enabled him to stay. But the servant,
instead of taking Clyde to the family reception room, decided to put the reporter in an obscure parlor.
There Clyde was forced to sit in solitary state until the servant spoke to Tobias Clavelock.
From the parlor, Clyde could see across a hallway. Beyond, at an angle, were closed doors. They
indicated the reception room; and Clyde speculated on what might lie beyond. After a few minutes of
wondering, the reporter decided to wait patiently. He felt sure that Clavelock would keep his promise
and admit him to the meeting. There was nothing to gain by impatience.
Meanwhile, another man was waiting alone. This was the tuxedoed chap whom The Shadow had seen
enter the house. Light-haired, somewhat curious in expression, this visitor was in the reception room,
beyond those very doors that Clyde had observed.
He was strolling about, gazing at various objects: an ancient grandfather's clock had finally intrigued him.
He was facing the corner where the clock stood when a rear door of the room opened suddenly. The
young man swung about to face a dark-haired girl whose black mourning attire gave her a singular
beauty.
"THERESA!" exclaimed the light-haired man. "Theresa Doyd! I never would have known you!"
The girl advanced with outstretched hand; the young man received her clasp. The girl smiled.
"You have not changed much, Mr. Shiloh," she remarked. Then, with a winsome smile: "I suppose, now
that I am grown up, I can call you Donald?"
"That's right," recalled the man, with a pleasant laugh. "I'd forgotten all about that problem of ten years
ago. Let me see: you were about twelve years old, weren't you? And I was twenty-five."
"Which made you Mr. Shiloh," smiled the girl. "Because you were grown up and I was not; and since you
belonged to another branch of the family, I could not call you Cousin Donald."
"I remember it. Your grandmother was a stickler for form, wasn't she?"
"Just like grandfather. Well, Donald, ever since I've grown up, I have wanted to meet you again. More
than any other member of the family."
"More than any other?"
"Of course. But that is no compliment, Donald. Wait until you see the other members of the clan who are
here already."
"Some have arrived, Theresa?"
"Yes. Three. Aunt Mehitabel Doyd—grandfather's sister—arrived just a little while ago. Then there is
Uncle Egbert Doyd, who has been living here a month. He is about sixty years old—my father's brother,
you know."
"You said there were three, Theresa."
"Yes." The girl's face looked troubled. "The other is a second cousin of mine. His name is Mark Lundig.
He arrived two days ago."
"Mark Lundig," mused Shiloh. "I recall him. An odd sort, Mark. About forty-five, isn't he? Lundig was
living in California, the last I knew."
"He says he is from Chicago," remarked Theresa. "But every statement he makes has a note of suspicion
to it. Mark Lundig arrived here two days ago, Donald. He claims to have taken a room at some hotel;
but he has stayed here for two nights."
"What is his business, Theresa?"
"He did not say. But his presence has worried me, Donald. That is one reason why I am glad that you
have arrived. You will stay here, won't you?"
"Hardly, Theresa. I have an apartment of my own, you know, here in New York, although I am in town
but seldom. I have money of my own; I live in Miami most of the winter, and go north in the summer. But
since I have the apartment, and my valet Jeffrey, who drove the car here to-night, I naturally expect to
use my own residence. But tell me more about Lundig. Has the fellow acted oddly?"
The girl looked about before replying, apparently to make sure that no one was eavesdropping. Then, in
a tense whisper, she spoke.
"LAST night," she confided, "I heard footsteps. Strange footsteps, Donald —creeping footsteps—that
seemed remote. I stole about, trying to locate them. It was impossible. First they seemed to be
downstairs; then they were on the second floor -"
"At what hour was this, Theresa?"
"Shortly after midnight. Finally I was sure the footsteps were on the ground floor. I came down here just
as they ceased. Then I saw a light in the library. I entered and found Mark Lundig there."
"Did your arrival surprise him?"
"Yes. Particularly because he was looking through the drawers of the old corner desk. I wondered to
find him here in the house; he had spoken about going back to his hotel."
摘要：

THECREEPERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CRIME'SGOAL?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWOBSERVES?CHAPTERIII.LOSTLEGACIES?CHAPTERIV.THESEARCHBEGINS?CHAPTERV.THESHADOW'STRAIL?CHAPTERVI.DEATHINTERRUPTS?CHAPTERVII.THECREEPERMOVES?CHAPTERVIII.THESHADOWMOVES?CHAPTERIX....

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