Grant, Maxwell - The.House.that.Vanished

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The House That Vanished

THE HOUSE THAT VANISHED

As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” October 15, 1935

The Shadow gets on the trail of a

strange murder in The House That

Vanished.

CHAPTER I

HOUSE OF DOOM

SHEETS OF RAIN were sweep-

ing with blinding downpour as

the small coupe sloshed through the

midnight blackness. The glare of

headlights was drowned amid the

deluge. Two men, the driver and the

passenger beside him, were strain-

ing as they watched the road ahead.

“Ten yards is as far as I can see,”

remarked the driver, in a tense tone.

“But I’m keeping up to twenty miles

an hour. The sooner we’re through

with this, the better. How about it,

Fred?”

“You’re the driver, Jay,” replied

the passenger. “You pick the speed

you want. You’re lucky that you can

see ten yards. I can’t even spot the

road through this side of the wind-

shield.”

“The wiper’s a big help,” stated

Jay. “I’m watching the macadam of

the road. That’s what counts when...”

“Hold it!” broke in Fred. “Look out

ahead!”

Staring into further blackness,

the passenger had seen what the

driver had not. A read lantern was

waving in the darkness, its holder

completely lost amid the storm. Jay

looked up as he heard Fred’s warn-

ing. He jammed on the brakes. The

car skidded halfway across the road

before it came to a stop.

Fred lowered the window as the

red lantern came swinging forward.

He turned on the dome light. As

rain drizzled into the coupe, a man

by Maxwell Grant

The House That Vanished

thrust his head and shoulders

through the window. A rough but

friendly face showed below the drip-

ping brim of an oilskin hat.

“Didn’t want to jolt you off the

road, friend,” announced the man

with the lantern, “but I had to flag

you before you got past. The bridge

is out down the road.”

“Have you reported it?” queried

Jay, from the driver’s wheel.

“That’s what I’m doing now,”

laughed the informant, gruffly. “We

were coming over from

Westbury in a truck when we

saw that the bridge was gone.

Pete, he started back; but I

waded through the creek to get

over on this side. I’m heading

into Sheffield, I am.”

“You should have telephoned

word,” declared Jay.

“Ain’t no houses along this

stretch of road,” retorted the

man in oilskins. “Say - who do

you reckon you are to be telling

me what I ought to have been

doing?”

“My name is Goodling,” re-

plied the man at the wheel of

the coupe. “Jay Goodling. I -”

“That’s different,” growled

the man in oilskins, his rough

tone apologetic. “I hadn’t no

idea who you were. Jay

Goodling, eh? The new county

prosecutor. I kind of reckoned

Jay Goodling was an older man

than you. My name’s Turner, Mr.

Goodling.”

TURNER thrust a beefy, rain-

soaked paw through the window.

Goodling smiled as he received the

fellow’s shake. The dome light

showed Goodling’s features as those

of a man in his early thirties; but his

face, though youthful, bore the firm-

ness that befitted his legal position.

“This is Fred Lanford,” introduced

Goodling, indicating the passenger.

The House That Vanished

Lanford was younger and less chal-

lenging than the prosecutor. “We’re

on our way to Westbury. Our best

plan is to leave you here to stop

other cars while we go ahead and

find some house from which we can

telephone.”

“Suits me, Mr. Goodling,” ac-

knowledged Turner. “Being a night

like this and after midnight, I don’t

reckon there’ll be any more cars

along. But I’ll watch for them. Only

thing is, where are you going to find

the house to call from?”

“What about that old dirt road

that cuts off to the right?” ques-

tioned Goodling. “The one that was

the old route into Westbury?”

“Nobody uses it any longer,” in-

formed Turner. “Leastwise, nobody

except those folks that live on it. It’s

like all those other dirt roads lead-

ing off. There’s a raft of them that

don’t go anywhere.”

“But there are houses on the old

Westbury road. Some of them ought

Mesmerized by the girasol of The Shadow.

The House That Vanished

to have telephones.”

“Like as not, Mr. Goodling. Well,

I’m staying here, like you said to.”

Turner drew away with his lan-

tern. Goodling straightened the car

and started off through the storm

while Lanford raised the window

and turned out the dome light.

“The old Westbury road,” mused

Goodling, as he drove along. “Well,

Fred, we won’t have very much

trouble finding it. That old sign will

tell us when we get there. It still has

its pointer marked Westbury.”

“Maybe we’ll see the sign,” re-

turned Lanford, peering at the

sweeping downpour, “but it’s a cinch

we won’t see the road. Look over

there on the right, Fred. You can’t

even see the edge. We’re liable to

be passing a road right now, with-

out knowing it.”

“Look for the sign,” ordered

Goodling. “It’s painted white and it’s

right at the turn. You’ll see it.”

Lanford lowered the window

while the car rolled along. Despite

the insweep of the rain, he kept

peering at an angle ahead, watch-

ing the extreme right corner of the

restricted glare that the headlights

offered.

THE SHADOW, scourge of the un-

derworld and master of darkness,

at whose triumphant laugh all

crookdom quails in terror of his au-

tomatics, comes into the case to aid

Goodling and the rest.

CLYDE BURKE, reporter for the

Classic, through his newspaper con-

tacts is invaluable to The Shadow.

HARRY VINCENT, probably the

closest aid of The Shadow, who is

The shadow’s contact man and fer-

rets out crime in its beginning.

LAMONT CRANSTON, a real per-

son – a globe-trotter – whose iden-

tity The Shadow takes at times as a

disguise.

T H E C A S T

The House That Vanished

MINUTES passed, Goodling

watched the road while Lanford

kept a lookout. Suddenly the pas-

senger uttered. an exclamation.

Goodling applied the brakes.

Lanford pointed.

“There’s the sign, Jay,” he indi-

cated. “You can even read it.

Westbury. But you’ll have to fish for

the road. I can’t make it out, even

though I know it’s here.”

Goodling backed the car a dozen

feet; then turned the wheel to the

right. As he started forward, the

headlights, swinging to the right,

revealed the beginning of a curved

dirt road. As the coupe rolled from

the macadam, the winding course

of the old highway showed its rocks

and ruts.

In second gear, traveling at fif-

teen miles an hour, Goodling fumed

as he tried to control the coupe.

The road was upgrade; down it

poured a sweeping torrent. At ev-

ery dozen yards, the car went into

a temporary skid.

“Like driving through a creek,”

asserted Goodling, grimly. “Keep

that window open, Fred. Look for

a house - the first one you see.”

“That’s a tough assignment, Jay,”

JAY GOODLING, county prosecu-

tor, who is returning home in the

midst of a storm finds that further

progress is impossible due to the

condition of the roads. Seeking ref-

uge in a near-by house, leads the

prosecutor to discover a gruesome

find, and having discovered it is

knocked unconscious by the inhab-

itants of the strange house. Com-

ing to in his coupe later on, Goodling

with the aid of

FRED LANFORD, firm associate

and friend of Goodling, who also was

with the county prosecutor and had

gone through the same experience,

try to locate the house, only to find

that it had mysteriously disap-

T H E C A S T

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1TheHouseThatVanishedTHEHOUSETHATVANISHEDAsoriginallypublishedinTheShadowMagazine,October15,1935TheShadowgetsonthetrailofastrangemurderinTheHouseThatVanished.CHAPTERIHOUSEOFDOOMSHEETSOFRAINweresweep-ingwithblindingdownpourasthesmallcoupesloshedthroughthemidnightblackness.Theglareofheadlightswasdro...

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