The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

  finally, signed his own.

  Another voice came over the wire. It was a woman's voice, also; but he did not recognize it for a

  moment. Then he suddenly realized that Arlette DeLand was speaking to him!

  "Mr. Vincent?"

  "Yes."

  "I have something important to tell you -"

  "Who is calling?" interrupted Harry abruptly.

  "Do not ask my name. I cannot tell it to you. Listen, please -"

  "Is this Miss DeLand?" questioned Harry.

  "I cannot give you my name," the girl insisted. "You met me once— four nights ago in a place called the

  Pink Rat -"

  "I should like to know your name," interrupted Harry.

  "Please let me give you my message." The girl's voice was hurried, and her tones were pleading. "It is

  very important. Do not leave town to-morrow. Do not go to Lake Marrinack. Promise me that you will

  not go."

  "I can't promise -" Harry began.

  "You must not go," came the insistent voice. "Promise me, Harry."

  The girl's voice seemed choking from emotion. She seemed unable to continue. Then there came a

  sudden interruption. The connection was broken; and the voice of the operator intervened.

  Harry endeavored to have the connection restored; but without success.

  LONG after he had put aside the telephone, Harry Vincent lay awake, wondering. He was positive that

  Arlette DeLand had called him; that she was the girl whom he had seen at the Pink Rat.

  But he could not understand how she had learned that he was at the Baronet Hotel. Nor could he explain

  her connection with these strange events that were developing.

  Who was she? What was her part in the mystery?

  If a friend, why did she try to conceal her identity?

  If an enemy, why had she saved him four nights ago, and warned him to-night?

  It was all beyond Harry Vincent's comprehension. Yet he was now sure of one important fact.

  Lake Marrinack was a place where danger lay in store!

  Mystery, excitement, and adventure. These three factors were intriguing to Harry's mind. The warning

  that had come in the night had assured him that they were ahead.

  Harry phoned the room clerk to call him at six in the morning.

  He was anxious to start for Lake Marrinack.

  CHAPTER XV. DEATH ISLAND

  IT was late in the afternoon when Harry Vincent approached the vicinity of Lake Marrinack. Certain

  events had caused him to delay.

  In the lobby of the Baronet Hotel, he had been sure that some one was watching him, even though he

  could not discover the invisible observer.

  On that account he had taken a taxicab to the Grand Central Station; and on the way, he had noticed that

  another cab was following.

  Losing himself in the labyrinth of passages leading to the subway, Harry eventually had taken the shuttle

  to the West Side subway, and had thus reached the Pennsylvania Station, where he had boarded a train

  for Long Island.

  All this had meant delay; he had missed the Bridgeport Ferry, and had been forced to wait idly in his car.

  Detours in Connecticut had further retarded his trip. But now the road map showed Lake Marrinack was

  near by.

  Harry pulled the car to the side of the road, and took another glance at the map. He had studied it on the

  ferry; but he had forgotten certain details.

  There was a town called Marrinack, a short distance from the lake. The road continued past the town,

  and skirted the shore of the lake. Harry decided that the town was the proper place to make inquiries.

  His instructions were simply to report to Professor Arthur Whitburn. Harry had made no phone call to

  Claude Fellows, to-day; yet he felt that he already had certain information.

  The message from the mysterious woman was a sure indication that he was going to meet the right

  Whitburn.

  This expedition promised danger. Harry pondered over the circumstances as he drove easily along the

  narrow, winding highway.

  He remembered the last journey of this sort that he had made in behalf of The Shadow. That had been an

  eventful trip.

  It was then that he had met Vic Marquette, the secret-service agent. He and Marquette had been

  captured by counterfeiters, and rescued by The Shadow. Harry wondered what had become of Vic

  Marquette, for the secret-service agent was a man of mystery himself. Even his associates could not keep

  track of him. Marquette was a man who played a lone hand. Harry had met him on that one occasion

  only; since then he had never heard of Vic Marquette.

  The houses of the town of Marrinack appeared in the distance as Harry reached the top of a small hill.

  Unconsciously, Harry increased the speed of the car.

  He was nearing his destination. He suddenly felt the urge of adventure.

  THE town proved to be a tiny hamlet. Harry stopped before the general store, and alighted from his car.

  He entered, and spoke to the proprietor, a middle-aged man, who replied with a broad New England

  accent.

  "I am looking for the home of Professor Whitburn," explained Harry. "I understand that he lives on an

  island in the lake near here. Is that correct?"

  The storekeeper nodded.

  "Yeah," he answered. "You mean the old professor. He lives on Death Island."

  "Death Island?" Harry's question showed surprise.

  "That's the name of the place," said the storekeeper tersely. "You can't drive out to the island, though.

  The professor has a telephone. Call him up, if you want. He has a motor boat on the island."

  Harry went to the telephone. It was an obsolete contrivance, with a handle on the side, to ring for the

  operator. It took him several minutes to obtain the connection with Professor Whitburn's house.

  A gruff voice answered.

  "I'd like to speak to Professor Whitburn," said Harry.

  "Professor is busy," came the reply. "Who is calling him?"

  "My name is Harry Vincent -"

  "Oh, you're the man he's expecting. Where are you now?"

  "Down in the village."

  "Come up to Harvey's Wharf. They'll tell you where it is. The motor boat will be there to meet you -"

  "What shall I do with my car?" questioned Harry.

  "You'll have to leave it in the village garage," was the reply. "Get a man to drive up with you. Let him take

  the car back. There's no place to keep it up here."

  Concluding the conversation, Harry turned to question the storekeeper. He noted that the proprietor was

  talking with two old men, both of whom appeared to be natives of the district. Their conversation ceased

  when Harry approached.

  "Where's the village garage?" asked Harry.

  "Across the street," said the proprietor.

  "Guess I'll have to leave my car there," Harry remarked. "I'm going out to visit Professor Whitburn."

  One of the old men removed his clay pipe from his mouth, and advanced a question.

  "You know the old professor, eh?" he asked. "Been out there before?"

  "If I had been out there before," smiled Harry, "I wouldn't be asking the way to the place."

  The old man laughed; but he shot a significant glance at the storekeeper, who made a quick motion

  indicating silence. Harry detected this, and was too curious to let the matter pass.

  "What's the island like?" he questioned.

  The proprietor did not reply; but the old man took advantage of the opening wedge in the conversation.

  "They call it 'Death Island,'" he replied.

  "Why?"
<
br />   "I don't just know. It's always been called Death Island. But lately it's been kinda livin' up to the name

  they give it."

  "How's that?"

  "They say two men have died there in the past six months. Ain't nobody seems absolutely sure about it;

  the coroner knows, I s'pose. He's been out to see the professor. But it's been kept kinda hushed."

  "So Professor Whitburn does not live alone?"

  "No, sir. He's got three or four men out there with him. Don't know none of 'em. All strangers round

  here. That's what we can't just figger.

  "S'pose he needs work done. Why don't he hire some of the folks here in town? 'Stead of that, he brings

  in strangers.

  "Well, they're welcome. There ain't none of the boys round here wants to work for Whitburn, now,

  though lots of 'em would ha' taken a job when first he come here."

  The old man ended his excited sentences by replacing his clay pipe in his mouth. He puffed furiously; then

  gazed questioningly past Harry and blinked his eyes.

  Harry sensed that the storekeeper was signaling to the old fellow, prompting him to be quiet. Evidently

  the conjecture was correct; for the native became suddenly thoughtful.

  "How long has Professor Whitburn lived on Death Island?" asked Harry.

  The old man shook his head.

  "I can't just recollect," he said.

  "Did he come here alone?"

  "Don't believe I recollect that, either."

  HARRY left the store, and went across the road to the garage. The building was a converted stable. It

  had space for several cars. Harry arranged to leave his coupe there.

  The garage owner was away; but the man on duty, who did mechanical work and attended to the small

  filling station, volunteered to drive him to Harvey's Wharf.

  The fellow expressed mild surprise, when Harry stated where he was going. Then he climbed into the

  coupe, and Harry drove along the road.

  "You goin' over to see Professor Whitburn?" asked the man.

  "Yes," replied Harry.

  "Ain't many goes over to see him."

  "Why not?"

  "The old man don't seem to like visitors."

  "They call his place Death Island. Why?"

  "It's always been called that," said the man. "Folks say that there was an Indian massacre there—back

  before the Revolution. Lot of white people killed. The place has been kinda jinxed ever since."

  Harry looked at the man, encouraging him to say more.

  "There's only one house on the island," the garage man stated. "Built more than a hundred years ago.

  They say highwaymen used to hide their stuff there. When I was a kid, we used to go over and dig

  around. We never found nothing, though.

  "Then some fellow from the city bought the place—fifteen years ago, I reckon. Lived there in the

  summer. Only a couple of years, though. He was murdered there.

  "After that, nobody went around the place, until this here professor took it, last year. Queer old duck, he

  is. Well, he's welcome to the place. I wouldn't take it if it was given to me."

  "Why not?" questioned Harry.

  "Well, for one thing," the man replied, "folks say it's haunted. I ain't no believer in ghosts—but if ghosts

  would hang out anywhere, it would be on Death Island.

  "Some folks say it was ghosts killed the fellow who come there fifteen years ago. An' lately—well, I've

  heard things said by people who ain't superstitious."

  "What, for instance?"

  "Strange kinds o' noises out over the lake. Little blinkin' lights, up over the island.

  "One fellow—I ain't sayin' who—tells me he was out in a rowboat, one cloudy night. Somethin' come

  right up outa the water, an' hissed over his head. Then it plopped in again."

  "It might have been a large fish."

  "No fish woulda acted the way he says. He was scared right, I tell you. He... Whoa, boy! Turn left here

  for the wharf."

  Harry applied the brakes, and turned the car into a dirt road, that led through a thick woods. The sun had

  nearly set, and it was dark beneath the trees. Harry turned on the bright headlights.

  His companion was silent. The car moved almost noiselessly, as Harry steered it slowly along the narrow,

  winding road. Following his companion's talk of ghosts and eerie happenings, the woods seemed filled

  with spectral stillness.

  Suddenly they turned into a clearing. The road ended on the shore of a lake, where the waters sparkled

  beneath the rays of the setting sun.

  In front of them was a small wharf; beyond—a mile out in the lake - towered a tree-clad island. A thin

  wisp of smoke curled upward from the trees, indicating the presence of a house.

  "See them rocks?"

  Harry's companion pointed to the headland of the island, which was a solid mass of stone, rising to a

  height of thirty feet. Blackened flaws in the rocky front gave it a peculiar appearance.

  "Looks like a big skull, don't it? Some folks say that's why it's called Death Island."

  HARRY noted the resemblance. In the mysterious, dulling light which now hung over the lake, the rocky

  headland looked amazingly like a monstrous death's head, its sightless eyes directed toward the wharf.

  Harry felt a creepy feeling come over him.

  The features of the huge skull seemed more pronounced in the settling gloom. They were intensified as

  Harry watched.

  Neither he nor his companion spoke. Death Island seemed to hold a fascinating spell that cast its

  influence over them.

  The chugging of a motor brought Harry from his reverie. A boat had appeared in front of the island. It

  was speeding across the water toward the wharf.

  "Comin' for you," observed his companion.

  Harry repressed a shudder. The man's words, spoken suddenly in the semidarkness, seemed to carry a

  hidden significance.

  The boat grew larger; then it neared the wharf. Harry clambered from the coupe, and took out his

  traveling bag.

  The garage man backed the car, and turned toward the road. In a few seconds he was gone.

  The boat docked at the wharf. Harry approached and eyed its single occupant.

  The man grunted in greeting. His appearance was well-suited to the environment. He was stockily built,

  and roughly dressed. His face was covered with a heavy beard, of pronounced blackness.

  Harry entered the boat; the man turned it from the wharf, and they chugged across the lake.

  Death Island loomed more formidably than before. The skull-like features of the rock seemed to increase

  in size, until they were almost beneath the overhanging bluff.

  The man turned off the motor. The boat coasted along, and passed the rocky headland. As they glided

  through the still water, Harry could not detect a single sound.

  A small dock shone white as they came into the darkness of overhanging trees. The boat came to a stop;

  Harry stepped on the dock, and the man tossed his bag after him.

  While he waited for his strange companion to tie up the boat and conduct him to the house, Harry

  Vincent tried to study his surroundings.

  But, this was now impossible. Daylight had faded; all that was visible before Harry's eyes was the

  beginning of a path that led up a steep hill.

  Strange, gloomy, and forbidding, Death Island was as silent as death itself.

  CHAPTER XVI. PROFESSOR WHITBURN

  THE bearded man led Harry Vincent up the path on the island. After a few hundred feet they came to a

  large house that loomed black
in the darkness.

  The hill had been short and abrupt. Harry estimated that they were not more than fifteen or twenty feet

  above the shore of the lake.

  The man knocked at the side door of the building. It was opened, and Harry was ushered in. The house

  was lighted by electricity, but the room into which Harry came was gloomy because of sparse

  illumination.

  The man who had admitted them was as unusual a character as the individual with the beard. He was

  clean-shaven, but sallow-faced, and his features had a peculiar twist that Harry instinctively disliked.

  Without a word the man pointed to a chair on the other side of the room. Harry sat down. The bearded

  man disappeared; the fellow with the twisted face knocked at a door and entered a moment later.

  This room in which Harry sat alone could hardly have been termed a living room; yet that appeared to be

  its purpose. It had very little furniture; and the single table and few chairs were plain and of cheap

  construction. The only inviting feature of the place was a large fireplace in one wall. But there was no fire

  burning.

  A clock ticked away on the mantel above the fireplace, but the light was so poor that Harry could not

  see the time.

  His enthusiasm to reach Death Island had cooled somewhat during the journey across the lake. Now,

  Harry found himself wishing that he had followed the advice of the girl who had phoned him at the

  Baronet Hotel.

  Adventure was a real part of Harry Vincent's existence; but he preferred bright lights to gloom. Without

  companionship, he was a moody individual; and so far he had met with no signs of friendship on Death

  Island.

  Silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, became annoying. Harry seemed to have been deserted.

  He found a magazine lying on the table; when he had drawn his chair near to one of the lights, he

  discovered that the periodical was three months old.

  Evidently the men who lived on Death Island were interested in something other than current literature.

  The clock being obscured in the darkness, Harry looked at his watch, and noted that time had slipped

  by. It was after seven o'clock.

  He began to read the magazine; for a while he forgot his surroundings. Then, glancing at his watch again,

  he saw that it was quarter of eight.