The Ghost Of The Manor s-32

by Maxwell Grant

  Warren needed to hear no more. He slipped quietly from the phone booth and hurried back to the grillroom. He threw a glance as he went in the door, and saw a motion at the booth where Jasper was located. Just in time to escape his cousin’s observation, Warren hastened to the table where Clark Brosset was seated.

  “What’s up?” came the immediate inquiry. “Warren! You’re white!”

  “Up in your office,” whispered Warren. “I want to talk with you, Clark - in private!”

  They saw Jasper go past the entrance of the grillroom as they were rising. The two men waited; then went out and ascended to Clark Brosset’s office. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Warren blurted out the news.

  “Jasper was talking to Wellington,” he explained. “That’s the servant at Delthern Manor. He spoke about Humphrey Delthern - said that he would take care of him like he took care of someone before. Told Wellington to get an alibi -“

  “You mean,” exclaimed Brosset, “that he may be plotting injury to his brother?”

  “So it sounded,” admitted Warren. “I didn’t like the way he spoke about the past, either -“

  “You mean Winstead!”

  “Possibly.”

  “Whew! Accidental death. But what reason, Warren, could Jasper have in attacking his own brother?”

  “The terms of the estate are still secret, Clark. The division comes in a few weeks. One half to the eldest surviving heir of Caleb Delthern -“

  Clark Brosset sprang to the telephone, holding up his hand as interruption.

  “Humphrey must be warned at once!” he exclaimed. “I hardly know the man, but I must warn him!”

  “Not that way,” objected Warren, taking the telephone from Brosset. “Wellington will answer; he will ask for a message. You won’t reach Humphrey, and Wellington will suspect.”

  “Then we must go to Delthern Manor - one of us at least.”

  WARREN pondered. He realized the difficulties of the situation. Jasper Delthern, conspiring with Wellington, was a dangerous and imminent threat. A telephone call; the sudden visit of two men; even the appearance of Clark Brosset at the mansion might give the servant the tip that plans had been discovered.

  But it occurred to Warren that should he go alone, Wellington would suspect nothing. The servant had heard Warren bait Winstead Delthern on a previous occasion; he would look for another quarrel, this time with Humphrey.

  “Let me handle this,” decided Warren. “We’ve let too many minutes go by already. It would have been best to have stopped Jasper.”

  “Hardly,” returned Brosset. “A warning to Humphrey Delthern is the logical suggestion. With Humphrey on his guard, Jasper may be trapped.”

  “You are right about the warning,” agreed Warren. “I am leaving right away - straight for Delthern Manor.”

  “One moment, Warren!” Clark Brosset’s face was serious as his hand gripped Warren’s arm. “Don’t get into an argument with Humphrey. Be tactful - and if necessary, tell him to communicate with me.

  “Remember; this may be serious. If any complications should occur, count on me. This is between you and Humphrey alone. Come back here as soon as you can. Rely upon my aid, and my discretion. Don’t be hasty, Warren!”

  “I’ll remember, Clark,” agreed Warren, gripping his friend’s hand. “You’re right - the less said the better. No one will know that I am not here at the City Club -“

  “And no one will know where you have gone, even if your absence is noted. After you have gone, I’ll tell the doorman that you are with me, in my office.”

  Warren nodded his agreement. Clark Brosset accompanied him to the ground floor; after Warren had left by a side door, Brosset spoke to the doorman at the front.

  “I shall be in my office,” he said. “If anyone calls for Mr. Barringer, send the visitor up. Mr. Barringer will be with me.”

  RETURNING to the office, Clark Brosset opened the wall safe and removed club records, which he took to the desk. The trace of anxiety on his face showed that he was anxious to learn the outcome of Warren Barringer’s interview with Humphrey Delthern.

  Brosset was well acquainted with the stubbornness that had long characterized Humphrey as well as his dead brother Winstead.

  Brosset became restless. He closed the record book and sat pensively at his desk. Minutes drifted by; then came a rap at the door. Brosset sprang to the portal, expecting to see Warren Barringer. Instead, he found Bosger, the doorman.

  “A gentleman to see Mr. Barringer, sir,” said Bosger.

  “To see Mr. Barringer,” echoed Brosset. “Who is the visitor, Bosger?”

  “A gentleman who stopped here on his way to New York. His name is Lamont Cranston.”

  “Show him up,” ordered Brosset, after a moment’s thought. “I shall speak with him here.”

  Pacing the floor with a troubled air, Clark Brosset regretted the untimeliness of this visit. He realized that Warren Barringer might have important details to discuss immediately upon his return from Delthern Manor. What if swift action would prove necessary? What if complications involving Jasper Delthern should arrive?

  These troubling questions brought Clark Brosset to a quick decision. He planned to send Lamont Cranston on his way with very little delay.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE SHADOW LEARNS

  CLARK BROSSET looked up from his desk. He closed the record book that he had opened, and arose to greet the gentleman whom Bosger had just ushered into the room.

  “Mr. Cranston?” questioned Brosset.

  “Yes,” replied the visitor. “You are Mr. Brosset, I presume.”

  Clark Brosset acknowledged his identity. He studied his visitor as he motioned Cranston toward a chair. In very short time, Brosset had realized that this visitor was a man of keen intellect. Cranston’s calm face and keenly penetrating eyes were impressive.

  “You came to see Warren Barringer?” asked Brosset.

  “Yes,” returned Cranston. “I am on my way to New York. I inquired at the Century Hotel, and learned that Barringer was here. The doorman told me that he was in this office.”

  “He was here, until a few minutes ago,” declared Brosset. “Perhaps you passed him on the way from the hotel. He may have stopped there.”

  “He will be back?”

  “I hardly think so. Will you be in town overnight, Mr. Cranston?”

  A slight sparkle showed in Cranston’s eyes. That, alone, indicated that the visitor had sensed a hidden motive in Brosset’s sudden question. The president of the City Club had spoken in a casual tone; at this moment, he was picking up the record book from the desk.

  “Not overnight,” responded Cranston quietly. “There are two trains - either one suitable to me. The first” - he glanced at his watch - “leaves in about twenty minutes. I shall take it to New York unless I have an opportunity to see Warren Barringer for a few hours. In that case, I can wait for the later train.”

  “Too bad,” murmured Brosset. “If you had only arrived ten minutes ago you

  -“

  “Why?”

  “Warren Barringer told me that he was going to Wynndale - a town some thirty miles from here. Driving with friends. Unless some delay occurred, he has probably started.”

  “And will not be back here?”

  “Not unless the trip has been called off. One moment; I can find out all about it.”

  Clark Brosset lifted the telephone. He told the club operator to call the Century Hotel. In another minute, he was talking with the hotel clerk.

  “Mr. Barringer, please… Yes… He is? I see… When do you expect him back? Yes… Yes… Very well, then… Never mind… I can call him tomorrow.”

  Over the wire, Clark Brosset had heard the clerk stating that Warren Barringer could be found at the City Club. But in his own statements, intended for Cranston’s ears, Brosset had given no such indication.

  “Barringer has left,” declared Brosset, as he laid down the telephone. “The clerk says that he started fo
r Wynndale nearly ten minutes ago. He left word that he might not be back tonight. Wynndale is a very popular resort that attracts many visitors from Newbury.”

  Picking up the record book, Brosset carried it to the safe, deposited it there, and closed the door. With hand turning a knob, he spoke again to Cranston.

  “There will be no need of your waiting for a later train,” stated Brosset. “You can make the station in three minutes from here. There are cabs out front. I am mighty sorry that you missed Barringer. He is an old friend of yours?”

  “I met him abroad,” explained Cranston, rising. “He visited me upon his return to New York. I appreciate your interest, Mr. Brosset; I am only sorry that I missed seeing my friend.”

  “I shall tell him that you were here,” said Brosset. “He is a member of the City Club, and spends a great deal of time here.”

  Brosset strolled toward the door as he spoke. His manner was leisurely, but effective, designed to draw Cranston with him. The visitor followed, and together the two descended the stairs. Brosset glanced at his watch; there was still ample time for the New Yorker to make his train, but Brosset professed a worried air.

  “Sometimes traffic is bad, Mr. Cranston,” he remarked. “A slight chance of a delay. The train is usually on time.”

  Stepping through the door, Brosset hailed a cab; he beckoned to Cranston, and ushered the visitor into the vehicle. He also gave prompt instructions to the driver, while the doorman was handing Cranston a light briefcase which he had left at the door.

  “To the station,” ordered Brosset. “Avoid the traffic. This gentleman wants to catch the New York Limited.”

  The president of the City Club extended his hand in parting, and gave Lamont Cranston a courteous smile. The cab shot away, and Brosset returned through the portals of the club. He did not go back to his office; instead, he remained in the lounge, to await Warren Barringer’s return.

  CLARK BROSSET was congratulating himself upon this quick disposal of a stranger who, while undoubtedly a friend of Warren’s, might cause complications through his presence in Newbury. He knew that Lamont Cranston’s cab would certainly reach the station in time for the train.

  Had Clark Brosset been able to visualize the events that were happening on the way to the station, he would have lost his smile of surety. In the back seat of the cab which he had taken, Lamont Cranston was drawing a dark object from the briefcase which he carried.

  The folds of a long cloak slipped over the passenger’s shoulders. A flattened slouch hat developed into a broad-brimmed headpiece. The figure in the cab became obscured in darkness. Only a white hand showed; it protruded through the front window, and dropped a bill upon the driver’s arm.

  “Have the change ready when we reach the station,” came the voice of Lamont Cranston.

  “Right, sir,” responded the driver. “We’re at the last traffic light now.”

  The cab was standing beside another which was waiting to make a left turn. The driver did not hear the door open softly. The light turned green; the cab shot ahead. It whirled along the last stretch, and swung up before the railroad terminal. The driver, leaping to the curb, pulled open the door and held out a handful of change. His face went blank in amazement.

  The interior of the cab, showing plainly in the light from the station, was entirely empty! The passenger who had boarded the vehicle at the City Club was gone!

  This cabby was not the only taximan in Newbury who was experiencing a succession of creepy chills at that moment. The driver of the cab that had been set for a left turn at the traffic light was receiving a much more startling surprise.

  Driving up a broad avenue, he gripped the wheel in terror as a white hand appeared before his eyes and let a bank note flutter from its finger tips. Managing to regain control of the car, the driver nodded instinctively as he heard a quiet voice give him an address on another street.

  It was the sight of the money, the feel of the paper bill, that made the taximan regain his confidence; yet he wondered as he turned from the avenue. When and where had this mysterious passenger entered the cab?

  The driver shrugged his shoulders. He would look at the man when he got out. That might give the explanation.

  The cab sped on and slowed at a stop street. The door opened softly; the driver did not hear it.

  The cab shot on and rolled along the silent avenue past Delthern Manor. A block farther on, the cabman stopped. This was the address that his fare had given him. He, too, alighted to the curb to open the door and make change.

  There was no response from the interior of the cab. The driver pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and flooded the back seat with illumination. The cab was empty!

  The strange personage who had performed these silent mysteries was completely gone. Like a shadow, he had flitted from cab to cab; a phantom of darkness, he had dropped from the second vehicle.

  Lamont Cranston no longer, he was moving through the darkness beneath a row of trees, a creature invisible. The only token of his presence was a whispered laugh that blended with the creaking of the tree branches above the sidewalk.

  Undeceived by Clark Brosset’s pretense that Warren Barringer had left Newbury, the visitor from New York had garbed himself in black. Still in the city, he had hastened to the spot where his keen brain had divined that trouble might be in the making.

  Silently invisibly, The Shadow was approaching the gray walls of mysterious Delthern Manor!

  CHAPTER XII

  DEATH IN THE DARK

  WHILE Clark Brosset had been pacing the floor of his office at the City Club, Warren Barringer had made all haste to Delthern Manor. Excited by the mission which took him there, the young man had found it difficult to feign composure when Wellington admitted him in response to a knock at the front door.

  In the gloomy, quiet hall of Delthern Manor, Warren managed to display a lack of concern. Wellington went upstairs to announce his arrival, and a few minutes later, Warren found himself facing Humphrey Delthern in the upstairs study.

  Although Warren did not notice it, Wellington was cautious when he closed the door from the outside. There were no footsteps telling of the servant’s departure. But Warren was too intense to fancy that Wellington might be eavesdropping.

  The sight of Humphrey Delthern, seated in that oversized chair, brought back to Warren an exact recollection of Winstead. The second of the Deltherns looked very much like his brother; his air was an aping manner that made Warren ill at ease.

  Humphrey Delthern, in his attitude, seemed to express Winstead’s dislike of an intrusion. Only the importance of his errand prevented Warren Barringer from meeting Humphrey’s challenging gaze with a smile of contempt.

  “What brings you here?” rasped Humphrey, as he eyed the visitor. “This, I understand, is the second time that you have come to Delthern Manor.”

  “I want to see you, Humphrey,” interposed Warren, with a serious air. “I admit that my visit is a rather abrupt one; but the circumstances surrounding it are vitally important - to you.”

  The added phrase “to you” caught Humphrey’s interest. The man behind the desk shifted his position uneasily as Warren took a chair.

  “I am your cousin,” declared Warren, “and I want you to believe me when I state that I bear a real friendliness toward you. My visit tonight is in your interest; and if the facts I mention astound you, I can bring you proof of them from another person, whose word will prove reliable.”

  “Come to the point!” demanded Humphrey, in a challenging tone. “I don’t understand your purpose here!”

  “It concerns your brother Jasper,” said Warren, swallowing his anger. “I met him several days ago. I have seen him since. He has been acting strangely.”

  “As usual,” grumbled Humphrey. “How does that concern me?”

  “Tonight,” continued Warren, reassured by Humphrey’s expressed disapproval of Jasper, “I noticed him - at the City Club - behaving in a most unusual manner. He went into a telephone
booth. I chanced to overhear his conversation.”

  “Eavesdropping, eh?” sneered Humphrey. “I cannot commend you for the practice.”

  “You will before I have finished,” retorted Warren. “I heard what Jasper said. It sounded very much like a threat upon your life!”

  HUMPHREY DELTHERN eyed Warren coldly. There was a doubtful, inimical expression in his countenance that made the visitor feel ill at ease. Nevertheless, Warren continued.

  “The gist of his conversation,” said the young man, “was that he had managed to take care of one person; and that he intended to do the same with another tonight. He named you as the party in question.”

  Humphrey Delthern half arose from his chair. His fists were on the desk. His eyes were flashing.

  “Are you inferring,” he demanded, “that Jasper had something to do with the death of my brother Winstead; that he also contemplates an attack upon me?”

  “Exactly,” responded Warren quietly. “Furthermore” - the young man lowered his voice - “I can tell you with whom he was conversing. It was Wellington, your servant. Jasper mentioned his name across the wire.”

  The effect upon Humphrey Delthern was astounding. It was also entirely different from what Warren had expected. An accusation directed against Jasper, Humphrey’s own brother, might well have aroused the man’s momentary indignation.

  But Warren was amazed to see Humphrey display a sudden, terrific fury. The man raised his clawlike hands and clenched his fists as though he would like to press them upon his visitor’s throat.

  It was a full minute before the rage subsided. The reaction was quite as unexpected. Humphrey Delthern, weakened by his own frenzy, sank back in his chair, gasping. Then, with a strange recovery, he stared directly at Warren Barringer, and spoke in a cold, sarcastic tone.

  “I appreciate your visit,” he declared. “But before we discuss the matter further, let me ask you one question. Was this the same pretext that you used when you talked with my brother Winstead?”