The Ghost Of The Manor s-32

by Maxwell Grant

  “Pretext?” queried Warren, in surprise.

  “Yes,” said Humphrey. “I have heard that you aroused his anger. I knew that you must have done so by means of outrageous statements.”

  “You are wrong there, Humphrey.”

  “Perhaps” - Humphrey paid no attention to Warren’s words - “you also warned him against a brother’s wiles. Possibly you told him that I - not Jasper - was plotting to end his life.”

  “You mean that I -“

  “I mean,” said Humphrey clearly, “that I know the truth concerning Winstead’s death. My elder brother was murdered; and his slayer was -“

  “Jasper!” blurted Warren.

  “Not Jasper!” exclaimed Humphrey in new frenzy. “Not Jasper, you fiend! You are the man who murdered my brother Winstead!”

  Humphrey was on his feet again. He had pushed the chair back from the desk. He was standing close to the paneled wall, his pale face turned crimson, his lips trembling, and his fists shaking in anger.

  Warren Barringer sat in astonishment. Fierce resentment swept his mind; but the startling effect of Humphrey’s words held him motionless.

  “You came here to kill Winstead!” accused Humphrey. “You are here to kill me! You will not succeed. I can call Wellington to my aid before you can overpower me.”

  With these words, Humphrey dropped his hand to his pocket. Sensing that his cousin might be drawing a revolver, Warren leaped to his feet. He started toward the door, believing that he could gain it before Humphrey could produce a weapon.

  Then came blackness. At this moment of crisis, the lights in the room were entirely extinguished. A gasp of alarm came from the wall where Humphrey was standing. Warren, groping in the darkness, stumbled against a chair and nearly lost his footing.

  AS he caught himself against the huge desk, Warren heard a long, rasping sigh. Something struck against the desk, and Warren felt the woodwork shift toward him. Rapping, clawing sounds rattled only a few feet away.

  The lights came on. Warren blinked as he saw the same illuminated scene. Then his eyes bulged with horror.

  Sprawled across the desk, face upward, lay the form of Humphrey Delthern!

  Dying fingers still beat a mild tattoo upon the woodwork. Staring eyes glared upward. The fingers ceased their motion, and Warren Barringer gazed in awe at the huge handle of a knife that jutted from his cousin’s breast.

  It required moments for the terror of this tragedy to impress itself upon Warren Barringer’s mind. As he realized that this was no illusion, that the sight before him was reality, Warren shrank away from the desk, and gripped the arms of a chair.

  How long the lights had been out, he did not know. It might have been only seconds - perhaps minutes. The passage of time escaped his recollection. But after he stared about the empty room, and saw no one, Warren Barringer finally focused his eyes upon the figure of his cousin.

  Humphrey Delthern was dead; a knife blade in his heart. Silently, some murderer had done dastardly work amid the blackness. The handle of the knife bore mute evidence of evil crime. Warren Barringer was alone in the room with his murdered cousin!

  Death had struck in the dark!

  CHAPTER XIII

  CRIME UPON CRIME

  MOMENTS had seemed very long to Warren Barringer. Now, his numbed brain experienced a reaction. As he gazed at Humphrey Delthern’s body, the young man found a deluge of thoughts sweeping through his mind.

  Death had struck. In the confusion of a blackened room, someone had slain Humphrey Delthern. Warren realized that his back had been toward the door. He glanced in that direction. He saw the light switch.

  Some daring murderer could have opened that door, extinguished the light, and made the swift attack. Such seemed to be the only explanation. Yet the man had gone as swiftly as he had come - and all his actions, including the murder, had occurred during those moments while Warren had groped and stumbled in the darkness.

  The only trace that remained of the killer was Humphrey’s body, a pitiful, scrawny form, with the token of death extending from it. Here was Warren, an innocent person, left in the room with his murdered cousin.

  Jasper Delthern?

  The brother had plotted murder. Warren had heard him. He must have come up the stairs, listened through the door, and taken advantage of opportunity.

  As for Wellington - Warren remembered now. Jasper had told the servant to establish an alibi, and to leave the way clear.

  This gave Warren his cue. Winstead Delthern had died in this house after Warren’s departure. Suppose that Warren should be gone again when Humphrey’s body was found? The thought of flight was distasteful; but the menace that lay here counteracted it.

  It would be wise to get out before Wellington returned. The servant might be bringing the chauffeur with him, on some pretext. Warren thought of Clark Brosset, back at the City Club.

  This was inspiration! Back to the club; a talk with Brosset; there they could decide what might be best. Humphrey Delthern’s safety was of no consequence now. The man was dead.

  Warren turned toward the door. He seized the knob, and cautiously opened the barrier. He stopped, fancying that he heard footsteps. He drew back. A moment later, he knew that someone was creeping forward. Before he could take action, Wellington came from the gloom and stood before him.

  THE servant’s face hardened. Wellington stared from Humphrey’s form to Warren Barringer. His lips tightened, and Wellington broke forth in accusation.

  “You have killed him!” he exclaimed. “You - you murderer! He - he told me to be here. He was afraid of you! But I thought that he was safe!”

  With a sudden rage, the servant precipitated himself into the room and clutched at Warren Barringer. The young man flung Wellington to one side, and as he thrust back the servant’s attack, uttered his own defiant challenge.

  “You know the truth!” cried Warren. “You - and Jasper Delthern! He is the murderer, and you know it!”

  The two locked in struggle. Warren, young and powerful, hurled back the servant, whom he believed to be a traitor. But Wellington was not lacking in strength. The servant fought with a fury that could only come from actual belief that he was battling with the man who had slain his present master.

  In the course of their grapple, the fighters jounced against the door and knocked it shut. They swerved across the room, struck the desk, and staggered on. Humphrey Delthern’s body teetered lazily back and forth as the desk was shaken by the conflict.

  Sudden chance favored Wellington. As the pair plunged toward the wall, Warren tripped, twisted, and struck his head against the paneling. He grunted as his teeth clicked. He lost his hold upon his adversary.

  With a mighty effort, Wellington flung Warren to the floor. Half groggy, the young man rolled to his knees and held up his hands as protection when he saw Wellington towering toward him.

  The servant, his face filled with rage, was preparing for a powerful lunge. Warren, despite his swimming head, was ready to receive it. Then, as when Warren had faced Humphrey Delthern, blackness intervened.

  This time a slight click impressed itself upon Warren’s brain as the lights suddenly went out. Momentary darkness; then came a muffled roar and a tongue of fire flashed within the room. The report dulled away. Something landed heavily upon the floor in front of Warren Barringer. The young man groped forward. The lights came on again.

  Warren found himself staring at the prostrate form of Wellington. The servant, in falling, had twisted on his side. A gaping wound showed in his breast. A revolver lay on the floor beside him.

  Half dazed, Warren reached for the weapon. He desisted as his swimming brain made him falter. He stared groggily about the room.

  Again, the murderer had come and gone. Swiftly had he entered; swiftly had he left. Picking his target as he extinguished the light, he had slain Wellington as effectively as he had done away with Humphrey Delthern.

  The same thoughts as before came drumming through Warren’s brain.
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br />   Death! Menace! Need for flight!

  That was final. The young man rose to his feet. He moved to the door and opened it. He went unsteadily along the hall; he caught the rail at the head of the stairs, and descended.

  The lower hallway was as silent and as gloomy as before. The dull lights of the living room seemed ominous; the closed doors of the great reception hall seemed to be hiding eyes that were accusing, in spite of Warren’s sense of innocence.

  Out through the front door, down the flagstone walk. Warren reached the sidewalk, and breathed deeply of the cooling air. His wits came back to him with amazing swiftness. He walked quickly down the avenue.

  ONE block from Delthern Manor, Warren spied a taxicab parked beside the curb. The door was open. The young man saw the driver standing at the front of the car, gazing in the opposite direction. For a moment, Warren hesitated; then, on sudden impulse, he stepped into the cab.

  The noise caused the driver to turn. He came toward the door as Warren closed it. Calming his voice, Warren ordered the man to take him to the railroad station. The driver clambered to the wheel, and shouted through the open window as he drove along.

  “Were you the fellow that was in this cab before?” he questioned. “The guy that gave me the money?”

  “Yes,” answered Warren,

  “Didn’t see you get out,” explained the driver. “What’s the matter? Weren’t the folks at home?”

  “No,” Warren replied.

  The driver made no further comment. He sped along a side street toward the broad avenue that led to the depot. Warren, settled back upon the seat, was thinking clearly now. He was planning the next phase of action.

  Crime upon crime. Warren Barringer had witnessed double murder in the second-story study at Delthern Manor. He was sure that the killer was Jasper Delthern; but the burden of proof would be his own!

  CHAPTER XIV

  A VISITOR VANISHES

  WARREN BARRINGER had been fortunate in his flight. The shot in the study had been muffled. Its report had not reached the outside grounds of Delthern Manor. Furthermore, the old house was in an isolated spot.

  Yet Warren had not escaped unseen. As he had come from the old gate in front of the mansion, a pair of approaching eyes had spied him from the darkness.

  Strange eyes! They were the only visible portions of the person who bore them. Hardly had Warren Barringer left by the arch before those eyes were staring in the direction of the mansion, piercing the darkness as they looked toward the gray walls of Delthern Manor.

  A soft swish sounded above the flagstone walk. The door of the great house opened softly. It closed. A shadowy shape glided across the floor of the lower hallway. It ascended the stairs, and followed the corridor. It stopped before the open door of the room where death had struck.

  Keen eyes surveyed the scene. Intuitive ears listened. Then came the swish of a cloak. The sinister form of The Shadow loomed within the room of death. A solemn, whispered laugh drifted through the close atmosphere of the room.

  Gliding across the room, The Shadow studied the body of Humphrey Delthern. His eyes turned to the form of Wellington. They noted the gleaming revolver on the floor. A gloved hand lifted the weapon and replaced it.

  Seating himself at the desk, The Shadow, close beside the ghastly body of Humphrey Delthern, began to open and close the drawers. He found nothing of consequence. But his keen eyes noted one significant fact. In every drawer except one, the small collection of papers and envelopes were in perfect order.

  Standing again, The Shadow visualized the scene of death. He studied Humphrey Delthern’s chair. He examined the space on the opposite side of the desk. He moved to the hall, and turned the rays of a tiny flashlight upon the floor.

  The entrance of Warren Barringer; the death of Humphrey Delthern; the intervention of Wellington; these were events that The Shadow was reconstructing. Again, a low laugh echoed from his lips. Its strange tone denoted a tinge of regret that his arrival had been delayed.

  Warren Barringer’s precipitous haste; Clark Brosset’s efforts to mislead Lamont Cranston; these were factors over which the murderer had had no control, yet they had proven to be important elements in crime. Because of those factors, The Shadow had arrived too late to prevent these killings.

  Keen ears were listening now. Footsteps sounded vaguely from the floor below. A woman’s voice was calling up the stairs.

  “Wellington!” Marcia Wardrop was summoning the servant. “Wellington!”

  The call faded. A gasp came from below. Hurrying footsteps announced Marcia’s departure. The girl had sensed that something was amiss. Alone in the house, she had lost her nerve. She had rushed out of the old mansion to summon help.

  THE SHADOW calmly returned to the room of death. His eyes looked toward the door. A laugh resounded from hidden lips. The Shadow’s tall form moved across the room, and blackened itself against the paneled wall. It slowly crept along the surface, skirting the edge of the rug beyond the spots where the bodies lay.

  At one point, The Shadow paused. He went on, then returned. Backed against the wall, he surveyed Humphrey Delthern’s body. Another laugh came from those mysterious lips - a grim laugh that betokened a strange discovery.

  From this spot, The Shadow had detected a peculiar factor that involved both bodies. Black-gloved hands moved from the folds of the cloak. The Shadow moved toward the form of Humphrey Delthern; then returned. He repeated the same procedure as he studied Wellington’s body.

  Pressing his tall form flat against the wall behind the desk, The Shadow still continued to visualize what must have happened. His tiny flashlight was in evidence, despite the fact that the room was well illuminated. It was along the floor beside the wall, then clicked off.

  Again, The Shadow studied the bodies. With this inspection, his repeated laugh was expressive. Its new tone told that The Shadow had learned an important fact. These men had been slain by a hand that had not hesitated. A double murder, with Warren Barringer present, could not have been executed with delay.

  Yet in each case, the stroke had lacked exactness. The knife in Humphrey Delthern’s body was buried at an angle. The shot that had slain Wellington had entered from the side. What could have caused these awful things to happen?

  The Shadow knew. His next action proved it. Moving swiftly, the tall phantom reached the light switch by the door and extinguished the illumination. Only a slight glow from the hall entered the room. The Shadow glided back to the wall. There, in almost total darkness, his keen eyes seemed to perceive the situation as it had existed.

  The flashlight gleamed in the left hand. The Shadow lunged forward toward the body of Humphrey Delthern. He withdrew and swung in the direction of Wellington. He pressed himself more firmly against the wall; then stood motionless. His laugh sounded with a note of sinister elation.

  VOICES came suddenly from below. The Shadow’s form made no motion toward the door. Instead, it remained in the darkness. Feet were pounding on the stairs. No noise came from the spot where The Shadow had taken his position.

  Men were in the hallway. They were coming toward the open door of the study. A voice growled. No response came from the room of death. A figure loomed in the gloom of the hall, and stared into the dark study. Another man appeared suddenly beside the first arrival.

  “Nobody in here,” growled the man who had spoken before. “That is, nobody - unless -“

  There was a foreboding tone in the voice. It brought a grunt from the second man.

  “Reach in there,” said the first speaker. “See if there’s a light switch by the door.”

  A hand groped along the wall. It found the switch, and clicked it. On came the lights, to show the dead bodies, with two uniformed policemen staring in from the door.

  “Dead!” came the exclamation. “Both of ‘em - Delthern and the butler. Say - the girl had the right hunch when she thought something was wrong!”

  Searching eyes scanned the room. Both officers raised their hea
ds and looked beyond the bodies, in sudden thought that the murderer might still be lurking here. They saw nothing but the paneled walls.

  Staring directly at the spot where The Shadow had been, there was no sign of a living being. Save for the dead bodies of the murdered men, the room of death was empty.

  No trace of The Shadow remained. Out of blackness he had come; into blackness he had gone, now that his inspection had been made. Active even to the moment when the policemen had hesitated just outside the door, The Shadow had managed to completely evade discovery.

  Just as the murderer had eluded the sight of Warren Barringer, so had The Shadow escaped the detection of the police. The visitor from the void had vanished!

  CHAPTER XV

  WARREN GETS ADVICE

  WARREN BARRINGER’S step was furtive as the young man entered the side door of the City Club. The lobby was deserted; only a few persons were seated in the lounge. Yet Warren was overly self-conscious as he turned his footsteps toward the stairway. He hoped that he would find Clark Brosset where he had left him - in the upstairs office.

  Warren was fortunate. His tap at the door brought an immediate response. The barrier opened, and Warren entered to face Clark Brosset. The club president took one glance at his young friend; then quickly shut the door and locked it. He urged Warren to a chair; then snapped quick questions.

  “What’s happened, Warren?” asked Brosset. “You’re as pale as a ghost - all tuckered out - no hat - clothes mussed -“

  Apprehension showed upon Brosset’s face as he made this staccato survey of Warren’s troubled condition. In response, the young man stared vaguely across the room, and spoke in a voice tinged with horrible recollections of his late experience.

  “Murder, Clark,” came his hoarse tone, “murder! Humphrey Delthern - Wellington - both killed. Right while I was there, at Delthern Hall! So help me, Clark, I’m innocent!”