Death in the Stars s-197

by Maxwell Grant

  "That's Denwood calling, asking Kirk to come over and talk to Cranston."

  "Which means it's time to start," analyzed Lois. "I'll go up and change."

  "Wait!"

  Rundon turned to the clerk, asked him to hand over a pack of cards that lay near the telephone switchboard. Stepping to a table near the stairway, Rundon spread the pack in front of Lois.

  "We'll make it a sporting proposition," he decided. "Take any card you want, and carry it up to your room. If it's a low card, you can get into that camping outfit and join us at the canoe."

  "And if it's a high one?"

  "You're to go to bed and stay there, as a lesson that Virgo persons should not interfere with other people's business."

  Lois calculated, then asked how high the low cards went.

  "I'll be generous, as usual," conceded Rundon. "I'll give you from deuces up through eights, which is more than half the pack."

  Lois drew a card, and snuggled it against her waist as she started up stairs. Reaching her room, she started the change to her camping garb, confident that her luck would hold. At the last moment, she turned the card face up.

  It was a jack; a high card.

  ANGRILY, Lois threw the card on the floor, her camping outfit with it. Obtaining pajamas instead, she finished undressing and flung herself into bed. Sullenly, she decided that people of her sign weren't good losers.

  She wished that she hadn't taken up the proposition. By this time, the canoe had started, and she would have forgotten about it, ordinarily. She could have gone to the community movies instead, as everyone else was doing, judging from voices and laughter that she heard from the pier and the darkening ground outside her window.

  Instead, she had sent herself to bed at sunset, by drawing the wrong card. It would be a miserable ordeal, lying awake for hours, listening to all the fun around the Community Center. But Virgo people always kept their agreements, just as they also cried over spilled milk.

  They analyzed, too, as Lois had said, particularly when they had nothing else to do. It wasn't long before she began to wonder why Rundon had told her to take the card upstairs before she looked at it. The others should have seen it, too, to know whether or not they should wait in the canoe.

  Scrambling from bed, Lois put on slippers and dressing gown; telephoning the clerk, she told him to send up the pack of cards that Rundon had borrowed.

  The pack arrived. Closing the door, Lois examined the cards by the table lamp. Her lips compressed in anger. It was just what she expected; Rundon had carried his ingenuity too far. This was a forty-eight card pinochle pack; it didn't contain a card under a nine spot!

  Guests on the veranda were suddenly disturbed by a shower of cards that came fluttering from a second-story window. Caught by a spanking breeze, the pinochle pack was distributed all over the lawn, as a token of Lois' sentiments toward it.

  Stirred by the same breeze, the surface of Lake Calada was rolling wavelets in toward Claremont's shore, slowing the progress of the canoe.

  Harry and his two companions had agreed to hug the shore very closely, and it was difficult, considering the choppy water, which frequently threatened to beach their craft too soon.

  Carradon grumbled about it, claiming that they might be too late to trap Scorpio, but Rundon reassured him. The professor couldn't approach Claremont's by daylight; therefore, at best, he would still be on his way.

  In Rundon's opinion, the waves helped matters. They would be an excuse for Cranston to keep the sheriff's boats well off Claremont's shore.

  Beaching the canoe near Claremont's dock, the three men moved along the tree-shrouded frontage, guiding themselves by the starlight that had replaced the afterglow above the mountains.

  Satisfied that no other boats had been here, they spread, working their way up toward the bungalow well back on the gently rising slope.

  The building looked very small from the water because of the wide woods surrounding it, but its sprawling shape enlarged at close range. Evidently, Claremont had built on a larger scale than most persons supposed; but none of his neighbors had ever visited him, to find out what his residence was like.

  Converging near a porch that jutted from the bungalow front, the three men held low conversation.

  Rundon pointed toward the lake, black through the wavering trees, to little lights that dotted the waters.

  "The sheriff's boats," he undertoned. "Cranston's keeping them well out."

  There were echoes of a spurting motor from the flotilla. One batch of lights headed down the lake; soon, another followed. Rundon chuckled softly.

  "He's giving them the runaround, too," he said. "A good stunt, having them anchor off this shore as if by chance. If Scorpio sees those lights, he won't suspect trouble. They're thinning out very neatly."

  ACTUALLY, The Shadow was keeping the boats on the move, much to the mystification of Sheriff Kirk, who wondered what was in Cranston's mind. The sheriff had a lot to be puzzled about, because he wasn't in one of the motorboats at all.

  With Cranston, the sheriff was floating in a very curious craft, that bobbed like a coracle upon the black waves. The thing was big and round, like an enormous automobile tire, and its bottom was nothing but a thin layer of rubber.

  The Shadow had inflated this rubber boat with a pump attached to a motor. He and the sheriff had left the few remaining boats in the anchored flotilla and were floating in toward Claremont's wharf. The sheriff noted that Cranston was guiding the craft with a short paddle.

  He noted, too, that the sides of the rubbery nest were quilted, but did not realize that they consisted of compartments. In those secret pockets were the guise that The Shadow favored-black cloak, hat, and gloves, that could render him invisible when he reached the shore.

  They reached the dock. The rubber coracle made no sounds as it grazed. The only noise was the soft whispering of the tree boughs, high above. Then the sheriff undertoned:

  "Say! This is Claremont's dock. The old boy showed up today. He's kind of fussy about people using it."

  "In that case," came Cranston's calm suggestion, "we can go ashore."

  The sheriff went ashore, and was scratching his head when Cranston joined him.

  "Claremont wouldn't like this, either."

  "Is he likely to be strolling around, sheriff?"

  "Not him," returned Kirk. "Fresh air poisons that old fossil. He'll be in his bungalow, maybe with a fire lighted."

  "If the bungalow is up the slope," decided The Shadow, in Cranston's deliberate fashion, "it would be just the place from which we could properly watch the boats."

  "But if Claremont hears us-"

  "You can tell him why we're here. As sheriff, you have the necessary authority. But if we ascend carefully, without lights, Claremont will neither see nor hear us."

  The sheriff hadn't been informed of Claremont's threat against visitors this night. He merely considered Claremont to be an old crab, who would listen to reason after having his say. With Cranston, who was carefully muffling a flashlight in something that hung across his arm, the sheriff moved toward the bungalow.

  Halfway there, the sheriff stopped short and gripped Cranston's arm, but not the one that held the cloak.

  "Hear that?" he whispered.

  The Shadow heard it-a distant clang, that ended with a slight rattle. He pretended not to know the cause; so the sheriff explained it.

  "There's a picket fence along the property line. Somebody's climbing over it, Cranston!"

  Ready to throw aside caution, the sheriff pulled gun and flashlight. The Shadow stayed him, undertoning a warning in the sheriff's ear.

  "It would be better to approach the bungalow," advised The Shadow. "I have heard that Percy Claremont is expecting a visitor this evening."

  "A visitor?" came the sheriff's echoed whisper. "Who could it be?"

  The time for subterfuge was past. In the midst of that strange, whispery darkness The Shadow spoke two words, that told the sheriff all he needed. Enoug
h to spur the sheriff to any action that Cranston might suggest.

  The Shadow's calm words were:

  "Professor Scorpio!"

  CHAPTER XIX. DEATH'S TRAIL.

  THE three men at the cabin had heard the slight clang from the fence. Rundon, always ingenious, was the first to suggest a plan that would suit the situation.

  "We've got to cover all doors," he told the others. "Whichever of us sees Scorpio enter must inform the others. He'll probably come out the way he's going in."

  Creeping upon the porch, Rundon tried the front door and whispered down to the others:

  "It's locked, but maybe Scorpio has a key. I'll stick here, while you pick other places."

  At the side, Harry and Carradon found another door. It was locked, but Carradon covered it, while Harry went on to the rear. Finding a back door, The Shadow's agent tried it, discovered that it was locked, too.

  Dropping back, Harry waited. Judging the distance to the side fence, he decided that Scorpio would reach the bungalow very soon.

  Then, from within the house, Harry heard slight creaks. He decided that they must mean Claremont, for he was sure that the wealthy recluse was at home, even though the venturers had seen no lights.

  The creaks traveled eerily, almost like one of Scorpio's spooks. Harry thought he heard them from two separate quarters.

  Maybe it was his imagination. It had been proven that persons who saw two lake monsters had seen the same one twice, but had been fooled by its speed. There was argument, too, about the time of Barcla's capture; deputies claimed that they had spotted the bobbing ghost near one side of Grendale's house, while the rest had been spying Barcla at the other side.

  But there was no mistake about the creaks. Momentarily, Harry heard both sets at once; knew that two men must be in the house. There was a fourth door, probably, or a convenient window through which Scorpio had crept. The professor was meeting Percy Claremont.

  Edging off, Harry decided to find the entrance place and report back to Rundon and Carradon. Before he had gone a dozen steps, the indoor creaks were ended. Other tokens replaced them. Things that came with fearful suddenness.

  A light gleamed through a shaded window. There was a sudden cackle, in Claremont's high-pitched voice. Scuffling sounds, followed by the hard thwack of a club, that must be Claremont's walking stick.

  Then, a triumphant shout in a voice that Harry knew too well: the tone of Professor Scorpio!

  Hard upon that shout came two reports from a revolver, splitting sounds, that seemed to quiver the atmosphere. Before he could get to a door, Harry heard the smash of another barrier; then a terrific clatter, as an entire window was ripped from its frame.

  A figure bounded quickly from beside the house wall. Harry took after it, yelling for the others. Carradon deserted the door that he was watching and joined in the chase. They heard Rundon's voice, gasping but loud, from the window:

  "It Scorpio! Get him!"

  Two others-the sheriff and Cranston-were coming through the front door. Hearing them, Rundon staggered about, stumbled toward them, and sagged into a huddled shape. He stabbed his finger toward the lighted room. His words were panted.

  "Scorpio... came in by the front!" Rundon gave a gulp, pressed his hand to his collar, which was ripped.

  "I... I followed him. He had a key. Wouldn't have jumped at him... was going to get the others... only, he got Claremont. In there!"

  Outside, shouts told that Harry and Carradon were still in pursuit of their quarry. Suddenly, Harry yelled; a gun barked twice. With the echoes, they could hear Carradon's angry snarl.

  "Scorpio went that way," panted Rundon, pointing to the window. "Maybe... maybe they couldn't catch him."

  The sheriff hesitated, looked at Cranston.

  "You see to Claremont," The Shadow told him, pointing to a groaning form by a desk in the lighted room.

  "I'll go along the trail."

  IT was a trail, indeed. Along the hallway to the window lay half a dozen bills, all of thousand-dollar denomination. Vaulting the window sill, The Shadow bored his flashlight as he struck the ground, and saw more money scattered irregularly ahead.

  One fluttering bank note had stopped against a tree twenty yards away, but beyond that point, the direction changed.

  Harry and Carradon were down by the water front, with flashlights. Boats were racing in from the lake, spreading to control the shore. Deputies had heard the gunfire; they took it as a signal from the sheriff.

  Stopped outside the window, The Shadow extinguished his flashlight. His laugh, low-toned and under-standing, seemed to blend with the whispers of the breeze-swayed trees.

  Within the lighted room, the sheriff was stooping above the prone form of Claremont. The withery millionaire was staring feebly with his tiny eyes, that were bead-like through his thick glasses. His long jaw wagged, weakly. Sheriff Kirk could see a clawlike motion of the long, bony fingers. It was a death pluck.

  Rundon was crawling in from the hall. Weakly, he pointed to the dying man. His breath returned, Rundon was able to furnish details.

  "Claremont is trying to tell you what happened," said Rundon. "He'd promised that money to Scorpio; but the professor was too eager for it. Claremont swung at him with the cane-"

  The cane was lying broken beside the desk, which bore a great dent from the blow that Claremont had meant for Scorpio. But that was not why Sheriff Kirk motioned to Rundon for silence. It happened that Claremont was managing to speak.

  Words came with a death cough; a tone so forced that it was no more than a croak.

  "He... shot... me-"

  A bony hand had lifted; it settled, its wavering finger pointing along the floor toward the door.

  There was a ratty gargle from Claremont's throat; his last.

  "Yes, Scorpio shot Claremont," nodded Rundon. "From the doorway, just like he said. He'd have shot me, too, when I pitched on him, only he'd put his gun away, to grab the money. He got me by the neck, though, and chucked me long enough to smash out through the window. He lost some of the money when he went."

  The sheriff stood looking at Claremont's body, noted the two bullet holes that marred the old man's shirt front. He swung to Rundon, who was rubbing the side of his head, muttering that he had struck a wall when Scorpio flung him.

  "Scorpio didn't give the poor old fellow a chance," growled the sheriff, bitterly. "Shooting from the doorway, like that-why the range was only about six feet!"

  "Just about," began Rundon, turning toward the doorway, as did the sheriff. "He was right there-"

  Rundon halted, his mouth and eyes wide open, like the sheriff's. They were even more astonished than if they had seen Professor Scorpio. For there was a figure on the threshold; stranger, more mysterious than Scorpio had ever been, even in his Hindu robes.

  It was a figure cloaked in black; a shape of the night come into light. A weird form that dying crooks and rescued prisoners had mentioned, yet which none had seen more than hazily. This was the fighter who had done so much to stifle crime at Lake Calada.

  The Shadow!

  THERE was no identifying him as Cranston. The collar of the cloak was lifted, the brim of the slouch hat turned down, so effectively that they hid all the black-clad crime-fighter's features except his burning eyes.

  Orbs that seemed to flash with vengeance, those eyes turned upon the figure on the floor. In Percy Claremont, The Shadow saw a man who should not have died; yet the weird, quivering laugh that whispered from hidden lips was one of satisfaction.

  Riveted, Rundon and the sheriff followed The Shadow with their eyes, as though his approaching figure magnetized their gaze. He passed between them, came close to Claremont's body and stared down at the scrawny, dry face. The Shadow's arms were folded in front of his cloak. He extended one hand, pointed with a thin gloved finger.

  "Those glasses, sheriff," spoke The Shadow in a sibilant tone, "mark Claremont as a man of very exceptional eyesight."

  Sheriff Kirk shook himself from his d
aze. To hear this creature of darkness address him so familiarly was as amazing as a meeting with an actual ghost. Rather numbly, Kirk approached the body. He found his voice.

  "Poor eyesight," he corrected. Then, hastily: "Not that I want to argue. But the glasses are thick, like magnifiers."

  "They do not magnify," said The Shadow. "They reduce. Those glasses are part of a disguise."

  Stooping, The Shadow plucked away the spectacles. The eyes beneath the glasses enlarged, as did their sockets. Instead of tiny beads, the eyes were large and glary; their power was apparent, despite the death glaze that had come over them.

  Claremont's eyes seemed wider apart, too, with the glasses removed.

  The sheriff was wondering where he had seen those eyes before, when he noticed that The Shadow's hand was moving between the dead man's face and the light.

  The hand stopped, casting a shadow that obscured the long jaw with blackness that suddenly reminded the sheriff of a beard. From Kirk's throat came the amazed ejaculation.

  "Professor Scorpio!"

  Even as the sheriff shouted, The Shadow wheeled. His other hand whisked from the cloak, swinging an automatic. The muzzle of the weapon covered Rundon, as the fellow was springing toward the door.

  Coming full about, Rundon froze.

  He had a revolver half drawn; thousand-dollar bills were dripping, in slow flutters, from a packet that he had stowed deep beneath his coat. He was caught with the evidence of crime upon him, unable to make another move.

  The Shadow's laugh told Rundon something that he had learned too late: Only one person had guessed the dual identity that was Professor Scorpio and Percy Claremont. That person was The Shadow. With Scorpio both the killer and the victim, by Rundon's statement, it was plain that Rundon, himself, was the master hand of crime.

  The supercrook who had managed criminal schemes at Lake Calada, Niles Rundon, had exposed his entire game by murdering his living alibi, Professor Scorpio!

  CHAPTER XX. THE LAST FLIGHT.

  STEADILY, in a tone that seemed to throb with echoes from the past, The Shadow was telling the truth of Rundon's crimes, so clearly that every word struck home to Sheriff Kirk. Rundon, the culprit, stood listening, while the money fluttered, building a little mound of wealth beside his feet.