The Grove Of Doom s-37

by Maxwell Grant

  The Grove Of Doom

  ( Shadow - 37 )

  Maxwell Grant

  To solve the mystery of Chinatown smuggling, feuding families, and a series of strange disappearances, The Shadow must enter "The Grove of Doom", where those who enter never return.

  THE GROVE OF DOOM

  by Maxwell Grant

  As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” September 1, 1933.

  Death lurked in this grove of beautiful trees - death that stalked an estranged family. How did The Shadow learn the answer?

  CHAPTER I

  THE ARRIVAL

  LONG ISLAND SOUND lay blanketed with a dense, sullen mist. From the shore, the heavy fog appeared as a grimy mass of solid blackness. The scene was one of swirling, impenetrable night, for not a gleam of light disturbed that omnipresent darkness.

  No eye could have discerned the spot where shore ceased and water began. The rocks beside the beach were invisible, and so was the man who stood near them. The only token of his presence was the sound of his slow, steady breathing, broken by the low, impatient growls that came muffled from his throat.

  Beneath his feet, this man could feel the crunch of sand. Listening intently, he could catch the faint lapping of the water as it gnawed the fringe of the sloping beach. Every noise that came from the fog-covered reaches of the Sound caused this man to stop his slow pacing.

  The faint chugging of a motorboat; the distant deep-blasted whistle of a passing steamship - these evidences of human beings far out upon the water were not what the man awaited. He was watching uselessly, listening vainly, hoping for a more subtle signal.

  A dimly luminous circle showed upon the man’s wrist. It was the dial of a watch. It registered three o’clock. The man growled angrily. This vigil had persisted for three hours, but no result had been obtained.

  The fog that had imperiled navigation upon Long Island Sound was evidently playing hob with well-calculated plans. No ray of light could reach this shore. Even sounds were muffled by the shroud of never-ceasing mist.

  The waiting man did not end his watchfulness. His slow, incessant paces dug deep into the dampness of the sand. He scruffed the granular material with his toes, as though to obliterate the marks that he had made. Suddenly, he came to a standstill, listening once more.

  Through the fog came a strange, awesome sound. It was a low, penetrating whistle that carried a peculiar note. In this environment, that floating noise was frightening as it came from the seemingly solid sand bank. But fear was not the emotion that possessed the man who heard the whistle. That was the signal he had expected. With fingers to his mouth, the waiting man emitted a similar sound.

  A LONG pause followed. A chance drifting of the fog opened a momentary space out beyond the shore. Glimmering lights, high up, cast a dull glare that showed the forms of bare square-rigged masts.

  Lower lights flickered, displaying a glimpse of a phantom ship. Then the fog rolled downward like a final curtain, and blotted out the grotesque vision.

  The man on the shore entertained no doubts as to the reality of the ghostly ship. A superstitious sailor might have classed it as an appearance of the Flying Dutchman, reputed haunter of the high seas. But to the landsman, this passing glimpse was the very sight that he had hoped to see.

  His guarded whistle was repeated. An electric torch clicked in his hand. He turned the brilliant spot of light toward the unseen boat, and swung his arm in a repeated signal.

  Creaking sounds came across the water. A boat was being lowered from the sailing ship. The diminishing of the noise indicated that the square-rigger was drifting away from the danger of shoal water.

  The waiting man turned out his light and made another short whistle. He repeated this at intervals, to guide those who might be approaching.

  The clicking of oarlocks was his reward. With oars muffled, the small boat was heading toward the beach. The light was on again now, whirling in wide sweeps, as the anxious man sought to give his exact position. The sullen fog threw back the shaft of light, but rays were filtering through the gloom sufficiently to guide those who were arriving.

  A small boat landed with surprising suddenness, its prow grinding in the sand. Less than twenty feet away from the man on the shore, the occupants of the little boat were clearly outlined by the light.

  Four men leaped over the side. Knee-deep in the water, they lifted a heavy, cubical object from the center of the boat, and came staggering to the shore. Dark-skinned, bare-legged Malays, these men were silent as they placed the box directly in front of the glaring light.

  With apparent unconcern, they waded back to the boat, and brought out a second box - the replica of the first. A few minutes later, the two boxes were side by side upon the beach.

  During all this operation, the Malays had not glimpsed the man who stood behind the light. They were working in accord with some prescribed arrangement. Their task now finished, they splashed back to the little boat and climbed aboard. The oarlocks creaked as the boat disappeared into the misty fog.

  The man on shore listened, apparently anxious to be sure that the mysterious visitors were gone. A faint whistle signal served to guide the Malays back to their ship. Then came almost inaudible creaking as the little boat was raised to the deck of the invisible square-rigger. After that, long silence.

  HIS torch no longer lighted, the man on the shore stood motionless. The whole strange affair might have been nothing more than a fantasy - a strange dream possessing no more solid substance than the hovering fog.

  But now the torch came on again, its glare turned downward. Beneath its light was the concrete evidence of what had occurred upon this lonely beach. There rested the two square boxes - bulky containers composed of foam-sprayed wood.

  The man examined each of the boxes in turn. The heavy objects were constructed to withstand rough shipment. The tops were indicated by lids that were firmly nailed in place. The sides were studded with small holes that formed black spots when the lights fell upon them.

  Cryptic markings had been painted on the covers of the boxes. The inspecting man studied these with care. He laughed gruffly as he laid the torch upon one box so that it threw its light upon the other, over which he now leaned.

  Focused within the rays of the light, his head and shoulders alone were visible; but the man’s face was turned downward toward the box. From beneath the visor of a rough cloth cap, the man examined the marking on the box lid to make sure he had chosen the one he desired.

  Satisfied, he walked away; when he returned, he was carrying a hammer and a short crowbar. Leaning over the lighted box, he tapped twice upon the lid. He placed his ear against the wood and listened for an echoed response.

  There was no deliberation in the man’s next action. He set to work with the tools, prying the lid from the box. His shoulders heaved like pistons in the light, but despite the effectiveness of the effort, the job was virtually soundless.

  The dampened wood responded silently. A portion of the cover broke loose at one end; then another chunk; finally, the whole lid was loose. Swinging between the light and the box, the man reached the other side of the container, and raised the whole lid en masse. He stepped back, and his clenched hands showed the hammer in one, the crowbar in the other. The man was watching the opened box intently.

  Two hands appeared. They gripped the sides at the top. The hands were gnarled and yellowish in the gleam of the electric torch.

  Then a form arose from within the box. Head, shoulders, then a body appeared. A short, wiry Chinaman stood within the range of light.

  THE man’s face was as yellow as his hands. It was a placid, solemn face, but it wore a malignant expression that would have befitted an evil idol. That pockmarke
d countenance, with its slowly blinking eyelids, seemed scarcely human. With the swirling fog as a background, the yellow visage might have been one of those clouded images that appear in the nightmares of opium smokers.

  The man who had opened the box was standing like a statue, surveying the grotesque Oriental that he had released from bondage. The Chinaman’s blinking eyes were turned in his direction, and now the yellow face wrinkled a leering smile. This meeting was one of mutual recognition. The Chinaman inclined his head, in greeting.

  A short laugh came from the man who wore the cap. He spoke in a low voice, uttering words in Chinese dialect. Among them was repeated a name to which the Chinaman responded. That one was Lei Chang. The speaker used it again, when, after his short greeting in conventional Chinese, he spoke in pidgin English.

  “You have come, Lei Chang,” he said.

  “I tellee you I come,” responded Lei Chang. “I bringee him likee you say. Him velly good, him you tellee me to call The Master. Him we callee Koon Woon.”

  With a sidewise, crablike motion, the wiry Chinaman emerged from the box, and stood crouched upon the sand. His black, beady eyes were glistening in the light. They stared directly toward the other box. The man who had welcomed Lei Chang, stepped forward with the hammer and the crowbar. Like a flash, the Chinaman sprang forward and gripped him by the arm.

  “No, no, no,” he exclaimed, with a strange, quick warning. “No, no, no. The Master - he sleep. Wait while Lei Chang see -“

  He stopped beside the box, while the other watched him. There, Lei Chang crooned softly in a singsong dialect. His voice took on a tone that was oddly soft and soothing.

  “Koon Woon,” he crooned, “Koon Woon - Koon Woon -“

  The words died away. The wiry Chinaman arose and pointed to the box. He spoke to the man beside him.

  “The Master, Koon Woon,” he said. “Still he sleep, but he is ready soon to be awake. But not here he is to wake. The place where you have made for him -“

  A gruff response came from Lei Chang’s companion. The man motioned to the box. He extinguished the torch. His hands scratched upon one side of the box; Lei Chang’s on the other. A grunt came through the darkness. The box lifted upward as the two men raised the heavy burden.

  Footsteps crunched along the sand as the man directed the way. The crinkling ceased as the bearers reached a strip of grass. Softly, steadily, they carried the heavy box across a level area of smooth, even ground.

  The four Malays had found the box no light weight. The present task, performed by two men only, spoke well for their individual strength. The man who had been waiting on the beach was unquestionably very powerful, yet he breathed heavily as he forged forward. No sound came from Lei Chang’s side of the box. The wiry Chinese seemed to possess superhuman strength in his thin, stooped form.

  NOW occurred a most unusual phenomenon. The men and the box emerged completely from the fog. They seemed to enter a spot of utter darkness, where the chill and dampness no longer remained.

  The guiding man sensed the new condition immediately. He stopped his forward progress, and grunted to Lei Chang. Together, they rested the box upon the ground.

  The torch showed again. It showed the box standing upon a patch of brownish ground - grassless, yet peculiarly matted. Beyond the box, the downturned light revealed the blackness of a tree trunk; past that, the light seemed to diffuse along a veritable corridor of brown matting.

  A weird hush dominated the spot. Lei Chang’s beady eyes showed that he sensed the strange surroundings. His teeth gleamed in the light while his head turned from side to side.

  “This is the place,” said his companion in a low voice. “We go from here. You hold light, so I see. Boxee open now.”

  Lei Chang accepted the torch. He stood close beside the box, focusing the rays upon the very edge of the top. The crowbar and the hammer were upon the cubical container. The man with the cap began to pry open the lid.

  The gleam of the torch was no longer reflected by a fog bank. It seemed as though the box had been brought to another world, into a hushed atmosphere where sound, as well as mist, could not penetrate.

  Despite this complete detachment from the environment outside, the capped man exercised still greater care than he had shown in opening the box which had contained Lei Chang. The Chinaman expressed his satisfaction at this procedure by short, lisping words in dialect. He was thinking of Koon Woon, The Master - the one who slept within.

  The lid was loose, and the man was about to raise it. A warning hiss came from Lei Chang. The man stopped. The Chinaman flicked out the light and stepped forward.

  “Leavee me here,” said Lei Chang softly. “The Master, he will wakee when I speak. You go - show Lei Chang the way. I come and The Master, he come with me.”

  Lei Chang’s companion grunted his assent. He took the torch from the Chinaman’s hand, and moved slowly through the darkness. The light twinkled, went out, then twinkled again. Moving away like a gigantic firefly, it made a beacon that Lei Chang could follow.

  Each glimmer of that momentary light showed an identical scene - a dark, irregular corridor flanked by tree trunks. Lei Chang was watching the course of that light as his hands, now invisible, raised the cover of the box. Then the Chinaman was leaning inward, his voice, low and hollow as it spoke in singsong fashion.

  “Koon Woon - Koon Woon” - the voice became a singsong dialect, then returned to that monotonous name - “Koon Woon - Koon Woon - Koon Woon -“

  There was a motion in the box. Lei Chang’s hands were gripping and guiding. The crooning voice was soft and gentle - strange contrast to the Chinaman’s face of evil!

  Far away, a tiny spot of light flashed on and off - a twinkling gleam that revealed nothing.

  Now the box upon the blackened ground was empty. Its mysterious occupant had left it. Noiselessly, through the dark among the trees, Lei Chang and Koon Woon were following the path that their guide had made before them.

  CHAPTER II

  THE WANDERER RETURNS

  THE morning sun, high in the cloudless sky, showed a different scene upon that section of shore beside Long Island Sound. Where thick fog had added to the gloom of night, this new day revealed as beautiful a sight as the eye could desire.

  Upon a rocky height stood a large, picturesque mansion. The hill sloped gradually as it paralleled the Sound, and gave way to sandy shore. In back of the stretch of beach lay a wide expanse of smooth, verdant grass that formed a huge lawn leading to a rolling terrain. Flags marked this as an extension of a golf course.

  Continuing along the shore, the beach now but a thin strip of white sand, with occasional rocks, formed frontage for a grove of trees that stood in regular formation. This mass of woods, covering several acres, made a pretty sight from the Sound.

  The trees were all of one species - the copper beech - and their uniformity of height was a tribute to the perfection of nature. Burnished leaves, glistening in the early summer sun, caught the eye and held it there in admiration.

  Farther along the shore - just past the attractive grove - stood a picturesque dwelling with a lawn that came to the water’s edge. Here, rocks replaced sand, and the shore turned to make a cove. Thus both the front and the side of the house were within a few hundred feet of the Sound.

  There were signs of activity at this house. Men were working on a construction job, finishing a garage that stood in the rear of the building. On the porch, a middle-aged man was reclining in an easy chair; contentedly smoking a pipe as he stared out toward the blue waters of the Sound.

  So engrossed was he that he did not notice the approach of another man who entered the grounds between the side of the house and the grove. When the visitor’s footsteps sounded on the steps of the porch, the man in the chair leaped up to look at the stranger.

  There was something quizzical in the glances that they exchanged. The middle-aged man, brawny and of tanned complexion, surveyed the visitor with a keen, friendly gaze that seemed to carry inquir
y.

  The visitor, an elderly gentleman clad in white knickers, white shirt, and white cap, stared steadily through his gold-rimmed spectacles, then smiled in meditative recognition. He stretched forth his hand in greeting as he came up the steps.

  “Harvey Chittenden!” he exclaimed. “I can hardly believe that it is you. I am Walter Pearson - the old family attorney -“

  The tanned man laughed as he accepted the lawyer’s hand. He shook his head slowly, to indicate that a mistake had been made.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m not Harvey Chittenden. My name is Craig Ware. I came here to put the place in order, and I’m expecting Harvey at any moment now.”

  “Well, well,” remarked the lawyer in an apologetic tone. “The error is mine, Mr. Ware. Of course - of course” - he was nodding thoughtfully - “Harvey is a younger man than you. Strange, what imagination will do. Of course, I have not seen Harvey since he was a boy - but I know the Chittendens, and I fancied that you were he.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Pearson,” said Ware cordially. “I’d never object to being mistaken for Harvey Chittenden. A wonderful young man, Harvey. I’ve known him for years, while he was knocking around. It’s good to see him settle down, now that he’s married. Let me tell you, too, Mr. Pearson, Harvey made no mistake in the girl he married. Wait until you see her -“

  Ware broke off his conversation as an automobile rolled in the driveway from along the cove. The car came to a stop in front of the house. A young man and a young woman alighted. Walter Pearson recognized at once that these must be Harvey Chittenden and his wife.

  THE two came up the steps and shook hands with Ware, who introduced them to Walter Pearson. Harvey Chittenden eyed the lawyer dubiously, and Pearson noted the expression. Harvey was a tall young man, whose expression was one of maturity. Like Ware, he was swarthy in complexion.

  The girl beside him gained Pearson’s instant admiration. Tall, slender, and graceful, Mildred Chittenden - for Harvey had mentioned her name in introducing her - was a young woman of the modern type. Her brown eyes formed a pleasing contrast to her raven-hued hair, and Pearson was glad to note that Mildred accepted him as a welcome guest despite her husband’s rather cold reception of the lawyer.