The Grove Of Doom s-37

by Maxwell Grant

  Above was an impenetrable growth of overlapping branches. The whole formed a coppery-hued canopy that completely shut out the light of the sun. The gloom within this grove came from the lower elevation, about the tree trunks.

  The whole scene was amazing. No branches began until eight feet from the ground. The tree trunks were not close together, nor was there any underbrush. Passage was easy, yet the corridors that stretched beyond seemed to cry out an insidious warning to all who might enter their alluring reaches.

  Mildred laughed aloud at her own impressions, then the hollow sound of her own mirth frightened her. The silence of her footfalls on the brownish sward was awesome. An impulse of flight gripped the girl’s imaginative mind. She hurried back toward the lawn.

  When she emerged upon the green grass, Mildred felt that she was back in the world where she belonged. Sounds were audible now - the hammering of workmen, the ringing of the telephone in the house. The latter sound ended, so Mildred assumed that Harvey had answered the call.

  Unconsciously, the girl found herself again studying that grove of trees. She wanted to know more about it, and it occurred to her that by following the narrow strip of sandy shore, she could skirt the awe-inspiring woods. So she set out upon that quest, strolling just beyond the edge of the copper beeches.

  After a considerable distance, Mildred reached the spot where the grove ended at the extension of the golf course. Here, in the sand, Mildred noticed that people had been present, for the tiny white grains were scruffed in great confusion.

  She was standing, unknowing, upon the very spot where the Malay sailors had landed a few nights before.

  THE sound of voices startled the girl. She turned to see a group of four golfers and their caddies, who were arriving at a green not far from the shore. Across the bunkers, Mildred recognized the face of Walter Pearson. The lawyer did not see the girl. He and his companions were too intent upon their game.

  To Mildred, this was an opportunity to speak to Pearson. She felt that a cordial greeting was due him, after Harvey’s unjustified anger at Lower Beechview. So she walked over to the bunker and stood quietly watching until Pearson might happen to glance in her direction.

  Before Pearson chanced to turn toward the shore, a boy came running up along the fairway, and handed an envelope to the old lawyer. Pearson opened the envelope, read the message, and thrust it in his pocket.

  “Bah!” he exclaimed. “A call from the office. I’ll have to get right up to the clubhouse. Here, caddy - carry my clubs along for a few holes; then if I do not return, take them to the locker room. The chances are that I may have to run into New York at once, but if I can settle it by phone, I shall rejoin you gentlemen.”

  Pearson looked along the fairway. Because of the contour of the grove, the fairway made a long, roundabout way to the clubhouse. Pearson’s decision was immediate. Waving good-bye to his companions, he walked straight into the mass of beeches, choosing the direct shortcut that would take him to his destination.

  Mildred Chittenden stood wondering. The other men were gone toward the fourteenth tee, out of sight beyond the bunkers. She could see Walter Pearson, striding steadily into the grove.

  A terrible fear seized the girl. She tried to cry out a warning, not knowing why. Then the call died on her lips, as she realized how ridiculous it would be.

  It was too late, now. Pearson’s white-clad form was swallowed amid the trees. Mildred Chittenden stood alone by the shore, wondering what impulse had caused her to fear for the elderly attorney.

  Slowly, the girl made her way back along the shore. The proximity of the grove, with its mass of motionless foliage, was more impressive now than before. Mildred was deep in fearsome thought when she reached the lawn by Lower Beechview. Harvey Chittenden and Craig Ware were seated on the porch. They did not notice Mildred’s arrival until the girl had joined them.

  As the afternoon waned, Mildred Chittenden retained a troubled silence. Her mind could not forget that simple incident at the thirteenth hole. Some psychic influence seemed to tell her that Walter Pearson had walked into a danger zone, when he had entered the grove of silent motionless beeches!

  Approaching darkness increased the tragic thought. The girl’s alarm could not be stifled. She faced the future with an unaccountable worry.

  That night, Mildred Chittenden dreamed that she could see the face of Walter Pearson. It stared at her through a coppery haze, and its eyes seemed fixed in death. Then the dream changed and over the sleeping girl came the terrible fear that had clutched her within the fringe of the grove.

  CHAPTER IV

  AT THE CLUBHOUSE

  “HERE’S news for you!”

  Craig Ware passed the newspaper across the table to Harvey Chittenden. The two, with Mildred, were seated at late breakfast, on the second morning after the girl had seen Walter Pearson enter the grove.

  Harvey Chittenden, no longer in ill humor, took the paper from Ware’s hand. He scanned the headlines. Mildred, peering over her husband’s shoulder, gave a short, startled gasp.

  Beside the largest headline appeared a two-column picture of Walter Pearson. It bore a significant caption of two words:

  Lawyer Missing

  Harvey Chittenden read the newspaper story slowly. He placed the journal on the table, and quietly began to stir his coffee with a spoon. Mildred picked up the paper and studied the account. A troubled expression came over her face.

  “This is terrible, Harvey!” cried the girl. “They don’t know what happened to Mr. Pearson! They haven’t been able to trace him for two days. Where can he be?”

  “I don’t care where he is,” responded Harvey testily. “If you want my opinion, I think that Pearson is a crook at heart. He wouldn’t be representing my former family if he was on the level. He’s probably mixed himself up with some phony deal, and has taken to the woods. That’s the type of a scoundrel he is.”

  Harvey gulped his coffee and arose from the table. He strode out on the porch, letting the door slam behind him. His ill humor had returned at the mention of Pearson’s name. Mildred was wondering. Harvey’s last remark had carried a double meaning.

  “Taken to the woods -“

  That was a slang expression, indicating that Pearson had purposely sought obscurity. But to Mildred, it carried a pointed recollection. The last time she had seen Walter Pearson, he was entering the grove beside the golf course. Did Harvey know that fact; and had he purposely used the phrase?

  Mildred began to read the story more carefully, and Craig Ware sat down beside her. Pearson’s disappearance was unquestionably a mystery. The old lawyer seldom kept account of his actions, and the last time he had been seen was two days previously - first, when he had departed from the office; later, at the Beechview Country Club.

  The office had received a call later in the afternoon, at which time Pearson had left the brief message that he could be reached at his uptown apartment. There, a servant reported that Pearson had called to state that he would not be in that night.

  “ODD, isn’t it?” remarked Craig Ware. “Still, it is scarcely likely that anything could have happened to Pearson. Perhaps he decided to take a business trip. They will probably hear of him soon.”

  “Craig,” said Mildred solemnly, “I saw Mr. Pearson two days ago.”

  “You saw him? Where?”

  “Over on the golf course. I had walked along the shore. Someone came with a message for him. He started off through the grove. That was the last I saw of him.”

  “He was probably going to the clubhouse!”

  “I suppose so, Craig, but the sight of him going among those trees frightened me. I had a terrible presentiment that something was going to happen to the man! I wonder - I wonder if he ever reached the clubhouse!”

  Craig Ware laughed. He seemed to think lightly of Mildred’s fears. He stuffed his pipe with tobacco, lighted it, and gazed speculatively through the window.

  “That is a silly theory, Mildred,” he objected. “Read the
newspaper story again. You will see that Pearson was heard from as late as the evening. So he must have reached the clubhouse. I think it would be wise to forget the matter.”

  “Why?” questioned Mildred, as Ware paused.

  “Because,” said Ware, in a low voice, “Harvey feels very vindictive toward Pearson. You heard how he spoke just now. People sometimes attach significance to idle threats. You and I know that Harvey can mean no harm toward Walter Pearson; but others might not think the same.”

  The door opened, and Jessup entered. The man was well dressed today. He looked more like a gentleman of leisure than an overseer of workmen.

  “I’m going uptown, Mr. Ware,” declared Jessup. “I’ll have to see Mr. Chittenden, I suppose, before I leave the -“

  “That’s right, Jessup,” responded Ware, with a smile. “Mr. Chittenden is head man around here. He went outside a few minutes ago. You will probably find him on the lawn.”

  Jessup departed. Mildred, watching through the window, saw him meet Harvey down by the water front. The two talked for a few minutes; then Jessup left. The roar of a motor announced his departure from the premises.

  “I’ve been worried, Craig,” declared Mildred. “Worried about Harvey. I haven’t been able to sleep for two nights. The night after I saw Mr. Pearson go into the grove, I was sure that I heard someone moving about the house. I went to Harvey’s room; the door was locked. When I entered, I found Harvey smoking a cigarette, while he rocked in a chair. He seemed very angry because I had disturbed him.”

  “He is nervous - that’s all,” said Ware.

  “I heard a noise outside, too,” added Mildred. “I think that Harvey must have been walking about the grounds. It worried me, Craig. I never knew him to act this way before.”

  “Don’t worry, Mildred,” said the showman soothingly. “He will get over that restlessness before long.”

  Mildred tried to calm her fears. She went out on the lawn. Harvey had disappeared.

  The girl wondered why he had talked so long to Jessup. Where was Jessup now? Mildred recalled that he had gone on business up in the little town beyond the country club.

  HAD Mildred been an observer of Jessup’s present business, she would have had new cause for worry. The solemn-faced supervisor was at that moment riding along the road that led to Upper Beechview, where the other Chittendens lived.

  He reached a gateway that led into Galbraith Chittenden’s home, and drove beyond it. Leaving the car, Jessup moved through a clump of shrubbery. It was fully a quarter of an hour before he returned. He stepped in the car, drove back along the inland road, and parked beside the Beechview Country Club.

  Here, Jessup became a man of singular demeanor. He entered the clubhouse with all the assurance of a member. No one challenged his presence, for no check was made on members except when one played golf. Walking through a spacious lounge, Jessup, remarkably inconspicuous, made a survey of all persons who were present. He was about to leave, when he spied a man standing by a door that led to the spacious veranda.

  Something about the stranger’s appearance attracted Jessup’s close attention. He saw the man step out on the veranda, and turn to the right. With swift, soft stride, Jessup crossed the room and dropped out of sight beside a window. Peering at an angle, he saw that the man he was watching had encountered another individual, and that the two were shaking hands. Jessup dropped within the window, and kept his body out of sight behind a chair. On hands and knees, he listened to the conversation.

  The man whom Jessup had first spied was speaking. This man, in the short glimpse that Jessup had gained, had appeared as a short, stocky fellow, clad in a checkered golfing outfit.

  The other - whom Jessup had barely seen - was a tall man, of confident bearing. His face had been turned away so Jessup had not viewed it.

  “Well, well, Mr. Cranston,” the stocky man was saying. “I didn’t expect to meet you here. I’m not surprised, though, to find that Lamont Cranston is a member of the Beechview Country Club.”

  “I belong to a great many clubs, Merrick,” replied the tall man, in a quiet, impressive tone. “And, to be frank with you, I am rather surprised to find Calvin Merrick here. Business, I suppose?”

  “You guessed it,” laughed Merrick. His voice became low. “There’s no use trying to keep it dark from you, Mr. Cranston. I’m out here on an important job.”

  “Pertaining to Walter Pearson,” returned Cranston, in his quiet tone.

  “You guessed it again!” Merrick’s words were confidential. “You’d make a real detective yourself, Mr. Cranston. I’m telling you why I’m here, because I know you won’t mention it to anyone. Our office has been asked to trace Pearson. It’s a big job for a private detective agency. They assigned me to work on my own - find out something, then report back. So I figured I’d come out here for a starter.”

  “Have you learned any facts?”

  “Not many, but I’m working on a clue. I suppose you’ve read about the Pearson case. Well, here’s the way I’ve doped it. Pearson was playing golf the afternoon before he disappeared. We got reports on his actions here. It seems he was out with some other players, and he quit the game on the thirteenth hole. Took a shortcut to the clubhouse, and was gone when his friends came in.

  “Well, it may sound like blind-man’s buff, but I’m going to try to put myself in Pearson’s place. I’m going to look around there by the thirteenth hole. Maybe I’ll get a start; if I do, I’ll vanish like Pearson did - and when I come back to town, I may be able to report where he is.”

  Cranston chuckled slightly. Jessup, by the window, heard him speak to Merrick before departing.

  “Good luck to you, Merrick,” were Cranston’s words. “I’ll have to leave you; I’m going out with a foursome.”

  As the two men left the veranda, Jessup’s long, thin face peeked into view. He saw Merrick, the detective, strolling down a flight of steps. Cranston was going in the opposite direction.

  Jessup waited.

  FOR some unknown reason, this lanky, furtive man was keenly interested in the conversation that he had overheard. There was no doubt about his purpose here; he had come to learn if anyone at the club was perturbed about the disappearance of Walter Pearson. Through coincidence and quick action, Jessup had gained certain knowledge.

  Now, as he stalked toward the veranda, Jessup was particularly concerned with the actions of one man - Calvin Merrick, the detective. Coming through the door, Jessup watched the sleuth idling across the space between the clubhouse and the links. It was obvious that Merrick intended to go down to the thirteenth green in the near future.

  Reentering the clubhouse, Jessup found an obscure telephone in the corner. He dropped a nickel in the slot, and called a number. When a voice responded, he spoke a few cryptic words into the mouthpiece. Evidently the person at the other end understood his brief jargon. Jessup hung up the phone.

  Going back to the veranda, Jessup again sighted Calvin Merrick. The detective was smoking a cigarette, staring across the links toward the shore of the Sound. Jessup strolled away, heading for his parked car.

  In his study of Merrick, Jessup had completely eliminated all thought of the other man - Lamont Cranston. Only the detective concerned Jessup; for Jessup had classed Cranston as one of the wealthy idlers who formed the principal members of the wealthy Beechview Club.

  Cranston had expressed but a passing interest in Merrick’s statements. Evidently Cranston had met the detective some time in the past, and the two were no more than mere acquaintances. They had separated now; Merrick to investigate, Cranston to play golf. They had nothing in common. Jessup smiled dryly as he glanced over his shoulder for a final glimpse of Calvin Merrick’s stocky form.

  FOUR men were standing on the first tee as Jessup’s car drove by. One of them, peering sharply from the corner of his eyes, watched the departing automobile. That man was Lamont Cranston.

  As the member of a foursome, he had silently observed Jessup when the man had a
ppeared upon the veranda. He had seen Jessup watching Calvin Merrick.

  Three of the golfers had driven from the tee. Lamont Cranston set up his ball, and sent a long shot straight down the fairway. As the players and caddies started off toward the hole, Cranston remained alone.

  Watching, he saw the automobile speeding along the curving road, far away, following the winding course that led down to the cove by Lower Beechview. Lamont Cranston’s eyes were keen, his firm, stern-chiseled face was emotionless.

  From thin, straight lips came a low, sinister laugh. It was a tone of knowing mirth - a foreboding mockery that carried an uncanny spell. None heard it, for Lamont Cranston was alone. That laugh, far from all listeners, announced an identity that none would have expected to find in this particular place.

  It was a laugh that had brought terror to the underworld; a laugh that had taunted fiends of crime; a laugh that had marked the ending of insidious schemes, and had sounded as the death knell to doomed evil-doers.

  The author of that laugh was a mysterious being who remained invisible at night, and who disguised himself by day. He was a personage who could seemingly be everywhere, the possessor of a master mind that could frustrate the deepest schemes of crime.

  Only one pair of lips could utter that weird mockery that left no doubt of identity. The laugh of Lamont Cranston was the laugh of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER V

  THE CLUTCH OF DEATH

  A GOLF ball dropped from space, and thudded on the close-clipped green of the thirteenth hole. A few moments later, two other spheroids made a similar arrival. Then players and caddies approached and walked upon the green toward the balls.

  One of the men was Lamont Cranston.

  While the others were studying the positions of the golf balls, Cranston strolled toward the bunkers beyond the green. From this position, he could watch the actions of a man who stood upon the sandy shore.

  None of Cranston’s companions were similarly observant. They were looking back toward the fourth member of the foursome who had just found his ball, and was playing it from the rough.