The Eyes of the Shadow s-2

by Maxwell Grant

  "Well," said Bruce, "I don't like it. Sitting around here when we know that Chefano and his ape-man are waiting. I wish we were going up there to-night."

  "Not to-night," said the Englishman. "It will be good sport to wait. I never cared for rainy nights. They were dreadful in the trenches."

  "I'm going to turn in," declared Harry.

  "Ditto," said Major Weston. "good night, old top."

  The two men went to their rooms. Bruce Duncan sat beside the embers of the open fire. He realized that he had been outvoted. At the same time he felt that his own opinion deserved some consideration. It was his information that had put the wheels in motion. He had a greater interest in the affairs of the ruined house than any one else - Major Weston included. As the nephew of Harvey Duncan, the closest friend of Prince Samanov, Bruce felt that his own word should be final.

  Looking at the table, he saw Vincent's automatic. His own gun was in his room upstairs. A plan began to dominate Bruce's thoughts. His watch showed ten minutes of twelve.

  He tiptoed up the stairs. The doors of the rooms occupied by the other men were closed. All was silent.

  Probably they were already asleep.

  In the darkness, Bruce found his automatic and his flashlight. He crept downstairs and, with both guns pocketed, slipped from the house.

  He moved noiselessly along the path. In the woods he used the flashlight. This was his own expedition. A man was expected at the old ruin by midnight - a man who was supposed to suspect nothing. He would appear as that man. He would surprise the two fiends who waited. If necessary, he would shoot them without mercy. That would bring matters to a definite conclusion.

  With the criminals out of the way, he could probably find the stolen insignia. If not, he and Major Weston could keep the appointment the next week and explain matters.

  THE merits of his plan pleased Bruce when he reached the abandoned lane. His scheme seemed far superior to the one which The Shadow had evolved. To-morrow, Chefano and his powerful brute might both be gone. Get them to-night! It was his privilege, for they had done him an evil turn.

  Bruce turned out his flashlight when he saw the open gate. The trap was set, and he would turn it against his enemies. He made as little noise as possible along the path.

  He came beneath the towering corner of the ruin, a portion of the old house which had been obscured by trees when he had viewed the building from Rocky Summit.

  Bruce took the path to the far side of the building. He stopped at the foot of stone steps. Below him was an open door, with a dimly lighted passageway. This was the lure for the fifth man! It was the trap that had ensnared four unsuspecting victims!

  Bruce drew both guns from his pocket. He stepped cautiously into the passageway. The light was brighter at the end. The close-set walls were of solid stone. No danger here. He moved quietly to the end of the passage. Before coming into the light, he turned and looked back toward the entrance.

  The steps seemed shadowy and black, as though some one was concealed there. Duncan went back cautiously. He thought he detected motion in the gloom. But he found the steps vacant.

  Annoyed by his imagination, Duncan silently resumed his course and reached the end of the passage again. He looked back and saw the same shadowy depths. He decided that the blackness was due to the dimness of the light.

  There was a doorway at the end of the passage - a doorway to the right. The door was open; it extended into the passage, against the wall in front of Bruce Duncan.

  The young man watched the door suspiciously, then moved to the end of the passage and turned to the right. He stopped short, his hands behind his hips, concealing the automatics.

  A man was seated at the table. He turned as he heard Duncan's approach. It was Bernardo Chefano.

  "Good evening," said Chefano in a suave voice. His lips twisted in a slight smile. "You are Major Weston?"

  "Yes," replied Bruce.

  "Come in," said Chefano cordially.

  Duncan waited. He had the advantage here. From his position he could command both the room and the passage to the outside. He was standing in semidarkness. Chefano could not see the position of his hands. Bruce looked about the room. He wondered where the terrible ape-faced creature was.

  "What is the matter?" questioned Chefano smoothly. "I have been expecting you, major. I suppose you expected to find my uncle, Prince Samanov." The criminal's face took on a saddened expression. "I am sorry to inform you, major. My uncle is dead."

  "Dead?" echoed Bruce. He knew that Chefano had not recognized him as the man who had been attacked by the ape-faced creature. He had not expected to be recognized.

  "Dead," repeated Chefano. "Killed in battle, a martyr to our cause. Step inside, major. I have waited long to meet you."

  THE invitation was the needed clue. Bruce knew the method now; he knew where the ape-man was!

  Chefano desired Bruce to step across the threshold, because the monster was in the room - in one of the near corners - waiting to spring!

  In which corner? Ah, Chefano had betrayed himself! For one instant, his eyes had moved to Duncan's right. His lips had twisted momentarily into a distorted shape. He was restraining the creature until the proper moment.

  With one action, Bruce Duncan stepped suddenly into the room. With his left hand he raised an automatic to cover Chefano, who seemed obviously without a weapon. At the same instant, he looked to the right and pointed his other gun toward the corner. There was the monster - six feet away - ready for a spring.

  Bruce Duncan's finger was on the trigger, but he did not press it. The ape-faced creature had more intelligence than Bruce had supposed. The sight of the revolver had curbed it. Back into the corner it sank, and its prompt action saved its life.

  Bruce was master of the situation. He could wait. He laughed. Should he reveal his identity or play the part of Weston? Bruce decided on the latter course.

  "I suspected this," he declared. "The second message with the seal of Prince Samanov - I detected the imitation. Come eight days early, eh? What reason for the change? Had it been later, I might have suspected nothing."

  From his position Bruce could easily observe both Chefano and the ape-man. The former, his lips twisted venomously, sat with upraised hands. The monster still cowered in the corner.

  "A creature here, to kill me," continued Bruce. "A monster - not even human. It shall die. You" - he glanced momentarily toward Chefano - "shall live - for a while. I will learn the truth of this deception -

  from your ugly lips!"

  The drama had gone far enough. Bruce knew that he must make good his boast. It was right that he should kill the ape-man, the horrible monster that was responsible for at least four deaths. His own safety depended upon immediate action. The effect of the ape-man's death would awe Chefano; from then on, Bruce could deal with a single, helpless foe.

  HE threw one last glance at Chefano. The man's distorted lips had formed a brutal smile. There was a sudden noise from behind. Two iron hands gripped Bruce Duncan's wrists, and his arms were twisted toward the floor. The revolver slipped from his left hand; the automatic in his right roared as he pulled the trigger. The bullets ricocheted from the stone floor. The ape-faced monster was unharmed.

  The creature was upon Bruce, but at Chefano's hissing whistle it withdrew. The twisted lips spat a command, and the monster slunk back to its corner.

  Its assistance was not needed. The man who had fallen upon Bruce Duncan from behind had caught him unawares. He lay helpless, upon his back, his eyes staring toward the doorway which he had entered.

  The door was partway open now, and Bruce realized his mistake. Its hinges were at the opposite side. It was the entrance to a room at the end of the passage.

  The half-opened door seemed to cast a heavy shadow in the passage. The door was swaying slightly, and the shadow seemed to move with it, then recede along the passageway. Chefano had taken the lantern from the wire and was bringing it closer.

  "Put it back," or
dered the man who was holding Duncan. "We don't need it."

  "I wanted to see his face, close to," said Chefano. "You caught him right, Frenchy."

  "I'm good at that," admitted Frenchy. "The trouble was the door. I had to be slow when I opened it. I was afraid the hinges would squeak."

  Duncan became limp as he ceased his last attempt to struggle. Frenchy was sitting on his body, pinning him so cleverly that he could scarcely move.

  "What are you going to do with him?" asked Frenchy. "Let Jupe finish him?"

  The ape-faced creature snarled at the mention of its name.

  "No," said Chefano. His lips had become hideous in their expression. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's too good for him. The others came quietly. They died quickly. He created trouble. Let him think about it. He shall die of his own accord."

  "Where? How?"

  "In his grave," said Chefano.

  Bruce Duncan groaned as he realized the significance of those words.

  CHAPTER XXXII. BURIED ALIVE

  BRUCE DUNCAN lay on the stone floor, watching the preparations for his interment. He was bound now, his wrists and ankles held with stout rope. He had been gagged with a handkerchief. Frenchy sat upon his body to prevent him from moving about. Duncan's captor appeared to view the proceedings as a huge entertainment.

  Chefano ordered Jupe to the corner where the boxes lay. The ape-man carried one of the improvised coffins with ease and laid it on the floor beside Duncan.

  "Take it outside, Jupe," ordered Chefano. "Out by the big hole I dug."

  The monster obeyed. While he was gone, Chefano produced three shovels, a bag of nails and two hammers, which he muffled with cloth.

  "I'm sorry old Coffran isn't here to-night," said Chefano. "He would enjoy this."

  Jupe returned. At Chefano's command, he picked up Duncan's body and flung it across his shoulder.

  Chefano uttered his hissing whistle.

  "Don't hurt him, Jupe," he said.

  Frenchy took the lead, holding Duncan's loaded automatic at the ready in his overcoat pocket. Then came Chefano with a shovel, nails, and a hammer.

  Jupe followed, toting the prisoner. Bound helplessly, Bruce Duncan shivered as the party entered the graveyard. He was resigned to his fate, yet he regretted that he had not shot Chefano and the ape-man the instant he had walked into their underground den. He was going to a horrible death - one to which none but fiends would assign a living creature.

  Chefano, with Frenchy standing guard, made a cursory examination of the coffin. Then he whistled for Jupe to fetch his human burden.

  For a moment, the ape-man hesitated. It seemed as though the eerie place were occupied by more than just the four of them. Not that Jupe saw any other. It was more a dread, oppressive feeling that called to some primitive sense. As though intense, boring eyes were fastening themselves upon him with tentacles of doom. And there among the night's haunting shadows, there seemed to be a greater, all-enveloping shadow.

  Chefano whistled again. It was not for Jupe, the ape-man, to think. With his burden, he shambled forward.

  Jupe, with Chefano standing by, carefully placed Bruce in the pine-board box. Looking upward, the bound man could see the white mausoleum, looming like death itself.

  "Are you comfortable?" hissed Chefano in a jeering whisper. "I hope you like your bed; you will sleep in it for a long, long time."

  "A long, long while," echoed Frenchy.

  "Get the cover," hissed Chefano. His voice seemed part of the whistling wind.

  Frenchy prepared to place the top portion of the crude coffin in position.

  "Not yet," said Chefano. "We're going to give him a fighting chance." The man's voice seemed to laugh in sinister fashion. "We'll let him call for help. Let him force his way out. Through the cover, up through six feet of earth!"

  He drew a knife from his pocket. He turned the flash on Duncan's prostrate form. He cut the rope about the prisoner's ankles, then the rope at the wrists, which were beneath Duncan's body. This did not effect a release; Bruce struggled but found the ropes did not yield immediately.

  Chefano carefully severed the handkerchief with which Bruce was gagged. The man in the coffin turned his head and tried to loosen the choking cloth.

  "Quick," hissed Chefano. "The cover."

  THE flat top of the coffin came in place above. It seemed to shut Bruce off from the rest of the world.

  Even the sighing wind had ceased. Bruce Duncan felt terribly imprisoned, and his thoughts brought horror.

  Dull sounds came from above. They were driving nails with the muffled hammers!

  Bruce tried to roll about. His struggle was desperate. If he could fight clear of the bonds, he might force the cover before they had it nailed! The ropes were yielding under his frenzied efforts. The gag had loosened and was slipping beneath his chin.

  "Help!"

  His cry seemed hopeless. Muffled within the coffin, overwhelmed by the wind! A faint cry far from human aid. Perhaps Vincent and the Englishman had discovered his absence. They might be coming to save him! Bruce was delirious enough to believe almost anything, yet even that one hope seemed futile.

  He had one hand loose and was pressing against the top of the coffin. The board was heavy, yet it seemed to bend. But now they were lifting the coffin, carrying it to the grave!

  It was going down, down, down - slowly down, with ropes beneath it. The thought stunned Bruce momentarily. His mind seemed apart from his body. He was thinking of other things while he shouted and beat against the top of the box.

  He writhed and turned on his side. Both hands were free; his ankles were almost loosened. He tried to get on his knees to brace his back against the cover.

  Thud! It was dirt upon the coffin. The noise was repeated - again and again. Bruce was no longer shouting for aid, no longer fighting wildly. Somehow the terrible situation had calmed his feverish mind.

  He was making one concentrated, superhuman effort to gain his freedom.

  Bracing on hands and knees, he pushed against the top of the pine box, almost confident that he could force it. But now the weight was terrific. The thudding had ceased; there was no noise from above. He realized that Chefano and Frenchy, aided by the imitative Jupe, had been piling on the soft earth with terrific speed.

  He sank to the floor of the box, exhausted. He could no longer struggle. It seemed that he was being crushed, pressed beneath tremendous weight. Even the air seemed thick - almost solid. Such blackness!

  He could feel it!

  One last vague desire gripped Bruce Duncan's mind. Death was near. If he could only hear a final sound from the world above! His gasps seemed to echo through the box in which he lay. He made a great effort to hold his breath while he listened.

  His hope was rewarded. He heard a sound. Not from above, but at the side. Loose dirt, forced down by the earth above; dirt, rattling beside the box in which he lay. He gasped.

  The sound came again - at the side and near the end. It was a scratching sound. It became more definite than that! Something was striking against the end of the box!

  Bruce heard a muffled, clicking noise. Then came a squeak, that sounded as though a nail was being pulled from wood. He extended one hand and pressed it against the end of the box. He felt a vibration.

  The end of the coffin was moving outward! What did it mean? What was causing it?

  He pressed again, and the end seemed to yield. Again he heard the muffled clicking. Then came a soft, sibilant whisper - a strange, creepy whisper - a voice in the grave!

  Bruce shuddered. It was death, he thought. At first he could not distinguish the words, but as he listened, they came plainly.

  "Lie still," said the voice. "You are safe. Be calm."

  HE obeyed the command. Some strange being had spoken from the depths below ground. The voice was weird, yet encouraging. Bruce did not move. He breathed deeply. The air seemed clearer.

  "Press it" came the hissing whisper. "Press
outward!"

  Bruce obeyed. The end of the box moved a full inch. It was on a slant, and as it yielded, he heard the rasping sound of slipping nails.

  "Press slowly," came the whisper. It seemed vague and quiet now.

  Bruce used his hands carefully, half wondering whether the whole event was real. The rough wood scraped his fingers; he was sure that he was neither dreaming nor dying.

  "Stop!"

  There was a slight jolt at the end of the coffin. Reaching out cautiously, Bruce found that the end of the box was open. The air seemed clear but damp.

  "Crawl forward - carefully."

  His hands were in dirt beyond the coffin. On hands and knees, Bruce emerged into solid earth. He was in a damp, moldy tunnel - a small passage that was barely large enough for his body. It twisted to the right.

  He made the turn with difficulty.

  The hole became larger as he moved upward. The angle became greater as he continued. His hands slipped as he clutched at the sides of the cramped tunnel.

  Then his wrists were seized, and he was drawn bodily upward. He was clear of the hole; his knees had reached the surface. The hands released his wrists. He fell forward on solid ground!

  Bruce uttered a long sigh. His limbs were aching; his ankles and wrists were sore from the ropes that had bound them. But his mind was freed of torment. He managed to roll on his back. He looked above him, and through the Stygian gloom he fancied he saw a white ceiling above.

  He was in the mausoleum!

  Some one was working close beside him, working so silently that Bruce could hardly hear the labor.

  Some one was shoveling dirt back into the hole from which he had emerged.

  All trace of time passed from Bruce Duncan's mind. His brain responded only to the soft sound of dirt, dropping downward. Then came a patting noise - the smoothing of the surface where the hole had been.

  From that moment on, all seemed a dream. Bruce knew that he was outside the mausoleum; that he was moving forward through the rain and wind, sometimes being carried, sometimes walking. Some one was beside him, directing the way. But Bruce Duncan's eyelids were heavy; he could not open them. At last all seemed blank. A great faintness came over him.