The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

  going out. Each man must be on hand—except, of course, when he notifies me and receives my

  permission to be away."

  "Very good, sir."

  "Let me remind you," said the professor, "that you must be careful in this house. I have chemicals and

  mechanical appliances which are dangerous.

  "Doors that are locked are kept that way with a purpose. Those that are unlocked may have been left

  open through negligence.

  "If anything occurs that seems to demand investigation, notify me before you proceed. You will learn

  everything by degrees. So be patient."

  WITH this admonition, the old man dropped the subject, and immediately became engrossed in his

  work.

  Harry threw a hasty look in the direction of Stokes. He wondered if the man had suspected the extent of

  his visit outdoors, last night.

  Professor Whitburn had given the matter no special consideration. He had not questioned if Harry had

  seen anything unusual. But perhaps Stokes was thinking on the subject.

  The man was looking at Harry, but his twisted face showed nothing. Whatever Stokes might have in mind

  was not revealed to Harry Vincent.

  Taking the books that the professor had pointed out, Harry left the study.

  When six o'clock arrived, he tuned in on Station WNX; but no message came to-night. This was his last

  opportunity to listen in; for the taboo on the radio began at eight.

  During dinner, Harry reminded Stokes that he was going to the village. He suggested that they leave

  shortly before nine o'clock. Stokes gruffly replied that that suited him.

  The brief exchange of conversation made no visible impression on Marsh; but Harry was sure that

  Crawford had made note of it.

  The bearded man was a difficult fellow to analyze. Harry still regarded him as the real menace on Death

  Island—if the menace there was a human one.

  At ten minutes of nine, Stokes entered the living room. Harry looked up from his book. The man poked

  his thumb over his shoulder, indicating that the motor boat was ready.

  As they neared the dock, Harry took advantage of the fact that Stokes was ahead of him. He shot a

  quick glance toward the tower. It was visible in the pale light of the sky—a strange, boxlike addition to

  the top of the oddly-shaped house.

  Harry could barely discern the windows. There was no illumination in the tower.

  Harry stumbled against a stone. When he regained his footing, he found Stokes looking at him. The man's

  face could scarcely be seen in the darkness beneath the trees.

  "Watch where you're going."

  Stokes did not speak unpleasantly; yet there was something in his tone that made Harry suspect that the

  man had caught the reason for the stumble.

  THEY entered the motor boat. Across the lake they chugged, swinging in front of the formidable cliff that

  loomed like a grisly skull.

  The resemblance was hard to observe at night. Harry looked back at the cliff as they shot along through

  the water. Death Island was merely a shapeless mass that became indistinguishable as they neared

  Harvey's Wharf.

  Stokes handed Harry his flashlight, when they had docked. Then he gave definite instructions for reaching

  the village.

  "Go right," he said gruffly. "Walk along the little path. When it meets the side road, turn left. That will take

  you to the crossroads at the village. Much shorter than going by the road through the woods."

  "How long will it take me?" asked Harry.

  "Five or six minutes."

  "It's pretty near nine thirty now. Suppose I get back at ten thirty."

  "All right then," agreed Stokes. "Make it ten thirty, or a little after. I may go back to the island. If I'm not

  here, wait for me."

  Harry went along the path. It was only quarter past nine. He had purposely declared it to be nine thirty in

  order to gain more time. He did not hear the motor boat begin to chug. Perhaps Stokes had decided to

  wait, after all.

  Harry went directly to the garage. The proprietor was there, and he began to discuss the matter of the

  car. Then suddenly Harry excused himself.

  "I'm going to make a phone call," he said. "You'll be here a while, won't you?"

  "Until midnight," replied the garage man, "and if you're late, I'll wait for you a while."

  There were a few persons in the general store. Harry did not look at any of them. He went to the cigar

  counter; and while he was making a purchase, some one approached him.

  "Can you tell me the exact time?" asked a voice.

  Harry glanced at his watch without looking at the questioner.

  "Nine thirty-two," he said.

  He saw the other man's hands, as the fellow removed his watch and set it, placing the hands so that they

  indicated nine thirty-seven.

  There was something about the man's actions that Harry recognized. He looked up quickly, and found

  himself gazing into the face of Bruce Duncan.

  Harry repressed an exclamation of greeting. So Duncan was the messenger! That was why Fellows had

  wanted to see him.

  Harry said nothing. He completed his purchase, and left the store. He turned to the right; and walked up

  a path that led away from the road. Bruce Duncan joined him a few minutes later.

  "What's the dope?" asked Bruce.

  "Rather meager," whispered Harry. "Four men on the island, besides myself. Old Professor

  Whitburn—he's strange enough. But the others are tough babies."

  He had been thinking over his information, and now he gave Bruce a terse account of all that had

  transpired.

  He prefaced his remarks of last night's events by explaining that the natives believed the island to be

  haunted. This brought a snort from Duncan; but as Harry told of the weird beings that had flitted to the

  tower, and ended with a vivid description of the apparition that had risen from the lake, Bruce whistled in

  surprise.

  "I wouldn't believe that junk, Harry," he said, "if it came from any one but you. It's the craziest story I've

  ever heard—and the strangest. I can't figure what's going on over there.

  "Maybe I'll have a chance to watch from a distance. Not to-night, though, because I have to cut out for

  Hartford."

  "Just how do you enter in, Bruce?" asked Harry. He knew that Duncan was not an agent of The

  Shadow, although the young man had once served in that capacity.

  "Well," explained Bruce, "I've been let in on a few things, and have been told to keep my mouth

  shut—for my own good. So I'm helping out.

  "I received a phone call from your friend Claude Fellows. I went to his office. He told me that I was in

  danger."

  "What sort of danger?"

  "Something to do with those jewels that I got from Russia, the time you and The Shadow helped me.

  Some one has wised up to the fact that I have them. The result is that I'm under observation. So Fellows

  advised me to get out, and do it neatly. I wouldn't."

  "Why not?"

  Bruce Duncan laughed.

  "When there's trouble, I like to be around," he said. "Fellows insisted that I go away, and tell no one

  where I was. I said I had no place to go. He told me come back to see him later, which I did. Then he

  offered me a plan."

  "Which was -"

  "To serve as a messenger. He said that you were in danger up here; that it wouldn't do you any harm if I

  should be seen in the vicinity.

  "I slid out of
New York, and here I am. I was instructed to notify Fellows from Hartford, whether or not

  you kept the appointment. So I'm going back there to-night. Perhaps I'll be over again."

  "I don't see where you are in danger, Bruce," said Harry slowly. "There's no connection between the

  jewels and Professor Whitburn. There hasn't been anything happen that indicates the jewels are

  involved."

  "Yes, there has," whispered Bruce Duncan excitedly. "Something has happened; and I am the only man

  who knows it. I discovered it on my way up here; I'm going to notify Fellows when I report."

  Something in Duncan's voice told Harry that an unusual discovery had been made. He listened intently for

  a further explanation.

  CHAPTER XXI. THE ROOM IN THE TOWER

  DUNCAN spoke in a low voice. "On the way from New York I stopped in a small town in Connecticut.

  While talking with a garage man, I learned that there was a dangerous curve a few miles farther on. A car

  had gone over the edge—into a precipice.

  "The driver of the car had been killed. Yet the cause of the accident had not been ascertained. I saw the

  car; it was there in the town; and the broken rear axle made me believe that something had smashed it

  before the accident.

  "'Who was driving the car?' I asked.

  "'The fellow hasn't been identified,' I was told. 'The New York license was a phony. They brought the

  man's body in; it's in the morgue now.'

  "There must be a morbid streak in my nature. I decided to go over and view the body. It was in the back

  room of a local undertaking establishment. When I saw the face, I recognized the man immediately."

  "Who was it?" questioned Harry.

  "Berchik," replied Duncan. "The man who brought the jewels from Russia. They got him—because he

  knew. Do you wonder why I'm in danger?"

  "You are in danger, Bruce," replied Harry soberly. "Be sure to give that information to Fellows, so it will

  -"

  "So it will reach The Shadow." Bruce Duncan supplied the ending of the sentence with promptness. "I'm

  going to do that, Harry."

  "Have you seen any danger threatening yourself?" questioned Harry.

  "None," replied Bruce. "Only -"

  "Only what?"

  "I can't understand why this girl—Arlette DeLand—took such sudden interest in me. I was introduced to

  her by a German whom I met coming back on the boat from Europe. I knew nothing about the man's

  history. I am wondering if Arlette could be -"

  "Arlette is all right," interposed Harry. He could feel indignation sweeping over him. "She saved me

  once—the night before I met her with you. Got me out of a bad jam -"

  "She didn't recognize you when she met you!" exclaimed Bruce.

  "I know that," admitted Harry. "But she was the same girl. She called me up, before I came here—to

  warn me against the place— which proves -"

  "Which proves that she's mixed up in the affair," interrupted Duncan calmly.

  THESE words stunned Harry Vincent.

  He realized that Bruce Duncan had clearly summed up the situation. Arlette must be a factor in the events

  which had transpired. Her presence at the Pink Rat had been no accident. Her acquaintance with Bruce

  Duncan; her mysterious phone call—

  "You're right, Bruce," admitted Harry thoughtfully. "She's in it; but somehow, I trust her."

  "While I'm staying clear of her," replied Duncan. "Maybe she fell for you, Harry. At the same time, take

  my advice, and be careful."

  Harry suddenly realized that they had been talking for a long time. Their meeting had served its purpose.

  It was not wise to remain here longer.

  "When will I see you again?" he asked Bruce.

  "I don't know. You will be notified, I suppose—just as you were before."

  "Don't forget to mention the radio in your report, then. That is important. I can't listen to WNX after eight

  o'clock."

  Harry left his friend, and went cautiously back to the store. He did not enter the building; instead, he went

  across the road to the garage, and talked with the proprietor. He made arrangements for his car to be

  kept there until further notice. Then he started back to the wharf.

  There was no sign of the motor boat. Evidently Stokes had returned to Death Island. It was not yet half

  past ten. But as Harry stood on the wharf, he heard the chugging of the motor—and the boat suddenly

  appeared around a point in the lake.

  If Stokes was coming from the island, he had chosen a roundabout way. Harry thought quickly; then

  ducked back into the woods. He had a hunch that Stokes had docked the boat farther down the lake

  and had visited the village.

  Waiting until the boat had pulled up at Harvey's Wharf, Harry advanced along the path, whistling as he

  approached. He noticed the boat, and clambered aboard, without even greeting the man who was at the

  helm.

  That seemed to suit Stokes. He gave no sign of welcome. He piloted the boat directly back to Death

  Island. Harry handed him the flashlight, with the single word: "Thanks."

  DEATH ISLAND was black and silent as the boat approached. No twinkling lights to-night; no phantom

  shapes. There was no sign that anything out of the ordinary existed in that tract of land that loomed from

  the center of Lake Marrinack.

  Stokes went in to Professor Whitburn's study, when they had reached the house. Harry took it that he

  was reporting their return.

  After a half hour of reading, Harry decided to go to bed. He went upstairs, and as he passed, he noted

  that the door that led to the tower was ajar.

  Harry's room was under a corner of the tower. He had been conscious of that fact the night before. It

  had troubled him; yet it had indicated nothing. But to-night, he seemed to detect a faint tapping on the

  ceiling of his room. It continued intermittently; then stopped.

  The sound was peculiar, yet methodical. The taps came in rhythmic beats. They could not be made by

  any one working, for they changed their rhythm too often.

  Finally the sound ceased. Five minutes passed. It began again; then stopped. Another interval, of perhaps

  five minutes. Again a short series of taps.

  This was enough for Harry. He had felt that the tower demanded investigation. Now he was sure of it.

  The door that stood ajar was a temptation.

  Opening his door, Harry stepped into the darkness of the hallway. He slipped silently along, until he

  found the door of the tower. It was still ajar.

  Wearing soft slippers, Harry crept up the stairs. He moved with the utmost caution; the creaky stairs

  groaned very slightly.

  The stairway was a winding one. As Harry turned a bend, he noted a faint light from the room above.

  The light was so insignificant that it could not be observable outside.

  His steps becoming slower, Harry reached the top. There he could discern the objects in the room; for

  faint moonlight penetrated the apartment, through a skylight.

  Each corner of the room accommodated a black machine. These metal contrivances, which seemed fitted

  to the wall, were hardly distinguishable.

  But in the center of the room was an object which immediately attracted Harry's attention, especially as it

  accounted for the dim light which he had just noticed.

  Standing on a pedestal was a huge globe of bright metal, that reflected the moonbeams. The massive

  sphere had a highly polished surface, and it fascinated Harry's eyes.

&
nbsp; He stood looking at it in wonderment.

  What could its purpose be?

  The big machines in the corner indicated material inventions; but the shining globe brought thoughts of the

  supernatural. Harry had heard that bright objects, particularly spheres, of crystal or polished metal, could

  be used to induce hypnosis.

  Was this huge ball the object that had attracted those spectral forms to the tower of the house on Death

  Island?

  HARRY'S tense mind was too strained to reject the theory. Fantastic though it seemed, he was ready to

  believe it. For as he looked at the bright metal, he felt a strange influence creep over him.

  He seemed to forget where he was; to have no further thought of his surroundings. He was in a dream

  world, and his imagination wandered.

  There was no repetition of the tapping. Harry had forgotten it. His brain was centered on the shining

  sphere. He stepped a few paces closer. He wondered what would happen if he stayed here looking at

  the mystic globe.

  For an instant, he was tempted to go away. Yet the lure held him. Again he moved closer. The great ball,

  flashing its sparkling light, was almost within his reach.

  Harry hesitated as he slowly extended his arms. He wanted to touch that brilliant surface—to learn if it

  were really simple metal.

  But before his fingers had reached the silver globe, Harry was jerked suddenly backward. His arms were

  pinned behind him. He was twisted to the floor by a powerful man who had caught him unawares. A

  hand was clapped to his mouth.

  The young man had no chance against his captor. He had been taken totally unawares; and his mind had

  been so occupied with other thoughts that he did not realize what had happened.

  It seemed like the fraction of a second to Harry Vincent. One instant he was reaching for the shining

  sphere; the next, he was lying on his back, staring upward into a bearded face.

  Crawford was the man who had trapped him. Harry had no opportunity to fight or to make an outcry.

  He sensed that he was in great danger; yet he was helpless. His captor had been too swift and thorough

  in his work.

  Crawford, his mind had told him, was the one man to avoid. Yet Harry had failed to rely upon his better