The Ghost Of The Manor s-32

by Maxwell Grant

  “Marcia Wardrop?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” responded the girl, in an uncertain tone. “You have come here to see me?”

  “Partly,” smiled Warren. “I am your cousin - my name is Warren Barringer.”

  “Oh!” Marcia’s exclamation showed surprise. “I remember now; Cousin Winstead mentioned that you had arrived in Newbury.”

  Warren bowed. He expected Marcia to make a further comment, but the girl was silent. Noticing her face, the young man realized that Horatio Farman had described Marcia very precisely. The girl seemed to possess more than normal reserve. Her face showed a saddened, worried expression.

  “I came here,” remarked Warren, “to visit Winstead Delthern. I also hoped to meet you, Marcia. It is good to see one’s relations after years of absence.”

  Marcia still remained speechless. The clouded look upon her face seemed to indicate that she had undergone an experience that prevented her from agreeing with Warren’s opinions on relatives. Marcia’s silence became embarrassing, even to so affable a person as Warren Barringer.

  An interruption brought an end to Warren’s hopeless effort toward conversation. Wellington appeared upon the stairs to announce that the visitor might come up.

  With a smile toward Marcia, Warren went upstairs. Wellington met him at the top landing, and conducted him along a hall. The servant stopped before a door on the right, and rapped. A querulous voice gave an order to come in. Wellington opened the door to admit Warren.

  THE visitor’s first impression of Winstead Delthern was that of a lean, hunchy, sour-faced man huddled in back of a huge desk in the center of a large, paneled room.

  The place was an old-fashioned study, with large, antiquated furnishings. Winstead Delthern, seated in a mammoth chair, made Warren think of an undersized peanut ready to rattle in its shell.

  “You are Warren Barringer?” rasped Winstead.

  “Yes,” responded Warren.

  “Sit down” - Winstead motioned toward a chair beside the desk - “and tell me the purpose of your visit.”

  Warren Barringer complied. He eyed his eldest cousin coldly. Winstead was evidently waiting to hear him state his business. Warren decided to oblige him.

  “When one has been abroad for many years,” he remarked, in a quiet tone, “he usually visits his relations upon his return. That happens to be my situation.”

  “I presume,” returned Winstead Delthern. “that you expect me to regard that as a natural impulse. It is one that I have never experienced.”

  “No,” rejoined Warren, in a more emphatic tone, “I regard it as much a courtesy as an impulse. But I do feel that when a traveler has returned from a great distance, it should be a natural impulse for his relatives to extend him a greeting.”

  “Is this,” demanded Winstead. “to be taken as a criticism of myself?”

  “Not a criticism,” retorted Warren. “Purely an analysis. I have stated what any intelligent person would regard as a normal action. If you happen to lack the fundamental courtesy of a human being, that is your own misfortune - not mine.”

  Winstead Delthern sprang to his feet. His peaked face was flushed with anger. He pounded upon the desk like a martinet.

  “Outrageous!” he exclaimed. “You forget that I am the head of the Delthern family. I am not here to receive insults from an upstart like yourself.”

  “Of course not,” responded Warren, also rising to his feet. “You prefer to deliver insults - as you did last night. You are a generous man, who would rather give than receive - so far as insults are concerned.”

  “I shall not tolerate this!” stormed Winstead Delthern. “Here, in my own home, you are daring to berate me. I am grateful only that you do not bear the name of Delthern!”

  Warren Barringer’s fists tightened. Towering above his cousin, he was ready to avenge this last thrust. Only a great effort enabled him to restrain himself.

  “Wellington!” screamed Winstead. “Wellington! Come here at once!”

  Fuming, Winstead Delthern glared at Warren Barringer, who was standing quietly now. The door opened, and the servant entered. Winstead Delthern spoke again to Warren Barringer.

  “I cannot have you ejected from this house,” he declared. “Nevertheless, I expect you to leave at once. You can return when you please - because of privilege alone - but do not expect another interview with me.”

  “I am leaving,” remarked Warren quietly. “This is my final word to you, Winstead Delthern. Hear me out, if you expect to be rid of my presence.

  “You stated that you were grateful only because I do not bear the name of Delthern. Let me add that I, too, am grateful, now that I have learned the low caliber of those who still call themselves Delthern.”

  Warren turned on his heel and gave no further attention to the parting thrusts that Winstead Delthern uttered. He waited until Wellington had closed the door; then accompanied the servant downstairs.

  “Good night, Wellington,” said Warren, as they neared the front door.

  “Good night, sir,” responded the servant. “Good night, Mr. Warren.”

  Noting Wellington’s face in the dim light, Warren saw a gleam of approval on the servant’s face. He realized that this man had served his grandfather, and had probably come to the very opinion that Warren had expressed.

  NOT long after Warren Barringer had departed, Marcia Delthern returned from the direction of the living room. The girl was carrying her hat and coat. She had been out during Warren’s session with Winstead Delthern. She saw Wellington standing in the hallway.

  “Has the visitor” - the girl corrected herself - “has Warren Barringer gone?”

  “Yes, Miss Marcia,” said the servant.

  “I should like to have talked with him,” stated Marcia. “His arrival was so unexpected - I - I did not know what to say. I suppose he will call again.”

  Marcia went upstairs. Wellington went through the living room. The house became as silent and as gloomy as a tomb. The dim light cast a morbid gloom amid the solemn hallway.

  Up in the study, Winstead Delthern still fumed at his desk. Mutterings came from his pasty lips. His rage at Warren Barringer had not subsided.

  “The young upstart!” he mumbled. “I wonder if he had the affrontery to speak to Wellington after he left this room! I shall learn! I shall learn!”

  Rising suddenly from his desk, Winstead Delthern paused to listen. He imagined he had heard a noise close at hand. He stared about him suspiciously; then opened the door and went into the dark upstairs hall. He stopped when he came to the landing at the head of the stairs.

  The landing was a peculiar alcove that jutted from the second floor. It ended abruptly in the steep steps that went downward.

  Winstead Delthern, standing in almost total darkness, rested his hand upon the rail, and peered into the gloomy depths to see if Wellington were about.

  Winstead’s pale face loomed ghostly in the darkness. The side of the stairway, like the walls of both upper and lower hallway, was formed of dark panelling that added to the dullness of the surroundings.

  Not sure that Warren Barringer had actually departed, Winstead Delthern listened in silence. If the upstart should still be below, talking with Wellington, there would be action to follow!

  Warren might be a relative, and therefore immune from Winstead’s anger; Wellington, however, was only a servant. Mean in disposition, Winstead was actually hoping that he could catch Wellington speaking secretly with Warren Barringer.

  SEVERAL minutes went by while Winstead Delthern listened. Suddenly his ears caught the same sound that he had imagined in the study. Winstead could not place it. The sound was very slight; no more than a dull scraping noise.

  Then, acting upon sudden instinct, Winstead Delthern turned. A gasp came from his lips as two strong hands gripped his throat in the darkness. Struggling to break this terrible grasp, Winstead staggered toward the wall; the hands slipped from his throat to his arms.

  A cry came from Wins
tead Delthern as he triumphed in his momentary freedom; then the shout turned into one of recognition. An instant later, Winstead Delthern’s staggering form was thrust back to the edge of the stairway. His powerful assailant released him with a terrific fling.

  Plunging backward, Winstead Delthern shot head-foremost down the steep stairway. His cry trailed to a long scream of terror; then his head smashed against the steps.

  The scream ended as the man’s body continued downward, whirling in a succession of long bounces that terminated only when Winstead Delthern’s form struck against the floor of the lower hallway.

  Rolling over half a dozen times, Winstead Delthern lay crazily sprawled at the foot of the stairs. He never moved again. Death had overtaken his whirlwind plunge. The twisted position of his head indicated that his neck was broken.

  All was dark at the head of the stairs. No sign of Winstead’s assailant remained. Only the echoes of that terrific crash remained, dying away through the spaces of Delthern Manor.

  Seconds rolled by. Then Wellington appeared, coming hastily from the living room. The servant rushed forward as he spied the body.

  His cry of horror was echoed from above. Marcia Delthern, attired in a dressing gown, had arrived at the head of the stairs. Seizing the rail, she hurried down to join Wellington.

  While the two bent over the dead body of Winstead Delthern, another person arrived from the living room.

  Humphrey Delthern, who had gone out early in the evening, was returning home. This man, the living counterpart of his now dead brother Winstead, rushed forward to join the pair at the foot of the stairs.

  “I was in the living room, Mr. Humphrey,” explained Wellington. “I heard someone tumbling down the stairs. I arrived just after the fall.”

  “Yes,” agreed Marcia. “I heard the crash while I was in my room. I reached the stairs just as Wellington arrived.”

  “A terrible accident!” exclaimed Humphrey. “Terrible. Terrible. We must send for a physician at once.”

  The doctor arrived to pronounce Winstead Delthern dead. The body was carried to an upstairs room. The physician attended Marcia, who was on the verge of collapse. Wellington went up to get instructions from the doctor.

  Humphrey Delthern remained alone in the lower hallway. He paced the floor where this tragedy had reached its climax. He recalled the very words that he had uttered. This had, indeed, been a terrible accident.

  Suddenly a thin smile manifested itself on Humphrey Delthern’s thin face. A terrible accident - yet one not entirely to be regretted. Winstead Delthern was dead. Humphrey was now the eldest survivor - the head of the Delthern family!

  Humphrey Delthern uttered a muffled chuckle; then his evil face clouded. He began to ponder upon the strange fortune that had brought this accidental death. Then a look of worriment became his sole expression.

  “Murder!” muttered Humphrey Delthern. “Murder! Someone has murdered my brother Winstead!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE SHADOW KNOWS

  A CHUBBY-FACED man was seated at a desk in a New York office. From his window he could see a jutting vista of Manhattan skyscrapers. The city scene, however, held no interest for this methodical individual. His entire attention was centered upon a pile of newspapers that lay on the desk.

  One of these was a local daily from the city of Newbury. The chubby-faced man looked down the columns. He came to an item that announced the burial of Winstead Delthern. Just as the man picked up a pair of scissors to clip the paragraph, the telephone rang upon his desk. He answered it.

  “Yes,” he said, in a quiet, even tone, “this is Rutledge Mann. Yes, Mr. Barker. Certainly. I shall be pleased to investigate Leviathan Copper. It may prove to be a sound investment. I have my doubts, however.”

  His call concluded, Rutledge Mann again took the scissors and sliced out the clipping that pertained to Winstead Delthern’s funeral. He read the item carefully. He particularly noted two words that were conspicuous: they formed the phrase “accidental death.”

  Rutledge Mann added the clipping to others that were upon his desk. He picked up another newspaper - a Cincinnati daily - and cut out a front-page story that told of the amazing capture of a trio of bank robbers. The police had arrived to answer an alarm; they had found the crooks locked in the bank vault, all three in a dazed condition. Not one of the arrested men had been able to explain how he had landed there.

  Rutledge Mann smiled as he added this clipping to the others. He doubted that it would be necessary. For Rutledge Mann, agent of The Shadow, performed the function of gleaning information concerning current crime which would be of interest to his mysterious chief.

  It required no great sagacity on Mann’s part to decide that The Shadow must know all that was needed concerning the affair in Cincinnati! Such a coup as the locking of three bank robbers in the vault that they had come to rifle could only have been accomplished by The Shadow himself.

  As Rutledge Mann was placing the clipping in an envelope, he stopped and again examined the one that told of Winstead Delthern’s burial. A trace of worriment appeared upon Mann’s chubby countenance.

  A FEW days before, the investment broker had cut out a clipping which told of Winstead Delthern’s accidental death. Acting upon special instructions, Mann had been keeping close tabs upon affairs in Newbury. Calculating now, Mann realized that if The Shadow had gone on an emergency mission to Cincinnati, he could not possibly have received that first clipping.

  With a perplexed smile, Mann replaced the Newbury clipping with the others, and sealed the lot in the envelope. It was not his part to wonder about the doings of his mysterious chief. Obedience to instructions was Mann’s sole duty.

  Ending his idle speculation, Mann decided that The Shadow had, in all probability, arranged some other method of contact with matters in Newbury. These clippings might be merely a form of routine as a check-up.

  To Rutledge Mann, The Shadow was a being of mystery.

  Once - it seemed long ago - Mann had been on the brink of despair. A failure in business, he had seen only a hopeless future ahead of him. It was then that he had received a strange visit from The Shadow. A weird personage garbed in black had given him instructions which he had followed to the letter.

  Installed in an excellent office, supported by funds that came regularly by mail, Rutledge Mann continued his business as investment broker. That, to the world, was his sole occupation.

  Secretly, however, Mann followed the mandates of The Shadow, and served as contact agent for the unknown master who warred against crime.

  His envelope sealed, Rutledge Mann left the office and taxied to Twenty-third Street. There, he entered a tumble-down building and went up a flight of stairs. He stopped before the glass-paned door of a deserted office.

  To all appearances this room was unoccupied. The name “Jonas” appeared upon the dingy glass; but Mann had never met anyone who answered to that title.

  In all probability, Jonas was a myth; this office a room that was rented, but never opened. Mann had no idea what lay behind the frosted cobwebbed pane in the door. The investment broker simply inserted his envelope in a mail slit and went his way.

  This was one of his daily duties - the delivery of current clippings at the Jonas office. This envelope - like the others that Mann had deposited - would eventually reach The Shadow.

  At present, Rutledge Mann was enjoying a partial vacation. It was not late in the afternoon, but his work was completed for the day. The investment broker took a taxi to his club, met a friend who had a car, and together they set out for a game of golf on a New Jersey course.

  An hour after Mann’s visit to the Twenty-third Street office, they were riding past a Jersey airport. Rutledge Mann stared admiringly at a swift, shining monoplane that was heading downward for a landing.

  STRANGE that Rutledge Mann should have noticed that ship! For although the investment broker never suspected the fact, the arrival of the monoplane had an important bearing on those
clippings which Mann had left in the Twenty-third Street building; and, specifically, it concerned matters in the city of Newbury.

  On the landing field, a man stepped out of the airplane. A uniformed chauffeur ran up and made a half salute.

  “The car is here, Mr. Cranston,” he announced.

  “Very well, Stanley,” returned the pilot of the plane. “I shall go to the house immediately.”

  Half an hour later, the amazing personage who bore the features of Lamont Cranston was at the millionaire’s home, changing his attire. He questioned Richards, while he dressed.

  “No letter at all?” asked Cranston. “You are positive that no word has come from Warren Barringer?”

  “No message whatever, sir,” responded the servant. “I would have notified your hotel in Cincinnati, sir, as you instructed me.”

  “Very well, Richards. Tell Stanley to be here with the limousine in five minutes. I am going to New York.”

  IT was still daylight when Lamont Cranston alighted from his limousine on Twenty-third Street. He instructed Stanley to meet him at the Cobalt Club.

  From then on - even in the light of afternoon - the millionaire’s actions were no longer apparent. He disappeared in a gloomy alleyway between two buildings, and no trace remained of him.

  Some time later, a light clicked in a windowless room. Bluish rays shone from beneath a shade and focused the glow of the lamp upon the reflecting surface of a polished table.

  White hands appeared as from nowhere. Long fingers held the envelopes that Rutledge Mann had delivered to the Jonas office during the past several days.

  Shining from a finger of the left hand, a strange, glittering gem sent ever-changing rays up toward the light. The girasol, strange emblem of The Shadow, betokened the mystery of the personage who wore it. This gem, which had fascinated Warren Barringer, glimmered in fantastic colors.

  Clippings poured upon the table as the envelopes were opened. Deft fingers separated them, seeking only those that had come from the Newbury daily. Sharp eyes discovered the items and read them.