The Ghost Of The Manor s-32

by Maxwell Grant

  “You won’t talk, eh?” The police chief’s words drummed into Warren’s throbbing ears. “Close that door. We’ll make him talk. Say - if Terwiliger was only here -“

  THE police chief broke off abruptly. A sudden thought was perplexing Gorson.

  Where was Terwiliger?

  Jasper Delthern had said that the star detective would return at nine o’clock. Could anything have happened to him?

  “Where is Terwiliger?” demanded Gorson, staring hard at Warren.

  “Who?” asked the young man.

  “You know who I mean!” growled Gorson. “Terwiliger - my detective. He was on your trail. Maybe -“

  “Maybe you think I killed him, too,” blurted Warren.

  “That’s just what I do think!” retorted Gorson. “I wondered why you were so stubborn. You might have had a break if you’d admitted to killing Jasper Delthern. You could have pleaded self-defense. But the trouble is, your other crimes were on your mind by this time.”

  “I never met Terwiliger,” persisted Warren.

  “No?” quizzed Gorson. “Well, I’ll tell you something then. Terwiliger was out to get the murderer. That means he was out to get you. Terwiliger keeps his promises!”

  Swinging to Clark Brosset, the police chief gave additional words of information.

  “It was this way, Mr. Brosset,” he explained. “Last night, Terwiliger and I were here with Jasper Delthern. We talked about these mysterious killings. Terwiliger had a theory that one man was in back of them.

  “Terwiliger told us that he would come into this very room; that he would lay down the evidence before myself and Jasper Delthern. I counted on Terwiliger to do it.”

  “Perhaps,” mused Brosset, “the detective will arrive shortly. If so -“

  “He’ll bring proof,” interrupted Gorson, in a decisive tone. “I can’t see what we need. We’ve got enough evidence to convict Barringer in short order. But I’d like to see what Terwiliger has found. He won’t come here empty-handed.”

  The police chief glared at Warren. Still holding to the thought that the accused man knew something about the detective’s whereabouts, Gorson endeavored to catch the prisoner off guard.

  “Maybe Terwiliger is downstairs,” suggested the police chief. “Suppose one of you men” - he was speaking to the policemen - “go down and find out if he’s arrived. I’ll tell you this, Barringer” - Gorson was again addressing Warren - “and you can remember it. If Terwiliger comes into this room, he’ll have the proof of murder in his fist. He said he would, and he will -“

  As Gorson spoke, one of the policemen was walking toward the door. The other was standing in a corner. Clark Brosset was leaning against the desk. Chief Gorson, with a dramatic gesture that he had seen Terwiliger use, was pointing with his outstretched hand toward Jasper Delthern’s body.

  Then came the unexpected - a startling occurrence that broke the police chief’s statement. Once again, this room of death was plunged into total darkness!

  THE one audible sound amid the blackness was an involuntary cry that came from Warren Barringer’s lips. Warren had experienced this sudden darkness in the past. Each time, it had meant a strange and unexpected result. What would happen now?

  On came the lights. The illumination revealed all the persons present in approximately their same positions. Warren, in instinctive apprehension, was gazing toward the other side of the desk. His second cry caused all eyes to swing in that direction.

  Another man had entered the room. No one had seen the manner of his coming, and ghastly gasps were the responses that greeted his gruesome entrance. For this new arrival was a dead man!

  Propped against the paneled wall, introduced there by some unseen and unknown force, was the body of Detective Harold Terwiliger. The sleuth’s bulging eyes were glazed and unseeing; his whole shape made a morbid sight as it tottered there, as though imbued with life.

  The dead form swayed crazily; then toppled forward as Police Chief Gorson uttered a frantic cry of recognition.

  Sprawling as it struck the floor, Terwiliger’s corpse rolled on its left side, and the right hand came upward in a rigid gesture.

  There, in a dead, clutching fist, Police Chief Gorson saw an envelope. Terwiliger’s face, though hardened in lifelessness, still wore a dramatic expression. The slain sleuth seemed to be pleading with his chief. His outstretched arm was raised almost above the body of Jasper Delthern!

  “Terwiliger!” cried Gorson. “Terwiliger! Dead!”

  Then came a weird realization. The manner of Terwiliger’s death - who had killed him - the freak of chance that had hurled the body here - these thoughts passed from Sidney Gorson’s mind.

  All that the police chief could grasp was the recollection of Terwiliger’s boast. The sleuth had said that he would get the man behind the murders; that he would deliver evidence in this room, while Sidney Gorson and Jasper Delthern were present.

  The trio was here now; of the three, only one man was living! Yet Terwiliger’s promise had been kept! Dead, the detective had arrived to fulfill his self-appointed mission!

  CHAPTER XXV

  A MURDERER FLEES

  OF all the astonished men who had witnessed the amazing appearance of Terwiliger’s corpse, Sidney Gorson was the first to take action. Springing forward, the police chief seized the envelope that was clutched in the dead detective’s hand. He wrested it from the stiff fist and stared at ink-inscribed lines that shone blue upon the wrapper of the packet.

  “Jasper Delthern is a murderer. He killed Winstead Delthern. He

  killed Humphrey Delthern. He killed Wellington. I, Harold Terwiliger,

  also died at his hand!”

  Gorson’s slow voice was reading from word to word. Unconsciously, the police chief continued to recite the statements that shone before his eyes. Warren Barringer looked on in amazement; Clark Brosset wore a puzzled air; the two policemen were stolid and unmoving, as Gorson continued in an awed tone:

  “Jasper Delthern himself was marked for death. The man with

  whom he plotted planned his end. Jasper was murdered by the master

  hand behind the scheme of crime.

  “Within this envelope are documents that prove the murderer’s

  guilt. They explain his motive. They were taken, tonight, from his

  safe, while he had gone to murder Jasper Delthern.”

  There was a momentary pause, while Gorson’s fingers fumbled with the envelope to find what lay within. It was then that Warren Barringer cried a spasmodic warning. He, alone, had been looking toward Clark Brosset. He had seen a hunted stare appear upon the club president’s face.

  “Look out!” shouted Warren. “Stop him! Stop him!”

  Clark Brosset was edging toward the door as Chief Gorson swung to see him. The look on Brosset’s face told its own story. This man was the murderer mentioned in those words upon the envelope!

  While his countenance showed its fiendish, incriminating gleam, Clark Brosset was drawing his hand from his coat pocket. The nickel-plated barrel of a revolver came to view as the officer by the door leaped forward to prevent the murderer’s escape.

  With a cry of rage, Brosset dodged the policeman and sprang toward the door. The officer followed to stop him. Instead of snatching at the doorknob, Brosset managed to press the light switch and plunge the room into total darkness.

  “I’ve got him stopped!” shouted the policeman at the door. “He can’t get away!”

  Promptly, the second officer aided with his flashlight. The rays of the torch revealed Warren Barringer huddled in the chair; then the door, with the policeman guarding it, revolver in hand.

  CLARK BROSSET was not in view. The gleam swung across the room. It showed Police Chief Gorson, crouched beside the table, with the envelope in his hand, the murdered forms of Jasper Delthern and Harold Terwiliger at his feet.

  This time the beam showed Clark Brosset. In the darkness, the man was almost to the farther wall. Gorson, by backing away,
had escaped him. Brosset’s aim had been to snatch the envelope.

  Before the president of the City Club could turn his gun toward Gorson, the policeman fired wildly from the door. His hasty shot went wide; but it gave the police chief a chance to scramble beyond the farther end of the desk, carrying the precious envelope along with him.

  Clark Brosset fired at the door. The policeman uttered a sharp cry as the bullet clipped his shoulder. Brosset did not shoot again. With Gorson and the other officer drawing their revolvers, the self-revealed fiend feared the odds against him.

  Diving toward the paneled wall, Brosset huddled to the floor and exerted upward pressure against the wall. The electric eye of the flashlight showed the panel moving upward. Like a scurrying rat, Brosset plunged through and let the panel drop behind him.

  A moment later, the lights of the room came on. Police Chief Gorson thought that the wounded officer had pressed the switch by the door. Dropping the big envelope on the desk, Gorson leaped to the panel. It refused to budge. The opening had closed tightly, without a trace.

  “Downstairs!” cried Gorson. “That’s where I’m going! Block him if he tries to come back here! Get that wall open!”

  With the power of an enraged bull, the police chief yanked open the door and dashed into the outer hallway. His hearty bellow carried to the depths below.

  “Stop him!” shouted Gorson. “Watch out below! Get Clark Brosset! Get him! He’s coming down through a secret passage!”

  Uniformed policemen were arriving in the lower hallway as Chief Gorson reached the landing. They had been stationed there during the quiz of Warren Barringer. They were ready now to aid in preventing the escape of Clark Brosset, could the man be found.

  A murderer was fleeing. The truth was known, although the details of the crimes were unrevealed. The incriminating envelope lay upstairs, guarded by a watchful officer.

  Could Police Chief Gorson prevent Clark Brosset’s escape? What would be the fleeing man’s mode of exit from the secret passage which now refused to open at the end which terminated in the study?

  These were important questions - and only one person in Delthern Hall could provide the answer. That was the unknown being whose unseen hand had projected Terwiliger’s dead body into the room of death.

  Only The Shadow knew!

  CHAPTER XXVI

  GHOSTLY VENGEANCE

  CHANCE directed Sidney Gorson’s course as the police chief reached the bottom of the stairs. As three policemen awaited further orders, Gorson strode to the door of the great reception hall. He saw Marcia Wardrop and Horatio Farman standing by the big center table of the great candlelighted room.

  “Stay where you are!” ordered the police chief. Then, to the policemen: “Get going - look everywhere! I’ll take care of matters here.”

  The officers scattered. Their duty was to search the house. Police Chief Gorson, striding up and down the big room, uttered words of explanation to Marcia and the lawyer.

  “We’re after Clark Brosset!” he growled. “He’s in back of this! He made a get-away upstairs.”

  “Clark Brosset!” exclaimed Horatio Farman.

  A startled gasp came from Marcia Wardrop’s lips. The girl turned deathly pale. She staggered and nearly fell. Horatio Farman caught her. As Sidney Gorson looked for some explanation of the girl’s sudden terror, he was dumfounded by a new interruption.

  A sneering voice was speaking from the level of the whispering gallery. Despite the strange acoustics of the great hall, all present recognized the tones. Clark Brosset was delivering a warning!

  “Stay where you are!” ordered Brosset. “The first one who moves will die. I want that envelope, Gorson. Call your men from the study!”

  Furious, but helpless, the police chief answered with a challenge. He could not see the spot where Brosset stood, because the villain was on the gallery behind the illuminating candles. But he knew that Brosset was armed, and would not hesitate to shoot. Nevertheless, Gorson was stubborn.

  “We’ve got you, Brosset!” he retorted. “We’re keeping that envelope. My men are going through the house. You cannot escape.”

  “Keep the envelope, then,” called Brosset. “I can leave without it. Hold your evidence and seek me. I prefer escape. One person alone can set you on my trail. I shall kill that person now. You looked for murder, Gorson. You will see it!”

  A cry came from Marcia Wardrop, as the girl broke away from Horatio Farman and clutched the side of the big table, directly by the candelabrum. Acting with sudden boldness, Chief Gorson yanked a flashlight from his pocket and clicked its rays upon the gallery that bordered the room.

  The light revealed Clark Brosset. The man’s lips showed a fiendish grin. The glimmering revolver in his hand was pointed directly at Marcia Wardrop!

  GORSON held his own gun useless. He knew that if he attempted to fire, the fiend would slay the girl. Clark Brosset emitted a derisive sneer.

  “I am leaving you, Gorson,” he proclaimed. “You will never learn my trail. But before I go -“

  The police chief cried in horror as he saw Brosset’s finger on the trigger. The cry changed to one of amazement. Gorson, Farman, and Marcia, even in this moment of terror, were bewildered by what occurred.

  From the blackness of the gallery, a living hand stretched out to clutch Clark Brosset’s weapon. Fingers of black jerked the revolver from the villain’s grasp. With a cry of evil disappointment, Brosset turned to grapple with a figure that had suddenly appeared beside him.

  Police Chief Gorson stood motionless. He forgot that he held his own revolver. Like the girl and the lawyer, he was stupefied by an amazing conflict which suddenly occurred upon the darkened gallery.

  Clark Brosset was in the clutches of a sinister shape that seemed the visible manifestation of a supernatural being! A mass of blackness, gloom of the gallery turned into solid form, had risen out of nothingness to seize the would-be slayer!

  Clark Brosset’s body twisted in the toils of some superhuman force. It writhed against a power that seemed to have come from the void to gain uncanny vengeance. As the trio watched from below, Brosset still fought with this stranger from another sphere.

  A cry of exultation marked a sudden change. The black shape slumped as Brosset managed to regain his grip upon the gun. Gorson saw the revolver twist in Brosset’s hand, as Brosset flung himself behind the balcony rail.

  Another cry. It was a shout of momentary triumph from Brosset. The old wooden rail of the gallery quivered as a body thumped against it. A revolver roared. A flash spat through the posts of the railing.

  The woodwork broke. Impelled by a terrific impetus, the railing broke apart. Amid a burst of splintering oak, the form of Clark Brosset plunged headlong through the shattered barrier.

  The revolver clattered and bounced across the floor of the reception hall. Chief Gorson sprang forward. There was no need. Clark Brosset’s body, as it crashed upon the floor below the gallery, doubled like a jackknife and lay still.

  Bits of woodwork had followed from the railing. Gorson, playing his light upon the gaping break, saw only blackened nothingness.

  MARCIA WARDROP was staggering toward Clark Brosset’s body. She dropped beside the motionless form. Her voice came in a sighing cry.

  “He’s dead!” gasped the girl. “He’s dead! Clark - is - dead -“

  “Shot through the heart,” acknowledged Gorson, as he stooped over the body. “Shot by his own gun - fighting something” - he paused, correcting himself - “fighting nothing but his own imagination!”

  The police chief looked sharply at Marcia Wardrop. He could see an agonized stare in the girl’s eyes. He put forth a short question:

  “What do you how about Clark Brosset?”

  The girl’s lips quivered. Gazing first toward Gorson, then at Horatio Farman, Marcia Wardrop made her solemn answer.

  “He was my husband,” she said. “I loved him - I believed him - I obeyed him! I did not know he was a murderer - not until he wanted t
o kill me -“

  Police Chief Gorson was silent. He arose and stood looking at the girl, crouched above the murderer’s body. Horatio Farman raised Marcia Wardrop gently.

  A strange whir came from the other end of the room. Gorson swung quickly; then stood still as he listened to the chimes of the huge clock. The mammoth timepiece began to dong the hour of twelve.

  A strange, whispered murmur shuddered through the room. It rose in tone and became a quivering, eerie laugh. There was no mirth in that uncanny cry. Its strident notes held a spectral solemnity.

  The laugh died. Echoes followed from the walls. Whispered reverberations sent their mystic message from the gallery after the laugh had ceased - long seconds after the grandfather’s clock had sounded its final stroke.

  “What was that?” gasped Police Chief Gorson, in an awed tone.

  “The laugh of a ghost,” responded Horatio Farman, pale-faced in solemn sincerity. “The spirit of Caleb Delthern - the force that slew this man of murder!”

  Gorson nodded, half believing. It seemed the only answer. The cry of a ghost - the shade of the former master of Delthern Manor.

  Such was the belief of Horatio Farman. The old lawyer’s opinion would be unaltered now; and Marcia Wardrop, frightened, not knowing what to do, believed the same.

  For the second time, the girl and the lawyer had heard the laugh of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XXVII

  THE SHADOW WRITES

  UP in the study of Delthern Manor, with policemen at his beck and call, Police Chief Sidney Gorson reviewed the course of crime. With him were Warren Barringer, Marcia Wardrop, and Horatio Farman.

  “We’ve got it pieced together now,” declared the chief. “Since you showed us all about the secret panels, Miss Wardrop” - he hesitated, realizing that he had used Marcia’s maiden name - “we’ve got the motive and the method. These papers prove the case.”