The sun was setting over a mountain, and the cold gloom of night was spreading its haze about these gray walls. The sullen turrets spoke of crime and mystery. Soon they would be dark and shadowy. There was a prophetic touch to the scene. To Cliff, the growing dusk bespoke the presence of a living shadow — a man who lived within the night. Cliff was here because The Shadow knew that all was not well within these walls.
Crime, but suspected only by The Shadow! Was it crime of the past or crime of the future? Cliff smiled grimly as he entered the high front door and strode across the darkening hallway. Tonight, if all went well, The Shadow would learn of plots that were transpiring here.
He would learn of them through Clifford Marsland's watchfulness.
Chapter IX–Cliff Sends a Message
It was evening. Three men were seated in the living room of Ivan Orlinov's abode. One was the Russian; the second was Glade Tremont; the third was Cliff Marsland.
Tremont had arrived before dinner. He had been introduced to Cliff by Orlinov. Cliff had caught the shrewd, penetrating glance of the lawyer, and it had placed him immediately upon his guard. From that moment, Cliff had sensed that Tremont knew all about his presence here. He saw a connection between the attorney and Biff Towley, the New York gang leader.
Yet now a lulling silence had fallen. The discussion during dinner had been of little consequence. Here in the living room, the men were seated before a glowing fire, for evenings brought chill in this region of high altitude. Tremont was speaking of the difficulties that went with the patenting of new inventions; but he was not at all specific in his remarks.
At last the subject changed. Tremont, glancing from the corner of his eye, looked toward Cliff Marsland, who saw the action, but gave no indication of having noticed it.
"Well, Mr. Orlinov," said the lawyer, "I am glad that the last apparatus you received has proven satisfactory. It is working well?"
"Yess," said the bearded man, staring toward the fire.
Here, as in the sunlight, Orlinov's beard was glistening. It had the ruddy glow of burnished gold. The man's eyes were open, and they caught the sparkle of the fire.
In that face, Cliff detected a new expression — a determined brutality that gave the Russian the appearance of a mocking fiend.
"You would like to see?" questioned Orlinov, staring directly at Tremont.
"I should be interested," returned the lawyer.
"Come," said Orlinov. He turned to Cliff. "You will stay here, Marslandt. I have business — a private business — with Mr. Tremont."
"Yes, sir," rejoined Cliff.
The men crossed the living room, and Cliff seemed indifferent to their departure. He fancied that questioning looks would be directed back toward him, but he paid no attention.
Instead, he stared directly at the fire.
He knew where those men were going. Through the iron door that led to the mystery wing of this house. Cliff Marsland played hunches. He was a man of action. He had gained his craving for excitement on the battlefields of France. He had continued it in the service of The Shadow. Inactivity wearied him. He was most confident when he was in danger.
Yet he also possessed a reasoning mind. He knew from what both Biff Towley and Ivan Orlinov had told him that the previous secretary here had proven false.
Cliff pictured a situation very much like this one — a man, left alone in the living room, while the others, probably the very two who had just departed, went away to discuss matters of importance. Cliff's predecessor had evidently pried, and had doubtless paid for his temerity with his life. That, instead of being a restraint to Cliff Marsland, was an incentive. So far, Orlinov had trusted him. Cliff was armed, and capable of taking care of himself. There was only one reason for caution. He must not reveal his game because of The Shadow. Nevertheless, Cliff was determined to make use of the present opportunity.
This living room was in the center portion of the house. It led directly to the hall. There was no reason why Cliff should not go into the hall. So he arose and strolled in that direction. In the hall, he observed the door that led to the mystery wing. The door was a sliding one, and it was partly opened.
Cliff laughed softly. He saw it as a trap. Idly, he lighted a cigarette and sauntered to the front door, where he made his exit to the porch.
Two courses seemed apparent. One was to go back and enter that open door. That, to Cliff meant certain trouble. It was too obviously a test to sound him out. The other course was to do nothing; to be content with knowing that Glade Tremont had come to Glendale.
Neither of these plans appealed. Cliff sought a scheme that would have the advantage of both and the disadvantage of neither. He stared toward the silent wing of the house. Somewhere, there, Tremont and Orlinov were in conference. Cliff wondered what The Shadow would do if he were here. Perhaps The Shadow might be here. That was pure speculation. However, the thought brought inspiration. Cliff's problem was to enter the mysterious section of the house without going through the open door. Scaling the wall would be a dangerous task. The windows of the ground floor were barred; those above were likewise protected. Furthermore, Cliff knew that watchful men were likely to be prowling the grounds about the house.
Then he thought of the turrets. Two of them, large and imposing, towered above the front of the house. There were others at the joint of each wing.
Between them were battlements — high walls of stone that copied the pattern of grim, old-time fortresses. Nonchalantly, Cliff sauntered back into the house and hummed softly as he strolled into the living room. There his manner changed. He peered into the deserted hall, to make sure that no one was watching from that partly opened door. The inspection convinced him that whoever might be lying in wait was well past the inviting barrier.
Softly, Cliff stole to the rear of the hall, and ascended the steps that led to the second floor. This was a little-used portion of the house. It had no connection with any portion other than the central hallway.
At the front of the second story were two doors, one for each of the disused turrets. Cliff tried the door on the side toward the mystery wing. He found it locked, but not formidably. He opened it with a skeleton key, and ascended a winding stairway, which terminated in a small room within the expanding turret.
Here, Cliff found an uncased window. He slipped through it and dropped quickly to the roof behind a battlement. He made his way to the nearest of the smaller turrets. This had a narrow, slit-like opening, through which Cliff managed to squeeze his body.
He was in a small room, and as he walked across it, the floor yielded slightly beneath his feet. That indicated a trapdoor.
The trap opened upward. Cliff descended a cylindrical shaft of stone by means of a metal ladder. At the bottom, he encountered another door, locked.
It required careful probing with the key before he managed to unlock the barrier. Then Cliff found himself in a long, gloomy corridor that ran the full extent of the wing.
There was need for caution now. Instinctively, Cliff gripped the handle of his revolver.
The weapon would serve him handily, if he should encounter Petri or either of the two mobsters who lived in this section of the strange house.
Both sides of the corridor were lined with heavy, closed doors. At last, Cliff reached a stairway. Descending, he came to the ground floor, where the steps ended. Peering along the corridor to the central part of the house, he saw a closed door. Then he realized the arrangement.
The sliding door was merely the first barrier. Had he entered it, he would have found but one way to leave — through the door from the center of the house. It was a perfect trap; but Cliff had avoided it. Now he felt secure.