Maxwell Grant
Doom On The Hill
CHAPTER I
THE SHORT ROAD
“FIGURING on reaching New York tonight?”
The filling-station attendant asked the question as he was replacing the cap on the gasoline tank of a trim coupe. The owner of the car, standing with a five-dollar bill in his hand, gave a nod as his response.
“Past eight o’clock now,” remarked the gas man, hanging the hose on the standard. “You’ll be lucky if you pull in by three in the morning.”
“My calculation was two thirty,” responded the motorist, as he followed the attendant into the service station. “Twenty miles more along the superhighway; then turn right along the Interstate Trail. Traffic is fairly heavy; but the roads are dry. I can make good time.”
“That’s the way most of ‘em go through,” observed the attendant, as he pounded the keys on the cash register. “In fact, that’s the way I usually advise ‘em to go. But I can give you a tip that’ll cut off twenty miles.”
“Bad roads?”
“Not when they’re dry. That’s why I’m giving you the tip. There hasn’t been a drop of rain in this county during the past three weeks. You take this route I’m showing you and I guarantee you won’t have to drop under fifty anywhere along the line.”
The attendant unfolded a road map on the desk. He spread it flat and used a pencil to mark the location of this filling station upon the superhighway. The map showed the broad road running in a red line that crossed the Interstate Trail.
With his pencil, the attendant pointed out a diagonal road that was indicated by two thin lines. It formed a connecting link, cutting across from one main road to the other. The motorist nodded as he saw the obvious saving in distance.
“One and two-tenths miles,” informed the attendant. “That’s all you’ll have to go before you strike the short cut. It’s a dirt road; but solid as rock. You won’t even kick up dust along it. A great bet, when it’s dry.”
Running his pencil along the short road, the attendant marked an X. The motorist leaned forward with interest. His face showed in the light above the table. A keen-eyed, clean-cut fellow in his early thirties, this chap displayed vigor and self-confidence. The attendant happened to glance up from the map. He grinned.
“I was going to tell you that this is a lonely sort of road,” he stated. “But I don’t think that would worry a fellow like you. All I’m warning you against is this spot I’ve put the X on. A grade crossing and a mighty mean one. You can spot it though, if you’re looking for it. The road twists and runs along with the track; then cuts over it and twists on the other side.”
“I’ll be on the lookout,” said the motorist, quietly. “What railroad line is it?”
“The Union Valley.”
“Many trains at night?”
“Yeah. A freight along about nine; a local comes the other way right after that. The Union Limited blows through along about midnight; then comes the Dairy Express, into New York. More freights after that.”
“Nine o’clock,” mused the motorist, as he picked up the map and received his change. “I ought to hit that crossing ahead of the freight train.”
“Yeah. But keep your eyes open, bud. That clodhopper comes through in a hurry.”
THE motorist returned to his coupe. Half a minute later, his car rolled away from the filling station. Two minutes after that, the coupe slowed its pace while the driver, checking by his speedometer, began to watch for the short cut that the map had shown.
Spying the turn-off, the motorist swung away from the superhighway. The coupe rolled smoothly along a solid, well-packed road. The speedometer arrow moved up to the fifty-mile-an-hour mark.
As his car purred rhythmically forward, the driver focused his gaze straight into the glaring path of the headlight. Though his eyes were on the road, his thoughts were far away. He had remembered the filling-station man’s admonition regarding the grade crossing; he would watch for the danger point automatically when he arrived at the twist in the road. For the present, he had time to devote to speculation.
New York before morning. That was an important goal. For this young man who was speeding eastward was engaged in a service which could not be put aside. His name was Harry Vincent. He was a secret agent of a mysterious being known as The Shadow.
To the world at large, The Shadow was a mysterious master who battled crime. A dweller in darkness, a supersleuth who could follow unknown trails, The Shadow was a fighter who had shattered hordes of crookdom. Public and police believed that The Shadow’s headquarters lay in New York; but it was also rumored that his hand reached everywhere that the menace of crime might bring it.
To Harry Vincent, The Shadow was a patient but exacting chief. The Shadow had saved Harry from death on more than one occasion. He had provided his trusted agent with funds and comfortable surroundings; in return, he had demanded prompt and thorough obedience to orders.
There were times when The Shadow’s ceaseless battles became the work of a lone hand. During these periods, Harry Vincent was free to journey. Though he welcomed these occasions, Harry never felt regret when he returned to New York. The service of The Shadow offered thrills and adventure which intrigued him.
Messages from The Shadow came from various sources. Harry was a member of a small but highly-trained group of workers. Like the others, he did not know the identity of The Shadow. Ten days ago, the quiet voice of an agent named Burbank had informed Harry that he could leave New York. This message had come over the telephone.
Harry had gone home to Michigan. Yesterday morning, he had received a telegram from an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. That message had referred to securities; to Harry it had meant that he must be back in New York within forty-eight hours. Harry had set out promptly from the little town of Colon.
New York! New adventure! Harry’s mind was considering past episodes when his eyes saw a sharp turn to the right. This was the danger spot. Harry slackened speed and guided his car around the bend. As the road turned crazily upward to the left, he shoved the car into second and approached the grade crossing.
All clear. The coupe jounced across the tracks; then down the other side. A sharp turn to the right; then a curve to the left. Harry stepped on the accelerator as he approached a grade ahead. This was hilly country.
Easy curves required careful driving, but did not greatly hamper speed. The contour of the road became intriguing to Harry as soon as he had passed the railway crossing. The thick darkness outside the path of the headlights seemed as heavy as a shroud of solid blackness.
Each curve betokened adventure. At one turn, a dirt road cut in from the right. At another, the whiteness of an abandoned quarry loomed ghostlike on the left. As the road twisted lazily along the side of a sloping, half-wooded hill, Harry began to wonder what the next straight stretch might bring.
PERHAPS it was Harry’s intensity of thought; possibly his instinct for adventure was at work. Whichever the case, the driver of the coupe was keyed to alertness as the road made another veer. The glare of the headlights revealed a clump of bushes; as the lights swerved, Harry caught a fleeting impression of something dark, huddled at the side of the road.
Though his car was clearing the spot in question, Harry followed a sudden impulse. He jammed the brakes. They acted evenly. Without a skid, the powerful coupe came to a smooth stop in the center of the road, almost alongside the spot where the object lay.
Pulling a flashlight from the pocket in the door, Harry stepped from his car. He left the lights on and the motor running. He did not think that he would require more than a minute to satisfy his curiosity. But when Harry Vincent set foot upon the packed dirt of the road, he was scheduling himself for a long stay in this vicinity.