Maxwell Grant
The House That Vanished
CHAPTER I
HOUSE OF DOOM
SHEETS of rain were sweeping with blinding downpour as the small coupe sloshed through the midnight blackness. The glare of headlights was drowned amid the deluge. Two men, the driver and the passenger beside him, were straining as they watched the road ahead.
“Ten yards is as far as I can see,” remarked the driver, in a tense tone. “But I’m keeping up to twenty miles an hour. The sooner we’re through with this, the better. How about it, Fred?”
“You’re the driver, Jay,” replied the passenger. “You pick the speed you want. You’re lucky that you can see ten yards. I can’t even spot the road through this side of the windshield.”
“The wiper’s a big help,” stated Jay. “I’m watching the macadam of the road. That’s what counts when—”
“Hold it!” broke in Fred. “Look out ahead!”
Staring into further blackness, the passenger had seen what the driver had not. A read lantern was waving in the darkness, its holder completely lost amid the storm. Jay looked up as he heard Fred’s warning. He jammed on the brakes. The car skidded halfway across the road before it came to a stop.
Fred lowered the window as the red lantern came swinging forward. He turned on the dome light. As rain drizzled into the coupe, a man thrust his head and shoulders through the window. A rough but friendly face showed below the dripping brim of an oilskin hat.
“Didn’t want to jolt you off the road, friend,” announced the man with the lantern, “but I had to flag you before you got past. The bridge is out down the road.”
“Have you reported it?” queried Jay, from the driver’s wheel.
“That’s what I’m doing now,” laughed the informant, gruffly. “We were coming over from Westbury in a truck when we saw that the bridge was gone. Pete, he started back; but I waded through the creek to get over on this side. I’m heading into Sheffield, I am.”
“You should have telephoned word,” declared Jay.
“Ain’t no houses along this stretch of road,” retorted the man in oilskins. “Say — who do you reckon you are to be telling me what I ought to have been doing?”
“My name is Goodling,” replied the man at the wheel of the coupe. “Jay Goodling. I—”
“That’s different,” growled the man in oilskins, his rough tone apologetic. “I hadn’t no idea who you were. Jay Goodling, eh? The new county prosecutor. I kind of reckoned Jay Goodling was an older man than you. My name’s Turner, Mr. Goodling.”
TURNER thrust a beefy, rain-soaked paw through the window. Goodling smiled as he received the fellow’s shake. The dome light showed Goodling’s features as those of a man in his early thirties; but his face, though youthful, bore the firmness that befitted his legal position.
“This is Fred Lanford,” introduced Goodling, indicating the passenger. Lanford was younger and less challenging than the prosecutor. “We’re on our way to Westbury. Our best plan is to leave you here to stop other cars while we go ahead and find some house from which we can telephone.”
“Suits me, Mr. Goodling,” acknowledged Turner. “Being a night like this and after midnight, I don’t reckon there’ll be any more cars along. But I’ll watch for them. Only thing is, where are you going to find the house to call from?”
“What about that old dirt road that cuts off to the right?” questioned Goodling. “The one that was the old route into Westbury?”
“Nobody uses it any longer,” informed Turner. “Leastwise, nobody except those folks that live on it. It’s like all those other dirt roads leading off. There’s a raft of them that don’t go anywhere.”
“But there are houses on the old Westbury road. Some of them ought to have telephones.”
“Like as not, Mr. Goodling. Well, I’m staying here, like you said to.”
Turner drew away with his lantern. Goodling straightened the car and started off through the storm while Lanford raised the window and turned out the dome light.
“The old Westbury road,” mused Goodling, as he drove along. “Well, Fred, we won’t have very much trouble finding it. That old sign will tell us when we get there. It still has its pointer marked Westbury.”
“Maybe we’ll see the sign,” returned Lanford, peering at the sweeping downpour, “but it’s a cinch we won’t see the road. Look over there on the right, Fred. You can’t even see the edge. We’re liable to be passing a road right now, without knowing it.”
“Look for the sign,” ordered Goodling. “It’s painted white and it’s right at the turn. You’ll see it.”
Lanford lowered the window while the car rolled along. Despite the insweep of the rain, he kept peering at an angle ahead, watching the extreme right corner of the restricted glare that the headlights offered.
MINUTES passed, Goodling watched the road while Lanford kept a lookout. Suddenly the passenger uttered. an exclamation. Goodling applied the brakes. Lanford pointed.
“There’s the sign, Jay,” he indicated. “You can even read it. Westbury. But you’ll have to fish for the road. I can’t make it out, even though I know it’s here.”
Goodling backed the car a dozen feet; then turned the wheel to the right. As he started forward, the headlights, swinging to the right, revealed the beginning of a curved dirt road. As the coupe rolled from the macadam, the winding course of the old highway showed its rocks and ruts.
In second gear, traveling at fifteen miles an hour, Goodling fumed as he tried to control the coupe. The road was upgrade; down it poured a sweeping torrent. At every dozen yards, the car went into a temporary skid.
“Like driving through a creek,” asserted Goodling, grimly. “Keep that window open, Fred. Look for a house — the first one you see.”
“That’s a tough assignment, Jay,” returned Lanford. “These farmers turn in early. If their lights are out, how are we going to see their houses?”
“Watch for entrances. Maybe you’ll see a driveway.”
“Not much chance. I couldn’t even see this road when we came to it.”
“Well, there’s always a possibility. If you keep watching, you’ll—”
Goodling ended abruptly. The coupe had gone into a skid. This was a bad one; water sloshed high as the car jabbed toward the left of the road. Front wheels hit an embankment; the car careened. Goodling held tight to the wheel, releasing the brakes momentarily while Lanford gripped the door.
Instead of toppling, the coupe slipped sidewise. The right side jounced; then the wheels struck a level space. Goodling applied the brakes as the car rolled from the road, headed directly to the left of the highway. The coupe came to a slithering stop.
THE two men blinked as they stared straight ahead. They had gained the luckiest of breaks. Directly in front of the headlights was the surface of a muddy driveway. Beyond it, at the edge of glow, the outline of porch steps.
“How was that for hitting it?” chuckled Goodling. “Right into the front yard. We wanted a house and we found one. Say — that was a lucky skid.”
“Turn out the lights,” suggested Lanford. “Maybe we’ll be able to see if anyone is home.”
Goodling complied. His pressure of the light switch brought thick blackness up ahead. But as the men stared through the rain-swished windshield, they saw the sign that they wanted.
A tiny crack of light gave dim indication of a window. It came from the side of a lowered blind. It was further than the distance to the steps. This glimmer was from a front window that opened on the porch. It was proof that the house was occupied.
“Come on,” suggested Goodling. “I’ll leave the lights off. We won’t need them. Get out on your side, Fred, and I’ll meet you at the front of the car.”