Maxwell Grant
The Shadow's Justice
CHAPTER I
SHADOWS OF NIGHT
“TURN left, Holland.”
“Yes, sir.”
The uniformed chauffeur thrust a warning arm from the window of the sedan. He swung the big car across the slippery road. The glaring headlights showed a driveway between two lion-topped stone posts. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the automobile rolled through the entrance of the Long Island estate.
The man in the rear seat was leaning forward, watching the driveway reveal itself through the drizzling mist. Rain-soaked shrubs and dripping trees bounded both sides of the roadway. The chauffeur drove carefully as he settled back behind the wheel, relieved now that he was free of the heavy traffic on the highway.
The headlights, swinging along the curving drive, invoked moving shadows of the night. Broad streaks of blackness wavered and swung away. Heavy blotches faded as the car passed. They seemed like living things, these shadows. The passenger watched them as he stared over the chauffeur’s shoulder.
A bright light gleamed like a beacon through the night. The car swerved and pulled up before a flight of steps that led to the doorway of a large mansion. The beckoning light was under the sheltering roof that extended from above that door. Compared to it, the glimmers from the windows of the house seemed faint and obscure.
The passenger stepped from the sedan and spoke to the chauffeur:
“You may call for me in one hour, Holland.”
“Yes, Mr. Tracy,” replied the uniformed man.
The sedan rolled away and left the passenger standing under the sheltering roof. While he waited for an answer to his ring at the door, Tracy turned toward the steps, and his face was clearly discernible in the night.
A MAN of medium height, his face firm and aristocratic, this individual made an impressive appearance as he waited before the closed door. His eyes, keen and perceptive, were staring out into the night, toward those spots where the sedan’s headlights had so recently invoked strange, moving shadows.
All was blackness now. Tracy’s eyes saw only mist; his ears heard nothing but the sounds of dripping water.
The door opened behind his shoulder. Turning, the man entered with the assurance of an expected guest.
Farland Tracy, attorney at law, now stood within the confines of a gloomy hall. The man who admitted him was standing a few feet away, bowing in courteous greeting.
“Ah, Headley,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Boswick is expecting me?”
“He is upstairs, sir,” responded the attendant, in a quiet monotone. “I shall inform him that you are here.”
Tracy watched Headley walk across the hall and up the stairs. The man’s tread was soft and catlike, quite in contrast to his heavy appearance. The lawyer rubbed his hands thoughtfully and turned his gaze toward the floor, until the sound of approaching footsteps caused him to glance up.
A young man had entered the hall from a side room. Slight of form, sallow of complexion, and drooping in appearance, he made an excellent picture of dissipated youth. He was attired in a tuxedo, and in his loose left hand he held a long holder which contained a lighted cigarette.
“Drew Westling!” exclaimed Farland Tracy. “How are you, boy? I haven’t seen you for a month!”
“Perhaps it’s as well you haven’t,” drawled Westling, with a sickly grin. “I haven’t forgotten the last time. I hope you don’t intend to mention it to the old gentleman.”
“To your Uncle Houston?” quizzed Tracy. Then, in an amiable tone: “No, Drew. Lawyers usually keep their clients’ affairs to themselves. I am here to discuss business affairs with your uncle. Your name will not be mentioned — that is, in reference to the matter of which you have just spoken.”
“Thanks,” responded Westling, in a relieved tone. “The old gentleman has been quizzy enough about my affairs without him learning anything that won’t do any good. I’ve kept out of jams since that last one—”
“And you don’t intend to get into any more,” smiled Farland Tracy. “All right, Drew. I’m glad to hear it.”
Drew Westling turned away and strolled back across the hall.
FARLAND TRACY noticed that Headley was returning down the stairs. The lawyer smiled. He fancied that Drew Westling would not want the attendant to hear the discussion that had just taken place.
Houston Boswick, owner of this mansion, was, as Tracy had mentioned, Westling’s uncle. The old man had been away for several months, and hence knew nothing of Westling’s activities during his absence.
It was Farland Tracy who had twice gained Westling’s release, without scandal, after raids on gambling houses where the young man had been. Such information, coming to Houston Boswick, would prove most embarrassing to Drew Westling. The young man depended entirely upon his uncle for support.
“Mr. Boswick will see you, sir,” announced Headley. “He is in the upstairs study.”
Farland Tracy walked up the steps. Drew Westling, slowly puffing through his long cigarette holder, stood in a corner of the hall. With shrewd gaze, be watched Headley depart toward the kitchen. Then, turning his eyes upward, he waited until Farland Tracy had passed the head of the stairs.
Hastily ejecting his cigarette into an ash stand, Drew Westling pocketed the holder and followed the direction that the lawyer had taken. He tiptoed rapidly up the steps, turned into a narrow hallway, and softly approached a door near a turn in the corridor. He stopped beside the closed portal, turned about, and crouched with his ear to the door.
Watching toward the steps, Westling knew that he would be instantly aware of Headley’s approach, should the butler come upstairs. Listening intently, he could hear the greetings being exchanged between Farland Tracy and Houston Boswick.
Ready to glide along the hall at the slightest alarm, Drew Westling was in an ideal position to learn what might be said within the study.
STRANGE purposes were at work within this gloomy old mansion. Standing secluded from the highway, it was invisible to the passing world. But while one man listened within, there were others who were watching without.
Across from the lighted porch, amid the blackness of a clump of shrubbery, low voices were discussing the arrival of Farland Tracy. Those voices came from a spot where the lawyer had looked, but had seen nothing in the misty night.
“Just lay low, Scully,” came a smooth command. “We’ve got an hour to wait, at least.”
“An’ maybe nothin’ to wait for,” was the growled reply.
“Probably nothing,” rejoined the smooth voice. “But we’re not going in while the old man has a visitor. We’re not going in blindly, either. That sort of stuff is through. We’ll wait until we have a reason.”
“All right, Stacks. You’re the boss. But it’s too blamed wet out here—”
“Come along,” interrupted “Stacks” impatiently. “We’ll slide under the cover of the side porch.”
Two figures emerged from the bushes. They were no more than huddled shapes, but they cast long shadows as they moved toward the shelter of the side portico. Both Stacks and “Scully” were cautious in this maneuver, keeping just on the fringe of light that came from above the front door.
Confident that they were not being watched as they crept through the blurry drizzle, the men did not bother to look behind them. Hence they failed to notice a peculiar phenomenon which accompanied them.
From a spot not ten feet away from the bush where they had hidden, came a third shadow, longer and more pronounced than their own. A sinister shape of unreality, this strange silhouette accompanied the men. A black vagueness in the mist — so obscure as to be almost unseen — was the only living token of this weird streak of blackness.