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  The Eyes of the Shadow

  ( Shadow - 2 )

  Maxwell Grant

  THE SHADOW - He fights crime that the Police can't stop, then fades back into the shadows from which he sprung!

  EYES OF THE SHADOW

  Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. A VISITOR AT NIGHT

  THE room seemed strangely silent when Bruce Duncan awoke. It was uncanny in this front room of the old house; he had noticed that before during the month he had lived there since his uncle's death. But the silence had never seemed so ominous as now.

  One comfort to his disturbed mind was the beam of light that came through the transom of the door to the right of the bed. It fell upon the hearth of the old stone fireplace at the right wall of the room. Duncan turned his eyes momentarily in that direction; an instant later, he was staring at the window again.

  For he had heard a strangely sibilant whistle - close and ominous - as though it came from among the bushes on the ground a full story below the window.

  There was a rustle outside as if a slight breath of wind had stirred the thick ivy vines that covered the stone masonry of the house. Then a head and shoulders were silhouetted in the dimness of the open window. A grotesque form slipped over the sill.

  The figure stole softly toward the bed. Duncan did not move. Somehow he seemed powerless to move.

  He turned his eyes to follow the actions of the strange visitor from the night, and his gaze was transfixed as the being came into the light from the transom.

  The figure was that of an apelike man - a weird, stoop-shouldered creature whose arms were long and whose fingers were bony claws. The face was wizened, and the eyes gleamed wickedly in the light.

  The creature's head turned toward the bed. Instinctively, Bruce Duncan closed his eyes and lay as if asleep. He had no will to move a muscle; he could only wait and wonder in the midst of this real nightmare.

  The side of the bed sagged slightly as though a form was pressing against it. The creature was stooping over him now. Duncan could feel a warm breath against his forehead. His heart thumped furiously in this moment of weird suspense, and he lay motionless as a waxwork figure, waiting for the clawlike fingers to close about his neck.

  But the thing from the night made no closer approach. It was like a game of strategy. Duncan felt that if he made the slightest motion, death would follow. Only by feigning sleep could he escape.

  WHAT was to be the next move? Duncan could only wait. Wait and watch.

  The creature had moved onto the hearth of the fireplace. A bony hand appeared in the light. The claws crawled up the right side of the fireplace until they reached the top. The hand pressed upward on the metal border.

  There was a sharp click. The creature turned quickly toward the bed, but Duncan's eyes closed instantly.

  Again he lay motionless for fully fifteen seconds. Then he reopened his eyes and stared in fascination.

  The gruesome creature was stooping now - stooping beside an opening in the hearth against the side of the fireplace. Its bony hands dipped into the cavity in the floor. They emerged carrying a small package and two envelopes.

  The apish visitor again pressed the side of the fireplace, and Duncan saw the stone in the hearth close, completely concealing the hole. As his eyes remained on the spot, he suddenly realized that the creature was gone.

  He glanced toward the window. A blotch appeared and immediately vanished downward. From outside came that same hissing whistle. The ivy vines rustled. Then all was silent; the quiet of the night returned.

  Only half awake, Duncan climbed out of bed, and switched on the light.

  A dream, likely, thought Duncan. Well, there was only one way to test it.

  He walked to the fireplace.

  He placed his hand against the metal rim and tried to move it. It seemed solid enough. He yanked at it and attempted to push it up and down. Suddenly it yielded as his hand was going upward. There was a sharp click from the floor - a click that he recalled.

  He looked at the hearth. One of the stones had swung upward on a hinge, impelled by a concealed spring. There in the masonry was a neatly formed opening, beneath it a small cavity that gaped with emptiness.

  CHAPTER II. WORD FROM THE DEAD

  THERE was a knock at the door the next morning. Duncan opened the door and admitted Abdul, his Hindu servant. The man was carrying a breakfast tray.

  "It was time for you to awake, sahib. I have brought breakfast."

  "Abdul," asked Duncan, as he began his meal, "did you hear any one outside last night?"

  "No, sahib. At what time of the night?"

  "I don't know. Didn't you hear a whistle?"

  "No, sahib. What did sahib eat last night?"

  "Nothing that would have kept me awake," answered Duncan. "I had an early dinner in the city, and I read for a while in the evening, after I came home. I did eat one of those peppermints in the dish over there on the table not long before I went to bed."

  The Hindu went to the table. He took a peppermint from the dish and tasted it.

  "At what time did sahib go to bed?" he asked. "You will recall, sahib, that I was not here."

  "That's right," replied Duncan. "You went out for the evening, after I came in, didn't you? I guess it was about midnight when I retired."

  "Sahib had dreams last night?"

  Duncan hesitated a moment before replying.

  "Unusual dreams," he said. "They were very vivid, as though they were real. They seemed like something was going to happen - as if I were waiting."

  "And time went very slowly?" questioned Abdul.

  "Yes," admitted Duncan. "Why do you ask that, Abdul?"

  "The peppermint," said the Hindu, "tastes to me different. It is like something that we have in India -

  something from a bush that grows in the wild."

  "What is it?" questioned Duncan.

  "It makes men sleep. It makes them dream. To them the minutes seem like the hours. To them the hours seem like the days. The things they see are strange."

  A SUDDEN thought came to Duncan. "You mean hashish," he said.

  "That is it, sahib," replied the Hindu.

  "You think the peppermints contain hashish?"

  "It seems to me like that, sahib."

  "Then I was drugged last night. Who did it? Why? Where did you get these peppermints, Abdul? Who brought them?"

  "I shall answer you, sahib," replied the Hindu. "I shall tell you all. I was in the house all day. I came in this room often, as you have told me to do. At the door of the house I found the package that you had told the man to send. In it was the peppermints. So I brought them here."

  "Yes," said Duncan, "I've been having them send mints up every day or two. I've been chewing them at nights - makes the cigarettes taste better with a few mints in between. But how did these mints come to be in the package?"

  Abdul shrugged his shoulders.

  Duncan was thoughtful when the Hindu left the room. He trusted his Hindu servant - Abdul had been with him for five years - yet it was strange that the man should have so promptly diagnosed the cause of Duncan's peculiar sleep the night before. But why had Abdul mentioned the fact if he had had anything to do with it?

  The Hindu returned with the morning mail. It contained a letter from Duncan's lawyer. The young man read the message:

  Please call at my office at your earliest convenience. This is very important, and I will expect to see you shortly.

  ROBERT CHALMERS TREMAINE.

  Two hours later, Duncan was seated in the lawyer's office, facing Tremaine across a large mahogany desk.

  "Good morning, Mr. Duncan," said the lawyer in a voice that suited his pompous appearance. "I have interesting
news for you."

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  "Your uncle, Mr. Duncan, was an interesting man. You, as his heir, received rather unusual instructions, which I understand you have followed, in order to comply with the terms of his legacy."

  "Correct, Mr. Tremaine," said Duncan. "I have lived in Uncle Harvey's house since the day he died. I have slept in the front room which he occupied, as his will instructed. During the day, my servant has been there continually - except when I have been at home."

  The lawyer smiled.

  "Those instructions," he said, "were left with a purpose. What the purpose was, I do not know. I was your uncle's attorney, but he did not take me into his confidence on that matter. Some time before his death, however, your uncle told me that he intended to impart some information to you before he died.

  He was unable to do this as he passed away the day you reached the city. He was calling for you when he died."

  "So I have been told," said Duncan soberly.

  "Your uncle anticipated that something might prevent him giving you his message - which proved to be the case - so he left a sealed envelope with me. It was to be delivered to you on this date."

  Bruce Duncan studied the long, heavy envelope that Tremaine handed him.

  The lawyer thereupon ushered him into a smaller room, to a table in the midst of book-lined walls.

  "You will not be disturbed here."

  Alone, the young man tore open the envelope which was of cloth texture inside. He withdrew several folded sheets of paper. The inner page carried a message in clearly legible longhand. Bruce recognized it as his uncle's writing.

  As he scanned the firmly written lines, astonishment came over him. He began to understand not only why his uncle had left such unusual instructions regarding the occupancy of the house, but, also, he gained an inkling of the significance of last night's experience.

  CHAPTER III. A STRANGE HERITAGE

  THE terse, blunt statements of the letter told a strange story so plainly that they seemed like spoken words. Bruce Duncan, as he read them, could imagine the very tones of his uncle's voice: I am speaking to you, Bruce. I am writing in the front room of my house. The shades are drawn. It is late at night. You and I are alone. These are the exact words that I hope to say to you before I die, in the place that I have named. This message is written to be read if that hope is not realized.

  I am a comparatively old man, Bruce. You are young and you are my only living relative. You are my dead brother's son and, like him, you have the firm traits of our family.

  I am a man with a mission, Bruce, as I write these words. When you read this message, my mission will be yours; for I shall be dead.

  For years I have lived in the front room of my home. I have been there always at nights, as you will be.

  For that room contains a secret which must be guarded.

  I have been many places in my life. I have had many adventures. I was in Russia during the Revolution. In Moscow I saved the life of a great man - a member of the nobility - a general in the army of the czar.

  I brought him to safety. I risked my life for him. I left him in Paris, and then I saw him some time later. He was going back to Russia. He intended to join the forces of Admiral Kolchak in their fight against the Red rule.

  He had another purpose, also. He intended to reclaim a vast wealth. Money, in golden rubles; and precious gems. An amazing fortune. He had left it hidden in Russia, and he was confident that no one could have discovered the hiding place.

  He told me that in his trials he had gained the help and friendship of seven men. To each of them he owed an obligation. He regarded me as the most important of the seven.

  He stated that he intended to divide his wealth into three parts - each a fortune. One was for the surviving members of his family. Another was for the cause of the czarists. The third was to be divided into eight portions - one each for six of the men who had befriended him; two for myself.

  To me he intrusted the division of this fortune. He gave me a sealed box containing the insignia of a high royal order, which he or his messenger would recognize. He gave me a sealed envelope containing the names of the other six men with their descriptions.

  Some day, he declared, I would receive a message simply stating a time and place for a meeting. There I would find him or his messenger. The other six would be present, each notified independently. At that time, I should open the box and reveal the insignia. The fortune would then be given to me without question.

  My next duty would be to open the envelope, learn the names of the other six friends, and identify them.

  To each I should give his share. Should any be absent, it would depend upon me to find them and to give their shares to them or to their heirs, if they had died.

  I regarded this as a sacred trust. Upon my return to America, I constructed a hiding place and kept the package and the envelope there. My health had failed, and I lived indoors, always remaining in that room.

  For as years passed, the matter became to me the most important subject of my life.

  My Russian friend was killed in the rout of the Kolchak forces. Still I maintained the trust, confident that he had placed his affairs in the hands of some relative or trusted friend.

  I have earned my reward. One week ago, I received a letter that stated the time and place of the meeting. I added the letter to the package and the envelope which contained the names of the other six men.

  When you read this, I will be dead. Dead, before the meeting time. I rely upon you to fulfill the mission and to receive the wealth that would have been my reward.

  The secret hiding place is in my room. You must live there and guard the spot until the appointed time.

  Do not regard this as an old man's whim. It is important. No one knows my secret, yet sometimes the most secret things are discovered.

  Use the utmost secrecy, Bruce. Be sure that you are alone, in my room. Go to the fireplace. Press upon the metal border at the top of the right side. The hiding place will open. It is concealed by a stone in the hearth.

  Read the letter. Learn the time and place of the meeting. Carry the package and the sealed envelope and go there - alone. You know your duty from then on. Destroy this letter after you have read it.

  The signature of Harvey Duncan was at the bottom of the page.

  THE young man stared at the words before him. He read the letter again. Each fact seemed to burn itself into his brain. He tore the papers into fragments. He wondered what to do with them, then realized it did not matter.

  For the secret was no longer his alone. His uncle's fears had been realized. Some one had discovered the hiding place. Bruce was positive now that he had been drugged the right before. Perhaps the hashish - if that had been the drug - had made the strange visitor seem grotesque. But he was certain that some living being had entered his room and had taken the documents and the package.

  His only hope was that the thief had not fully understood the significance of the objects he had taken. This seemed a faint hope. Where, then, had the information been gained? Bruce was sure that no one could have read the letter which he had just perused. Tremaine, the lawyer, was unquestionably reliable. Abdul could not have known of the secret. Perhaps the knowledge had been gained from Russia. No; that would not have carried a clue to the hiding place in the hearth.

  Bruce Duncan went into Tremaine's office. He was tempted to tell the lawyer what he had learned, for he felt that he needed advice. The secret had been discovered; this fact might alter the instructions in the letter, which demanded absolute secrecy. On second thought Duncan decided to say nothing.

  "You have read your uncle's message?" asked Tremaine.

  "I have."

  The lawyer smiled.

  "It was to be read by me," he said, "in case that you failed to abide by the terms of your uncle's will. I am glad that you have seen fit to conform to his desires. Your uncle was my friend."

  He walked to the door with Bruce.
r />   "Did any one talk with my uncle before he died?" asked the young man.

  "No," said the lawyer. "He talked very little the last few days while you were on your way from Japan. I should have notified you sooner. He was delirious several times."

  "Who came to see him?"

  "I don't just recall any one person. Hopkins could tell you. He was your uncle's attendant. He had lived there for several years, you know. A faithful servant and a willing worker."

  Duncan recalled the old gray-haired retainer who had lived with his uncle. He had a card in his pocket now, with the man's address on it. Hopkins had gone to live with his sister after the death of Harvey Duncan.

  A telephone booth was Bruce Duncan's first stopping place after leaving Tremaine's office. He found the card with Hopkins's number and decided to call the old man.

  A woman's voice answered.

  "Mr. Hopkins?" questioned Duncan.

  "Who is calling?" was the reply.

  "Bruce Duncan. Nephew of Mr. Harvey Duncan."

  "Oh, Mr. Duncan," came the voice. "He asked for you. Mr. Hopkins died two weeks ago. I thought you had been notified. It was so sudden - a heart attack in the night -"

  Duncan speculated on this strange coincidence as he drove homeward. A theory had formed in his mind.

  Some one had visited his uncle, and had been left alone with him by Hopkins. In delirium, Harvey Duncan had given the secret which he had intended to retain for his nephew.

  Poor Hopkins! Bruce had almost suspected him when he had made the phone call.

  Suddenly, a horrible suspicion filled the young man's mind. Perhaps his uncle had been murdered.

  Perhaps the death of Hopkins had been planned!

  Some fiend was at work; that was certain. Why then had his own life been spared by the creature of the night? The answer came to him. The malefactor behind all this had not known of the envelope in Tremaine's office. The criminal believed that no one knew Harvey Duncan's secret. He, Bruce Duncan, had been drugged so that the paper could be stolen at night. Had he moved while the enemy was in the room, his life would have been taken.