The Shadow's Justice s-28 Read online

  The Shadow's Justice

  ( Shadow - 28 )

  Maxwell Grant

  THE SHADOW'S JUSTICE is a missing inheritance story. Crooks get on the trail of the heir, but the SHADOW fends them off. Partnered with the SHADOW's trusted legman, Harry Vincent, the young treausre hunter is soon off to the rough country of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, with crookdom in hot pursuit.

  The Shadow’s Justice

  by Maxwell Grant

  As originally published in

  The Shadow Magazine #28

  July 15, 1933

  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.

  Con
fident 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.

  Yet, had Stacks or his companion stared back toward the bushes, they would have seen a more potent sign of a being in the darkness. Two burning eyes, their brightness reflecting the glimmer of the light above the door, were following the sneaking men. Phantom eyes that seemed to float through the mist, they watched the progress of these stealthy spies.

  “We’ll be all right here?” came Scully’s question, as the porch was reached.

  “Sure,” was the whisper that came from Stacks. “Old Boswick will be up in his study—the little room that opens on the back yard—”

  As he broke off his statement, Stacks chanced to glance back toward the driveway. He caught a momentary glimpse of a gliding shape along the ground; then attributed it to his imagination.

  THE owner of that shadow was invisible. The tall form of a living being was skirting the edge of the porch even as Stacks spoke. Sharp ears had heard the reference to the little upstairs room. The phantom shape moved onward, unseen in the darkness.

  A dim light glimmered from a small window on the second floor, at the back of the house. Beneath that window, a tall form emerged from the dampening darkness. Gloved hands pressed against the rough stone wall of the building.

  A figure moved upward. The folds of a rain-soaked cloak flapped gently against the stones. A creature of the night was making its way to the window. Shortly afterward, a blackened hand appeared against the dim light, and noiselessly pushed the window sash upward.

  The shadowy shape of a slouch hat was momentarily revealed by the vague illumination. A few seconds later, the head beneath the hat had moved to the side, and was no longer visible. The weird phantom of the night clung bat-like to the side of the house.

  While Drew Westling, listening by the door of the study, overheard the conversation within the room, this eerie visitant of darkness was also learning what passed between Houston Boswick and Farland Tracy.

  Silent, sinister, and unseen, The Shadow, man of darkness, had come to this secluded spot. The Shadow, mysterious personage who thwarted crime, was interested in the same discussion that had intrigued Drew Westling.

  What was the purpose of The Shadow’s visit? Did danger lurk about this place? Did the presence of huddled watchers in the shrubbery mean that crime was brewing?

  Shadows of the night had moved amidst the drizzling mist. One was a living shadow. Where plans and cross-purposes unfolded; where men of evil design maintained a secret vigil; there did The Shadow venture!

  CHAPTER II.

  TALK OF WEALTH.

  Within a small, but finely furnished study, Houston Boswick and Farland Tracy faced each other across a mahogany desk, totally unaware that listeners were stationed at both door and window.

  The two men formed an interesting contrast in the glow of the desk lamp. Farland Tracy, still in his forties, showed virility in every action. Firm-faced. square-jawed, and stalwart, he had a dynamic air combined with self-assurance. With it, his eyes expressed understanding and sympathetic feeling.

  Houston Boswick, in opposition, was aged and weary. He was a man past sixty, and his thin face marked him as one who had lost all former initiative.

  His eyes, alone, revealed his intellect. At times they were colorless; but at intervals they sparkled with quick purpose. Occasionally, they showed a distinct trace of innate shrewdness.

  Those eyes were Tracy’s key. The lawyer watched them steadily and calmly, knowing that they alone could serve as an index to Houston Boswick’s true emotions.

  “Tracy”—Boswick’s voice was pitifully thin—“I am an old man who has nothing left to live for.”

  “Hardly old,” rejoined Tracy, in a quiet tone. “You have not yet reached the dividing line of threescore and ten.”

  “I am nearing it,” asserted Boswick, with a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders, “and my life has been one of ceaseless labor. The accumulation of wealth is no sinecure, Tracy. I have made my share—more than my share, to be exact. I began almost in childhood. That is why I am nearing the end of life.”

  “You have retired from business,” Tracy reminded him. “That should give you the opportunity to recuperate.”

  “I retired,” interrupted Boswick, “purely because I could no longer continue. When an old horse can no longer stand in harness, his days are numbered.”

  Farland Tracy had no reply. Houston Boswick could see the sympathy in his expression. The old man smiled wanly.

  “Do not attempt to delude me, Tracy,” declared Boswick. “This last trip to Florida was for my health. Its purpose failed. The writing is on the wall. My physicians have told me that I may not have long to live. I am ready to die.”

  “Why?” questioned Tracy incredulously.

  “Because,” explained Boswick “life holds nothing in store for me. What is wealth when one can no longer work? That has been my creed, Tracy. I shall always adhere to it.

  “All my business associates were older than myself. One by one they have dropped from sight. Death has accounted for most of them. Senility has seized the rest. For the past year, I have lived with only one hope.”

  “Your son’s return.”

  “Yes. Now, Tracy, that hope is assured.”

  “You have heard from Carter?”

  Houston Boswick nodded.

  REAL elation appeared upon Farland Tracy’s countenance. The lawyer had often heard Houston Boswick speak of his absent son, Carter.

  Years before, the younger Boswick had gone out to seek his own fortune. He had traveled in many parts of the world. Indirect reports had reached Houston Boswick that Carter was doing well. But not until now had the old man received direct news from Carter Boswick himself.

  “Let me become reminiscent,” remarked Houston Boswick. “Tragedy entered my life some twenty-odd years ago. Directly following the death of my wife, my sister Stella—my only living relation—perished in a train wreck with her husband, Hugh Westling.

  “I raised their boy with mine. My son, Carter, and my nephew, Drew Westling, were like brothers. The same age—but Carter was the stronger, and Drew the weaker. Realizing it, I favored Drew.”

  “That was considerate,” observed Tracy.

  “Too considerate,” corrected Houston Boswick. “Carter became obsessed with independence. Drew became a weakling, with no initiative. The result was that Carter went away, and Drew remained.

  “Only a week ago, I received a letter from Montevideo. It was from Carter. A friend of mine had met him there, and had given him my Florida address. In that letter, Carter announced that he was coming home.”

  “How soon?”

  “He has already sailed. He is aboard the steamship Southern Star. He is coming by way of Havana, and will be here within two weeks.”

  “Wonderful news!” exclaimed Tracy. “He will be glad to see you—and I know that he will receive a glorious welcome.”

  “Hardly,” responded Boswick, in a wistful tone. “I shall not be here to greet him.”

  “You will be—”

  “Dead. Yes, Tracy, I shall be dead.”

  The lawyer slapped his hand upon the table. He could not believe his ears. This statement seemed incredible—the absurd fancy of a failing mind.

  “Dead,” repeated Houston Boswick quietly. “I feel the end of life approaching. It will be for the best, Tracy. I should not like Carter to see me as I am now. He should always remember me as I was when he went away—close to ten years ago.”

  The lawyer settled back in resignation. He saw that it was n
o use to dispute the matter with the old man.

  “That is why I have summoned you, Tracy,” resumed Houston Boswick. “You have been my lawyer since my old friend, Glade Rupert, passed away. Our friendship has been a matter of but a few years, but I feel that you have been most competent and kindly. Therefore, I am relying upon you now.”

  Farland Tracy bowed quietly.

  “First of all, resumed Boswick, “my son Carter must not know of my death until after his arrival in New York. You understand?”

  Tracy nodded. The lawyer, to humor the old man, was accepting Houston Boswick’s death as a forgone matter of the immediate future.

  “Then,” added Boswick, “you will arrange full discharge of my estate, according to the terms. The bulk to Carter, with the provision of a comfortable life income for Drew Westling.”

  The old man paused speculatively. Then, with a sad air, he continued on a new theme.

  “My nephew Drew, he stared, “is a waster. I have provided for him because he is my sister’s son. I have lost all confidence in Drew. I have not told him that I have heard from Carter. Drew knows that my health is failing. He will expect the full estate for himself. Indeed, it would be his, but for Carter.

  “That is the reason, Tracy, why I have always minimized the amount of my possessions. People will be surprised, after my death, to learn that my estate is scarcely more than a round million. Only the heir—whether it he Carter or Drew—will learn, some time after my death, that ten times that sum is available!”

  “You have made a great mistake,” declared Tracy seriously. “This secret of yours—the strange hiding of a vast sum of money—might lead to serious consequences. Some schemer might seek to learn the place of its deposit.”

  “How can any one learn?” questioned Boswick, with a shrewd smile. “I, alone, have knowledge of the hiding place. My old lawyer, Rupert, told me that he thought the scheme was safe.”

  “Even though he, like myself, was never informed of the spot where you had placed the money?”