Dead Men Live

Chapter IX–Cliff Sends a Message

It was evening. Three men were seated in the living room of Ivan Orlinov's abode. One was the Russian; the second was Glade Tremont; the third was Cliff Marsland.

Tremont had arrived before dinner. He had been introduced to Cliff by Orlinov. Cliff had caught the shrewd, penetrating glance of the lawyer, and it had placed him immediately upon his guard. From that moment, Cliff had sensed that Tremont knew all about his presence here. He saw a connection between the attorney and Biff Towley, the New York gang leader.

Yet now a lulling silence had fallen. The discussion during dinner had been of little consequence. Here in the living room, the men were seated before a glowing fire, for evenings brought chill in this region of high altitude. Tremont was speaking of the difficulties that went with the patenting of new inventions; but he was not at all specific in his remarks.

At last the subject changed. Tremont, glancing from the corner of his eye, looked toward Cliff Marsland, who saw the action, but gave no indication of having noticed it.

"Well, Mr. Orlinov," said the lawyer, "I am glad that the last apparatus you received has proven satisfactory. It is working well?"

"Yess," said the bearded man, staring toward the fire.

Here, as in the sunlight, Orlinov's beard was glistening. It had the ruddy glow of burnished gold. The man's eyes were open, and they caught the sparkle of the fire.

In that face, Cliff detected a new expression — a determined brutality that gave the Russian the appearance of a mocking fiend.

"You would like to see?" questioned Orlinov, staring directly at Tremont.

"I should be interested," returned the lawyer.

"Come," said Orlinov. He turned to Cliff. "You will stay here, Marslandt. I have business — a private business — with Mr. Tremont."

"Yes, sir," rejoined Cliff.

The men crossed the living room, and Cliff seemed indifferent to their departure. He fancied that questioning looks would be directed back toward him, but he paid no attention.

Instead, he stared directly at the fire.

He knew where those men were going. Through the iron door that led to the mystery wing of this house. Cliff Marsland played hunches. He was a man of action. He had gained his craving for excitement on the battlefields of France. He had continued it in the service of The Shadow. Inactivity wearied him. He was most confident when he was in danger.

Yet he also possessed a reasoning mind. He knew from what both Biff Towley and Ivan Orlinov had told him that the previous secretary here had proven false.

Cliff pictured a situation very much like this one — a man, left alone in the living room, while the others, probably the very two who had just departed, went away to discuss matters of importance. Cliff's predecessor had evidently pried, and had doubtless paid for his temerity with his life. That, instead of being a restraint to Cliff Marsland, was an incentive. So far, Orlinov had trusted him. Cliff was armed, and capable of taking care of himself. There was only one reason for caution. He must not reveal his game because of The Shadow. Nevertheless, Cliff was determined to make use of the present opportunity.

This living room was in the center portion of the house. It led directly to the hall. There was no reason why Cliff should not go into the hall. So he arose and strolled in that direction. In the hall, he observed the door that led to the mystery wing. The door was a sliding one, and it was partly opened.

Cliff laughed softly. He saw it as a trap. Idly, he lighted a cigarette and sauntered to the front door, where he made his exit to the porch.

Two courses seemed apparent. One was to go back and enter that open door. That, to Cliff meant certain trouble. It was too obviously a test to sound him out. The other course was to do nothing; to be content with knowing that Glade Tremont had come to Glendale.

Neither of these plans appealed. Cliff sought a scheme that would have the advantage of both and the disadvantage of neither. He stared toward the silent wing of the house. Somewhere, there, Tremont and Orlinov were in conference. Cliff wondered what The Shadow would do if he were here. Perhaps The Shadow might be here. That was pure speculation. However, the thought brought inspiration. Cliff's problem was to enter the mysterious section of the house without going through the open door. Scaling the wall would be a dangerous task. The windows of the ground floor were barred; those above were likewise protected. Furthermore, Cliff knew that watchful men were likely to be prowling the grounds about the house.

Then he thought of the turrets. Two of them, large and imposing, towered above the front of the house. There were others at the joint of each wing.

Between them were battlements — high walls of stone that copied the pattern of grim, old-time fortresses. Nonchalantly, Cliff sauntered back into the house and hummed softly as he strolled into the living room. There his manner changed. He peered into the deserted hall, to make sure that no one was watching from that partly opened door. The inspection convinced him that whoever might be lying in wait was well past the inviting barrier.

Softly, Cliff stole to the rear of the hall, and ascended the steps that led to the second floor. This was a little-used portion of the house. It had no connection with any portion other than the central hallway.

At the front of the second story were two doors, one for each of the disused turrets. Cliff tried the door on the side toward the mystery wing. He found it locked, but not formidably. He opened it with a skeleton key, and ascended a winding stairway, which terminated in a small room within the expanding turret.

Here, Cliff found an uncased window. He slipped through it and dropped quickly to the roof behind a battlement. He made his way to the nearest of the smaller turrets. This had a narrow, slit-like opening, through which Cliff managed to squeeze his body.

He was in a small room, and as he walked across it, the floor yielded slightly beneath his feet. That indicated a trapdoor.

The trap opened upward. Cliff descended a cylindrical shaft of stone by means of a metal ladder. At the bottom, he encountered another door, locked.

It required careful probing with the key before he managed to unlock the barrier. Then Cliff found himself in a long, gloomy corridor that ran the full extent of the wing.

There was need for caution now. Instinctively, Cliff gripped the handle of his revolver.

The weapon would serve him handily, if he should encounter Petri or either of the two mobsters who lived in this section of the strange house.

Both sides of the corridor were lined with heavy, closed doors. At last, Cliff reached a stairway. Descending, he came to the ground floor, where the steps ended. Peering along the corridor to the central part of the house, he saw a closed door. Then he realized the arrangement.

The sliding door was merely the first barrier. Had he entered it, he would have found but one way to leave — through the door from the center of the house. It was a perfect trap; but Cliff had avoided it. Now he felt secure.

There were few doors here, and side passages led from the single corridor. Cliff went to each door in turn. At last he found the one he wanted. The dull sound of voices was audible, and as Cliff listened, he distinguished the tones of Ivan Orlinov and Glade Tremont. Oddly enough, their words referred to him.

"Good man, the one Towley sent you," Tremont was saying.

"Very goot, yess," rumbled Orlinov's bass. "Good — like the others."

"Not like Steffan," retorted Tremont, with a short laugh.

"That man wass bad," agreed Orlinov. "This one — he iss goot. But I must wait until a while. Then I can make him be useful."

"You aren't taking chances with him, though. That is best, until he has been here a few months. That's a nice trap you have if he gets curious. Petri could let that sliding door close in a second.

"I don't think there will be trouble, however. Biff Towley picks men who are reliable."

Cliff smiled as he fingered his revolver. He enjoyed this situation. Now he was hearing new information.

"It iss ready for tomorrow night?" came a question from Orlinov.

"Not tomorrow," corrected Tremont. "The next night. Matt Hartley is coming to my home. He will be there at ten o'clock. He has had trouble over some lawsuits.

"It was fortunate that I learned of them and arranged to give him advice. Owing to the circumstances, he is paying me a private visit. I shall do the rest."

"Our friend, the goot doctor—"

"He will play his part. Don't worry, Ivan. You will get your next shipment. It may be the last, unless—"

"Unless?"

"Unless we find others that are valuable. Savette spoke of further plans." There was a slight stir in the room and Cliff drew back along the passage. He was thinking as he went. He had heard of Matt Hartley. The man was an inventive genius in the field of aviation. He had made tests to develop new forms of aerial torpedoes, and had gained considerable publicity through his experiments.

Despite the delay that he had experienced in getting here, Cliff had arrived in time to hear a vital portion of the conversation. He knew that something was to be done concerning Matt Hartley. It would happen two nights from now.

The door of the room was opening, but Cliff had reached a point of safety. He was hiding in a short, black passage, between the room where he had listened and the stairway. He was confronted now with a problem that he had not anticipated.

What if the two men returned to the living room and found him missing? It would require some time for him to get back through the turrets. Then he would have to descend the main staircase into the face of danger.

Cliff was pondering futilely. The problem seemed insurmountable. But while he was disturbed by his dilemma, something occurred that changed the situation entirely.

Instead of returning along the corridor to the distant central door, Tremont and Orlinov were approaching the passage where Cliff was in hiding! Quickly, Cliff drew his revolver. If they came down this short passage there would be only one course — to fight it out and flee for safety. Cliff tingled with excitement as the footsteps came closer.

Then the men's forms passed by the end of the passage, and the menace was ended. A few moments later, Cliff heard them going up the stairs that led to the second floor of the wing.

They had taken the very avenue which he must follow to elude them! Cliff was now between two dangers. Petri at the door to the center of the house; Orlinov and Tremont on the second floor of the wing.

Then it occurred to the waiting man that Orlinov and Tremont might intend to stop at one of the rooms on the second floor. Tremont had said something about viewing Orlinov's work.

Cliff saw the opportunity he needed.

Boldly, he came from his hiding place and approached the stairs. He stole softly upward.

The corridor above was deserted. He was right; they had entered another room.

Cliff hurried along the passage until he came to the door of the little turret. He entered and carefully locked the door behind him.

Up in the turret, he squeezed through the slit and scrambled along behind the protecting battlement. His last effort was a quick pull to the turret window.

Then the course was easy. Down the spiral stairway — a door locked behind him — the central staircase. Within two minutes, Cliff was gliding across the main hall into the living room.

His clothes were dusty from the stone. He brushed them at the fireplace. Then he dropped into his chair and lighted a cigarette. After a few moments, Cliff was comfortably settled. He drew a sheet of paper and an envelope from his pocket.

With a fountain pen, he inscribed a coded message in clear blue ink — the fluid which was used in all The Shadow's messages. He sealed the envelope and placed it in his pocket. Cliff was on his third cigarette when he heard Orlinov and Tremont returning. The two entered to find Cliff staring moodily at the embers of the fire.

"Mr. Tremont iss leaving on the next train," informed Orlinov. "We shall go with him to the station. Yess. You and I, Marslandt."

Orlinov pressed a button on the wall. A few minutes later, the abrupt honk of a horn was heard from the front of the house. Orlinov arose, and both Tremont and Cliff followed him. A limousine was waiting outside, chauffeured by one of Orlinov's converted gangsters.

Cliff was elated as they rode toward Glendale. This was a great break. He had anticipated no difficulty in getting to the station on the morrow, for he had previously been sent with the chauffeur to get the mail. But tonight — in time for the last train — that worked in direct accordance with plans which he had been given by The Shadow. The big car pulled up by the station. Cliff alighted with Tremont and Orlinov. The two men were conversing about minor matters.

Cliff, as he strolled beside them, was positive that Orlinov was watching him, and that he was also under scrutiny from the gangster in the car. Cliff smiled to himself. His opportunity would be here soon. He waited until the headlight of the New York express came glowing down the track. His left hand slipped in his pocket. It emerged holding the folded envelope. Cliff's body was turned so that neither Orlinov nor the man in the car could possibly spy the missive.

It was at that moment that a young man idling on the station platform arose and moved past Cliff. Their hands met, and as the stranger continued, it was he — not Cliff Marsland — who carried the folded envelope.

Calmly and deliberately, Cliff Marsland had passed his message to Clyde Burke, whom The Shadow had stationed in Glendale for this purpose. Constantly in the neighborhood of the station, Clyde was ready for any report that might be slipped to him.

But Cliff did more. As Burke moved onward, Orlinov's new secretary raised his left hand to his hip. His outthrust elbow was a signal. Clyde saw it as the train was stopping.

The signal meant that the message was intended for The Shadow, that it should be taken directly to him. Clyde, with his hands in his pockets, stepped aboard the train.

Thus it was that two passengers left Glendale that night — each bound on a mission.

Cross-purposes were involved. Glade Tremont was on his way to prepare for some new crime.

Clyde Burke was taking information to The Shadow.

Cliff Marsland thought of the situation as he rode back to Orlinov's castle, along with the silent Russian. Tonight, two men had plotted, not knowing they were overheard. Their plans were doomed to failure. The Shadow was due to intervene!