The Death Triangle

CHAPTER XXI MURDERERS MOVE

BLACKNESS of night had enshrouded the old mansion when Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle arose from the dinner table to go upstairs. As the two young men passed through the curtained archway, Miles Vorber stood alert and attentive until he heard their footsteps reach the stairs.

Then, with soft tread, Vorber followed. In the gloomy hall, he kept away from the steps and listened intently to the muffled conversation that was audible from the sitting room on the floor above.

There was a spectral atmosphere about the interior of the old house. The servant, his scrawny hands clasped just below his stooped shoulders, was as ghoulish as the ghostly shape which he had seen last night inside the library. Vorber’s face showed ferocious determination. As The Shadow had reckoned, Miles Vorber was keen enough to know when his plans were meeting with an unexpected obstacle.

On the second floor, Howard Wycliff was talking soberly with Paul Marchelle. Howard’s trend of conversation turned toward the missing deed. Marchelle, with a shake of his head and an upraised finger, warned his companion to maintain silence. Marchelle sensed that Vorber might be listening below.

Indeed, the need for caution seemed all-impelling so far as Paul Marchelle was concerned. The danger of rousing Vorber’s suspicions was evident; the young lawyer made no attempt to tell Howard Wycliff what actions he thought Vorber had taken.

In his pocket, Marchelle clutched the crumpled paper of the list. His thoughts were of the missing table, which he believed was up in Vorber’s room; yet Marchelle was careful not to bring up the subject for the present.

Howard Wycliff was watching the stairs. Although not entirely convinced that Vorber had become a traitor, the heir to Cyril Wycliff’s estate was leaving nothing to chance. He could see the entrance to the locked library. Had Vorber appeared and made a motion to open that door, Howard Wycliff would have sprung forth to apprehend him.

Paul Marchelle, however, was more concerned with the possibility of Vorber coming up. Once the servant went to the seclusion of his room, action would be necessary. Sooner or later, Vorber would ascend those stairs. Until he did, Marchelle decided it was best to use restraint.

There had been no time for Vorber to examine the table which he had purloined. Marchelle knew that fact, and it was one reason why he played his waiting game. It became evident to him that Vorber, below, was also biding his time.

A RISING wind whistled outside. It shook the rafters of the old Manhattan mansion. It swirled along the stone surface of the building and whisked the wall beneath the window of the room in which Cyril Wycliff had died.

As though conjured from nothingness, a figure appeared beside that wall. A shape of blackness, indiscernible to ordinary vision, this sinister shape might well have been a portion of the night, torn from its natural element by the fury of the wind.

As the wailing gale dispelled, the blackened figure remained. A thing of life, it began to ascend the wall.

The Shadow, knowing that the climax to his operations might soon be due, was paying a secret visit to the Wycliff mansion. Steadily, he reached his goal; the room through which he had made a chosen path.

Watching from within the portal of Cyril Wycliff’s old apartment, The Shadow could see the light of the little sitting room. He could hear the buzzing voices of Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle.

The tenseness within the old house betokened the occurrence of something unexpected. It came. A ringing sound resounded. Someone had arrived at the front door. Howard Wycliff leaped to his feet and sprang into the hall, with Paul Marchelle at his heels. The Shadow watched from darkness.

Downstairs, Vorber came suddenly into Howard Wycliff’s view. The promptness with which Vorber appeared made Howard grip Marchelle’s arm and whisper a suspicion. Vorber answered the door; they heard him talking with someone outside. The door closed, and Vorber headed toward the stairs. He was carrying a yellow envelope in his hand.

The servant spied his master at the top of the stairway. Without betraying any surprise, Vorber ascended and held out the envelope. He explained what it was.

“A telegram, sir,” announced Vorber.

Howard Wycliff took the envelope. He went into the sitting room. Paul Marchelle stood at the door. Miles Vorber, as if seeking a pretext, waited on the landing at the top of the stairs. Howard Wycliff read the telegram.

“Listen to this, Paul!” he exclaimed. “This is a telegram from Hiram Burchison, in Chicago. He wants me to come there to arrange the sale of property which I possess.”

Paul Marchelle took the telegram. His eyes widened. He pointed to the name at the top.

“This was sent to your father!” he declared. “Who is Hiram Burchison?”

“A man with whom my father had various transactions,” responded Howard. “I don’t think that Garrett Slader had any connection with them.”

“There is no record of Hiram Burchison at the office,” said Marchelle doubtfully.

“I know who he is,” assured Howard. “Do you think that Burchison could, by any chance, be referring to the property named in the missing deed?”

“Possibly!” exclaimed Marchelle, forgetful of Vorber’s presence. “We must communicate with him immediately. What is his address?”

“The telegram says to meet him at the Dorsay Hotel,” remarked Howard, pointing to the words. “Thursday morning. Tomorrow is Wednesday; that means I would have to take a morning train for the Middle West.”

“Can’t you reach Burchison any other way,” questioned Marchelle.

Howard Wycliff shook his head negatively.

“I heard my father talk of Burchison,” he explained. “The man has no regular office. He travels in and out of Chicago.”

“You can wire the Dorsay Hotel.”

“Yes; but Burchison may not be there. It seems to me, Paul” — Howard’s voice showed eagerness — “that it would be best to keep this appointment and see Burchison in person.”

“But tomorrow,” objected Marchelle, “we are beginning the search of the library—”

“You can superintend it,” declared Howard. “Garrett Slader may be here — possibly Doctor Keyes. Both were around here the other times when we searched—”

“Yes,” admitted Marchelle. “We can take care of matters here.”

“In Chicago,” asserted Howard, “I may obtain information that will at least tell us to what property the deed refers. I can telephone you after I talk with Burchison. In the meantime, should you discover the deed, you can notify me.”

“Which would leave you in a position to deal with Burchison,” nodded Marchelle, now sensing the train of Howard Wycliff’s intention. “If the property is valuable, he might be the right man to purchase it.”

“Exactly.” Howard Wycliff glanced at his watch. “It is about half past eight. Do you think that Garrett Slader is at home?”

“Yes,” returned Paul Marchelle. “It would be wise to see him before you go. You have been neglecting matters, which pertain to the estate.

“Mr. Slader has the papers at his home; we can go over there in your car. How about starting at once?”

Howard Wycliff stared in amazement. He could not understand Marchelle’s purpose in suggesting that they leave the mansion. The sight of Vorber, still upon the landing, served to increase Howard’s wonderment.

“But — but” — Howard hesitated — “wouldn’t it be better to have Slader come here? You can call him, Paul — or I can call him—”

PAUL MARCHELLE frowned. Vorber could not see the action, for Marchelle’s face was turned toward the room. Howard Wycliff, however, detected the expression. He realized that Marchelle must have some definite reason for his proposal.

“Mr. Slader is fussy about legal papers,” remarked Marchelle quietly. “Besides, the library is emptied of furniture. This little room is too small for a satisfactory conference.”

“You are right,” agreed Howard promptly. “We can go over to Slader’s, Paul. Vorber” — Howard faced the servant — “take charge here while we are gone. We shall not return until after ten o’clock.”

“Very well, sir.”

Howard Wycliff and Paul Marchelle went downstairs, with Vorber at their heels. The servant helped them don their coats. They went out into the night. When they climbed into Howard Wycliff’s car, Marchelle began to speak in a low, tense tone.

“You have the key to the front door, of course,” he remarked.

“Certainly,” replied Howard.

“Let me have it,” said Marchelle. “I’m going back to the house.”

Howard Wycliff reached in his pocket. Marchelle uttered another statement.

“Drive along while you’re giving me the key,” he said. “I don’t want Vorber to know I’m coming back. I’ll drop off at the corner by the drug store and double on my tracks.”

“You think that Vorber—”

“Vorber is up to something. I don’t like to say more until I am sure about it. I can’t give you my full suspicions now — time is too short. I want to catch him before he has time to act.”

“He was stalling while we were there?”

“I think so. He was waiting for us to go out. I thought that when he popped up so quickly to answer the door. I knew that the only way to make him show his hand was to give him the chance.”

“You are going back alone—”

“Don’t worry about me.” Marchelle laughed grimly as the car stopped at the corner. “I’ve got the gun you gave me. Here in my coat pocket. It would be unwise for you to go back, Howard. Vorber might call Slader’s house.”

“That’s true. But suppose Vorber sees you coming in the door—”

“I can explain it. You are at the corner. I forgot some papers. I can rummage around and pretend to look for them; then come out to join you.”

“Good. I’ll wait here a few minutes. Suppose, though, that you find Vorber up to something—”

“You’ll hear from me by telephone.”

PAUL MARCHELLE alighted at the darkened corner. He motioned to Howard Wycliff to drive farther on, so that the lights of the car would not be visible if Vorber was peering from in front of the old house. Howard swung his car around the corner. He caught a last glimpse of Paul Marchelle edging toward the wall beside the drug store.

Howard waited a few minutes, then drove away. As he rode toward Slader’s, he wondered over the odd sequence of events. The telegram had changed all plans. It might mean much, this message from Burchison. But the most impressive thought in Howard Wycliff’s mind was that of Miles Vorber, the secretive servant, prowling through the old house, with Paul Marchelle entering to watch the old man’s actions.

Howard Wycliff was convinced that he, alone, had an inkling of what might be transpiring within that gloomy mansion. Howard Wycliff had never seen The Shadow. Hence he could not suspect that a mysterious, invisible visitor had already entered the house.

But there were others besides The Shadow who also had gained an idea of what was happening in Howard Wycliff’s home.

WARD FETZLER, standing in the sumptuous living room of his apartment, was holding the telephone in his hand. With livid, blurting lips, he was telling Martin Hamprell the details of a message that he had just received.

“Vorber has located the deed!” he exclaimed. “He hasn’t had a chance to uncover it yet. Young Wycliff is out — he’s fallen for the fake telegram. Gone over to his lawyer’s house.”

“What about Marchelle?” questioned Hamprell quickly.

“He went out with Howard Wycliff,” answered Fetzler. “But Vorber suspects him of being wise. You know what that means—”

“Marchelle will double back, of course,” interposed Hamprell. “He’ll try to get the deed when Vorber uncovers it.”

“I hope Vorber stalls to make sure that Marchelle is really gone,” remarked Fetzler. “But you can’t tell just what Vorber will do. He’s been after the deed ever since old Wycliff cashed in; he’s worried because Marchelle has been watching him. He’ll be dangerous enough if Marchelle tries to take the deed from him, but—”

“Marchelle is clever enough to get it,” broke in Hamprell. “Just the same, the odds are fifty-fifty, unless we show up in time to swing the balance.”

“Right!” decided Fetzler. “That’s why we’re starting now. Before we go, buzz Ham Cruther and tell him to get his mob outside.”

“We won’t need the gang—”

“Not so long as only Vorber and Marchelle are involved; but if young Wycliff comes back, or if an alarm is given—”

Ward Fetzler did not complete the statement. Martin Hamprell was satisfied. He took the telephone from Fetzler’s, hand and put in a call for Ham Cruther.

Men of murder had decided. The fate of the missing deed was in the balance. It rested now between Miles Vorber and Paul Marchelle. Whichever one should finally gain it, the result would be the same so far as these fiends were concerned.

Backed by a squad of gangsters, Ward Fetzler and Martin Hamprell were setting forth to gain the spoils of murder, ready to commit new crime to win their game of evil!