The Grove of Doom

CHAPTER XI. IN THE GROVE

GALBRAITH CHITTENDEN had entered the gloom beneath the beeches with surprising energy for a man of his age. With rapid strides, he took a straight course toward the heart of the woods — directly along the way that he knew Wilbur must have come from the opposite direction.

The police dog, no longer protesting, began to strain forward, whining at times, growling at intervals. It had seemingly caught the spirit of the search. Galbraith, intent of purpose, did not sense the hideous atmosphere of these brown-matted, irregular corridors. Beowulf, eager for his master, looked up as though asking to be loosed. The old man responded by leaning down and unclasping the hook that held the dog’s collar. Beowulf bounded forward; then stood waiting.

Galbraith Chittenden looked around for Zachary. The old man saw his son lagging far behind. Zachary’s evil face looked grotesque in this strange light. It wore a sickening, pallid expression.

“Come on!” ordered Galbraith.

“Go ahead,” said Zachary. “I’ll follow. I’m looking around a bit. You’re moving too fast, father.”

Galbraith Chittenden snorted contemptuously. He marched straight forward. The police dog, scenting the ground curiously, circled about the old man, covering a much wider area. Zachary Chittenden, a worried look upon his face, crept onward, slowly veering toward the right.

One could see a considerable distance beneath the trees, due to the uniform height of the trunks to the lower branches. Off to the left and farther ahead, Zachary could spy his father; and every now and then, the grayish form of Beowulf bounded in the air into distant view.

They were deep in the grove now, Zachary still keeping the right, increasing his pace so that he would not lose ground. Fully did the malicious-faced young man realize the impending danger that hovered above this low-roofed acreage. By swift, circuitous travel, Zachary gained more ground until he was more than fifty yards ahead of Galbraith and the dog; and still a considerable space to the right.

Suddenly, Zachary stopped his progress and gripped the trunk of a tree. He was experiencing the same sensations that Calvin Merrick had gained herein, save that Zachary’s mind was ravening as well as intuitive. Zachary recognized the presence of a hidden threat; he knew, however, that the danger lay over his father, who was now pacing slowly at the very center of the grove.

Wilbur’s dog was traveling in a wide, continuous circle, its muzzle against the ground. Whines became snarls; then came excited barks. Steadying himself, Zachary was tense. He knew that something was about to happen, not here, but over there, fifty yards away.

THE dog sprang suddenly forward. Galbraith Chittenden followed it. Beowulf stopped and growled; then bounced forward, barking in wild excitement. Again the dog stopped; its bark became a currish howl — as its pointed nose stared up toward a tree branch.

A streak of gray whisked rapidly along the ground as the howling beast began to run from something that it had seen.

Zachary saw the bounding dog tearing off through the trees. He saw a wild, frantic leap that seemed to carry Beowulf five feet in air. The howl became terrific; a frightened yelp followed; then all was silent. Try as he could, Zachary could not trace the dog. It had vanished — upward — and had not returned.

Galbraith Chittenden was shouting, calling the dog by name. Zachary could see his father striding forward among the trees, then turning in an effort to learn what had become of Beowulf. It was then that Zachary sensed a greater danger than before.

Galbraith’s cries were frantic. His form disappeared beyond two trees that formed a blocking path to Zachary’s vision, due to the angle from which the young man was watching. Zachary mopped cold perspiration from his forehead.

“Zachary — Zachary!” The call came wildly through the grove. Its sound seemed suppressed within the blanket of gloom that lay everywhere.

“Zachary!” It was Galbraith Chittenden’s shout — a cry of hopeless, helpless terror.

Then came a gurgling, muffled call that formed a gigantic gasp within these cloisters where fierce evil dwelt. Zachary knew the meaning of that cry. It was his father’s last, pitiful summons for aid, in the face of complete annihilation.

Zachary Chittenden did not respond. Instead, he turned and fled post-haste, off through the grove to the right. His flight was unrestrained. With a long yardage of safety from the spot where doom had fallen, Zachary was heading for the fringe of the grove beside the beach.

It was a mad dash for safety that ended only when the blueness of the Sound trickled through among the tree trunks. With a last spurt, Zachary plunged over the final stretch of matted brown and hurled himself headlong toward the white sand. He sprawled beneath the shade of the last fringe of trees, then rolled until his fingers clutched the hot granulation of the beach.

For long, wearied minutes, Zachary Chittenden lay panting, staring up at the blueness of the sky. A wisping breeze cooled his face; it seemed to end as it neared the edge of the grove that he had left, for not a leaf was stirring on those copper-tinged boughs.

Rising, Zachary went along the shore beside the trees. The close proximity of the overhanging branches brought a shudder to his shoulders. Here, in the open sunlight, back in a world where all was bright, the man was in a daze as he hurried to shake off the hideous impressions of that fatal cavern-like grove.

NOT until he reached the golf course did Zachary Chittenden recover from his groggy trance. He moved stolidly across the carpet-like grass, and arrived at the foot of the hill, where he made his way to Upper Beechview. He paused to rest upon the terrace, and, as he leaned his elbows on the parapet, Zachary Chittenden allowed an evil smile to play across his bloated lips.

He, alone, had witnessed the striking power that lay within the fearful grove. Before his eyes, his father and Wilbur’s dog, Beowulf, had been carried into oblivion. Walter Pearson; then Wilbur Chittenden; now Galbraith Chittenden. Father, lawyer, and second son — all were gone.

They were dead!

The passing of these three was shrouded in mystery. Who could tell of it? It would be long before the search for the missing lawyer would end; as for Galbraith and Wilbur Chittenden, no one would suspect their absence for days to come.

That would be the beginning of a long procedure, in which the estate of Galbraith Chittenden would eventually go to the surviving members of the family. Well did Zachary know the terms of the will — so worded that the eldest living son would be the chief recipient.

There were two sons living, now — two sons of Galbraith Chittenden. Harvey was one; Zachary was the other. Should Harvey die — Zachary’s smile widened as he stared across the grove to the lawn of Lower Beechview — then there would be but one.

Until but one Chittenden remained to claim undisputed title to the family wealth, there could be no peace.

Those who had died to date — outsiders as well as those of the family — had perished because they were obstacles to ambition. The next encounter lay between Harvey and Zachary; that was the cause of Zachary’s smile. For this evil schemer was mentally alert, planning the death of his sole remaining brother.

ONCE again, dusk was creeping over Upper Beechview, while Zachary Chittenden watched. The grove of doom was blackening in the glow of early evening. It lay like a huge, unmoving monster, in the midst of the land below.

A sound from beside the house attracted Zachary’s attention. He recognized his man, Banks, coming past the terrace. Leaning over the edge, Zachary called in a low tone.

“Keep close watch tonight, Banks.”

The man nodded.

“Expecting trouble?” he asked.

“Maybe,” said Zachary. “We’ll see. But I have a hunch we’ll be starting some before any comes our way. I want to see you and the rest of the crew some time tonight. So be around, about midnight.”

When Banks had gone, Zachary Chittenden went back into the house. The scene upon the terrace gave no sign of human presence. Off beyond the parapet, however, a silent shape was gliding along the ground. That shape signified The Shadow.

The master of darkness was here at Upper Beechview. Once more had Lamont Cranston assumed his mysterious identity. The Shadow, weird phantom of the night, had come to watch Zachary Chittenden, the only living person who — beside The Shadow, himself — had emerged unharmed from out the grove of doom!