The Grove of Doom

CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW PLANS!

LAMONT CRANSTON glanced at this watch. It was nearly six o’clock. He stood up and looked across the golf links. It was late afternoon, on a quiet day. The grove of beeches was placid beneath the setting sun. The roof of Upper Beechview glistened from the rays of sinking light. The house at Lower Beechview was partially obscured by dusk.

Upper Beechview — Lower Beechview — the grove between. Those were focal points in a baffling set of problems. Of the three, the grove was most mysterious and sinister. Yet the houses, too, were of great importance in the matter.

Last night, a mysterious figure in black had hovered about Upper Beechview, to learn the plans of Zachary Chittenden. The same phantom shape had appeared in timely fashion at Lower Beechview to see what was happening there.

Now, Lamont Cranston, a very quiet, easy-going individual, had finished an afternoon of leisurely observation from the country club. His strolling gait, as he entered the clubhouse, indicated the greatest unconcern.

At a writing desk, Cranston scorned the pen and ink. Instead, he used a fountain pen of his own. He wrote a line on a sheet of paper and let the ink dry. As he watched, the writing disappeared. This was The Shadow’s test of the ink he used in all his messages to his agents.

Satisfied by the test, Cranston wrote a note in code and folded the paper promptly, to seal it in an envelope. He repeated the operation with a second sheet and envelope. These messages could be read only by the men for whom they were intended. After that, the writing would vanish too quickly for a wrong recipient to have time to work out the code.

Using the club pen, Cranston addressed the first note to Harry Vincent; the second to Clyde Burke.

These were two of his trusted agents. He left the envelopes at the clerk’s desk, and stated that he was going into town; but that friends might call, in which case they should receive the messages.

In a telephone booth, Cranston called a number, and a quiet voice responded.

“Burbank,” it announced.

“Instructions,” answered Cranston. “Vincent to club at half past seven. Burke to club at eight. Messages waiting.”

“Instructions received.”

“Report on Mann.”

“Data delivered.”

The conversation ended. Through Burbank, his secret contact-agent, The Shadow — at present Lamont Cranston — had completed arrangements for tonight.

A limousine came up to the portico of the clubhouse. Lamont Cranston descended the steps, an attendant carrying his bag. Within the elegant car, Cranston gave a brief order to the chauffeur.

“City, Stanley.”

AN hour afterward, the limousine stopped at a secluded spot on Twenty-third Street. It remained there for half a minute; then drove on. On the back seat reposed a closed bag.

Lamont Cranston was no longer to be seen. Instead, a black-clad figure had taken his place — not in the limousine, but on the street. The Shadow had again set forth upon some mysterious mission.

The door of a dilapidated Twenty-third Street building opened silently, and a tall, obscure figure slipped through. It made its way to an upper floor, and stopped near a smudgy-paneled door that bore the name:

This was the mysterious office that was never opened. Through the mail chute in the door, Rutledge Mann, investigator for The Shadow, dropped envelopes containing data which he had been ordered to acquire. Rutledge Mann was presumably an investment broker, with a suite of offices in the towering Badger Building. His recognized position as a business man enabled him to obtain information regarding persons of social standing whose doings were of interest to The Shadow.

The figure in black disappeared somewhere near the glass-paneled office. It appeared later in the hallway, then silently descended the steps and reached the street. From then on, The Shadow’s course was totally untraceable.

A LIGHT clicked in a room; a blue incandescent threw its ghoulish glow upon a polished table. White hands — blue-hued in the weird glare — appeared. Upon one finger gleamed The Shadow’s token, the iridescent girasol, the gem of ever-changing colors.

The hands opened an envelope. An inner envelope followed. It was marked:

Folded papers were drawn from the envelope. The Shadow’s supple fingers spread the documents upon the table. Keen eyes from the dark scanned the closely-typed lines, noting every detail in the wealth of information.

As the hands refolded the papers, a soft, whispered laugh broke through the room. Black walls threw back the shuddering sound. The laugh died away, as impish echoes took up the weird mockery.

Now The Shadow’s right hand was inscribing visible thoughts upon a sheet of paper. The brain that was mapping out a direct campaign was putting its ideas into carefully formed writing. The brief phrases formed a column.

The writing began to fade. Letter by letter, it passed from view. Affairs at Upper Beechview were in temporary abeyance.

The hand inscribed a new column on the same sheet of paper:

After the writing faded, The Shadow’s hand wrote two lists of comparative forces:

After this consideration of opposing forces, one group numbering at least seven men, the other four, The Shadow wrote:

Those two names faded after the capitalized words had gone. The hand, with a quick motion, inscribed a huge question mark upon the paper. Then, after the interrogative had obliterated itself, the hand of The Shadow slowly wrote this statement.

The short sentence seemed to linger longer than the previous writings. It carried a marked significance.

Eyes studied the paper after the words had vanished. The light clicked out. A laugh came through the pitch-black darkness.

There was no mockery in that sound. The laugh, was one of strange determination; a hoarsely echoed cry that signified the unknown. Only when grave danger lay ahead did The Shadow laugh like that.

The eerie echoes clung to the unseen drapings of this mysterious room — The Shadow’s sanctum. When the last hushing sound had whispered in uncanny reply, complete silence pervaded all. The Shadow was gone.

What strange adventure was on foot tonight? Why had The Shadow laughed so weirdly?

Because within the next few hours, The Shadow was to undertake the impossible; to pit his wits against the strangest lair that human cunning had ever conceived.

“Choy Lown can tell—”

To those who knew, that brief statement would have been awe-inspiring. Choy Lown, aged recluse of Chinatown, the crafty old man whom all tong leaders feared, was one who dwelt away from all the world.

No one had seen Choy Lown for years. He molested no one; but his philosophy of life was to live without friends. His mandates — wise decisions that were supplied when so he chose — came from a mysterious and secretive source.

The very name of Choy Lown meant beware. This odd Oriental possessed tremendous knowledge and unfailing memory; yet he preserved both for his own purposes. It was said that Choy Lown knew every riddle of the Orient. He was regarded as a demigod by superstitious Chinese.

None of Choy Lown’s countrymen knew where the ancient savant lived; had they learned, they would have avoided the spot with utmost care. For Choy Lown’s philosophy taught him that all intruders were lawful prey. It was known to the craftiest men of Chinatown that Choy Lown’s hidden abode was surrounded by traps that no living person could escape.

“In the toils of Choy Lown,” was a proverb of New York’s Chinatown. It was used to indicate a situation from which there could be no possible escape.

Tonight, The Shadow intended to visit Choy Lown. From that one man, he knew, he could gain the information that he wanted — could learn the secret that involved Lei Chang and Koon Woon.

To visit Choy Lown meant to go uninvited. The way would be barred by relentless pitfalls. Choy Lown was the man whom none had dared defy.

Tonight, The Shadow would defy him! While the mystery of the two Beechview mansions was dormant, The Shadow would prepare for the grand climax that was sure to come.