The House That Vanished

CHAPTER IV THE VANISHED HOUSE

ALL lay quiet along the old Westbury road. Sultry afternoon had brought a pall to the countryside where searchers had given up their vain hunt for a vanished house. Though an hour still remained until sunset, the features of the landscape appeared hazy and obscure.

There was motion at the side of the dirt road. Steadily, yet almost unnoticeably, a figure was moving along the highway. It was that of a tall individual who wore a dark suit. His chiseled features were scarcely discernible in that modulated light.

The stroller was hatless. He was carrying a flexible briefcase. He might have been some chance wayfarer taking this route between Westbury and Sheffield. Actually, he was here with a more definite purpose. The Shadow was going over the vainly searched terrain.

Walking along the old road from Westbury, The Shadow had spied various houses. All were ones which had already been investigated by the local authorities. Casual surveys had satisfied The Shadow that none were of interest.

The Shadow’s goal was the spot where the old road met the paved one. He wanted to see the point at which Jay Goodling and Fred Lanford had turned into the path of weird adventure. The Shadow’s pace had quickened; it slowed as he passed a slight bend. Directly ahead was the main highway.

Conspicuous at the junction point was the sign that pointed to Westbury. The white post and large-lettered placard stood straight upward. As The Shadow surveyed the sign he was impressed by its total absence of tilt.

Odd, for a sign like this one. The old Westbury road had gone into disuse; yet its sign had acquired none of the leaning so common with the old-fashioned markers seen on country highways.

Though the sign was obviously top-heavy; though the heavy rain had softened the ground, the post still maintained its vertical position. The Shadow stepped forward to examine it more closely

HE made a prompt discovery. The post hole was enlarged at the surface of the ground. This indicated that the sign must once have tilted slightly. Placing his briefcase aside, The Shadow gripped the post and tugged it upward.

At first the wooden upright refused to yield. Then it came loose. The Shadow hoisted the post up into the light. Again his eyes noted something; slowly he let the post slide down into the hole.

The pointed lower portion of the post was stained with dirt; that was natural, since it had been imbedded in the ground for some years. But the margin of the dirt stain was not at the ground level. When the post dropped back into place, a full five inches of white paint sank with the dirt-stained portion.

Thumping the post, The Shadow forced it farther down. It stuck and remained upright. The Shadow stepped back; his straight lips delivered a soft, whispered laugh. He had made the discovery that was to serve him as a vital clue.

Someone had recently removed that post. Afterward, the sign had been replaced. Before its removal, the sign had been slightly tilted. The man who had replaced it had not taken any chances on trying to duplicate the lean.

Instead, he had driven the post further into the rain-softened ground. He had left it upright, hard in place, so that no one would suspect that the post had been loose. That person had lowered the height of the signboard by his action. Yet none of the searchers, viewing the marker, had realized its new condition.

A good job. One that had been a perfect deception. Only The Shadow, delving into the possibilities of this strange case, had given thought to the signpost as a likely element in the mystery.

The Shadow had concluded that it would have been easier to move a signpost than a house. Since both had figured in the episode of Saturday, midnight, he had started with the post as his first objective.

The sign, at present, was standing at the beginning of the old Westbury road, exactly where it belonged. Yet chances were that Goodling and Lanford had seen it elsewhere. The Shadow drew a map from his pocket and studied it in the fading light.

Following south from the old Westbury road, there were two more dirt roads that led off to the right before the paved highway crossed the creek. Those were logically the ones to be investigated. Picking up his briefcase, The Shadow started southward at a brisk pace.

The paved highway was deserted. The bridge had not yet been repaired. Travelers were using an entirely different route between Sheffield and Westbury. There had been searchers hereabouts, but The Shadow had learned from Clyde Burke that the hunt was ended. Hence he ran no risk of encountering searchers.

HALF a mile down the paved highway, The Shadow found the next dirt road. It looked very much like the old Westbury road; but the map showed that it merely ran into an old abandoned farm, a few miles from the main highway. It was called Dobson’s Road on the map.

The Shadow stopped at the edge of Dobson’s Road. He picked the spot where a sign would naturally stand, if this road were marked like the old highway to Westbury. Stooping beside the underbrush, The Shadow pressed back a matted mass of soggy turf. Again his soft laugh sounded.

The Shadow had found a large posthole. This second clue told him where the Westbury sign had been during its absence from the road where it belonged. The Shadow pushed the turf back into place. He started along Dobson’s Road.

The week-end rain had completely obliterated any tire traces along this road. But The Shadow needed no such indications. He was watching to the left. Three quarters of a mile brought him to his objective.

Just past a slight embankment, The Shadow discovered an old driveway. Following it, he made a slight turn; then, swinging to the opposite angle, he faced a large house that loomed among trees.

At one corner was a porch, which had a roof but no steps. Approaching closely, The Shadow noticed a dry fringe of grass along the porch edge. This was a token that steps had been here until recently.

This was one of the empty houses that Clyde Burke had spoken about to Harry Vincent. It was the house that had been occupied by Brooks, the artist. The Shadow knew that it must be the house that Goodling and Lanford had visited.

The prosecutor and his friend had skidded through the driveway. They thought they had stopped facing the front of the building. Instead, they had been headed directly toward the side.

Realizing that, the occupants of the house had removed the steps after they had disposed of Goodling and Lanford. Small wonder that searchers had passed up this house entirely. It was not on the Westbury road. It was empty. It did not answer the vague description that Goodling and Lanford had given.

STEPPING UP to the porch, The Shadow tried the door. He found it locked. He opened it easily with a skeleton key. The inside of the door showed no bolts whatever. But as The Shadow used a flashlight for close examination, he discovered spots that had been dabbed with paint.

Another touch. The removal of the bolts aided the deception. As The Shadow looked through the gloomy hall, he understood fully how difficult it would be for anyone to recognize the place after one visit.

The main portion of the house was to The Shadow’s left. This was nothing more than a long rear hall. People coming in from the actual front would reach this hall from other passages. It would not answer the description given by Goodling and Lanford.

There was a doorway to The Shadow’s right. Having the proper perspective, The Shadow decided that this must lead to the room which Goodling and Lanford had mistaken for a front parlor. The Shadow entered and found the room empty. He saw a wide opening into another room. He went through.

Clyde Burke had given The Shadow full details of the house as Goodling and Lanford had remembered it. Their description had been received at the Classic office before Clyde had started to Sheffield.

The Shadow knew, therefore, that he was in the living room where the two men had seen the dead body. But nothing remained to indicate that this had once been an apartment of luxury.

Old books, newspapers and magazines were scattered upon the bare floor. Cracked walls showed where tapestries had been. Empty boxes occupied the corners. Everything had been done to make this look like a rear storeroom in an empty house.

Half shrouded in dusk, The Shadow reviewed his discoveries. He saw the game, even though he could not supply the full details. A man had been killed in this house. The occupants had decided to make a get-away.

This house was on Dobson’s Road, the first dirt road past the old route to Westbury. Someone in the house had gone out in the storm to remove the Westbury sign and place it on Dobson’s Road. After they had departed with all their luggage, the sign had been put back in its original place.

Had this been to deceive such chance wayfarers as Goodling and Lanford? Perhaps. It had certainly succeeded in their case. But The Shadow could see chances for a deeper purpose. He decided, however, that such considerations could wait until later.

Opening a window in the big room, he dropped out to the rear of the house. Striding across sodden ground, he stopped to examine traces that interested him. Here, off at the rear, was an old abandoned path that was wide enough to accommodate an automobile. It wound off through the trees toward the next dirt road.

THE SHADOW followed the path. Flattened turf showed that a car might have traveled here; but the rain had obliterated tire marks. A quarter of a mile brought The Shadow to the last of the parallel dirt roads. Here, in a deep rut, he found another clue.

It was the broad mark of a tire with an old-fashioned, dotted tread. Large enough to have been made by a light truck. Using a bit of string, The Shadow measured this mark. He made an estimate of the tire’s width.

Stepping up to an embankment, The Shadow looked forward and saw the hazy course of Roaring Creek. He gained a distant view of the broken bridge on the main highway.

Even at such long range, he could discern the muddy turbulence of the torrent that still raged through the gap. Near that spot where disaster threatened was the place where Goodling and Lanford had been found on Sunday morning.

Something in the view must have impressed The Shadow, for his laugh came as a spontaneous utterance. Turning, he made his way back to the abandoned house. Climbing through the window, he began an inspection of the ground floor.

In the front of the building, The Shadow discovered a stairway. There was an obscure closet beneath it. The Shadow blinked his flashlight and tugged at the closed door. It opened. The rays of the light revealed an object in the closet’s depths.

It was a small steamer trunk. Locked, but easily opened. Entering the closet, The Shadow blinked his flashlight on the trunk. There he discerned the remnants of steamship labels and stickers that bore the names of European hotels.

Another turn of the flashlight showed the end of the trunk. The Shadow saw the initials M. L. D. Using a pick, he unlocked the trunk and opened it. The trunk had a tray which contained various odd papers.

Steamship menus, theater programs in various languages, clippings from foreign newspapers. The Shadow raised the tray to find the main portion of the trunk empty. Replacing the tray, he rummaged among the papers and discovered a small stack of hotel bills.

There were all made out to Miss Myra Dolthan, of New York. With them, The Shadow found an envelope which had once contained a letter. It bore an American postage stamp. It was addressed to Miss Myra Dolthan, Hotel de Ville, Paris. It was postmarked Boston, but bore no return address.

THE SHADOW closed the trunk and locked it. He stepped from the closet. He picked up his briefcase and brought out a blackened fold of cloth. A cloak slipped over his shoulders. A slouch hat settled on his head.

Automatics went beneath the cloak; The Shadow’s hands encased themselves in gloves. Beside the dusty stairs, The Shadow had become a living shroud. This spot was to be his headquarters until after dark.

For The Shadow had learned the one name that others had not gained: that of the mystery girl whom Goodling and Lanford had seen in this very house. The occupants, in leaving, had forgotten the single trunk.

Searchers had been about until this afternoon. The scouring of the district had ended. It would be possible for someone to return to this house. The odds were that the vanished occupants had learned that they had forgotten the steamer trunk.

The Shadow was waiting in the hope that he would later meet some member of the band that had departed so suddenly from this house of doom. That forgotten trunk was the factor that would bring a secret emissary hither.

To The Shadow, certain possibilities could rise to a point where they were sureties. He had discovered such an instance at present. He needed no further trail until this development had completed itself. His process of logic had brought him to a definite conclusion regarding the ways and means of the persons who had left this house.

Only the unforeseen could balk The Shadow for the present. Only developments that offered no clue could hold The Shadow to one duty while another pressing task was close at hand.

Oddly, both such obstacles were already in the making. The fortune which had resulted in the finding of the trunk was keeping The Shadow from other spots where strange events were due.