Tower of Death

CHAPTER VI THE NEW GUEST

IT was evening. Harry Vincent was pacing the platform of the little station in the town of Glenwood. To all appearances, he was merely one of the townsmen who made their occasional appearance when the through limited was due.

A distant whistle announced the incoming train. Harry, staring down the tracks, saw a headlight flash into view from beyond a bend. The roar of a big locomotive increased, then became a heavy clatter as the light loomed large.

The limited came to a stop. Platforms clicked. A man alighted, followed by a porter with luggage. A local taxi-man approached and grabbed the bags. Harry, a few paces away, heard the porter ask the man if taxi service were required.

“A cab? Certainly.” The man who had alighted from the limited was speaking with an English accent. “I say — do you know of an estate hereabouts that is called Montgard? You do? That’s excellent. Montgard is where I wish to go.”

As the arrival — it was Stokes Corvin — walked toward the old sedan that served as Glenwood’s only taxicab, he tossed a half-consumed cigarette to the ground. Harry Vincent, going in the opposite direction, nearly jostled against a heavy man who was lounging along the platform. Stepping aside, Harry caught a glimpse of a thick-lipped face.

Strolling to his coupe, Harry joined Cliff Marsland, who was seated at the wheel. The moment that Harry entered, Cliff shoved the car in gear. It pulled away from the station just as the locomotive of the limited was clanging its bell for the departure.

“Wait a minute, Cliff,” protested Harry. “What’s the hurry? Did you see that fellow with the bags? He’s going to Montgard.”

“Who is he?” questioned Cliff.

“I don’t know,” responded Harry. “I suppose he’s a new guest. One of the family, maybe. He talks like an Englishman.”

“All right,” laughed Cliff. “That settles him. You saw him and you don’t know who he is. But I saw a fellow that I know. That’s why we’re moving.”

“Who did you see?”

“Mallet Haverly. You nearly bumped into him on the platform.”

“You’re sure it was Mallet?”

“Positive.”

The rickety taxi came speeding past the coupe. Cliff had headed in the direction of Montgard. He guided the coupe behind the old sedan.

“We’ll make sure that this fellow is going to Montgard,” decided Cliff, “and then we’ll keep on to do a little exploration of our own. We’ve got to do more than just watch the big mansion, Harry, now that we’ve spotted Mallet.”

“You mean the cottage that we saw in the woods?”

“That’s it. It would be an A-1 hideout for Mallet and his crew if they mean trouble. I’ll park off in the woods and we can edge around a bit.”

The coupe had reached a spot nearly a mile from the town of Glenwood. Up ahead, the tail light of the sedan made a sudden turn as the improvised taxi swung from the straight road.

“That chap’s going to Montgard all right,” asserted Cliff. “The old taxi just entered the gates to the house.”

The Shadow’s agents glanced down a long, straight driveway as they passed the gates. They caught another flash of the tail light. Cliff kept on, to circuit the big estate. He and Harry, with the town of Glenwood as their base of operations, had familiarized themselves with the territory about Montgard.

MEANWHILE, the taxi that was carrying Stokes Corvin as its passenger had taken the bend of a graveled circle in front of the looming mansion. A quarter mile within the gates, it came to a stop. Corvin, staring from the window, made out the dark shape of the huge central turret.

Dull lights showed through small-paned windows. The front door of the gloomy mansion was barely discernible as Corvin sought to penetrate the darkness. Although Corvin had made no effort to open the door, the driver gave an important warning from the front seat.

“There’s bad dogs hereabouts,” said the man. “Stay where you are until the caretaker comes up.”

As if in response to the admonition, growls sounded in the blackness. A Great Dane came pouncing up to the car. It set its forepaws on the step and emitted another growl. A second canine guardian joined the first. One dog uttered a vicious bark.

The sound was answered by barks from kenneled hounds. Then came the sweep of a flashlight, with crunching footsteps on the gravel. The headlights of the local taxi showed an ugly-faced fellow approaching the car.

“What you want?” came the challenge as the advancing man stepped into darkness and flickered his light into the car.

“It’s all right, Jerome,” returned the cab driver, in a wheedling tone. “This gentleman came in on the limited. He wants to see Mr. Raleigh.”

“Yeah?” Jerome’s reply was unfriendly. “Well, Mr. Raleigh don’t want to see nobody.”

“One moment, my man,” spoke Stokes Corvin, in a firm voice. “I have important business with Mr. Raleigh. I must see him. Do you understand?”

“I ain’t stopping you,” growled Jerome, with an odd laugh. “Step right in, mister. But if Mr. Raleigh don’t want to see you, I’m here to see you get out.”

With that, Jerome flickered the light on the Great Danes. The dogs dropped back from the car step. Their growls were muffled, as Stokes Corvin alighted from the car and boldly advanced to the house. Finding a knocker on the front door, Corvin lifted it and delivered a succession of loud raps.

There was a long pause. The old sedan remained in the driveway, its motor idling in jerky fashion. Jerome was holding back the dogs. At last, the sound of moving bolts came from within the house. The door swung inward.

STOKES CORVIN stared at the man who had come to answer the door. A tall, cadaverous fellow in the dress of a servant, the man looked like a living corpse. His face was white above the dark collar of his coat. His eyes stared like those of a waxwork figure.

“Whom do you wish to see?” questioned the servitor.

“I am Stokes Corvin,” announced the visitor. “I want to meet Mr. Jarvis Raleigh.”

“Step in,” ordered the servant.

Stokes Corvin obeyed. The cadaverous man beckoned to the cab driver. In gingerly fashion, the fellow alighted from his sedan and brought Corvin’s bags to the doorway. Turning, he hastened back into his car. He was driving away when the servant closed the door.

While Stokes Corvin watched, the cadaverous man pressed home three huge bolts. Walking directly past the visitor, the servant opened an inner door and stood there. He spoke in a hollow tone:

“I shall return. Wait here until I have announced your arrival to Mr. Raleigh.”

Stepping through the inner door, the servant bolted it from the other side. Again, Stokes Corvin had evidence of triple bolting. With a shrug of his shoulders, he stared about the odd room in which he stood.

The turret served as a huge entry to the house. It was lighted by two bulbs set in brackets, one on each side of the inner door. As he stared at the wall, Stokes Corvin observed that they were of stone. Windowless, they went upward like the smooth bore of a rounded tunnel. Gazing upward, Corvin saw the thin crossbeams that supported the turret itself.

Fully forty feet in height, and some fifteen feet in diameter, the turret formed a room of ample proportions. Yet its forbidding atmosphere made it a place of gloom. The walls were plain and severe. The only decorations appeared upon the floor. Stokes Corvin studied them with interest.

The floor was of stone, fitted with tiles of various colors. A double-circled border followed the circumference of the floor. Within this appeared a succession of odd, tiled characters which Corvin recognized as Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Four lines came from the outer circle, joining in the center of the floor so that they formed a huge X. These were cut by concentric circles, to form new borders. The one within the Egyptian inscription bore the twelve signs of the zodiac, three to each quadrant.

These were exquisitely formed by unglazed tiles.

The innermost decoration represented a compass. It showed the four main points upon the cross lines that formed the X.

While Stokes Corvin was engaged in interested study, he heard the drawing of bolts. He looked up as the inner door opened. He saw the cadaverous servant, motioning for him to enter.

The visitor obeyed.

STOKES CORVIN found himself in a curious corridor. It was the junction point of three passages. Two came in from the front, like the arms of an inverted Y. Straight ahead was the main hallway itself.

A step led up to each of the three passages. On the one in front of Corvin stood a queer, stoop-shouldered individual, who held his hands together against his hunched-in chest. The step gave him a stature which he did not actually possess. His eyes, sharp as those of a snake, were staring directly toward Stokes Corvin.

“Another guest.” The man on the step cackled the greeting in disdainful fashion. “A new pauper to share my humble abode. Welcome, Stokes Corvin, to Montgard.”

“You are Jarvis Raleigh?” questioned Corvin. He eyed the man as he spoke and estimated his age as nearly fifty.

“Yes.” The reply was almost a sneer. “I am Jarvis Raleigh. I am the reluctant host to guests who are unwelcome. This” — he jabbed a scrawny finger toward the servant — “is Quarley, my one retainer. I received word from Lockwood that you were coming. Quarley will show you to your room.”

The cadaverous servant stooped to pick up two bags that Corvin had carried in. There was a third that Quarley left for Corvin himself. The newcomer picked it up. Jarvis Raleigh, his hands still clasped, stepped aside to let them pass.

“I am sorry,” he announced ironically, “that my other guests are not here to meet you. They have retired early. I shall introduce you to them tomorrow.”

Quarley had shot the bolts of the inner front door during the conversation between Jarvis Raleigh and Stokes Corvin. The master of Montgard glanced to make sure that the house was locked. Then, with slow stride, he followed after the two who were walking along the central passage.

There was a flight of stairs at the end of the long hall. Quarley led the way with Corvin following. They reached the second hall, where Stokes Corvin glimpsed darkened passages. They continued up a gloomy flight of steps to the third floor. One passage here was illuminated by a single electric light. Quarley entered a room and Stokes Corvin followed.

The place was furnished in antiquated style. It possessed no electric lights; the wiring, apparently, had been confined to the lower floors. Candles, mounted in wall brackets, served as the mode of illumination.

Stokes Corvin looked about him. He turned to see Quarley slinking from the room. The servant closed the big oak door behind him. Corvin’s forehead furrowed as he heard the servant slide a bolt upon the other side.

There was a key in the door. Corvin stepped over and turned it. He smiled as he did so. If he were to be locked in his room, he might as well lock others out. Removing coat and vest, the newcomer to Montgard shrugged his shoulders and approached the window.

SMALL panes with dividing bars between. Examining them, Stokes Corvin noted that they were rods of steel. He tried a pane. It revolved in its metal frame. At least ventilation was obtainable.

Stokes Corvin extracted a cigarette from his pocket. He lighted it from a candle; then blew out the various flames to plunge the room in darkness. Puffing at the cigarette, he approached the window and stood there, smoking, while he surveyed the dim sky above the trees which surrounded the curious old house.

The howl of a dog came from some spot on the ground below. Silence; then an answering howl from another portion of the grounds. A dry laugh came from Stokes Corvin. This was adventure, of a sort.

The cigarette sped downward like a meteor as Corvin snapped it through the opened window pane. Corvin saw it reach the dark ground and lie there like a glowing ember. The speck of light died. Stokes Corvin walked across the room.

His shoes thudded on the floor. The springs creaked as Corvin flung himself, still clothed, upon the bed. Minutes passed, while occasional canine howls came like ghostly wails. Then there were snores from the direction of the bed.

Stokes Corvin, the latest of Windrop Raleigh’s legatees, had chosen sleep in preference to the weird atmosphere that surrounded Montgard. A prisoner for the night, he had postponed adventure until the morrow.