TRAIL OF VENGEANCE.

Maxwell Grant.

CHAPTER I. A TRAIL DISCOVERED.

BERT GLENDON rode up the escalator in the Pennsylvania Station, gripping his suitcase in one hand and crunching a telegram in the other.

Odd, that telegram, and important, too; otherwise, it wouldn't have been delivered to him on the train at Newark. The telegram worried Bert, for it signified that something might have happened to his uncle Lionel.

Glancing at the big clock near the train gates, Bert saw that he had already lost time getting up from the platform. He put his suitcase down beside a telephone booth. Then, unfolding the telegram, he read it again. The telegram was signed by Julius Calden, and its message stated simply: CALL ME OR DR. BRAY.

BEFORE YOU VISIT YOUR UNCLE.

Bert Glendon was slightly acquainted with both Julius Calden and Dr. Howard Bray. Calden was his uncle's attorney, and Bray the family physician. Both men would certainly have the interests of LionelGlendon very much at heart, and if they wanted to talk to Bert before he saw his uncle, it would be wise for him to comply with their wishes.

Nevertheless, Bert indulged in brief reflections as he thrust the telegram back into his pocket.

It had been several years since Bert had seen his uncle Lionel. The old man lived here in New York, attended only by a faithful butler named Timothy, who was also a relic of the past. Lionel Glendon had retired from business after acc.u.mulating a large amount of wealth, and since then had preferred a simple life, due partly to ill health.

There were old friends who visited him and spent quiet evenings at the old brownstone house. Who they were, Bert did not know, but he was sure that Bray and Calden called there, also. More particularly, the doctor rather than the lawyer, for old Lionel had been confined to bed for the past month. But Calden must also have been a recent visitor.

Bert had received a long-distance call in Cincinnati. His uncle had spoken in a quavery voice, begging him to come to New York to discuss important affairs. Ben had offered to fly, but his uncle had objected, saying he didn't trust planes, so Bert had named the train that he would take and the time of its arrival. To Bert, his uncle's mention of "important affairs" was an indication that Calden would be present.

The telegram, delivered on the train, substantiated Bert's opinion. Calden's mention of Bray was the worrying factor. It meant that something might have happened to old Lionel. So Bert thumbed through the telephone directory, found Calden's office and apartment numbers, and told the girl on duty to try them both.

The telephone operator received no response from either number. This explained why Calden had mentioned Bray. So Bert found the doctor's number, gave it to the operator and went into a booth. He could hear the phone ringing steadily, but there was no answer. Reclaiming his nickel, Bert decided that he'd have to go to the house after all, so he turned to get his suitcase.

It was gone.

This, in itself, was a minor tragedy, for the suitcase contained a whole sheaf of engineering statistics which Bert needed in his important job of standardizing highway bridges to meet the requirements of heavy military equipment.

So Bert found himself chasing through the vast expanse of the station, to finally catch up with a befuddled porter who was carrying a suitcase that someone had told him to put in a cab, only to find out that it was the wrong one.

With fifteen minutes wasted on phone calls and suitcases, Bert took a cab of his own. He gave his uncle's address; then delved into the suitcase to make sure the reports were there.

They were, but by that time Bert found that the cab was traveling in the wrong direction; in fact, had been for five minutes. So, even though he put the cabby straight and the fellow apologized profusely, Bert could count another ten minutes lost in getting to his uncle's house.

TIME was far more vital than Bert supposed. In the brownstone house, old Lionel Glendon was standing in front of the fireplace in his parlor, much perturbed. Lionel's haggard face showed color, but it came from the flicker of the firelight. When he stepped away from the fire, his face showed as gray as the ashes that streaked the hearth. Timothy, the butler, looked in from the hallway door. He was a solemn man, Timothy, who could control his features to the point where they were absolutely expressionless. He had a catlike way of walking, accomplished by a peculiar forward motion from his knees; he had cultivated that stride so as not to disturb old Mr. Glendon.

But it happened that old Mr. Glendon was already quite disturbed. Seeing Timothy, he demanded querulously: "Did you call the station again?"

"Yes, Mr. Glendon," replied Timothy. "The train arrived on schedule. I am sure that Mr. Bert will be here shortly."

"You were sure of that a quarter of an hour ago," snapped Lionel. "Listen!" The old man c.o.c.ked his head. "Do I hear a car out front? Go to the door and see. And stay there, Timothy!"

The butler nodded solemnly and raised his hand, as though about to speak. Lionel cut him off abruptly.

"Don't tell me to be composed!" the old man stormed. "I've heard all that, Timothy! I know that I'm still supposed to be in bed; that Dr. Bray says my heart won't stand a heavy strain. I'll follow advice as I see fit. In your turn, Timothy, you will follow orders when I give them!"

Completing his nod, Timothy turned toward the front door, and Lionel stalked across the room, to stare suspiciously after him. Seeing that the butler was actually keeping watch, Lionel returned to the parlor and went to a cabinet beside the fireplace.

In contrast to Timothy's silent stride, floor boards creaked when Lionel crossed them. Had the butler been listening from the front door, he could have detected all of Lionel's actions from those sounds.

Feeling in his pockets, Lionel failed to find the key to the cabinet. He looked in the desk and discovered a key ring, with several keys attached. One fitted the cabinet, so Lionel unlocked it and took out an oblong box, which he brought to the desk. With another key, he unlocked the box.

Added to the creaks of the floor boards, the groan of cabinet hinges, the thump of the box on the desk, and finally the sharp snap of the opening lock, were sounds that betrayed old Lionel's operations.

From the box, the old man brought out a few dozen sheets of blank paper, deep yellow in color, which crinkled as he laid them aside. Pawing deeper, his trembling hands found bundles of stocks and bonds, printed contracts, and important-looking envelopes, all tied in little bundles by pieces of thin string.

For a moment Lionel's fingers twitched, as though they intended to slip the strings from the topmost bundle; then, letting those packets remain in the box, the old man reached for the blank sheets that he had first removed.

Taking a pen, Lionel Glendon began to write in a long, old-fashioned scrawl.

It was, indeed, a curious setting. Sputtering firelight showed the feeble old man, intent upon his writing. A musty odor of age pervaded the room. The scratching of Lionel's pen was faintly audible, though drowned for the most by the crackle from the fireplace.

One thing, alone, gave no indication. It was the tread of Timothy, the butler. Catlike, the solemn man had come back from the front door and was looking in from the hallway. He saw the withery figure of Lionel crouched above the desk, with a hand engaged in trembling penmanship. Then, as though sensing something in advance, Timothy stepped away just before old Lionel raised his head. Suspicion glinted in the old man's eyes. He hadn't heard Timothy, nor had he seen him. Yet Lionel could sense things also, otherwise his writing hand would not have paused amid his task. Jabbing the pen back into its bolder, the old man placed both hands upon the desk and started to rise.

The effort stopped halfway.

A pained expression swept over Lionel's face. His hands tightened on the desk, but his body sagged backward. His head tilted high and a rattling sound slipped from his lips.

It should certainly have been heard by Timothy, but another sound drowned it. An interrupting sound-the clangor of the doorbell, announcing the arrival of Bert Glendon.

Ill-timed, that ringing echoed loud above the curious rattle that came from Lionel's throat. The old man was slumped completely in his chair, his head tilted forward toward the half-written paper. His left hand still rested on the table edge, while his right was advanced toward the inkstand. Though stilled, the nervous fingers of that hand looked ready to give another twitch.

WHEN Timothy appeared at the parlor door with Bert, the position of Lionel Glendon was unchanged.

The butler saw nothing unusual in the posture of his master; contrarily, he simply raised his fingers to his lips, signifying that the old man had slipped into a drowse.

Trying to m.u.f.fle the creaks that his feet made on the floor boards, Bert crossed the room and sat down in a spare chair beside the desk. Antic.i.p.ating the moment when a snap from the fire would awaken his uncle, Bert began to smile a greeting.

Suddenly, Bert's gaze stiffened.

His uncle's eyes weren't closed; they were open. Wide, they should have been looking at something; but they weren't. They were directed toward the floor, and their glint, tinted by the firelight, had a gla.s.sy look.

Quick to his feet, Bert placed a hand upon his uncle's shoulder, and the withered figure caved to the desk, one arm sliding across in crazy fashion. Away from the firelight, Lionel's face showed pasty white in the glow from a desk lamp. Bert's uncle was neither drowsing nor in a stupor.

He was dead!

Tensely, Bert drew away. This discovery seemed the climax of a puzzling series of events that had begun even before Bert's arrival in New York. Strange that his uncle should die on the very evening of Bert's visit, during those minutes that his nephew had lost in getting to the house.

Maybe Timothy could give some explanation. Bert was on the point of calling the old servant, when something made him stop.

The "something" was his uncle's half-finished note. Drawing the sheet of paper from under Lionel's arm, Bert saw that it was addressed: "Dear Nephew."

Startling words followed: "I have summoned you to tell you of my legacy," old Lionel had written. "The fortune I am leaving you is worthless. It represents a half million dollars, invested at the advice of men who termed themselves friends, all of whom profited through my loss. There were five, and their names-"

There, the note ended. Looking beyond it, Bert saw the open box, with its bundles of worthless securitiesand other evidence of the swindles mentioned in the note. Bert hesitated, and while he did, a thing happened that decided him.

The doorbell rang again, and though Bert couldn't hear footsteps, he knew that Timothy was answering it, for there was a clatter when the door opened. Without wasting another moment, Bert scooped up the half-finished note, crumpled it and thrust it into his pocket, along with the telegram.

The new arrival was Dr. Bray. Bert was facing the door when the physician entered in dapper style, accompanied by Timothy. Nodding to Bert, Bray started to stay that he had come to see how his patient was-but Bert's sad headshake told the doctor that something was amiss. Hurrying forward, Bray stooped beside the body of Lionel Glendon.

A few minutes later, Bert heard Bray's verdict. it was given briefly: "Heart failure."

Strange that Bert Glendon should have doubted the word of the family physician; that he should likewise have eyed the solemn face of Timothy with actual suspicion. But Bert did both, and the reason lay in that unfinished message that he had thrust into his pocket.

Through Bert's brain kept pounding a verdict of his own: "Murder!"

For Bert Glendon stood convinced that his uncle had been done to death by the machinations of five so-called friends who had stripped him of his wealth and thereupon covered their evil work by a crime more heinous.

Death's challenge had been delivered to Bert Glendon, and he intended to answer it!

CHAPTER II. CRIME UNPROVEN.

THE funeral was over and Bert Glendon was receiving condolences from many men who had been friends of his uncle Lionel. That some-indeed, most of them-had been real friends, Bert felt no doubt. His uncle's unfinished message had specified but five false friends, and there were at least two dozen persons at the funeral.

Sifting the false from among the true was a difficult task. The handshakes that Bert received were warm, and every spoken word sounded sincere. Though Bert was registering every name and face for future reference, the task seemed fruitless.

If only the five had stayed away! Then Bert could have checked them by their absence; but they were too clever to let him do so.

Making subtle inquiries among persons with whom he chatted, Bert learned that all his uncle's old friends were present. Hence, it was apparent that the swindle clique had turned out in full force. But whoever they were, they were too clever to reveal a trace. At no moment did Bert see any exchange of glances among the mourners that might have given him a lead to the men he sought.

One person, however, made a definite impression upon Bert Glendon.

His name was Lamont Cranston, and he was younger than the rest. Bert had heard of Cranston as a millionaire clubman and friend of the police commissioner. How Cranston had come to know his uncle, Bert did not inquire. What he did feel was that Cranston was a man who could be trusted. Tall, calm of manner, and with a face of hawklike mold, Cranston had a way of searching other faces with a keen, steady gaze. Several times, his eyes met Bert's and caused that young man to feel that Cranston, too, might have learned that the fortune of Lionel Glendon had dwindled under the wiles of swindlers.

As Bert left the funeral parlor and stepped out into the bleak afternoon air, he found himself thinking that if his own investigation should fail, it would be an excellent idea to call on Cranston and ask his advice.

Bert didn't realize that he could ask far more.

It happened that the calm-mannered Mr. Cranston was far more than he appeared to be. In public life, he posed as a leisurely clubman. Privately, he was The Shadow!

Strange master of darkness who hunted down crime, The Shadow held more than a pa.s.sing interest in the sudden death of Lionel Glendon. As Cranston, his acquaintance with old Lionel had been comparatively slight. He was taking this opportunity to look over some of the dead man's friends and relatives.

Though Bert didn't know it, he had met The Shadow's test; more than that, Bert had revealed his own misgivings regarding his uncle's death. It wasn't to be a case of Bert looking up Cranston. Sooner than he expected, Bert would receive a visit from Cranston in another guise-that of The Shadow.

Meanwhile, Bert's own thoughts were switching to another man-his uncle's attorney, Julius Calden.

Back at the old house, Bert sat at his uncle's desk and went through the contents of the oblong box.

Worthless though they were, those securities, contracts, and promissory notes had once represented a fortune, regarding which Bert intended to talk to Calden.

Grimly, Bert brought the crumpled message from his pocket and laid it on the desk beside the sheaf of blank paper that he saw there. Immediately, his chance glance became a stare.

Undoubtedly, Bert's uncle had used a sheet of that batch in writing his message, but the crumpled paper no longer resembled the rest. The blank sheets had lost their color; they were almost white. What made the fact apparent to Bert was the yellow tint still visible upon the written sheet that had lain, crumpled, in his pocket.

TIMOTHY hadn't returned from the funeral, and Bert decided not to wait until the butler arrived. Picking up a blank sheet, Bert folded it along with the written one and put both in his pocket.

Leaving the house, he took a cab, but instead of going directly to see Calden, he stopped at a laboratory run by a college friend named Steve Moffatt, who had gone in for chemical engineering.

Bert gave Steve the whitened sheet of paper, then tore a strip from the blank portion of his uncle's note.

He left both for a.n.a.lysis, and Steve promised to have the job done shortly.

From there, Bert went to Calden's. The lawyer was a drab man, but his eyes looked shrewd between their half-closed lids. Calden seemed to be expecting some sort of outburst, so Bert delivered it.

Dumping the contents of the oblong box, Bert demanded to know why his uncle had kept such worthless stuff. Calden's first answer was a smile. Then: "In my opinion," stated Calden, "your uncle intended these doc.u.ments to represent his visible estate."

"His visible estate?" queried Bert. "Yes." Calden brought a list from a desk drawer and showed Bert that its items tallied with the contents of the box. "You see"-those eyes of Calden's were weighing Bert-"your uncle gave heavily to charity, so he said, but he wanted the gifts to remain anonymous. Naturally, he had to account for his fortune somehow. So he probably acc.u.mulated these worthless items for that purpose."

Neither Calden's explanation nor his shrug satisfied Bert. He began to go over the items in detail, beginning with the stocks and bonds. Patiently, Calden continued his opinions.

"Aldebaran Mines lost money for everyone," recalled Calden. "The whole property was disposed of for a song. This stock could have been bought at the price of wallpaper."

"But the mines are making money," returned Bert. "They were absorbed by a larger company. Perhaps the majority stockholders deliberately ran down the value to freeze out people like my uncle."

Calden shrugged again, pushed the stocks aside. Thumbing through contracts, he pointed out that they involved the names of corporations, not Lionel Glendon as an individual. When Bert suggested that it might all be part of a swindle and wanted to know something about the corporations involved, Calden stated that he had been unable to trace them.

So it went with other securities and contracts, until they came to promissory notes. These were made out to Lionel Glendon, and all were for large sums. The trouble lay with the makers of the notes. All the men who had signed them were either dead or, for all Calden knew, nonexistent.

"Your uncle managed his own business affairs," declared Calden, rather testily. "He gave me these records only recently, so I would have them in case anything happened to the original doc.u.ments. As attorney for Lionel Glendon, I find everything quite in order.

"Of course, if you are disappointed"-Calden was rising as he spoke-"that is another matter. I don't blame you, Bert, for looking forward to a large fortune from your uncle. It simply happened that he preferred to dispose of his money otherwise. Possibly he felt that it would do more for your character, if your future depended entirely upon your own efforts."

They were at the door by the time Calden finished, and Bert, aroused now, stopped the lawyer abruptly.

A moment later, Calden was beating a retreat back to his desk, followed by Bert's verbal barrage.

In no uncertain terms, Bert was declaring that he had always been on his own, and always intended to be. Regard for his uncle was the only motive that actuated him.

"Uncle Lionel was swindled!" stormed Bert. "You ought to know it, Calden, as well as I do. He was swindled by men who posed as his friends! I can tell you exactly how many of them there were-"

ABRUPTLY, Bert paused. He'd shoved his hand into his pocket, intending to bring out the written sheet that would prove his declaration; but his hand had found something else. From its feel, Bert could tell that he was clutching the wadded telegram that bore Calden's own name!

"Take last night, for instance," spoke Bert, in a tone that was steady but sharp. "I was supposed to see my uncle and discuss these"-he gestured to the contents of the box-"but I arrived too late because of the telegram I received on the train."