THE VAMPIRE MURDERS
                                by Maxwell Grant

     As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," September 1, 1942.

     A dying sigh of wind circled Haldrew Hall, forbidding mansion of death,
and echoed a whisper that mirthed a sibilant laugh. Could The Shadow keep his
promise that he, strange master of darkness, would take a hand in solving the
weird riddle of Haldrew Hall, after mere humans had finished their
speculations
on the subject of a roving vampire that had vanished without a rattle of its
bones?


     CHAPTER I

     HOUSE OF HORROR

     LIKE an image from a dream, the old house loomed against the moonlit sky
-
a bulky pile of ancient stone and ornate woodwork that blended into a massive
monster ready to gorge on the hapless visitor who dared to venture into its
clutch.
      It seemed a living thing, this isolated mansion that bore the name of
Haldrew Hall. Perhaps the drifting clouds that filtered the moonlight were
responsible for that illusion of life; possibly the faint, flickering glow
from
the ground-floor windows was the cause.
      Whichever the case, Harry Vincent felt a sensation of grim horror as he
viewed the place.
      He'd expected something of that sort from Haldrew Hall, but the house
outdid the descriptions that Harry had heard of it. The contrast of its
squatty
bulk and the higher turrets penciled against the wavering moonlight,
captivated
the eye and held it. Harry was riveted as he watched the building blotted out
in darkness as a thicker cloud crossed the moon; yet even then he could trace
the outline of the hideous mansion.
      Harry wondered whether his memory was overworking itself. The house was
gone, save for the dull flickers that represented its windows. But, no, the
image was returning, along with the passage of the cloud. Haldrew Hall was
still there in all of its monstrosity.
      It was then that the voice spoke, close to Harry's elbow. It said:
      "Two bucks, bud, and you're welcome to ride back to town as part of the
deal."
      Harry turned to the driver of the rattletrap car that had brought him to
these premises. He forced a laugh that sounded lighter than it really was.
      "I'm staying here," decided Harry. "How about driving in through the gate
and up to the place?"
      "Sorry." The fellow seemed to mean it. "It's bad luck going through that
gate. I said I'd bring you this far, but no farther. Maybe it won't be bad
luck
for you -"
      Harry opened the door of the car and reached for his bag. The driver
tried
to explain himself.
      "What I mean is -" He hesitated. "Well, you're one of the Haldrew
relations, ain't you?"
      "I'm supposed to be," returned Harry. "A distant relation."
      "That's what they all are," informed the driver. "Old Giles Haldrew
didn't
have no close kinfolk, excepting his brother Varney and maybe the old lady
who's
been living in the house. I mean the rest of them, like you, that have come
here
the last few days. They've all stayed and no bad luck has hit them yet. Maybe
it's because they've got some Haldrew in them."
      Apparently, a true Haldrew was supposed to show it bluntly, so Harry
performed in proper style by handing the man his two dollars and turning
abruptly toward the gate. Bag in one hand, the other reaching to the gate,
Harry turned to watch the car pull away. Alone, he forced another laugh to
stir
his own courage. It was a laugh that failed.
      A groan came in answer; a tone so gruesome that Harry dropped the bag and
leaped away, shoving his hand to the pocket where he carried his gun. If the
car hadn't already been bumping away along the rough road, Harry would have
finished his leap inside it and taken advantage of the round-trip offer. But
the car was gone and the groan had ended, so Harry steadied. Waiting tensely,
he listened for the groan again. When it came, Harry's laugh was genuine.
      The grating sound had issued from the iron gate that blocked the
grass-covered driveway into Haldrew Hall. The wind was stirring the gate upon
its rusted hinges, which were giving those grim sounds in protest. It was just
another of the features that went with Haldrew Hall.
      Groping for the suitcase, Harry found it; pulling the gate a trifle
wider,
he entered, and walked along the driveway to the Hall.


      ONE thing kept drumming through Harry's mind. The fellow who had brought
him out here had modified the bad-luck statement by saying it might not apply
to the Haldrew relatives. If such were the case, Harry could find small
comfort. For he, of all recent visitors to Haldrew Hall, was traveling under
false colors.
      Harry Vincent had never heard of the Haldrew family or their weird
mansion
until a week ago.
      The Haldrew clan had leaped into the limelight with the death of old
Giles
Haldrew, a death so sudden that it might have produced question, if Giles
hadn't
been exactly ninety-three years of age. The other thing unusual in the case of
Giles Haldrew was his legacy.
      His estate was to be divided equally among all relatives who would
undergo
the ordeal of living in Haldrew Hall for the term of one month. Those who
failed
to fulfill that provision would be disqualified. So the clan was assembling,
because tomorrow would be the last day when any claimant could put in an
appearance.
      Now this peculiar arrangement had intrigued a certain person known as The
Shadow. As an individual, The Shadow was far more mysterious than any Haldrew;
in fact, he could outmatch the Hall itself. It was The Shadow's business to
hunt down crime, and the Haldrew case interested him. Not so much the sudden
death of Giles, but the status of the relatives who intended to stay in
Haldrew
Hall, was the thing that most concerned The Shadow.
      The Shadow had uncovered a most vital point. Almost anyone could be
related to the Haldrew family. For a person to present himself as such and
live
there for a month, would be fair enough. If his claim of relationship wouldn't
stand the test, he simply wouldn't participate in the division of the estate
when it was settled later.
      So The Shadow had delegated Harry Vincent, his most trusted agent, to
reside as inside man in Haldrew Hall.
      In his suitcase Harry had a very elaborate pedigree, that linked him to
the Haldrew family by dint of several generations back. There was a weak link
in the chain, but Harry wasn't supposed to know it. The Haldrew lawyers could
find that for themselves when they traced the thing back.
      For the present, Harry Vincent was ostensibly a Haldrew, and the point
would satisfy everyone - except Harry himself.
      For with every step, Harry was coming closer to Haldrew Hall and the
forbidding mansion loomed more ominous than ever. If a curse did dwell within
Haldrew Hall, ready to engulf persons who defied it, that malediction would
rest most heavily upon Harry Vincent as an impostor.
      Legally, Harry had nothing to fear; but he felt the distinct impression
that he was entering a domain that had a law unto itself. Such was the spell
cast by Haldrew Hall!
      There was no moonlight under the deep porte-cochere that covered the
steps
to the front door. The space was like the confines of a cavern, where ghoulish
hands might stretch forth and clasp the unwary visitor. Harry's only solace
was
the crunch of gravel beneath his feet, a sound so encouraging that he kept on
walking so that he would still hear it.
      Then the thud of his footfalls on the wooden steps produced the same urge
to continue. Reaching the front door, Harry groped nervously, found an iron
knocker and banged it. The clang had an echo he didn't like; nevertheless, it
was better than no sound at all. So Harry banged again and again, until the
door suddenly opened.


     THE man who admitted Harry was a most peculiar character. He was
obviously
a servant, for he wore a faded jacket that looked like a footman's livery and
his stiff shirt was topped with a wing-tipped collar and a stringy necktie.
     In a way, he looked young, for he was spry and limber; but his face had a
haggard expression that indicated years. The face was lined, too, quite
heavily, but Harry attributed that to the candlelight, which was the only form
of illumination in the hallway.
     It was difficult to tell whether the servant regarded Harry as a welcome
visitor or an unwanted stranger. The flickery light created its own changes of
expression upon the man's strained features. At moments, the face was
quizzical; then it became suspicious. And all the while, the man remained
silent, as if expecting Harry to declare himself.
     The deadlock was broken by a crackly voice that issued from a side room.
It came with a sharp call:
     "Who is it, Throck? Another of my relatives?"
     Harry found his own voice in a reply that he gave to Throck. Nudging his
thumb toward the direction of the voice, Harry said to the servant:
     "Tell him my name is Vincent. I've come here to present my credentials as
a member of the Haldrew family."
     The candlelight turned Throck's expression into a glare that faded as the
servant turned about. Then, before Throck could relay the announcement, a
figure stalked into sight. Harry Vincent stood stock-still to eye one of the
strangest men that he had ever seen.
     He didn't even have to guess who the person was. Common sense told Harry
that this must be Varney Haldrew, brother of the late Giles.
     At first sight, Varney Haldrew appeared to be a tall man. This was due to
two factors: first, he was quite thin; second, he wore a plain black suit,
that
added to the slim effect and hence increased the illusion of height. The term
"gaunt" applied to Varney but didn't do him justice. Rather, he had an
emaciated appearance, though he seemed to be in perfect health.
     On his hands Varney wore gray gloves, which he did not bother to remove.
He simply greeted Harry with a bow, gave a tight-lipped smile and spoke
through
his teeth:
     "Greetings, Mr. Vincent. You will excuse Throck. He is hardly the ideal
servant. You see" - Varney laid a hand on Throck's shoulder - "the Haldrew
family has always had a Throck in its employ. My brother Giles could never
have
died happily without a Throck around. So he found one, the last of a fading
line
- like the Haldrew's."
     Then, while Harry could only nod, the gaunt man motioned for Throck to
take the suitcase. That done, there was another bow from Varney as he supplied
the unnecessary introduction:
     "I am Varney Haldrew."
     With that, Varney raised a gray-gloved hand and beckoned. Throck went one
direction with the suitcase, while Harry followed Varney the other way. Though
Varney's back was turned, Harry still could picture the man's cadaverous face,
and the recollection brought shudders. If Harry had ever met a man who was
anything but human, Varney Haldrew fulfilled the definition.
     His welcome could not be termed such. Everything about it was false, from
the plaster-cast smile to the puppet gestures of his gray-gloved hands. His
stride was mechanical as he led the way through a room where more candles cast
a wavering glow in long streaks across the floor.
     Beyond was another door, and from it Harry could hear voices. For a
moment
he was pleased; then amid the voices came a querulous tone that was sharp,
almost angry.
     At sound of it, Varney paused. He turned to face Harry, and those thin
lips parted in a smile that showed long white teeth. From Varney's eyes
flashed
a metallic glint that flickered with the shiver of the candles. Through those
same teeth came the tone that Harry had heard before: Varney's voice,
modulated
to a degree where it was a hiss, rather than a crackle.
     "I shall introduce you to some of your distant relations, Mr. Vincent,"
spoke Varney. "Excuse me" - the lips tightened in a smile - "I should say our
relations. I am quite sure that you will like them."


      HARRY wasn't sure at all. In a few minutes of acquaintance with Varney
Haldrew he had become quite positive that he would not like anything that
appealed to the gaunt man. But there was this about Varney: he left a proviso
with everything he said. He hadn't stated that he liked the visiting
relatives;
he had said that Harry would. That, at least, was some comfort.
      As Varney finished his pronouncement, the candlelight did more than
waver.
Flames leaped; then died; some of the wicks were actually snuffed out, as
though
the hissed breath of Varney had reached them. More startling was the shiver
that
shook the entire house.
      For the moment, Harry's knees knocked together as the tremor reached
them.
He'd bargained for a lot, Harry had, as he often did in the service of The
Shadow, but he hadn't expected to meet a man like Varney Haldrew, whose mere
voice could quake a mansion!
     Then the illusion ended. It was only the wind, presaging a storm, that
had
chased the clouds ahead of it. A sudden gust, sweeping around the old house,
battering the creaky walls and pressing the ancient beams that supported
Haldrew Hall.
     The whole thing ended with the parting of the brief gale, and there stood
Varney, opening a door to its full width and bowing Harry through to a room
that seemed brilliant in contrast to the gloom that had marked the path to it.
     Returning a bow, Harry favored Varney with a smile that he knew couldn't
be worse than the ones he had received, and therewith stepped across the
threshold to meet his new relations.


    CHAPTER II

    CALLING ALL SHADOWS

    THE room that Harry entered was a living room. Its cheery glow came from
a
large fireplace where flame from big logs drowned out the candlelight. There
were three people in the room and Harry was glad to see them, for he'd formed
the rapid, and correct, impression that they couldn't be worse than Varney.
     The first man that Harry noted was the one who had been snarling rather
angrily, and he wasn't a bad specimen at all. He was playing pinochle with the
other two and the game annoyed him. Turning as Harry entered, the man showed a
roundish face topped by a bald head. He had a cigar sticking from the side of
his mouth, and he removed it with his right hand, then transferred it to his
left, so that he could shake hands with Harry in response to Varney's
introduction.
     The bald man was George Frenton, and his connection with the Haldrew
family was about as roundabout as Harry's, except that it probably had no weak
links. Frenton's handshake was flabby at first, but it tightened under Harry's
grip. Very obviously, Frenton didn't like Haldrew Hall any more than Harry did
and was only too glad to welcome a new visitor to this house of horror.
     Turning from Frenton, Harry saw the other men and they impressed him even
more. Both were young, but they formed a marked contrast. One chap had dark
hair, deep-set eyes, and a square-jawed face. The other, who looked taller,
was
light haired, with clear blue eyes and a long face that was definitely genial.
     Both gave Harry a friendly handshake as Varney introduced them, but with
the introduction, Harry received a surprise.
     Varney introduced the dark-haired man as Cedric Armand, the blond type
chap as Warren Armand. When Harry stared, wondering why they were so
different,
both men laughed.
     "We aren't brothers," remarked Cedric. "We're just cousins. Second
cousins, at that."
     "And this is the first time we ever met," added Warren. "Our
great-grandmother happened to be a Haldrew. She married a man named Armand."
     From the doorway, Varney Haldrew supplied a testy statement.
     "We are all Haldrews here," he said. "It is unfortunate that you two
should be related on the Armand side of your family. By the way, Mr. Vincent,
just what is your connection with the Haldrew family?"
     "It's all in the suitcase," returned Harry. "If you can find Throck and
have him bring it here, I'll give you my credentials."
     Varney departed on the quest, and the Armands invited Harry to join the
pinochle game, which had begun to bore Frenton, the steady loser. So Harry sat
down at the card table, and the Armand cousins promptly initiated him into the
situation at Haldrew Hall.
     "Don't let Varney worry you," said Cedric. "He's just sore because the
whole works wasn't handed to him. Haldrew Hall has passed from father to son,
right along. Giles Haldrew didn't have a son, so Varney thought he'd get the
place as younger brother. Only he didn't."
     "And by younger brother," added Warren, "we mean younger brother; Varney
is twenty-five years younger than old Giles. Imagine that!"
     "What gripes Varney most," continued Cedric, "is that the estate doesn't
amount to much. It includes this house and several thousand dollars. For all I
care, Varney can have the whole of it. I'm just sticking around as a sporting
proposition."
     "Same with me," asserted the other Armand. "You know, I feel something
like a piker." Warren paused to gaze frankly at Harry, who was arranging his
pinochle hand. "Why should I bother about a few thousand dollars of Haldrew
money when I have a real fortune coming from the Armand family?"
     It was Cedric who answered Warren's question. The dark-haired man spoke
with a chuckle.
     "You'll earn whatever you get," observed Cedric, "if you stay around this
mausoleum for a month. That's my philosophy, Warren, and anyway, I could use a
few thousand dollars. But let's forget finance and get back to pinochle."


      THE card game and the cheering warmth of the great fireplace did much to
nullify the chills that Harry had experienced when approaching Haldrew Hall.
The indulgent way in which the Armand cousins spoke of Varney indicated that
the cadaverous man was just part of the setting, when one became accustomed to
him.
      From their conversation, Harry took it that the Armands had been here a
few days, but before he could put inquiries on the subject, Varney returned,
Throck following with the suitcase.
      Harry opened the bag, brought out an imposing envelope and handed it to
Varney, who dismissed Throck. The pinochle game resumed, and amid the crackle
of the fire Harry could hear the crunch of paper as Varney studied the family
tree that had been compiled for Harry's benefit. Meanwhile, Harry kept
glancing
occasionally at Frenton, who was interested in other matters.
      Moving around the room, the pudgy man was muttering to himself while he
tapped his knuckles against the oak-paneled wainscoting, ran his fingers along
the edge of the thick mantelpiece, and stopped to eye the heavy-framed
portraits that hung in the room. When Frenton knelt to raise the edge of a
rug,
Harry gave puzzled glances from one Armand to another.
      "Don't let Frenton worry you," undertoned Cedric. "We thought at first
that he was tapping for secret panels, but he couldn't be, or he'd have found
some by this time. They're probably as thick as rat holes around this old
house."
      "Frenton is just appraising the premises," added Warren. At that moment,
Frenton was fingering a heavy candelabrum and stroking a velvet curtain that
hung beside a window. "He expects the house to be sold and wants to make sure
we get the right price for everything. Old Giles Haldrew didn't have anywhere
near the amount of money that people expected. What he did leave won't go very
far, when divided among six persons."
      "Seven persons," corrected Cedric. "You forgot to include Vincent."
      Looking about, Harry counted Varney, Frenton, two Armands and himself,
which made only five. He inquired who the other two might be.
      "Sabbatha Haldrew is one," stated Cedric. "She's Varney's niece, but
she's
older than he is. Old Sabbatha has always lived at Haldrew Hall."
      "The other is Gail Merwin," put in Warren. "Just a distant connection,
like we are. She arrived this afternoon. Had a long trip getting here, so she
turned in early."
      Varney had finished rustling Harry's family tree. Apparently the
documents
satisfied him, for he returned them to the envelope and approached Harry quite
affably. Laying a hand on Harry's shoulder, he suggested dryly:
      "You must be tired from your trip, Mr. Vincent. Come; I shall show you to
your apartment."
      Odd how that crackly voice blended with the fire! Yet Harry had the
distinct impression that Varney's hand would have been icy, but for the glove
that covered it. That was the point about Varney Haldrew: with all his
pretense, there wasn't an ounce of warmth in him. Meeting the man's fishlike
stare, Harry wondered if he were actually a creature of flesh and blood.
      Fish eyes! And fish had blood. Odd, again, how the word "blood" rung
through Harry's brain and seemed to flash itself in crimson letters against
the
firelight!
      For a moment, Harry thought of rejoining the Armands at the card table.
It
was then too late. Frenton had slipped into Harry's place, as if the mere
suggestion of leaving this warm room horrified him. So Harry simply nodded to
Varney and pocketed the big envelope.
      Then, stealing his hand into his coat pocket, Harry felt a cold sensation
that pleased him. It was his gun again, a protection against whatever might
occur in this old house.
      So Harry thought - but as yet he had not experienced the things that
could
happen in Haldrew Hall!


      VARNEY led the way from the big living room, out through another hall.
There, lights were very dim and every door that Harry passed looked ominous. A
corner produced a short passage to a brief flight of stairs that were laden
with thick gloom. Varney paused to pluck a three-socket candlestick from a
table, and he used it to light the way.
      Up that short flight, through another passage, then more steps. Another
turn, a longer staircase to a landing, and by that time, Harry was completely
lost. Haldrew Hall was a labyrinth, not only because of its many passages but
due to the half floors, which seemed to be its chief feature of architecture.
Remembering the view from outside, Harry recalled the irregular arrangement of
the windows and now understood their reason.
      Varney was threading the way deep into the house, pausing so that Harry
wouldn't stumble when they came to steps. They reached a door which was ajar
and there Varney entered, setting the candlestick upon an old-fashioned
washstand.
      Harry saw his bag lying on an old sofa in the corner. Across the room was
a large bed that looked a hundred years old.
      "I hope this room pleases you," spoke Varney. "It is small, but you can
see we have many guests -"
      "Quite all right," put in Harry. "I don't mind being cramped."
      Varney didn't notice Harry's sarcasm. The room was anything but cramped.
If Varney considered this a small room, Harry could picture others in the
house
as mammoth apartments. What Harry wanted right now was to get rid of Varney,
and
that proved easy, for the gaunt man took care of it himself by bowing right
out
the door.
      Coolly, Harry waited, expecting that Varney might return - which he did.
      The door creaked on its hinges as Varney's face popped into sight. Harry
supposed that Varney's excuse would be that he needed the candles to light his
way to his own apartment. But that wasn't it.
     "I meant to remind you of something," remarked Varney. "It isn't
advisable
to move about this house at night. The place is large and you might lose your
way. Besides, the many steps are dangerous to strangers - even though they may
be welcome guests."
     Varney closed the door and departed; of the latter, Harry was sure, for
he
could hear the strange man's footsteps creaking along the old hallway. The
footfalls faded as Varney turned a corner, proving what Harry already
suspected: that this queer resident of Haldrew Hall could pick his way with
catlike precision in the dark. But Varney's words remained in Harry's ears
long
after the footsteps had departed.
     "Dangerous to strangers!"
     That phrase, picked from Varney's statements, seemed to sum up Haldrew
Hall. It was the sort of place that could be dangerous in more ways than one.
It might have pitfalls other than those short steps along the gloomy passages.
But Harry wasn't worried by Varney's admonition.
     Snuffing the candles, Harry groped his way to a window that he found by
the dim moonlight. Producing a small flashlight, he pressed it close to the
pane and blinked a signal. Waiting, Harry heard the wind whip around the
ancient building, producing new shudders within. He flicked the light again
and
was suddenly startled by a flash which responded.
     A flash that lighted distant sky, outlining the woods that surrounded
Haldrew Hall. Then the dull roar of faraway thunder that denoted an
approaching
storm. Tensely, Harry waited for several minutes. After another flash of
lightning and its dull thunder, he blinked his signal again.
     This time - an answer!
     It came from the fringe of the trees, a responding flashlight that
blinked
a coded question that Harry understood. With that, the shrouding pall of
Haldrew
Hall seemed to lift. Whatever the menace of the mansion, Harry was contacting
a
friend who could offset it.
     Those answers to Harry's signal denoted the presence of his chief, The
Shadow!
     Though Harry Vincent couldn't lay a finger on anything actually wrong in
Haldrew Hall, he felt that danger must exist. He had known that The Shadow
would arrive after his agent was ensconced in the mansion, and Harry was
indeed
glad that his chief had appeared so soon. For this was one time - above all
times - when Harry felt it necessary to put in a quick call for The Shadow.
     Calling The Shadow!
     Calling all shadows, would be the better term. For Haldrew Hall had its
own shadows, born of the past and ready to control the future, unless a
stronger hand than theirs should intervene!


    CHAPTER III

    THE FIGURE IN BLACK

     THE SHADOW'S delay in answering Harry's flashes was due simply to the
fact
that he had been circling the grounds. Close by the gloom of heavy tree
boughs,
a low, strange laugh stirred the darkness as The Shadow, fully cloaked in
black, caught the import of Harry's rapid signals.
      Apparently, Haldrew Hall had given Harry the creeps, to the point where
he
felt that only The Shadow could analyze the situation. Harry was calling for
closer contact, so The Shadow queried how he wanted to arrange it.
      At his window, Harry pondered; recalling the longest flight of steps, he
remembered they were on the other side of the house, and that he had passed
windows on the way up to the landing. It would be easy for The Shadow to pick
those specific windows. If anything, brief lightning flashes would aid, rather
than hinder, when The Shadow approached the house.
      So Harry coded the facts about the stairway and its windows, whereupon
The
Shadow signed off.
      Extinguishing his flashlight, Harry stole from the room. He felt his way
along the passage, one hand against the wall. As he advanced each foot, he
tested the floor to make sure he wasn't at a flight of steps. The floor boards
creaked, but only lightly, and their sounds were absorbed by the grind of
beams
and the rattle of shutters as the wind kept rising around Haldrew Hall.
      It seemed a very easy task, getting to the stairway on the other side of
the house before The Shadow could arrive on his roundabout trip. Easy at
first,
but gradually it proved complicated.
      As passages took Harry from one level to another, he discovered two
things: first, that he was going farther down than he expected; again, that
none of the passages took him to the other side of the building.
      Realizing that he'd lost his way, Harry risked the flashlight and finally
worked his way out of the maze. But he didn't come out where he expected.
Instead of reaching the landing of what might be termed the second floor,
Harry
found himself about ground-floor level, or slightly above it.
      The passage from which Harry emerged showed steps that went down toward
the living room, where Frenton and the Armands were still at their card game.
Picking an opposite channel, Harry pocketed the flashlight and groped his way
to the spot he wanted - the longer flight of upward stairs.
      By this time, The Shadow had certainly circled the house. Harry could
picture his black-cloaked figure under the ivy-clad wall beneath those
telltale
windows that marched at an upward angle beside the flight of stairs.
      Indeed, as Harry caught the rattle of a window higher up, he was quite
sure that The Shadow had already scaled to it. Knowing that Harry was on the
second floor, The Shadow would naturally come up, outside, rather than have
his
agent risk a creaky trip down the stairs.
      But Harry happened to be at the bottom instead of the top, so he had to
risk the trip anyway. It was the easiest part of his journey, for the fleeting
moonlight cast a spotty glow though the narrow windows and showed the path
ahead.
      Noting the first window as he passed it, Harry saw another reason why The
Shadow would have chosen a window higher up. Those on the stairway itself were
too narrow for anyone to squeeze through.
      Almost at the stair top, Harry paused, gripped with complete elation. On
the landing, close by the wider window, was a figure in black. He'd guessed
right, Harry had, for the shrouded visitor was turned about, looking toward
the
few steps that made an upward angle from the landing. This was The Shadow,
watching for Harry's arrival from the second floor.
      Reaching from the steps, Harry gripped the cloak that dangled from the
figure's shoulders and started to voice the whispered word, 'Chief!', but the
word never left Harry's throat. At Harry's grip, the figure wheeled and a play
of moonlight flickered upon its face.
     Harry went limp with horror.
     This wasn't his chief, The Shadow!
     The face that the pale light showed was almost a living skull, a leering
thing with vicious, ugly teeth, and eyes that were lost within their sockets.
True, the moonlight, was playing tricks, but even that couldn't transform The
Shadow into a grisly creature wandering from its tomb!
     Poor light could not offset the sense of touch, and the stuff that Harry
gripped was not The Shadow's cloak. It was of different texture, a dry, thin
cloth like linen, that could have torn beneath Harry's fingers if they hadn't
loosened. For the draping cloth was torn already, as he could see when the
ghastly figure finished its turn toward him.
     Not a cloak, that draped blackness from the narrow shoulders that wore
it,
but a shroud!
     Then, for final proof, came hands that shot from the tattered garment, to
take Harry's throat in their fierce grip. Thin hands, bony of structure, like
the fingers of a living skeleton!


     IT was fortunate for Harry that he was on the stairs. As he struck at the
gripping hands and recoiled with all his might, he gained his freedom largely
because he fell as he wrenched away. Even those hands of death couldn't stop a
backward fling that was half a plunge.
     Spinning on the steps, Harry lost sight of the gruesome creature that had
seized him, only to release its hold rather than take the tumble down the
stairs. That plunge being the immediate menace, Harry tried to catch himself
and succeeded, though not without difficulty.
     Harry's first grab was for the banister on the inside of the stairway.
The
old rail gave under his weight and would have fallen to a hall below, carrying
Harry with it, if he hadn't still been spinning.
     Across the stairs, Harry's next frantic snatch found one of the narrow
windows, which was flapping inward under the power of the stormy wind.
     There, Harry caught himself and came full about.
     He was looking right up to the landing, less than a dozen steps above,
but
he couldn't see the creature that had attached him; at least, not while the
fading moonlight afforded the only view. But there was something else that
gave
Harry a real picture of the present situation: another of those lightning
flashes, more vivid than before.
     By it, Harry saw the shrouded menace. The glare showed that the
monstrosity had turned away, as though eager to avoid further strife with
Harry. No sign of the face that had looked much like a skull, nor of those
skeleton hands. Only the shroud was visible about the crouched shoulders, and
it was a shroud indeed!
     Black in the darkness, it was greenish in the lightning flash, a color
that came from the mold of many years. And Harry saw plainly the long, torn
tatters that the moonlight had shown to lesser degree.
     Sight of the thing in flight changed Harry's attitude completely. He'd
surprised that menace of bone and tatters quite as much as it had startled
him.
Ghoul, vampire, whatever it might be, the creature had sought to master Harry
and had failed. It was Harry's turn to attack, and he rallied to the cause.
With a shout, he started an upward lunge.
     Odd, how other shouts came sooner than echoes should have. Odd to Harry,
at least, though he would have understood had he stopped to reason. The calls
were from the downstairs living room, where the men at the card table had
heard
Harry's clatter on the stairway.
      But Harry's own shout wasn't a call for help. It was his challenge to the
shrouded vampire, the bony menace of Haldrew Hall. He intended that his lunge
would end only when he had the creature in his grip.
      The lunge ended sooner. Quite as startling as Harry's first encounter
with
the vampire was the clutch that came from nowhere to halt his upward drive.
Like
a trip hammer, something came up from the very steps themselves, took Harry's
ankle and yanked it from under him. Harry was out of the grip an instant
later,
but his lunge was spoiled. Instead of reaching the landing with his feet, he
caught it with his hands.
      So thorough was Harry's urge to overtake the shrouded menace up above,
that he failed to realize how mysterious was the thing that stopped him. But
his chase was ended when he sprawled on the top steps, with only his head and
shoulders on the landing. All he could do was make a wild reach with his
hands,
hoping to grab the ankles of the departing vampire in the manner some unknown
hand had snatched his own.
      Lucky indeed was Harry's spill. He'd failed to snare the vampire; it was
gone. But he'd failed, likewise, to put himself in the path of something else.
Something that whirred downward from the steps that formed a right angle to
the
second floor.
      It whizzed above Harry's head and shoulders, thudded hard into the wall
just below the sill of the landing window. And Harry, sensing doom from the
whine, flattened instantly, shoving himself lower down the stairs, his quest
for the vampire forgotten.


     THUNDER rolled, the result of the distant lightning flash, and with it,
new lights appeared. Not the feeble return of moonlight, nor another streak of
lightning, but the glow of candles brought by several hands.
     Candles that gleamed from the floor above, where Harry heard the voices
of
two women, one excited, the other very calm. More flickers of candle flame
came
from the bottom of the stairs, where the Armands had arrived with candelabra
snatched hastily from the living-room mantel.
     Long were the streaks those candles cast, but their light showed
everything quite plainly. Everything, yet with it nothing that resembled a
human form, living or dead, other than Harry himself. Half seated on the top
step, Harry looked about the landing, to find that the shroud-clad vampire had
totally disappeared, despite the fact that people with burning candles had
closed in from both directions.
     But there was something to prove that Harry's adventure wasn't just
imagination. When he looked toward the wide window on the landing, he saw the
souvenir that was buried deep in the woodwork just below the sill. The thing
was an antique knife, driven halfway to its hilt!
     This at least would support Harry's story, should people be inclined to
doubt it. But the person to whom Harry wished to tell it was not among those
present. Harry's contact with The Shadow was definitely postponed until they
could meet without witnesses. How soon that would be, Harry did not know, but
there was something that encouraged him.
     Amid a dying sigh of wind that circled the old mansion, Harry fancied
that
he heard an echoed whisper that mirthed a sibilant laugh: The Shadow's promise
that he, strange master of darkness, would take a hand in solving the weird
riddle of Haldrew Hall, after mere humans like Harry and the rest had finished
their speculations on the subject of a roving vampire that had vanished
without
a rattle of its bones!


     CHAPTER IV

     STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

      ON his feet, Harry nodded to Cedric and Warren as they came up the stairs
carrying the candelabra and pouring questions as to what had happened. Harry
simply stated that he had decided to return downstairs, but had lost his way.
After that logical beginning, he added:
      "And... then it happened!"
      "So that was all!" exclaimed Cedric. "Well, we're glad you didn't tumble
too far down the stairs. By the way, Vincent, let me introduce you to some
more
of the family."
      Cedric turned to the short steps leading up to the second floor, bowed
politely and said:
      "Miss Sabbatha Haldrew, this is a remote cousin, Mr. Harry Vincent."
      For a moment, a shock gripped Harry. Framed against the candlelight
above,
he saw a face that reminded him too much of the shrouded skeleton that he had
encountered so shortly before. Then, as Sabbatha came down the steps and
extended her hand, the illusion was dispelled. Like the moonlight, flickering
candle flame could give a face a hollow look at first glance.
      Seen at closer range, when the candles had ended their waver, Sabbatha's
features looked old and withered, but they could not be termed a living skull.
They resembled the features of Sabbatha's uncle, Varney, except that Sabbatha
was appreciably older, but with it more human.
      Her smile wasn't as tight-lipped as Varney's and her handclasp had
warmth,
though Harry noted that its grip was bony. However, Sabbatha wasn't wearing a
tattered shroud. She was attired in a heavy dressing gown that resembled an
old-fashioned quilt.
      Then Cedric was introducing the other lady from the stairs as Miss Gail
Merwin. She was the one who had spoken in an excited tone, for the candle that
she carried was trembling in her left hand as she extended her right to Harry.
But even the fluctuation of the flame could not mar the beauty that belonged
to
Gail.
      Harry wondered why the Armands hadn't mentioned that Gail was so lovely,
but he didn't wonder long. As Cedric took the candlestick from her hand,
Warren
steadied the girl's arm. It was very plain that each young man was trying to
win
her favor, and having recognized each other as a rival, they hadn't cared to
stir Harry's interest in Gail. Two rivals were enough, without a third.
      But Gail, it seemed, was finding an interest in Harry, and a pressing
one.
Her voice was anxious as she queried:
      "Tell me, Mr. Vincent - what happened then? Didn't I understand you to
say
that there was something more?"
      As Harry nodded, Gail gave a sudden gasp. Harry caught her hand when she
turned about, and both Cedric and Warren were prompt to steady the girl from
what seemed an imaginary fright. But it wasn't imagination on Gail's part. She
had heard the creak of a door above the stairs. All were looking that way as
the door swung wide, to show Throck, the haggard servant.
     Throck was in shirt sleeves, though he was carrying a drab coat that he
wore when he served as butler. Behind him was a long, steep stairway that led
up to the servants' quarters, for Harry could hear worried voices buzzing from
far above.
     Then came a crackly voice from along the hallway, accompanied by the
approach of a double candlestick. The tone was Varney's.
     "Come, Throck!" spoke Varney testily. "This is no way for you to appear.
Put on your coat, man!"
     "Sorry, sir," returned Throck. Sliding into his livery, he gestured up
the
steep stairs. "The servants were startled by what happened here, so I hurried
down."
     Varney turned a fish-eyed look toward the landing.
     "And what did happen here?" queried Varney. "My room is a long way off,
you know, in the other wing of the house. I wouldn't have known about this
commotion if I hadn't glanced outdoors and seen candles up and down the
stairway windows."
     Gail and the Armands looked to Harry for an explanation. Before he could
resume his story, old Sabbatha intervened. Her candlestick extended forward,
she was studying Harry's face. With a dry chuckle, she turned to Varney and
stated solemnly:
     "Mr. Vincent met the vampire."


     THERE was another gasp from Gail. Like Sabbatha, Gail was wearing a
dressing robe, but it wasn't a chunk of an old-fashioned quilt. Gail's robe
was
a flimsy thing, of about the same texture as the pink nightgown that peered
from
beneath it.
     But at mention of a vampire, the girl clutched the dressing robe and
carried it tight about her throat, while she threw frantic looks from Sabbatha
to Varney.
     The cold-eyed stares that the two gave each other were quite too much for
Gail. She shied away and tripped at the stair top, where one of her
high-heeled
slippers left her foot and went tumbling down. Gail would have followed it, if
hands hadn't grasped her. Cedric and Warren drew her back to the landing in
safety.
     Another hand had lunged to Gail's rescue. Varney's hand, but it stopped
short, encountering Harry's on the way. Almost accidental, but not quite, that
intervention of Harry's. With it, he felt Varney's clasp for the first time,
and noted that the cadaverous man was still wearing his gray gloves. But the
grip that Varney promptly relaxed stayed long enough for Harry to sense a bony
pressure through the glove.
     Frenton was coming up the stairs, bringing Gail's slipper. He'd stayed
behind when the Armand cousins had rushed from the living room, but he hadn't
liked it, staying alone there. So he joined the group, to find attention again
centered on Harry, who was glancing at Gail again to make sure that she had
steadied. Gail having calmed, Harry spoke deliberately.
     "Yes, I did see something on the landing," Harry declared. "It may have
been my imagination, but I thought it looked like a skeleton wearing a
shroud!"
     There was a short, cackly laugh from old Sabbatha, as she stared hard at
Varney. Then, in a voice so solemn that it carried shudders, Sabbath declared:
     "It is long since the vampire has fed!"
     Gail couldn't restrain a nervous sob, whereupon Varney glared hard at
Sabbatha and declared crisply that he had heard enough of her silly talk.
Turning to Harry, Varney inquired:
      "And what became of the thing my niece terms a 'vampire'?"
      "It was here one minute," returned Harry, "and the next it was gone. Just
where, I wouldn't know." He turned, stared at the window and saw, to his
surprise, that it was firmly locked. "I suppose it may just have been my
imagination."
      "A bad thing, imagination." Varney's tone hissed through his teeth,
across
Harry's shoulder. "I warned you, Vincent, against leaving your room. You see
the
result; you have alarmed everyone - over nothing!"
      Harry's knee was close to the window ledge and it nudged something just
beneath. Turning, Harry pressed Varney aside and retorted:
      "Over nothing? You should have waited until I finished my story. I
suppose
you call this - nothing!"
      Stepping aside, Harry gestured beneath the window sill. The candles
gleamed full upon the glistening knife that was buried in the woodwork.
      For a moment, Harry saw a puzzled look flit across Varney's face, but it
could have been a pretense. Sabbatha, too, was staring wonderingly at the
knife, when Throck bounded down the steps from the second floor and wrenched
the blade from the woodwork.
      "It's the knife that Mr. Giles mislaid!" exclaimed Throck. "Months ago,
he
mentioned it, but we never could find it. You should remember, Mr. Varney. You
were here at the time."
      "I remember," spoke Sabbatha, as Varney shook his head. "I remember much
that you forget, Varney. This house is more mine than yours, because I have
always lived here, which you have not. Unless -"
      With that word, Sabbatha stopped. Varney had taken the knife from Throck,
to examine it. Finishing with the blade, he gave the knife a flip, from the
point, to catch it by the handle with the other hand. In the motion, Varney
let
the knife turn over twice, and it finished with its sharp point only an inch
from Sabbatha's breast.
      For a moment, old Sabbatha's face took on the pallor of a skull, even her
eyes seeming to recede. Drawing back, she found her voice, and spoke without a
quiver:
      "Yes, Varney, you would stoop to murder, too! You would kill those who
might prevent you from molesting your other victims. But I warn you, death can
never silence me, should I choose to speak! I, too, am a Haldrew of the direct
line.
      "I would never lie idle in my grave, letting murder go unavenged!"


     THE words were like a knell, as though Sabbatha, not Varney, carried the
threat that the other feared.
     Drawing her quilted gown about her, Sabbatha turned and stalked back to
her room, leaving a strange silence amid the wavy candlelight. It was Varney
who ended the tension, with a laugh that had an indulgent note.
     "She lives in the past, poor Sabbatha," said Varney. "The distant past,
dating even before her time. To Sabbatha, legends have become reality."
Turning
to Throck, Varney added the question: "Where does this knife belong?"
     "In the library, sir," said Throck. "If you wish, I can take it there."
     Shaking his head, Varney produced a batch of heavy keys and turned
downstairs. He paused to remark that no one had reason to fear a repetition of
the previous disturbance, because he would have Throck patrol the premises for
the remainder of the night.
     To that, Throck protested that he would be helpless without a weapon,
should he encounter enemies armed with knives. A rise of wind accompanied
Throck's protest, and the gust flapped the narrow window halfway down the
stairs.
     Looking first at the window, Varney glanced up to the landing, as though
wondering whether someone could have flung the knife along that path. Then:
     "You are right, Throck," declared Varney. "Come with me to the library,
and I shall find the old revolver that Giles Haldrew once used. You can carry
it to protect our guests."
     Cedric and Warren saw Gail to her room, while Frenton went downstairs. So
Harry started for his own room, on the chance that he might contact The Shadow
there. He was just stepping into a passage when a door opened behind him.
Turning, Harry saw old Sabbatha, holding a candle in her hand, beckoning with
the other.
     "Be careful, young man," warned Sabbatha. "Those who see the vampire once
may meet him again. Tonight, you met him before his appointed hour of
midnight.
Always the vampire is abroad at the stroke of twelve!"
     Across Sabbatha's shoulder, Harry saw into the room and observed a clock
that registered five minutes of twelve. Starting back to his room, he saw
Throck coming up the stairs, carrying an old-fashioned revolver. Hand in
pocket, Harry gripped his own gun, glad it was a modern automatic rather than
an antiquated weapon. He watched from his passage, noting Cedric and Warren go
downstairs, as Throck took over patrol duty for the night.
     Opening his own door, Harry was greeted by a flare of light. It was only
another blaze of lightning, and he was used to it by this time. In a way, it
proved useful, for it gave Harry, a full view of his room and showed him that
The Shadow had not arrived there. For the glare was brilliant, very much so,
since an accompanying peal of thunder told that the storm was almost overhead.
     The storm broke with the thunderclap. Against Harry's window came the
rattle, not of rain but hail, its furious pelt threatening to smash the pane.
Another flash of lightning showed every detail of broad lawns and etched the
bordering trees against the sky beyond, while the mansion caught the mighty
rumble of the thunder, transferring the quakes to its own walls.
     Shuddering within itself, Haldrew Hall was a fit place for the horror
that
followed, like a pronouncement of the fatal hour that Old Sabbatha had
predicted
- the stroke of midnight, when the vampire chose to rove! But it wasn't the
toll
of a clock that marked the meeting of the hands upon the dial.
     Instead, there came a long, anguished shriek from somewhere on this very
floor, a scream so rending that it increased the chill of the frigid air
brought by the driving hail. And Harry, his mind racing with thoughts of
rescue, found himself frozen in his tracks. For that cry told of terror
personified.
     It was as if a thrust of doom had already found its mark, in defiance of
The Shadow, that unwanted visitor who had come here to prevent it!


    CHAPTER V

    VAMPIRE TRAIL

     SO suddenly that he couldn't understand it, Harry found himself dashing
through a maze of passages in the direction of the scream. Then his thoughts
rang home as he realized what had produced his locomotion.
     Old Sabbatha had promised something of this sort, confiding her views to
Harry alone. Maybe she was faking the vampire stuff! If so, Harry was
determined to prove it, and such was the idea that spurred him on his way.
     The scream wasn't from the direction of Sabbatha's room; but naturally
she'd have prowled first, should she be playing the vampire. So Harry was
making straight for the scream as it came, repeated, to his ears.
     As he turned a corner, a lucky lightning flash saved him from ramming
into
a short flight of three upward steps, for the glare revealed the hazard.
Clearing the steps in a single bound, Harry saw a door ahead of him.
     It was the door he wanted!
     That door could only be Gail's room, for Harry now realized that he had
gone in that direction. Therefore it was Gail who had shrieked, and the reason
was all too plain. Her door was slightly ajar, and with the finish of the
lightning flash Harry saw the shape that was crouched outside.
     The figure of the vanished vampire, a huddled mass of black!
     Real or fake, the thing was after Gail Merwin, and Harry wasn't going to
let it disappear again. He'd given the vampire an edge previously, when he had
mistaken the creature for The Shadow. This time Harry wasn't making the same
mistake.
     He lunged with all speed, straight for the door. The sudden return of
darkness was for the better. It meant that Harry could find the vampire before
it could possibly disappear.
     Completing his spring, Harry tangled with the living mass. Two surprises
came at once. The first was the spin the figure gave, the hard grip it pressed
upon Harry, a clutch that was anything but bony. The other surprise arrived
from a passage on the left.
     It was the sweep of three candles, mounted on a triple stick, behind them
the determined face of Throck, and in his other hand the glimmer of the old
revolver that the servant carried!
     Throck was here to slay the vampire - with bullets! All he'd have to do
would be to fire at the swirl of blackness that tangled with Harry, who was
plainly visible in the candlelight.
     Obviously, Harry was fighting something tangible, hence Throck's course
was plain. The one danger was that the servant would prove overly eager; if
the
whirl didn't stop soon enough, he'd blast away regardless. Which meant that
Harry would take his share of slugs!
     Before Harry could shout a warning, his antagonist saw the threat that
Throck supplied. Gloved hands didn't grab for Harry's throat; they fooled him
this time, by catching him in a crosswise grip from hip to shoulder. Just as
Throck side-stepped to take quick aim, Harry's opponent pitched him headlong
toward the muzzle of the servant's gun!
     Only a miracle could have saved Harry then. Throck's trigger finger was
starting pressure, and he hadn't time to shift aim far enough to miss the
figure of Harry as it came hurtling at him: Throck had a target - the wrong
one! But the seemingly impossible was still a factor in this house where
anything could happen. Harry's stagger became a drop, just as Throck's gun
roared.
     Going down into space, Harry could feel the scorch of gun flame as it
seared above his head. The whole hallway echoed with the roar of the old gun's
blast. But the bullet, like the fiery tongue that sent it, missed Harry by
inches. The roar was still sounding in his ears as he struck solid floor, a
few
feet below the level of the passage.
     Another of the mansion's quirks! Previously, Harry had met with separate
flights of steps that went either down or up. This was the first time that he
had encountered both together, with only a trifling space between.
     The passage along which Throck had come was not a level stretch of floor.
Between the servant and the door of Gail's room lay an unseen pitfall in the
form of three steps down, a double pace between, and three steps up again. It
was into that gap that Harry had plunged just as the old gun roared!
     In missing the target he didn't want, Throck lost the one he sought. His
angry grunt proved that the vampire - or whatever else it might be - had
profited by flinging Harry. The creature was gone, but it didn't take Throck
long to guess where.
      There was another cry from Gail's room, more a plaintive, gaspy wail than
a scream like those that she had so recently issued. Springing down two steps,
Throck took a long jump over Harry and up the other side, to reach Gail's
door.
      Coming to his feet, Harry followed, recognizing that the vampire could
only have fled through Gail's room, the place from which it must have come
earlier.


     ACROSS the threshold, Throck halted, his candle flames dwarfed in the
midst of a very large room. He swept the candelabrum back and forth as though
scouring the apartment, and Harry was close enough behind him to take in the
entire scene.
     This was a room far larger than Harry's, and much more ornate. Its
ceiling
was low, it had a large bay window jutting from its finely carved walls, and
at
one side was a huge, empty fireplace that formed a built-in section. The walls
themselves were blank panels, except for one that bore a full-length portrait.
     For the moment, Harry thought the portrait to be an actual person, most
probably the missing vampire. Then, noting that Throck ignored that portion of
the wall, he realized that the life-sized figure was a picture. Like Throck,
Harry looked across the room to a massive, ornamental bed that seemed as
ancient as the room itself.
     Beside the bed was Gail Merwin, half on the floor but with her arms
resting on the bedstead. She was still wearing her thin dressing robe, but it
hung from one arm only. Her other hand was pressed to her throat, but it
carried no folds of the robe. Gail was gripping her throat because it hurt.
     Nevertheless, her gasps were plain. They came in the form of words, as
she
lifted her bare arm and pointed across the room. Brief words, detached
phrases,
yet expressive:
     "The vampire... he was here... he left and then came back... he went
out... through there -"
     The spot to which Gail pointed was the bay window. As Throck started over
to examine it, the window swung inward from the wind, much as the one on the
stairs had flapped. Throck's gleaming candles were greeted by a display of
scintillating colors, reflections from the casement glass.
     It was then that Harry saw the make-up of the window. It wasn't plain,
like the one in his room. It had many sections, all of stained glass.
     Reaching the bay window, Throck turned and handed the triple candlestick
to Harry. By then, others were pounding into the room. Both Cedric and Warren
Armand had arrived. One helped Gail to her feet, while the other lifted the
loose sleeve of the dressing robe so that she could slide her arm into it.
     The girl was repeating her story; after hearing it, Cedric and Warren
gave
brief data of their own.
     "We knew it must be you, Gail," declared Cedric. "We didn't lose a
moment,
but it's a long way up here, you know."
     "Frenton started with us," added Warren, "but he stopped off to hammer at
the library door. We wanted Varney to know that something was wrong."
     "If Varney doesn't already know it," put in Cedric. "Which is possible,
considering the time he's taking to get here!"
     "I don't notice old Sabbatha around," observed Warren. "She's been acting
mighty suspicious herself."
     At that moment, Sabbatha appeared, bearing a candlestick shaped like a
trident. She advanced toward the bay window and handed her batch of lights to
Harry, while she joined Throck.
      Hailstones crunched under the feet of both Throck and Sabbatha as they
peered from the window. But the pelting storm had gone. Only a cold drizzle
continued, and amid it came the blink of distant lightning. Sabbatha turned to
Throck triumphantly.
      "Did you see it?" she inquired. "The great bat, clinging to the wall? The
vampire, I tell you, and his name is -"
      Sabbatha didn't finish. Throck was shaking his head. So she drew the
servant closer to the window, and they watched the darkness intently until the
lightning flickered again.
      "There, Throck!"
      At Sabbatha's words, Throck thrust his revolver through the window and
blazed shots along the house wall. His fire was blind, and having almost
exhausted the revolver, he could only wait for another blink of lightning.
When
one came, Throck triumphantly gestured toward the outdoors, but Sabbatha only
shook her head.
      "No, Throck," she said. "What you see is only ivy that the storm has
loosened. The great bat is gone. No bullets could harm a vampire; at least,
not
the sort of bullets that are in your gun. He will return among us - soon!"
      Throck gave a quick grunt. He jabbed his gun through the window and fired
one shot, but the rest of his trigger tugs produced nothing but the clatter
from empty chambers. What Throck had seen and aimed at was something very
audible. It was a car that made itself known by the roar of its motor, as it
sped from somewhere near the house, out through the driveway past the old
gate.
      At least, vampires didn't travel by car; of that, Harry felt certain. But
his belief that the missing vampire might have gone elsewhere was stymied by
voices that came suddenly from the doorway of the room. There stood George
Frenton - and with him, Varney Haldrew!
      A strange stare registered on Sabbatha's features as she saw her uncle.
Varney had returned much sooner than she expected. Though she still linked him
with the mammoth bat that had folded against the house wall, she was wondering
how he could have reached the library so soon, there to answer Frenton's
summons.


     RETURNING to his bedroom, Harry took his gun from his pocket and placed
it
beneath the pillow. He hadn't waited to hear the rest of Gail's disconnected
story, for he knew she would tell it more clearly in the morning. What Harry
wanted to make sure of was that he wouldn't have a vampire visitor of his own
before this long night ended. So he stepped over to the door and bolted it.
     A sound made Harry turn. It came from somewhere near the bed, and he
thought that blackness crossed the window. Springing for the pillow, he thrust
his hand beneath it, only to find that his automatic was gone!
     And then a hand was gripping Harry's arm, a whispered tone was speaking
in
his ear. The grip was The Shadow's; likewise the voice, as it said:
     "Report!"
     Harry reported. First, the episode of the stairs, which he tried to clear
up as he went along. One thing puzzled him very badly, so he mentioned it.
Harry couldn't understand what had gripped him on the stairway when he lunged
up to grab the vampire for the second time.
     "I tripped you," explained The Shadow calmly. "I was outside one of the
little windows. It was too narrow to enter, but I thrust my hand through to
stop your foolhardy dash for the figure on the landing."
     "I was foolish," conceded Harry. "I should have known that Varney would
duck out somewhere. I'd say he was the vampire, all right, and I guess that
landing is tricked. But the knife -"
     "It could have been thrown by either of two persons," inserted The
Shadow.
"By Sabbatha, who was the first to appear on the second floor, or by Throck,
who
had that very convenient stairway to the servants' quarters.
     "As for Gail's experience, I heard her screams and was the first to
arrive
outside her door. Unfortunately, Vincent, you arrived a few moments later and
mistook me for the vampire. I didn't have time to identify myself, not with
Throck coming with a gun quite ready for business.
     "So I pitched you where you'd be out of harm, and I took the only way to
avoid Throck's bullets - the route through Gail's room to the window. She'd
seen the vampire when she screamed, but he'd gone by the time I came through.
So she mistook me for him - as you did, Vincent."
     Enlightenment struck Harry.
     "Then you were the big bat that Sabbatha saw on the outside wall?"
     "Exactly!" answered The Shadow. "I was taking a short route here. I made
it between the lightning flashes, while Throck was doing his wild shooting."
     "So Varney could still be the vampire," gritted Harry. "While we were
looking for you, chief, he'd have had plenty of time to get down through a
double wall and into the library."
     They were standing by the moonlit window, and Harry could plainly see The
Shadow's hawkish silhouette beneath the slouch hat that topped it. Harry
watched The Shadow nod.
     "Varney is the logical candidate for the vampire," agreed The Shadow,
"but
his basic purpose is harmless. Otherwise, he would have turned to meet you,
Vincent, when you made that foolish lunge up to the landing, the second time.
     "Similarly, Varney did nothing but frighten Gail in her room, though he
had time to do her serious harm, especially when you delayed my rescue. The
one
bad feature of this vampire business lies in the things it sponsors. People
who
fear the vampire may do insane things, once the creature of their dread
appears."
     Remembering Sabbatha, Harry nodded. He could testify, too, that Throck
had
gone rather berserk under strain, but that statement wasn't necessary, for The
Shadow had been witness to the fact. Instead, Harry swung back to the question
that still balked him.
     "Just what is Varney's game?" Harry demanded. "Is he crazy?"
     "Crazy enough," returned The Shadow, with a whispered laugh. "Just
sufficiently crazy to know that if he puts others in an even worse mental
state, they will abandon their claims to the Haldrew fortune by refusing to
reside in this queer house."


     VERY logical, that answer. Logical, because Varney would profit by the
scare he threw into other people. Not that the profit would be overlarge, in a
monetary sense, for Giles Haldrew hadn't left much wealth to his heirs. But it
would mean that Varney might become the sole owner of Haldrew Hall, which was
something that he seemed to desire more than money.
     Reasoning one step more, Harry felt all menace fade. He realized that
Varney, working along that line, wouldn't want murder to happen. To scare
customers away was legitimate; to kill them could only mean trouble, spoiling
the very thing that Varney wanted - the peace and security of Haldrew Hall,
all
for his own.
     So it would be a case of matching wits with Varney Haldrew, in a tricky
game where death was taboo. Tricky, because it tended toward a danger line
where doom might accidentally strike; but knowing the circumstances, Harry
could do much to offset such a possibility.
      Turning, Harry started to mention it to The Shadow, only to find that he
was alone.
      Whether The Shadow had left through the door, or gone by the window,
Harry
did not know. His cloaked chief had staged one of those fade-outs that even
Varney couldn't match, while playing the vampire in a house that was filled
with tricks, all known to Varney Haldrew.
      Again Harry sensed the illusion of a departing laugh, and this time its
whispery semblance pleased him. The Shadow was leaving it to Harry Vincent to
handle happenings in Haldrew Hall - a large assignment, yet one that Harry
felt
fully equipped to cover. It had taken The Shadow to steer Harry straight, and
the cloaked investigator would certainly be ready to help out in a pinch.
      Otherwise, the job would be Harry's own, and he didn't intend to let it
get out of hand. Not for a moment did Harry Vincent surmise that matters would
soon be sliding far from reach, not only beyond his own, but past the control
of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VI

     THE DAY BETWEEN

      IN the morning, Harry found a message from The Shadow. It was an envelope
that Harry opened, and the writing of the message disappeared as soon as Harry
had read its lines, which were in a simple code that The Shadow's agents could
translate rapidly.
      It was always that way with The Shadow's special messages. They were
written in an ink of vivid blue, and if they fell into the wrong hands they
would vanish before anyone had time to decode them. This particular note
hadn't
a chance of falling into the wrong hands.
      Harry found it under his pillow, along with the gun that The Shadow had
left there before departure. Naturally, the first thing Harry reached for was
his gun, so he couldn't miss the note. It told him that his chief had spent a
few hours roaming through Haldrew Hall, looking for secret ins and outs that
had not been hard to find. The message added that Harry would hear from The
Shadow again, before nightfall.
      So Harry took his own look around Haldrew Hall, and by daylight found it
a
most interesting place. There was just one fault: the atmosphere kept lulling
Harry into a sense of false security that he knew he should avoid.
      First, the inhabitants of the mansion - certain of them - were by no
means
as ominous or strange as they had seemed the night before. By daylight, Varney
appeared quite affable, and obligingly agreed to show Harry all around the
house. Throck, too, was helpful, for he came along when they made the trip.
Old
Sabbatha showed up with a pleasant smile, too, while Harry was being taken on
the rounds.
      The reason why the house was so sprawly was because its various owners,
through many generations, had added whatever they saw fit, and in keeping with
that custom had neglected the portions of the house they did not like. But
Varney, in his own emphatic way, was pleased with every section of Haldrew
Hall
and spoke of the future day when it would be restored in its entirety.
      Varney began his tour with the cellar, which was large and filled with
many compartments and bins, none very interesting. The main feature of the
cellar was the family crypt, located beneath what had been the rear of the
original mansion. Old though it was, the crypt looked quite new, for its floor
was composed of thick concrete.
      "My brother Giles installed this concrete floor," remarked Varney,
rubbing
his smooth, bony chin. "I can't understand, though, why he made it so solid
and
heavy. Do you, Throck?"
      The servant shook his head.
      "I was away at the time," continued Varney. "Otherwise, I would has
recommended a more ornamental floor. Something of flagstone, for example. I
wonder" - again Varney was speculative as he turned to Throck - "did Giles
order the workmen to pour concrete into those old gaps left by the coffins?"
      Again, the servant professed ignorance. He stated that the crypt had been
remodeled prior to the final illness that had resulted in the death of Giles
Haldrew. Being well and with very little to occupy his time, Giles had handled
most of the details personally.
      Varney's mention of the coffins caught Harry's interest. He asked what
had
become of them. With a tight smile, Varney pointed to the end of the crypt,
where rows of urns stood on shelves.
      "My ancestors," explained Varney. "Those urns contain their ashes. The
crypt was becoming overcrowded, so Giles decided to cremate all of their
remains."
      Under the shelves Harry saw a coffin that looked quite new. He asked
Varney if Giles had reserved it as his own, whereat Varney smiled again.
      "Giles was cremated, too," he declared. "You will find his urn among
those
on the shelves. The coffin happens to be mine. When I die, I shall be buried
in
it, because I do not agree with the cremation theory.
      "Too bad about all this concrete" - Varney shook his head as he stared at
the solid floor - "because I shall have to break up some of it to receive my
coffin. I have specified in my will that I am to be buried in a coffin which
must be preserved intact. Something that other members of the family should
have remembered to insert in their own wills."
      Throck supplied a reminder at that moment.
      "You are forgetting your great-uncle Roderick, sir," declared the
servant.
"His will was very specific. Mr. Giles said so, quite often."
      "There was no mention of a coffin in Roderick's will," returned Varney.
"His case was quite different from my own... Come, Vincent; there is no use
staying around this musty crypt, while the candles burn themselves out."


     ON the ground floor, Sabbatha joined the parade and listened while Varney
explained the points of interest. Sabbatha was not particularly interested in
the library, to which Varney had the key. When she suggested that Varney leave
the library open, he shook his head.
     "It contains too many rare volumes," he explained. "We cannot afford to
risk losing items from a fine collection by letting too many people handle the
books."
     They were looking in the library as Varney spoke, and Harry saw many
shelves of books, along with an ornate writing desk, some reading tables, and
old-fashioned cabinets which looked as though they might contain some family
records.
     The room had a fireplace, where embers were glowing, for Varney had spent
most of the chilly night in the library - or so he had said.
     Harry wondered if Varney had started that fire before Gail had
encountered
the vampire, a point which he intended to couple with further observation
elsewhere.
      For the present, Sabbatha was still disputing the subject of the books -
so vehemently, that Harry began to suspect that the old lady, rather than her
younger uncle Varney, might be trying to distract attention from the more
important phase of the scene; namely, the fireplace.
      "Some of those bookcases are locked," remarked Sabbatha. "They contain
the
really important volumes. There are closets, too" - she was pointing as she
spoke - "and you could store special books in them. You have the keys, Varney,
and unless you are using the closets for something more important -"
      Varney cut off the harangue by gesturing the party from the library and
slamming the door emphatically. He turned the key and led the way toward a
staircase. Following, Harry began to count off paces to himself, only to have
Sabbatha interrupt him. She was speaking to Harry, but her words were loud
enough for Varney to overhear.
      "I suppose that Varney told you about Roderick," remarked Sabbatha.
"Next,
you must ask him to show you Roderick."
      Harry stopped counting at twenty, turned to stare at Sabbatha in
surprise.
      "But Roderick is dead -"
      "Of course," continued Sabbatha placidly. "Roderick is one Haldrew who is
really dead. All the more reason why you should see him. As a member of the
family, it is your privilege to meet Roderick Haldrew."
      There was a jangle of keys as Varney detached one from the heavy ring he
carried. Handing the key to Sabbatha, Varney declared crisply:
      "This unlocks the library, Sabbatha. You may go there, if you wish. I
merely ask that you do not admit too many strangers."
      "There are no strangers here," retorted Sabbatha. "We are all Haldrews,
even though some are distant cousins."
      "Then tell them to keep their distance from the rare books," decided
Varney. "You may remind them that the library has already been appraised and
its volumes listed, so if any books are taken, the catalogue will show it. I
shall regard you as responsible, Sabbatha."
      Taking the key, the old lady turned back to the library, but she threw a
triumphant glance from her shoulder.
      "Remember, Varney - Mr. Vincent is to meet Roderick."
      "He shall see him, Sabbatha."
      Harry counted, "Thirty-one, thirty-two -" and then noted the number of
steps that he ascended. A turn of a passage, a count to fifteen, and some more
steps up. Again a passage, and as they walked along it, Varney confided:
      "Sabbatha has a mania on the Roderick subject. As I said last night, she
dwells in the past. To her, forgotten Haldrews are living beings who people
this old mansion. She regards Roderick as her ideal. You will understand
shortly."
      The smug smile that crossed Varney's face did not quite convince Harry.
Nevertheless, he resolved to wait and see if he did understand. Meanwhile,
they
were taking another flight of steps near the very front of the house, and
there
Harry noted a most peculiar arrangement.
      Last night, he'd encountered short steps going down, with others promptly
going up, making the gap wherein The Shadow had tossed Harry so he would
escape
Throck's gunfire.
      Here was the arrangement in reverse. Six steps upward, with a rail that
terminated in a fancy newel post; a few paces across the hall; then six steps
down the other side, decorated with a post and rail that matched those of the
first flight. The arrangement was much like a turnstile, and Harry paused on
the hump to look around!
     To the rear was a passage that went into another, but at the front of the
hall Harry saw a high step leading to a massive door, which bore a huge
padlock.
     Throck was turning in that direction, when Varney stopped him with a
gripping hand. The same gray gloves were on those hands of Varney, and in the
daylight Harry fancied he could see considerable slack inside them.
     "We are not going to the storeroom, Throck," declared Varney. "I didn't
bring the key. In fact, I have mislaid it. But, after all, there is nothing in
the storeroom."


      VARNEY was drawing Harry down the opposite steps, but those fingers in
Varney's glove didn't grip Harry's arm. Instead, Varney was linking his
forearm
under Harry's elbow, while he explained, most casually, why there was no need
to
visit the storeroom.
      "It is unsafe," declared Varney. "That portion of the house was allowed
to
decay because of somebody's whim. The roof leaks, chunks of the ceiling have
fallen, and even the walls are apt to crumble. So we use it only as a
storeroom
for things of little value."
      Naturally, Harry didn't believe Varney's claim. But he decided to forget
the locked room for the time. Harry was counting paces again, here along the
second floor, to tally them with his measurements below.
      At last they reached Gail's room, where Harry gave up counting, much
disappointed. His figures did not check. Gail's room wasn't over the library,
as Harry had thought.
      By day, the room was anything but sinister. Sunlight, seeping through the
varicolored window panes, threw rare tints across the polished floor, casting
iridescent beams upon the single portrait that adorned the wall close by the
fireplace.
      Varney bowed and made a sweeping gesture, as he announced:
      "Meet Roderick Haldrew!"
      Harry studied the portrait. It showed a handsome man, whose face was
stern
almost to the point of accusation. Lifelike indeed was the painting,
particularly when the shifts of colored sunlight streaked it, adding a glow to
its fixed eyes and playing a half smile across the lips. That visage had a
gripping power which was difficult to shake, but the spell ended the moment
that Harry turned away.
      Or - did it end?
      Perhaps it was even stronger! The magnetism of the portrait still
existed,
but it repelled instead of attracting, once a person no longer viewed it. For
the life of him, Harry couldn't pick up nerve to stare at the painted face of
Roderick again. Probably the phobia would pass if he stayed in this room long
enough, but Varney was already moving toward the door, suggesting that Harry
come along.
      Only briefly did Harry pause to glance at the great built-in fireplace.
No
longer was it empty; it was filled with logs, supported by kindling, with
paper
underneath. Noting Harry's glance. Varney remarked that the room had chilled
Gail, the night before, hence he had ordered Throck to build a fire here.
      Harry turned away. As he did, there was a sharp noise from the fireplace.
Swinging, Harry flung himself half across the room to avoid a darting thrust
of
blackness that came from the fireplace.
     There was a flash of ugly, greenish eyes, and Harry's brain flooded with
all the horrible lore of vampires. A moment later, the illusion was dispelled.
     The thing was a normal creature - a large black cat that had been
sleeping
behind the logs in the fireplace. As the cat streaked out through the door it
sent back a protesting snarl, and Varney turned reprovingly to Throck.
     "My niece, Sabbatha, regards that cat as a special pet," declared Varney.
"You must remember, Throck, that it likes dark places. Be careful when you
build fires in the future. We wouldn't want Sabbatha's pet to come to any
harm."
     Throck stared, quite puzzled, as though the cat's preference for
fireplaces was a quirk that the creature had never before exhibited.
Meanwhile,
Harry decided to show his nonchalance, while following Varney to the door.
     "So the cat belongs to Miss Sabbatha," remarked Harry. "What does she
call
it, Varney?"
     "Its name?" Varney paused, as though trying to remember. Then, almost
absently, he added: "Oh, yes - I'd really forgotten. Sabbatha calls the cat
Roderick."
     With that, Varney tightened his lips into one of those cryptic smiles
that
had bothered Harry ever since his arrival at Haldrew Hall.


    CHAPTER VII

    NEW ARRIVALS

      THE rest of Harry's tour included the servants' quarters on the third
floor of the mansion, plus another special feature that Varney remembered. The
special feature was a pigeon cote located on the roof, its heavy cages well
stocked with birds.
      "Carrier pigeons," explained Varney. "Having no telephone here, we use
our
own method of communication. Always the Haldrews have kept carrier pigeons. If
you should be going on a trip, Vincent, and wished to send me word when you
intended to return, you could take a carrier along with you."
      "But I forgot!" Varney seemed in a forgetful mood today. "You won't be
going away from Haldrew Hall - not for a month."
      Returning indoors, Varney bolted the trapdoor leading to the roof,
remarking that he didn't want Roderick to get at the birds. By Roderick,
Varney
meant Sabbatha's cat, not the Haldrew ancestor whose portrait bore the
accusing
eyes. Odd that he should now refer to the cat as Roderick, when he'd forgotten
the creature's name before - if he had forgotten it!
      But everything was odd about Varney Haldrew, and Harry was beginning to
mistrust Varney more than ever, particularly where the Roderick business was
concerned. At least, Harry had gained a lot of facts and figures, though none
of them seemed to make sense. He was sure, though, that The Shadow could make
something of them.
      Unquestionably, The Shadow had roved the old house between midnight and
dawn, the time of his departure. He'd probably learned all that Harry had -
and
more. For one thing, The Shadow might have looked into Varney's own room,
which
was near the rear of the second floor.
     They'd passed it, Harry and Varney, but Varney hadn't stopped to unlock
it. He termed his own room unimportant - like the padlocked room at the front
of the house!
     Downstairs, Harry found the other guests lunching on the veranda. He saw
the other servants: a chef and two maids, all a scared-looking lot who hadn't
appreciated last night's excitement. But the guests were taking it quite
calmly, particularly Gail Merwin. She was chatting with George Frenton, who
had
evidently monopolized her all the morning, despite the Armand cousins.
     Those two were at the other side of the veranda, so Harry joined them.
His
look of query brought smiles from both.
     "We're humoring Frenton," Cedric confided. "He's playing the big, bold
hero, so we're going to let him show himself up."
     "When night comes," explained Warren. "That's when the going gets tough
around this queer old place."
     "Frenton is working on the theory that two frightened people can give
each
other courage," added Cedric, "but we don't think it will work out."
     "Not at all," agreed Warren. "The scare will just go double. Like spades
in pinochle."
     Cedric shook his head, remarking that Frenton was a very poor pinochle
player. But Warren returned to the subject of Gail, stating that she was his
only reason for going through with the ordeal at Haldrew Hall.
     "I'll tell you how I feel about it, Vincent," asserted Warren frankly.
"Gail needs whatever money she can get from the Haldrew estate. If Varney or
Sabbatha - whichever is faking this vampire nonsense - manages to scare off
Frenton, or you, for that matter, so much the better."
     "But Warren won't be scared away," put in Cedric, "and neither will I.
Not
until dawn of the very last day. Then we'll both get the jitters - our own bit
of fakery - and go dashing from the house. So Gail will get our share of the
money - see?"
     Very obviously, the Armands meant it. They could afford to be big-hearted
with the meager Haldrew fortune, considering they were both heirs to a much
vaster sum from the Armand family. Having come to their agreement, they were
sounding Harry out, to get his impartial opinion.
     "I'm staying, too," declared Harry. "But I don't have any wealthy
relatives of another branch. Whatever I earn by staying a month at Haldrew
Hall, I intend to keep. Of course" - Harry gave a smile - "if I can throw a
scare into Varney and Sabbatha, they might weaken like Frenton, which would
mean that much more for Gail and myself."


     HARRY'S smile brought laughs from both Cedric and Warren. The idea of
anyone scaring Varney or Sabbatha, here in the house that had hatched them,
was
something really funny.
     The Armands were still chuckling over Harry's jest when a car pulled in
through the creaky gate. Then, everyone became serious.
     The car was the same one that had brought Harry to Haldrew Hall, and it
had the same local driver. Evidently he didn't mind coming through the gate by
daylight, particularly when his passenger was paying him five dollars instead
of two.
     The passenger was a tall man, stoop-shouldered and with a thin, serious
face. Evidently another Haldrew heir, for he showed a distinct family
resemblance.
     Reaching the veranda, the newcomer introduced himself, turning first to
Varney, who was seated on the porch, then to Sabbatha, who was peering from a
doorway.
      "I am Dr. Simon Clabb," he declared importantly. "Directly related to the
Haldrew family, as I can prove. I have come to stay a month; as provided in
the
will of Giles Haldrew."
      George Frenton left the corner where he and Gail were seated. Crossing
the
porch, the pudgy man extended his hand to Clabb.
      "Glad to meet you, doctor," expressed Frenton cheerfully. "Well, you
arrived in time. Tonight is the deadline."
      Clabb gave a sharp stare around the group. Then, in blunt tone, he
retorted:
      "Last night seemed more of a deadline to me."
      Faces were puzzled, so Clabb explained.
      "I drove through the gate in my own car," he declared. "I'd intended to
garage it in the town, but this local taxi man wouldn't bring me all the way
to
the Hall by night. Anyway, I arrived in the midst of lightning, thunder and
hail, but they were very mild. Yes, very mild, compared to the screams and
gunfire that were coming from the house. I preferred the friendly outdoor
elements. I drove back to town and stayed at the hotel."
      Clabb's story explained the mystery car that had sped away the night
before, right after the disappearance of the vampire. Nevertheless, it left a
big question mark in Harry's mind, particularly when he studied Dr. Clabb.
      It was possible that Clabb had played the vampire; that his yarn was an
alibi. Maybe the same thought occurred to others. However, they all shook
hands
with Clabb, except Varney, who merely bowed, as he usually did.
      Invited to have some lunch, Clabb accepted. Harry was about to pick up
his
own plate, when a hand plucked his arm. A very mild hand, belonging to the
local
taxi man.
      "I brought your bags, Mr. Vincent," the fellow said. "The ones your
friend
told me you'd forgotten."
      By Harry's "friend" the fellow didn't mean Clabb. It was obvious,
therefore, that he could only mean The Shadow, who must have met him in
another
guise, down in the town.
      So Harry went to the car to get the bags, which were in the car trunk. As
Harry took them, the taxi man gave him a wise grin. No words were needed.
      The bags looked like normal suitcases, but Harry could see air holes in
their ends. From those openings came the coo of pigeons, one in each bag.
Therewith, Harry knew that The Shadow must have made a thorough trip through
Haldrew Hall, even finding the pigeon cote on the roof.
      Harry's chief had therewith decided to put the carrier-pigeon system in
reverse, by supplying his agent with a pair of able birds that could take
messages from Haldrew Hall, just as Varney's pigeons were trained to bring
dispatches to the place.
      There was a note with the bags and the taxi man gave it to Harry, who
tipped him a few dollars in return. Then, as the car was going out through the
gate, Harry took the bags in by a side door of the house and up to his room.
      The note, coded and in fading ink, stated that The Shadow would arrive
again tonight. Meanwhile, if Harry had any report, he could send it by carrier
pigeon. So Harry sat down and wrote things out. Attaching the message to a
pigeon, he released the bird from his window, watched it circle Haldrew Hall
and finally fly off in a straight line.
      Deep in the closet, Harry stowed the two bags: one empty, the other with
its pigeon. Remembering an item in his report concerning a cat named Roderick,
Harry probed the closet to make sure the black animal wasn't there. Satisfied,
he closed the closet door and bolted it.
     On the way downstairs, Harry thought of the other Roderick, whose
portrait
hung in Gail's room. He wondered just what Sabbatha had meant when she told
Varney that Harry ought to meet Roderick. Had she meant Roderick Haldrew in
picture form, or the cat that she had named after him?
     Undecided as to the answer, Harry began to think that there must be
another, and a deeper, one. The reason: Sabbatha's insistence on the Roderick
question had caused Varney to hand over the library key, merely to get rid of
her!


      LATER in the afternoon, Harry found a brief chance to chat with Gail. He
expressed the opinion that last night couldn't be regarded as a sample of
those
to come. Gail nodded, for she really believed the statement - though Harry,
himself, did not.
      "I'm not afraid," assured Gail bravely. "I stood the test last night, and
it will take more than a fake vampire to scare me in the future! It was
horrid,
though" - she shuddered lightly - "the way that creature appeared right beside
the bed and stretched its hands toward my throat. No wonder I shrieked!"
      Gail pressed her hands to her throat as she finished, and her shudder
increased, only to cease. Her smile returned, proving that her courage was
genuine.
      "I'll be all right," Gail assured. "You see, I'm not sleeping in that
room
tonight. The room doesn't matter." Her forehead showed a frown. "In fact, it's
the best room in the house! The trouble is the picture - the one that stares!"
      "You mean Roderick?" queried Harry absently.
      "Roderick!" exclaimed Gail. "Why, I thought he was Sabbatha's cat!"
      Harry explained that there were two Rodericks, the original bearing the
surname of Haldrew, though for all Harry knew, Sabbatha might have bestowed
the
family title upon Roderick, the cat.
      So Harry and Gail had their merry little laugh and went their respective
ways for the remainder of the afternoon. But as the afternoon waned, with dusk
foreboding the approach of night, Harry felt his merry mood decline.
      Haldrew Hall was no place for gaiety, not with the forbidding menace that
dwelt within it. That this coming night would bring new and more ominous
manifestations, Harry was quite certain. So certain, that he felt his courage
would have failed him, but for a single hope that buoyed it.
      That hope was the coming arrival of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER VIII

     SABBATHA'S DISCOVERY

     AGAIN, moonlight flickered over Haldrew Hall. A weird glow, pale at
moments, spotty at others, at times brilliant. A light that was at the mercy
of
fantastic clouds that seemed like monsters creeping through the sky, living
shapes prepared to reach down and engulf the queer old mansion.
     From his window, Harry Vincent watched the brooding heavens and felt the
gusts of winds that were equally wayward, varying from mild breeze to sudden
squall. At intervals, he blinked his flashlight, hoping The Shadow might be on
hand to pick up the signal and answer it.
     Weird was the shape that flitted across the cloud-shadowed lawn, like
some
gigantic night creature that had detached itself from the bordering trees. As
it
passed the veranda it spread into the semblance of a mammoth bat, its wings
carrying it to the mansion wall. There those wings folded and the thing moved
upward, clinging to the wall itself.
     From his window, Harry heard squidgy sounds that would have shaken the
sanity of most people. But to Harry, the sucking noise was music. It didn't
mean an unearthly foe, rising from the night. It signified a friend - The
Shadow!
     Over the sill came Harry's black-cloaked chief. From hands and feet, The
Shadow removed the suction cups which he had used to scale the wall. Four
concave disks, well-oiled to gain a grip; with them, The Shadow could climb
the
side of a precipice. When he removed them, they packed into a compact nest,
which he stowed beneath his cloak.
     When, within the window, this master of the night delivered a
low-whispered laugh of greeting that brought worlds of reassurance to Harry.
     The Shadow had received Harry's brief report, but he wanted further
details, so the agent gave them. Harry told how his suspicions had shifted
somewhat to Sabbatha, and even to a newcomer, Dr. Clabb. But The Shadow
preferred to deal in fundamentals.
     "Varney is still our chief candidate for the vampire," he declared. "I
inspected the house thoroughly last night. There is a secret opening in the
wall of the landing, through which he could have easily gone. As for his
arrival in Gail's room, that was even easier. He probably came straight up
from
the library, from one fireplace to the other."
     "But Gail's old room isn't over the library," objected Harry. "I paced
measurements today; they were quite a bit off."
     "You missed count," The Shadow replied, "because Varney and Throck
distracted you. The proof was Sabbatha's cat. It must have gotten into the
secret chimney. The fire in the library smoked it out, and it arrived in the
room where the portrait hangs!"
     The statement convinced Harry. His chance to check it came when The
Shadow
suggested that he go downstairs and chat with the other guests. So Harry
complied, and did the pacing on the way. The Shadow was right; the
measurements
from the portrait room tallied exactly with those to the library, the stairs
being the mid-point.
     Passing the library, Harry reached the living room and found the Armand
cousins in earnest conversation with Dr. Clabb. Frenton was in a corner and
when Harry asked him about Gail, Frenton said she'd gone to her room. So Harry
strolled over to hear what Clabb had to say.


     IF the doctor's face showed color, it was only because he was standing
where he could catch the ruddy glow of the living-room fireplace. For Clabb's
complexion was pasty, an evident fact every time the fire dwindled. It was
definitely a Haldrew type, the sort that automatically became skullish when in
gloom.
     "While on the veranda, just now," Clabb was confiding to the Armands, "I
saw a thing that looked like a gigantic bat, folding against the wall. It fits
with what you've told me."
     "Another of Varney's tricks!" laughed Cedric. "You notice he isn't
around,
don't you?"
     "He's trying to scare us away from here," added Warren. "We found that
out
last night, doctor."
      Clabb gave a smile that looked quite lipless when the firelight struck
it.
      "For one thing," argued Cedric, "Varney can't drive Sabbatha nuts. She's
that way already!"
      "Maybe the same goes with Varney," suggested Warren. "If he wasn't crazy,
he wouldn't be staging the vampire stuff."
      "I like your theories, gentlemen," assured Clabb. "If we can prove those
two insane, we can call upon the law to remove them to an institution. Which
will eliminate two candidates for the estate and end the vampire folly."
      The idea appealed to Cedric and Warren. They wanted suggestions how to go
about it. Clabb declared that the best way would be to humor both Varney and
Sabbatha. That could be done by expressing belief in vampires. So Clabb began
to catalogue the subject for their benefit; whereupon, Harry was suddenly
startled when someone plucked his sleeve.
      It was only Frenton.
      "Let's get out of here," undertoned Frenton. "This stuff gives me the
creeps! So bad that I don't even want to be alone! Let's get some air,
Vincent."
      Harry agreed, and they started from the living room. But they didn't
reach
the veranda. In the hallway, they met old Sabbatha, who was carrying Roderick,
the cat, under one arm. With her other hand she gave a bony-fingered beckon
toward the library.
      Frenton must have agreed with Clabb's plan of humoring Sabbatha, for he
looked inquiringly at Harry, who nodded. So they went into the library, with
Sabbatha, who parked Roderick on a cushion and picked an old, thick book from
a
high shelf. Tapping the book, Sabbatha gave a tight smile.
      "Perhaps you have wondered where Varney got his name," remarked Sabbatha.
"I shall tell you. He was named after this book, a very popular novel of a
hundred years ago."
      Opening the musty leather cover, Sabbatha displayed the title of the
book.
It was:

                              VARNEY THE VAMPIRE
                                      or
                              The Feast of Blood

     Gesturing the men to chairs, Sabbatha turned to the first chapter and
began to read in a slow monotone:
     " 'The solemn notes of the old cathedral clock have announced midnight...
the air is thick and heavy... a strange deathlike stillness pervades all
nature. A faint peal of thunder now comes from far off -' "
     Sabbatha's words were accompanied by the moan of rising wind about the
old
house. As she came to the "peal of thunder," Frenton sprang from his chair,
thinking he heard one. Harry drew him back. It was only a shutter, thumped by
the wind.
     " 'What is that?' " continued Sabbatha, reading from the book. " 'It is
hail... yes, a hailstorm has burst over the city. Hail, rain, wind - it was,
in
very truth, an awful night!' "
     Frenton's grip tightened on Harry's arms. His words came in a hoarse
whisper:
     "Listen, Vincent! She is describing last night!"


     IGNORING Frenton's interruption, Sabbatha read on, her voice still
maintaining its monotone, accompanied by the obbligato of the whining wind.
      " 'There is an antique chamber in an ancient house,' " read Sabbatha. "
'Curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney piece is a
curiosity of itself. The ceiling is low and a large bay window, from roof to
floor, looks to the west. The window is latticed and filled with curiously
painted glass and rich stained pieces which send in a strange, yet beautiful
light -' "
      The room where Gail had slept! Described to the dot in this volume a
hundred years old! Harry glanced at Frenton, saw the pudgy man staring upward
as though his bulging eyes could view the very room in question!
      " 'There is but one portrait in that room,' " continued Sabbatha, "
'although the walls seem paneled for the express purpose of containing a
series
of pictures. The portrait is that of a young man, with a pale face, a stately
brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on
twice.' "
      Roderick's portrait! The chills were Harry's now, for the picture had
given him the exact effect that the book so perfectly described!
      And now Sabbatha was reading aloud about a stately bed of carved wood,
hung with heavy silken-and-damask furnishings - which could have been the very
bed in the portrait room. She was reading of hail that dashed on the old bay
window like a discharge of mimic musketry.
      Next, how the bed in the old chamber was occupied by "a creature formed
in
all fashions of loveliness - a girl young and beautiful as a spring morning" -
which, though a long way of getting to the point, could certainly represent
Gail Merwin.
      There was more of such description, archaic yet expressive. The hail and
wind continued; the elements "uproared" according to the book. But the girl,
who had "endured much fatigue" did not awaken until a flash of lightning
streamed across the bay window. At that point, Sabbatha read steadily:
      " 'A shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl -' "
      Something close to a shriek came from Frenton's lips. He stifled it as
Harry nudged him with an elbow. Frenton sank back, mopping his forehead, only
to stare anew as Sabbatha declaimed:
      " 'A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the window.
It is its fingernails upon the glass that produce the sound so like the hail!
Intense fear paralyzed the girl -' "
      A clatter interrupted. It came from the window of the library, a rattle
like that of a clawlike hand - or hail, such as the hail of the night before.
Maybe the girl in the story had been paralyzed, for Frenton certainly was.
Harry caught him as he was rolling from his chair.
      Roderick, the cat, gave a vicious snarl. Sabbatha closed the book and
stepped to the window. Harry, somewhat petrified himself, relaxed as the old
lady declared testily:
      "It's Throck, tossing gravel from the driveway to attract attention. He
always does when he locks himself out."
      Throck must have pelted the living-room window, too, for there were
voices
from the hall, among them Cedric's, saying that he would go to the door.
Warren
and Clabb appeared outside the library and saw Harry trying to help Frenton up
to has chair. They came in to aid, while old Sabbatha looked on, a slight
sneer
registered on her lips.
      "Better get him up to his room," suggested Harry. Then, to curb
Sabbatha's
triumph: "I have to stay here and listen to the rest that Miss Sabbatha wants
to
tell me."
      Clutching for Harry's arm, Frenton found Warren's instead. He moaned
something that only Warren heard. Giving him a pat on the back, Warren said:
      "All right, old man. We'll do whatever you want!"
      Like an actual old man, Frenton moved in palsied fashion between Warren
and Clabb, who started him out through the hall and upstairs. He was still
muttering weakly and Warren was still nodding, when Harry saw them turn the
corner. Then:
      "Read me some more," said Harry to Sabbatha. "I rather enjoyed it."
      "I am fatigued," replied Sabbatha, handing Harry the book. "Read for
yourself, if you wish. The figure at the window was Varney the Vampire." Her
lips formed a cryptic smile. "Yes, a fiend called Varney the Vampire, the
namesake of Varney Haldrew!"
      Harry was putting away the book, when Warren came downstairs and stepped
into the library to tell Harry that Frenton wanted to see him. He added that
Harry could find Frenton in a room on the east side of the house, second from
the front corner. Warren mentioned, too, that Frenton had recuperated from his
shock, but that Dr. Clabb was still attending him.
      "Frenton feels pretty silly over it," remarked Warren. "So I promised him
we wouldn't mention it to anyone else."
      Harry was on his way upstairs, when he saw Cedric returning from the
front
door with Throck. The only person totally unaccounted for was Varney, which
made
Harry think again about the century-old novel from which Sabbatha had read. He
wanted to tell The Shadow about Varney's namesake, the Vampire.
      But The Shadow was no longer in Harry's room, so after a brief pause
there, Harry went along to see Frenton.


     CHAPTER IX

     SECRET OF THE CRYPT

     IF Harry had lingered downstairs a short while longer, he might have
spotted Varney Haldrew. The gaunt man appeared very suddenly in the library,
stepping out from the fireplace, where only ashes remained from the fire
kindled earlier in the day.
     Roderick, the cat, deserted by his mistress, raised his head and gave
Varney a very savage snarl, at which Varney bared his teeth until they looked
like fangs and snarled back.
     When Roderick was unimpressed, Varney gave quick, short kicks toward the
cat and the ashes from his shoes sprinkled Roderick's glossy black coat.
Jumping from its low cushion, the cat scooted out through the doorway to the
hall, shedding ashes as it went.
     Varney laughed as he turned away. His eyes fell upon the bookshelf where
the "Vampire" novel stood out an inch from the other volumes. Snatching at the
book, Varney was about to throw it in the fireplace, but changed his mind.
Instead, he left the book where it was. Opening a locked bookcase, he pulled
out volumes, one by one, shaking each in turn.
     Loose papers fluttered from some of the books. They weren't detached
pages; they were sheets of note paper that bore writing in a large but scrawly
hand. Sorting through them, Varney suddenly decided to dispose of the whole
lot. He struck a match, applied it to the papers, and tossed them in the
fireplace to burn.
     As the small blaze died, blackness encroached with considerable measure
into the room where only candlelight gleamed. It was living blackness, that of
a cloaked figure, its head topped by a slouch hat. Amazingly, the figure
blended with the gloom beside a bookcase - as only the form of The Shadow
could!
     Odd that Varney should choose that occasion to masquerade in similar
attire! Nevertheless, he did; for he went to a closet, unlocked it with a key
from his ring, and brought out a thing much like a black cloak, except that it
was in tatters. The garment was the shroud that Harry had gripped the night
before, mistaking it for The Shadow's cloak.
      When Varney spread the shroud around his shoulders and drew it close to
his neck, his face, in contrast to the black, appeared excessively white -
almost the true death color of a skull. Lips parting, Varney showed teeth that
added to the death's-head illusion. Rubbing his gray-gloved hands together, he
produced a crackle from the bony fingers within.
      He was indeed Varney the Vampire, a modern version of the creature
portrayed in fiction a hundred years ago!
      Stalking from the library, Varney was swallowed by the gloom of the hall.
Close behind him followed his rival in black, a being fuller of form, yet
stealthier than the pretended vampire. The Shadow was taking up Varney's
trail!
      The soft thud of a door told the route that Varney had taken. That door
led down into the cellar, but The Shadow was not the only person who had heard
it close. Into The Shadow's path stepped another man, who had just come down a
flight of stairs: Dr. Simon Clabb!
      Tilting his head, Clabb listened. His face, though bony, had neither the
pallor nor the leer of Varney's. Harry had been far off, in his conjecture
that
Clabb could have played the vampire. In stride, too, Clabb was deficient for
the
part.
      He opened the cellar door clumsily, blundered at the stair top; but
finally showed sense enough to wait a while, rather than have Varney hear him
from below.
      Since Clabb blocked The Shadow's route, the cloaked investigator had to
wait, too. At last, both proceeded, Clabb descending the stairs and The Shadow
keeping close behind him. Moonlight had returned and was trickling through the
barred cellar windows, so Clabb managed to find his way along.
      The thing that guided Clabb was a groan. At first, it startled him, but
he
recognized it as coming from a door. So he approached cautiously and found the
door in question. The moonlight showed it plainly - the door of the old crypt
that Harry had seen that afternoon!


     FROM beyond the door came sharp tap-taps of someone striking the floor
with a blunt instrument. Clabb listened for several minutes, The Shadow
watching him quite closely; then the doctor tried the door. Its hinges
protested, so loudly that Clabb desisted. Instantly, the tapping ceased within
the crypt.
     A few more minutes passed. Then Clabb, blunt and determined, wrested the
door wide. As he did, an echoing thud came from within the crypt. Clabb
dropped
back from the threshold, almost into the hands of The Shadow, who drew away
promptly. Then, lighting a match, the doctor thrust it ahead of him and
ventured straight into the crypt itself.
     Nervy, this chap Clabb. He proved it further when he found a multiple
candlestick on a shelf among the urns. Lighting the row of candles, Clabb
looked about. He didn't see The Shadow in the doorway, for the black-cloaked
watcher was part of the blackness there. What Clabb did notice was the coffin
-
the casket belonging to Varney - just below the shelf.
     Remembering the thud he'd heard before, Clabb stooped and raised the
coffin lid. Perhaps his nerves were too stout to crack, but they certainly
bent
badly. Peeling back, Clabb gave The Shadow a full view of the lid-raised
casket,
and the reason for Clabb's horror was plain.
      Within the coffin lay a ghastly sight. It was the figure of Varney,
attired in the black and ragged shroud. Varney's bloodless face had all the
pallor of a corpse, and his eyes were cold, seemingly sightless, in their
fixed
upward bulge. If ever a figure represented death in all its fullness, that
waxlike form of Varney Haldrew met the qualification!
      Swishing away from the doorway, The Shadow was just in time to avoid
Clabb
coming out. For the calm-faced doctor wasn't the sort to freeze, as Frenton
had
when hearing of Varney the Vampire. Clabb wanted to get clear of this living -
or dead! - counterpart of the creature fictionized a hundred years before.
      Clabb showed some presence of mind, for he wheeled to slam the door after
he passed it. So hard was the slam that it jarred through the crypt, and the
lid of Varney's coffin responded with a muffled thud. The breeze from the door
must have extinguished the candle flames, for there was a flicker beneath the
door crack and the light was gone.
      Catching himself, Clabb gave a long grunt that ended when he finished the
breath. Then at a sound from behind him, the man was full about, staring hard
into the moonlight at a face that was closing in upon him. A face so like
Varney's, that he thought the creature had passed him and was coming back!
      Clabb staggered against the door of the crypt, rattling it hard. But The
Shadow had recognized the approaching face. It was Sabbatha's.
      Clabb recognized the old lady's voice when she spoke, and her tone,
hollow
though it was, suited him better than Varney's. Clabb steadied; then nodded as
Sabbatha queried:
      "You saw Varney in his coffin?"
      Clabb's nod produced a happy but insidious cackle from Sabbatha, whose
tone began to ramble.
      "I have seen him there often," said Sabbatha. "Varney prefers to sleep in
his coffin, because he belongs to the Undead. Vampires run in our family among
the direct descendants of the Haldrews. I suspect that all of them have been
vampires, except Roderick.
      "That is why his portrait hangs alone in the great bedroom. Others feared
to place theirs there, because of Roderick's accusing eyes. He was a scourge
to
vampires, Roderick was. Poor Giles, the last of us to die, feared that he,
too,
was cursed, so he ordered all bodies in the crypt to be cremated, like his
own.
      "Only one Haldrew had no fear of the After Death. He was Roderick, who
despised the others more than they hated him. Ask Varney to show you Roderick
-"
      Sabbatha halted. Clabb was turning to see if he could clamp the door of
the vault shut. Finding no clamp, he was muttering something about hammer and
nails.
      "No door can seal the Undead," declared Sabbatha solemnly. "Even now,
Varney may have left his coffin. He could be filtering through that door as
vampires do. Ah! I see him - those flecks of black -"
      She was pointing into the moonlight and Clabb was following her stare.
The
flecks of black were there, though they could have been no more than moonbeams
sifted by fleecy clouds and split by window bars. Turning, Sabbatha kept her
finger moving onward, and exclaimed triumphantly:
      "I was right! Varney has passed us! Look - he has materialized upon the
stairs and is moving up them. Gliding in his shroud!"
    SABBATHA'S tone was so convincing, that Clabb nodded. Catching himself,
he
decided to continue humoring her, in keeping with his stated policy.
     But it happened that Sabbatha did see something in the dark, for her eyes
were as sharp as those of her pet cat. What she saw was The Shadow, who had
chosen that moment for a silent trip to the stairs!
     So there was The Shadow leaving the cellar, with Sabbatha actually on his
trail, mistaking him for Varney, and Clabb following along, just as an added
complication. Reaching the ground-floor hall, The Shadow moved more swiftly,
but Sabbatha noted a flicker of candles as he passed them and drew Clabb
along.
     Finding the library open, The Shadow side-stepped into it, whereupon
sharp-eyed Sabbatha saw that the next batch of candles didn't flicker. So she
followed him into the library, with Clabb in tow. By then, The Shadow was past
the end of a bookcase and motionless in gloom, confident that Sabbatha
wouldn't
see him under such conditions.
     "Varney is here," said Sabbatha, sniffing the air. "No... perhaps he has
gone. But he has been burning papers. Yes, I detect the odor. Burned papers in
the fireplace!"
     Clabb studied the fireplace ashes and nodded.
     "Whose papers does Varney burn?" queried Clabb. "His own?"
     "No." Sabbatha shook her head. "He burns those that belonged to Giles.
Every paper he can ever find! That's Varney's way."
     Clabb's eyes gleamed with interest. He suggested that they look for more
of Giles' papers. The pair moved away from the fireplace and The Shadow
promptly edged toward it. By entering there, he could reach the room above
while Sabbatha and Clabb were making their useless search.
     Something black scudded in through the door. It was Roderick, the cat,
and
Sabbatha stowed her pet on a cushion while Clabb closed the door. The cat
stared
toward the fireplace and snarled, so The Shadow paused. He didn't want
Roderick's namesake traveling through secret passages with him.
     So The Shadow waited for the cat to settle itself, and meanwhile, he
watched Sabbatha and Clabb probe through desk drawers and bookshelves, hunting
for old papers. The Shadow could count the evening fairly successful, so far.
He'd witnessed a new phase of Varney's vampire act, and he'd learned that
Varney had a penchant for disposing of certain papers.
     If Varney would only repose in his coffin for a while, all would be well.
On the chance that Varney would, The Shadow bided his time in blackness beside
the fireplace. Even if Varney did move, the consequences could hardly be
serious.
     For The Shadow had come to the conclusion that the hazards of Haldrew
Hall
were mental, not physical. Usually, such conjectures on The Shadow's part were
thorough and correct.
     Not tonight. This was a time when death was on the move!


    CHAPTER X

    DEATH FROM THE DEAD

     ALL this while, Harry Vincent was in the room where George Frenton hoped
to sleep, helping the jittery man unpack some bags and doing his best to ease
the fellow's fears. Frenton's excited mind was hopping to so many things that
it was hard to keep him on a track.
     First, Frenton talked about his heart. It wasn't very strong - not so
strong as it should be. He'd told Clabb about it when the doctor gave him some
pills, but Clabb had stated that they were only a mild sedative. They couldn't
hurt Frenton's heart.
      While he talked, Frenton swallowed two more of the pills. He did so only
when Harry assured him that he'd stay in the room, too. Frenton wanted sleep;
he needed it, but he wasn't going to sleep unless somebody was with him. Not
while vampires were around.
      After taking the pills, Frenton began to thank Harry some more. He liked
Harry and appreciated his friendship. He liked the Armands, too, particularly
Warren, who'd helped him upstairs and had brought his bags to this room. Clabb
was all right, too, though Frenton hadn't liked him at first.
      Trouble with Clabb, he reminded Frenton of Varney. Mention of Varney
brought up vampires, and there Frenton was really off in a cloud of mental
dust.
      "D'you know," he said, "I thought Gail Merwin was silly last night?
Having
a little nightmare and talking about vampires! She talked serious today,
though,
but all I did was humor her - the way Clabb says we ought to do with Varney
and
Sabbatha.
      "Gail wanted to get out of that room. Best room in the house, still she
didn't want it. Silly, I thought. But she wouldn't change her mind. Said she
didn't like the picture of Roderick. Asked if I minded it, and I said no. So
she asked if I'd swap rooms with her -"
      Frenton's head was drooping as he spoke. Clabb's pills were putting him
to
sleep. Harry helped him to get his coat off, and Frenton awoke with a start,
to
ask:
      "What was I saying?"
      "You were talking about Gail," replied Harry. "You said she wanted to
swap
rooms. She told me that somebody else would have the room with the portrait.
Evidently you didn't take it. So who did?"
      Frenton was dozing again. Sliding out of his suspenders, he muttered:
      "What's that, Vincent?"
      "I asked, who took the room with the portrait?"
      "Room with the portrait?" Frenton's head was tilting to his shoulder.
"Oh,
yes! Warren Armand. It's his room now."
      Harry smiled. Evidently Warren had slipped one past Cedric. Very neat on
Warren's part, helping a lady in distress. No wonder Warren hadn't mentioned
it. He and Cedric had left Gail to Frenton today, so she could get tired of
the
pudgy man's company and become more interested in theirs.
      But somewhere along the line, Warren must have casually arranged the
switch of rooms, gaining Gail's special gratitude by the act. Warren would
thus
be one up on Cedric when their rivalry for Gail's favor resumed.
      Frenton was waking up again and getting clumsily into bed. He was back on
the vampire subject, stressing it in full.
      "Read some books on vampires," said Frenton. "Not like the story old
Sabbatha was reading to us, but kind of scientific stuff. Says they can turn
into wolves."
      "And bats," reminded Harry. "Clabb thought he saw one tonight."
      Frenton being in the mood to discuss vampires, it was Harry's policy to
exhaust the subject, so the fellow would forget it.
      "They sleep in coffins," continued Frenton, shoving his arms into his
pajama sleeves. "But they don't like garlic. What they do like is to bite you
at the throat."
     He shoved his hand to his ample neck as he slid into bed. Leaning back
upon the pillow, Frenton looked into the candlelight and queried:
     "Did you notice it, Vincent?"
     "Notice what?"
     "Gail's neck, today. Two tiny red spots. Saw 'em in the sunlight. Maybe
the vampire bit her!"
     Harry hadn't noticed such marks on Gail's throat, though she had raised
her hand to her neck a few times.
     "I'll get some garlic tomorrow," remarked Harry, "and Gail can wear it
for
a necklace. I'll get you a bigger one, Frenton, though I think I might have to
use onions. Do they bother vampires, too?"
     Frenton gave a drowsy laugh. The sleeping pills were taking a better hold
on him.
     "Vampires can't cross running water," he continued. "But they can change
into fog. That's how they get in and out of places. Creep right under doors,
through the cracks. Then, when they're inside, they turn into themselves."
     Frenton propped his head wearily upon his elbow in a last effort to carry
on the conversation. There it stayed, while the fellow's eyes took on an odd
look that Harry had seen before. Pulling his other arm from the bedclothes,
Frenton pointed and gasped:
     "Look!"
     The finger pointed to a door at the front of the bedroom, one which
looked
as though it connected with the room ahead. From beneath that door was oozing
a
mist that formed a rising wraith in the candlelight!


      A STARTLING sight - vampirism brought to a grim reality! Matters had been
weird enough the night before, but this was a slow-motion form of menace that
couldn't be offset. There was no way for Harry to grab that trickling mist as
he had gripped Varney's shroud on the landing.
      You couldn't fight a whitish vapor. But it had a power of its own. The
foggy visitant was becoming more than a trickle, it was a swirling cloud
approaching Frenton's bed. He was clutching at his throat as though he wished
he had a garlic necklace.
      "Do something, Vincent!" Frenton gulped. "Something... quick -"
      Frenton was badly numbed. The sleeping dose held him so that he couldn't
wriggle from the bed. He was acting in jolty spasms, rising, sagging back,
flipping his hands toward Harry then clamping them to his neck again.
      "Take it easy, Frenton," said Harry. Somewhat numbed himself, his tone
sounded cool. "I'll find whatever is beyond that door!"
      Shoving through the waist-high vapor, Harry tried the door, only to find
it locked. He heard a soft hiss that might have come from a vampire, but Harry
preferred to connect it with some gadget that was feeding the mist under the
door.
      "I'll go around to the other room," decided Harry. "It will only take me
a
couple of minutes, Frenton."
      Frenton nodded.
      "Close the door behind you," he added. "I don't want to have to watch two
places. I'll yell if things get worse."
      By the door he wanted closed, Frenton meant the one to the hallway, so
Harry went out through it. Before closing the portal, he drew his automatic
and
let Frenton see it. The man gave a pleased nod; then sank back on his pillow
and
stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the whitish vapor that was still
expanding.
     Hurrying along the hall, Harry found the other room, yanked its door open
and entered with drawn flashlight. He was aiming his gun, too, for the
connecting door to Frenton's room. What Harry saw made him halt amazed.
     He saw - nothing!
     That white fog was coming from this room - at least, it had to be - and
yet it wasn't! In the midst of that blank discovery, Harry was overwhelmed by
the irrational belief that such things as vampires could exist, and he tried
to
reason matters from that standpoint.
     Like Frenton, he'd heard tales of vampires coming under doors in the form
of fog, but he never had thought about what they might look like on the other
side of the door, while in the midst of their invading process.
     Here, Harry was seeing the other side of the door, the vampire's point of
departure. Maybe he was the first man on record to watch a vampire taking off
on a deadly excursion.
     And Harry was finding a total absence of evidence, a thing which left him
thoroughly bewildered.
     Then came the startling thought that perhaps the vampire had already
materialized beyond the door! That granted, it might be a solid creature -
like
Varney in his shroud - taking Frenton in its blood-sucking clutch!
     This was no time to debate the real and the unreal. Madly, Harry tore
from
the front room. He gave a shout for Frenton to hear, but received no answer.
What came was another figure from the opposite end of the hallway: Throck,
calling to know what was the matter.
     "The vampire!" Harry shouted. "He's in Frenton's room, grabbing at him!"
     With that, Harry threw the door open. What he saw was in keeping with the
best of vampire traditions. There was plenty of white fog in the room, a whole
thick layer of it, bed high, covering Frenton like a misty blanket. And out of
that fog, black amid whiteness, was the materialized figure of Varney Haldrew,
his fingers groping for Frenton's throat as he crouched, half stooped, beside
the bed!
     That is, Harry took the figure to be Varney's, though he wouldn't have
testified on oath. For the face that looked Harry's way showed only bloodshot
eyes above the half-raised, shrouded arm. The rest of the face was pale, like
a
skull. Whether the creature's hands were bones of a skeleton, or human hands
covered with Varney's gray gloves, Harry couldn't have sworn, for they were in
the mist.


      WHOEVER, whatever the creature in the shroud, it materialized in full the
instant it saw Harry. With a bound, it went straight for a pair of French
windows on the far side of the room, smashed them open with a single crash, to
reach an outer balcony.
      Harry was after it, swinging his gun, hoping to snare the thing alive.
But
Throck, coming in from the hall, was too excited to waste time with a chase.
      The servant let rip with the old revolver, and Harry dropped back as he
heard bullets sizzle by. Those shots skimmed off into thin air, for the
vampire
had turned the corner of the outside balcony at the moment Throck aimed.
      And with that insidious shape went the remnants of the whitish cloud,
sucked in a mass by a gust of wind that stormed by the mansion, plucking the
house air into its vacuum. Wisps of the foggy vapor still remained as Throck
bounded through to the balcony, where he began firing along the roof - at
nothing!
      But those wisps were leaving, too, as Harry turned toward the bed to
speak
to Frenton, who had rolled almost to the floor, tangled in the bedclothes as
if
they were a winding sheet. He'd made a struggle, Frenton had, but it was
feeble
and short-lived.
      For Harry, as he stared at the glazed eyes of the upturned face, was
sure,
beyond argument, that Frenton was very, very dead!


    CHAPTER XI

    MISSING: ONE VAMPIRE

    WHEN The Shadow heard the gunfire, he was coming from the fireplace in
the
portrait room, having finally slipped by Roderick, the cat, while the latter
was
sleeping. There was no fire in the upstairs fireplace, and it was so huge that
circling the unlighted logs and kindling was a comparatively easy matter.
     But The Shadow wasted no more time when he heard Throck's gun begin to
blast, somewhere on the second floor. Springing from the fireplace, he sped
past the austere portrait of the original Roderick and made straight for the
door. In the rush, there was a slight mishap: The Shadow's foot caught a
projecting log and rolled it from the fireplace after him.
     That clatter, hard upon the muffled gunfire, awoke the person who was
dozing in the great carved bed. The present occupant of the stately couch was
no "creature of loveliness" whose "neck and bosom would have formed a study
for
the rarest sculptor," according to the fervid descriptions from the book of
"Varney the Vampire." This room no longer belonged to Gail Merwin.
     Tonight, this room of oaken floor was occupied by Warren Armand, and he
came from the bed of walnut wood with a powerful leap. In the kaleidoscopic
glitter from the stained-glass windows, Warren saw the sweeping figure of The
Shadow, but in a form of half illusion.
     Those panes were of many shades, hence the moonlight, insufficient
because
of obscuring clouds, produced a remarkable trick. Its effect was visible only
through the lighter-tinted panes, whereas the darker hues blocked the glow.
     Thus The Shadow, as Warren viewed him, came up to all the lore of
vampires. He wasn't a lot of blackish specks, the way Sabbatha had described
him; he was something more startling - a living patchwork quilt that seemed
composed of disconnected sections.
     Geometric figures, all of black, yet glossed with colorful effects of
carmine, orange, bister, olive, azure, and all the lighter shades of various
colors. Where the light was maroon, or purple, or even a dark green, The
Shadow
didn't show!
     Snatching at a coat that hung on a chair beside the bed, Warren grabbed a
revolver and lunged after The Shadow. The fantasy of patchwork-tinted
blackness
was through the door before Warren could aim his gun, but there seemed a
chance
to overtake him in the hall.
     Whatever Warren's chance, it was thoroughly ruined before he reached the
door. Like a chunk of patchwork left behind, a green-tinted sector of glossy
black changed to light blue beneath Warren's feet and tripped him during the
transformation.
     Warren's hearty shout drowned the screech of Roderick, the cat, which was
scudding from fireplace to door. Sabbatha's pet had followed The Shadow from
the library despite the cloaked prowler's efforts to elude the creature.
     Now the cat was gone and Warren, hitting the floor with a thump, was
staring up at the portrait of the original Roderick, which gave him a flickery
smile as it studied him with eyes of different hues that were tinted by
separate panes of the stained-glass window.
     Finding Frenton's room. The Shadow saw Harry looking at the man who lay
beside the bed. Throck was on the balcony reloading his revolver, bawling that
the vampire had gone across the roof. Other persons were coming up the stairs
in haste: Clabb and Sabbatha, calling to learn about the trouble. Following
them came Cedric's voice; he was on his way from the library.
     Then there was a call from Gail, who had come from her new room; an
answer
from Warren, who was on his feet and in the hall. Amid those calls, The Shadow
spoke whispered words to Harry, who nodded, glad that his chief was on hand.
     Then, as people were arriving, The Shadow whisked out to the balcony,
intending to go along the roof edge in the direction opposite Throck's gaze.


      THROCK heard the calls too, and turned around just as The Shadow arrived.
With a savage shout, the haggard servant aimed his reloaded gun straight for
The Shadow, mistaking him for the vampire, mysteriously returned.
      Catching Throck's wrist, The Shadow drove the fellow's gun hand upward
and
the revolver chattered in the air. But as they reeled together, The Shadow and
Throck, they came half through the French windows.
      Harry wasn't the only person who saw them. Clabb and Sabbatha saw all of
the struggle; Cedric was in time to witness half of it; while Warren and Gail
caught the finish - which was the most graphic part. By then, the
rough-and-ready grapple had gone The Shadow's way, and he climaxed it by
smothering Throck into submission.
      No vampire could have done it better. Throck was in the doorway, whereas
The Shadow had wheeled to the balcony. What the witnesses saw was a man-sized
thing of blackness that spread its cloak like a pair of great bat wings,
enveloping Throck completely in the folds.
      Throck sagged, and for the moment it looked as though his fate would be
comparable to Frenton's.
      Only Harry knew the truth - that Frenton had met one foe, Throck another.
But Harry couldn't stop the surge of men who lunged for The Shadow: Clabb
first, next Cedric, and finally Warren; while old Sabbatha held a candelabrum
high to guide them, the flames from the wicks adding an insane gleam to her
old
eyes.
      With an opening swish of the cloak that looked like wings, The Shadow was
gone, while men were blundering across Throck as the servant clambered up from
the doorway. They glimpsed The Shadow on the roof and Cedric produced a gun,
along with Warren's. But when they fired at the spot where The Shadow faded,
he
was gone. Moonlight, gleaming suddenly, showed only the bare, paintless
shingles
of the roof!
      The Shadow had swung beneath the eaves. There, in deep darkness, he had
hooked one arm across a projecting beam and was putting on the suction cups.
He
looked back to the balcony, saw Cedric and Warren staring all about. At
moments,
they saw fantastic things along the wall and probed with shots; but all they
clipped was rustling ivy.
      With the two turned the other way, The Shadow moved off along his part of
the wall, where there was no ivy. He was just swinging a corner when Throck
glimpsed him, for the servant's eyes were very good in darkness.
     But Throck didn't matter; nothing but clicks came from his antique gun.
He'd unloaded it with those shots in the air. The Shadow had counted six of
them while the revolver was spouting in volcanic fashion.
     Turning at Throck's cry, Cedric and Warren saw only a blank house corner,
so didn't waste their last few shots. Throck was emphatic, though, in stating
that he'd seen the vampire disappear in that direction, and Clabb gave a
corroborating nod.
     Thus was the way paved for a most astounding mystery to follow. At the
doorway, Harry could see the men on the balcony plainly, because Sabbatha was
beside him with the candelabrum. He observed the nods and heard Sabbatha state
profoundly:
     "It was Varney that they saw. Varney Haldrew, the vampire of our
generation, not his namesake of a century gone -"
     And then, two hands that had a bony press within their padded surface
were
resting on the shoulders of Harry and Sabbatha, moving them apart. Harry
wheeled
and Sabbatha, stepping back, raised the candles into the room. Others spun
from
the balcony, while Gail made a half shriek from the hallway door.
     Standing there, an inquiring expression upon his smug face, was the gaunt
man who hoped some day to own this mansion - Varney Haldrew!


     NO longer did Varney wear the shroud that Harry had seen upon his
shoulders. He was attired in his usual dark suit, and he appeared quite
unperturbed. If anything, Varney's manner was curious. His voice had a cackle,
rather than a hiss, as he inquired what had happened.
     To Harry, of course, the only mystery was how Varney had arrived here -
though he might have gone past Gail, who was standing half within the door. To
the others, who had mistaken The Shadow for the vampire and supposed him to be
Varney, the only absentee, the thing was quite incredible. For only a few
seconds had intervened between The Shadow's vanish and Varney's arrival!
     It was Harry who answered Varney's queries, with a silent nudge toward
the
bed where Frenton lay. Varney stepped toward the prone man, but Clabb pressed
him aside. Stooping beside Frenton, the physician made a brief examination,
then declared that Frenton was dead.
     Varney looked truly unhappy when he heard the news. His expression didn't
change when Clabb decided that Frenton had died from heart failure, induced by
some new shock that had followed his earlier fright. The others credited
Clabb's verdict, and nodded further when Harry and Throck told their story in
detail.
     They were still puzzled about Varney, though from the way they eyed him,
most of them - even Throck - were coming to the opinion that Varney must have
gone from the roof, or outside wall, sooner than they supposed. So interested
were they in Varney, that they forgot Frenton's body.
     Harry noticed it, particularly the neck. There, at Frenton's throat, he
saw two tiny reddish marks, like pin pricks - evidence of a vampire's bite!
Swinging toward Gail, Harry looked for the token that Frenton himself had
described.
     Yes, Gail bore the same marks, very faintly! She'd unwittingly let the
collar of her dressing gown slip down and Harry viewed the tiny pink stabs by
the light of Sabbatha's candelabrum!
     Taking charge of matters, Clabb gestured the others from the room. Then,
boldly, the physician put the challenge that was in every mind. Turning to
Varney, Clabb demanded:
     "Where were you when this happened?"
     "In the library," returned Varney crisply, "studying some old tomes. I
shall return there now."
     Clabb exchanged looks with Sabbatha. The doctor could not dispute
Varney's
claim. If he did, Sabbatha would argue that they had both followed Varney to
the
library, which would only complicate matters. So Clabb closed the room and
departed with the rest.
     Varney went to the library, the others to the living room, where Cedric
picked up some cards with which he had been playing solitaire and suggested
another game instead.
     Two persons were absent: Clabb and Sabbatha. They had gone to the cellar.
There, The Shadow, moving from the darkness of the stairs, saw them enter the
crypt and find Varney's coffin empty, lacking even the tattered shroud!
     Not being where he could witness Varney's arrival in Frenton's room, The
Shadow had naturally gone directly to the crypt to look for Varney. The Shadow
was on his way upstairs when Clabb and Sabbatha passed him. So The Shadow
continued up the stairs; hearing voices from the living room, he kept on to
the
second floor.
     There, darkness swallowed him; gloom that was stirred by a whispered
laugh. Grim mirth, suited to The Shadow's coming quest for evidence that would
prove all facts concerning the missing vampire of Haldrew Hall!


    CHAPTER XII

    STRANGE VERDICTS

     IN the morning, Harry Vincent wrote out a detailed report of all that had
happened the night before. Too long a report to send by carrier pigeon, so he
decided to condense it. He had not been able to contact The Shadow during the
night, though he'd been sure his chief was still around.
     Everybody had stayed in the living room all night. Clabb had returned
there, and even Sabbatha and Varney had favored the group with their company,
at intervals, while Throck, patrolling the house, had reported in every half
hour. So Harry had to stay with the group - or else excite their suspicion.
     Harry's work on the condensation was interrupted by the arrival of the
coroner. It was Throck who summoned Harry, and when he left the room, Harry
closed the closet door to make sure that Roderick, the cat, wouldn't find the
carrier pigeon.
     In the hallway, Harry passed Varney, who gave him a cryptic smile and
said
that he would join him soon.
     The coroner was a big-browed man, who listened seriously to Clabb's
opinion on Frenton's death. When Harry supplied the vampire story, the coroner
just grunted. He asked for the key to the connecting room and Throck went to
find Varney, who finally appeared with the big ring of keys. The unlocking of
the connecting door produced a surprise for Harry.
     The door didn't lead to the front room. It opened into a small closet. On
the other side of the closet was another door which did connect with the front
room. Varney unlocked it and went through, the others following him.
     Thus was the riddle partially solved - the question of how smoky fog had
appeared in Frenton's room without coming from a visible source. Harry had
looked into the front room, mistaking its closet door for the one that opened
into Frenton's.
     The vapor had issued from the closet; that was all. It had oozed into
Frenton's room because there was a wide crack under that particular door,
whereas the one to the front room was backed by an innocent-looking stretch of
weather-stripping.
     All this had the elements of a set-up, but there was no sign as to what
had caused the smoke. The closet was quite empty; its floor boards, old and
with cracks between them, had no marks to indicate the attachment of a special
fixture. But the smoke could have come from the closet, so Harry felt he still
was sane.
      So far, Harry hadn't emphasized the story too strongly. He'd just said
that he and Frenton had noticed a mist coming under the door and that he'd
gone
to the front room to investigate. On his return, he'd seen someone in a
tattered
shroud, stooped beside Frenton's body. Someone who had fled the room, carrying
the fog with him.
      Naturally, Harry couldn't be too specific, since he didn't want to
involve
The Shadow, who had been mistaken for the vampire later. He let Throck proceed
with testimony, and in giving it, the servant practically omitted reference to
the whitish fog. He'd noticed some vapor, yes, but Frenton thought it was
nothing more than tobacco smoke.
      When the coroner asked if Harry and Frenton had been smoking, Harry
nodded
- because they had been.
      At that moment, Varney turned directly to Dr. Clabb and asked, in a bold
tone:
      "You are sure that Frenton's death was due to heart failure?"
      This was Clabb's chance to turn the tables on Varney. Instead, Clabb
stuck
to his original verdict. The reason, Harry suddenly recognized, was due to a
cold, almost triumphant glitter in Varney's gaze. Then the same eyes were
turning Harry's way.
      "And you, Vincent" demanded Varney. "Would you prefer to attribute it to
an imaginary creature created from a fog which Throck did not even see? A
thing
which evaporated into night when Throck seized it?"
      There was a warning glance from Clabb; one that Harry didn't need, for
he'd noted Varney's gloat, too. It was Varney who had turned the tables!
      In Clabb's case, Varney had one winning card. Clabb had attended Frenton
after the fellow's first fright, and had given him sleeping pills. An autopsy
might produce traces of that dosage, which wouldn't look good for Clabb.
      As a second trump, Varney had Harry on a spot. For Harry had been the
last
person in the room with Frenton while the victim was still alive. Like Clabb,
Harry was in a position where anything he said might prove a boomerang.
Therefore, Harry was glad that he hadn't committed himself too far. And now,
he
kept silent.


     HERE, Throck came helpfully to the rescue. He said that it had been foggy
early the previous evening, when he was outdoors. Maybe the French windows had
let some mist trickle through. It could have been the wind that blew them open
later.
     Both Clabb and Harry understood why Throck was saying this. The servant
had looked toward Varney, too. He must have decided that Varney had another
card up his sleeve - for Throck.
     "I think this matter solves itself," declared Varney crisply. "George
Frenton was overstrained, following one heart attack. He thought he saw
things,
and magnified them. Naturally, that influenced Vincent, who was with him, and
he
passed on the scare to Throck.
     "Much seems to happen in this old house, yet none of it is tangible. So I
withdraw my doubts, Dr. Clabb. You may settle the case with the coroner, and
afterward I shall make due arrangements for Frenton's funeral."
     The hard-headed coroner preferred the heart-failure verdict, but decided
to talk to other people before making it official. He went down to the living
room and found Gail there with the Armand cousins. Their testimony proved
perfect. It proved that everybody was imagining things, which therefore
covered
Frenton's case all the better.
     Gail related her own experience in the portrait room, two nights before:
how she'd seen a lot of blackness beside the bed, only to have it vanish from
the window, after an interval during which she'd practically fainted.
Imagination, probably, but it had certainly scared her.
     "I can substantiate that," put in Warren Armand. "You see, I moved to the
portrait room last night. When I wakened, I thought I saw a black creature,
too, but it was all in pieces. I went after it and one of the pieces tripped
me!
     "No, I'm not crazy" - Warren's long face widened in a smile, his blue
eyes
twinkled - "because there's the thing that did it." He pointed across the
living
room to a window seat. "Miss Sabbatha's black cat!"
     The green-eyed culprit didn't like the attention that came his way.
Hopping from the window seat, Roderick started from the room, to be met by
Sabbatha in the hall. She picked up the cat and went her way, while Clabb
explained to the coroner that he had been with Sabbatha, at the time of
Frenton's death and that there would be no need to question her. Remembering
how Varney had tripped his story, Clabb didn't want similar trouble with
Sabbatha.
     Cedric Armand gave final testimony. His statement was brief: he'd been
playing solitaire in the living room, when he heard the commotion and ran
upstairs. Like Gail and Warren, Cedric had seen Throck grabbing for something
on the balcony, but it had turned out to be thin air.
     The coroner called it a day and went back to town, taking Frenton's body
with him. Both Clabb and Varney accompanied him on the trip, but Harry was one
of the volunteers who carried Frenton's body to the car. On the way, he noted
the dead man's throat; it had swollen slightly, and there were no traces of
the
two pink points that Harry had seen the night before.
     Three cars, altogether, had come from town, and in one Harry saw his
friend the taxi driver, who tossed him a square package that rattled. Later,
when Harry opened the little bundle, he found that it contained a bird-food
mixture, especially suited for pigeons. With it was wrapped a note from The
Shadow, telling Harry to expect him at dusk.


     AT dusk, Clabb and Varney returned from town, and Harry was watching them
walk from the gate where the taxi man left them, when he caught The Shadow's
whisper. His chief had entered the Hall and come directly to Harry's room.
     Motioning Harry along, The Shadow took him to the landing where Varney
had
disappeared two nights before. There, The Shadow undertoned:
     "Meet me in the room where Frenton died."
     Harry turned to reply, only to find The Shadow gone!
     Twilight from the landing window was sufficient to prove that Harry's
black-cloaked chief had duplicated Varney's original vanishment. So Harry
followed instructions by going up the short steps from the landing, turning
through a forward hall with a zigzag angle, that finally brought him into the
room where Frenton had died.
     There, by the gleam of freshly lighted candles, Harry saw The Shadow
again. He had arrived here first!
     It couldn't be a masquerader. The Shadow had removed his slouch hat and
dropped his cloak collar. Harry saw a hawkish face, the profile of Lamont
Cranston, whose personality The Shadow adopted in everyday life.
     Noting Harry's bewilderment, The Shadow gave a typical Cranston smile.
Stepping to the back of the room, he gripped the baseboard and slid a section
upward. A portion of the wall went up into the ceiling, revealing a waist-high
gap beneath the raised baseboard. Through that space, Harry saw the stairway
landing.
     So that was it!
     Varney's first vanish had been through this very room; no wonder,
therefore, that he had used it for later trickery. The twists in the hallway
made it difficult to realize that this room backed against the landing.
     Through the hidden connection, Varney had first popped in on Frenton;
later, he had returned, to confound witnesses who supposed him to be the
vampire faker, which he was!
     Having revealed that trick, The Shadow snuffed out the candles. He used a
flashlight to probe the closet whence the smoke had come, calling Harry's
attention to the cracks in the floor.
     Then they went downstairs, turning through an obscure passage to a side
door from the house. But they didn't go outside. Instead, The Shadow opened
the
door of a little room that happened to be directly under the connecting closet
on the floor above.
     Lots of things were stored in this room. So many, that Harry wondered
about a certain padlocked room that Varney had described as a storeroom. Why
another storeroom when so many things were here? Harry left that question for
later debate, because The Shadow was calling his attention to a certain item.
     The thing was a vacuum cleaner of the latest type. In a sense, it was a
portable air-conditioner, for the vacuum hose sucked the air into a tank that
was equipped with a container filled with liquid that was supposed to cleanse
the air. There was plenty of hose coiled in the room and The Shadow began to
fit it to the machine.
     Soon he had the whole thing reconstructed, with a hose running right up
to
the cracked ceiling - a hose that terminated in a wide suction sweeper
supposed
to pick up dust. But when The Shadow started the cleaner working, Harry saw
that it operated in reverse.
     Buzzing softly, the machine was sucking in air which carried through the
hose and out the wide sweeper, which remained glued to the ceiling cracks
because of the sucking force of the air that left it!
     On a shelf was a large bottle of ammonia. In a corner a smaller bottle
lay
empty. The Shadow defined its former contents as spirits of salts, which meant
hydrochloric acid.
     "Very simple," he told Harry. "The acid and ammonia, combined in that
cleanser tank, produced a smoke which was carried up through the flooring. You
saw the fumes emerging from the connecting closet, and they passed as whitish
fog - a vampire mist!"
     The Shadow turned off the vacuum and the clinging pipe dropped down.
Noting a cord that ran from the machine to a floor plug, Harry exclaimed:
     "Why, the house is wired for electricity!"
     "To this room only," explained The Shadow. "Evidently Giles Haldrew
started to put in the improvement, then changed his mind. In so doing, he was
only copying a predecessor, because the house is also piped for gas - to this
room only."


     STRIKING a match, The Shadow carried it to a corner and applied the flame
to a gas jet, which promptly ignited and burned steadily. Finding a length of
thin hose, The Shadow stretched it like a long tape measure, one end toward
the
gas jet, the other toward the vacuum-cleaner tank.
      "The acid-ammonia combination is comparatively harmless," remarked The
Shadow. "Certainly its mere smoke could not prove fatal. But if this hose had
run from gas jet to vacuum cleaner -"
      He paused, letting Harry form the obvious conclusion.
      "The gas would have gone through, too!" exclaimed Harry. "A whole flood
of
it, along with the phony smoke. That's what killed Frenton; he was in the low
bed, beneath its level! When Varney crashed through the French windows, the
gas
went out with the smoke!"
      The Shadow nodded. The rest, too, was obvious. Assuming that the smoke
fumes had already been exhausted, Varney had only to return to the storeroom
and turn off the smooth-running motor, that could not be heard outside its
present confines. Detaching the gas hose from the jet was an even simpler
proposition.
      While Harry still pondered on the matter, The Shadow conducted him from
the storeroom to the library, which was lighted but deserted. From a corner of
the fireplace, The Shadow carefully drew a piece of burned paper and held it
to
the candlelight.
      On it, Harry could read traces of written words. He made out two. They
were "sure" and "crypt."
      Then came The Shadow's low tone, close to Harry's ear.
      "Keep watch on Varney," The Shadow ordered. "Matters went beyond what he
intended last night; of that, I am certain. There may be a lull of several
days
as a result. Should anything develop meanwhile, send a message by the
remaining
pigeon.
      "Likewise, signal at dusk each evening, in case of my early return.
Should
emergency arise, aid is close at hand. I have stationed Burke in the town; he
will contact you on his own, if he finds suitable opportunity. Meanwhile,
learn
all you can."
      By Burke, The Shadow meant another agent, named Clyde Burke, who worked
as
a newspaper reporter. A good man, and a logical one to be staying in the town
near the Haldrew mansion, since Frenton's death would naturally interest the
New York newspapers. So Harry's tone was pleased, when he turned to The Shadow
and declared:
      "Instructions received."
      With that, Harry's face was blank. The Shadow had disappeared again! Then
Harry saw the fireplace and his smile returned. His chief had taken the secret
route up to the room where Roderick's portrait hung as a rebuke to all other
Haldrews.
      In fact, Harry could fancy that he heard the whisper of a parting laugh
from the depths of the library fireplace - The Shadow's token of
acknowledgment
that Harry, for once, had guessed right!


     CHAPTER XIII

     THE PADLOCKED ROOM

     THE next few days passed quietly at Haldrew Hall. Even the nights were
calm, serene, with everyone very friendly. Occasionally, someone remarked
about
"poor Frenton," and the memory of the departed guest served to keep the
remainder in closer comradeship.
      Varney had arranged Frenton's funeral and the body had been cremated, in
keeping with the present custom of the Haldrew family. Such an arrangement had
met with the full approval of Dr. Clabb, who didn't want an autopsy, for
reasons of his own. So Frenton's ashes were in an urn down in the family
crypt.
      Behind all this lay a sinister suggestion; one that gripped Harry
Vincent,
who had studied vampire lore. Harry knew the traditions of vampires; how they
were supposed to be the Undead, who rose from their graves and feasted on the
blood of living humans. There was a way of dealing with vampires; the system
was to drive stakes through their hearts and chop off their heads. But in the
books on vampires in the Haldrew library - amazing how many such volumes Harry
found there! - it appeared that cremation was the method more extensively
used,
being far more efficient, though less picturesque, than the stake and
head-chopping business.
      Reading through such books, Harry could picture old Giles Haldrew pouring
over them and deciding to end the vampire's curse of the Haldrew family. So
he'd ordered himself cremated, and had applied the rule to all the bodies in
the family crypt, proving that Giles was a man of judgment, even where
superstitions were concerned.
      From the superstitious angle, there was still Varney Haldrew. From the
way
old Sabbatha talked, one would suppose that Varney was a bona fide sample of
the
Undead. She hinted that he'd really died some years ago, and had returned to
Haldrew Hall as a vampire. But Harry laughed that off, though he was glad to
note that the tiny red spots no longer showed on the throat of Gail Merwin.
      But now a certain tenseness had grown. It dated from the hour when
Frenton's ashes were stowed in the crypt. Somewhat personally relieved because
Frenton's case was closed, Harry could understand why others - particularly
Varney and Clabb - felt even more so. As a result, Harry recognized that they
were resuming their individual plans.
      Analyzing Varney was comparatively easy. Varney simply wanted to scare
the
daylights out of people at nighttime. He'd frightened Gail one night, Frenton
the next, because they were where he could conveniently fake his vampire
tricks. The stunt of the illuminating gas, along with the smoke, could be
logically explained, because such gas had a way of making heads swim and
therefore should have aided Varney's vampire act.
      The trouble was those pills that Clabb had given Frenton. They'd lowered
his resistance, leaving him in a partial stupor, unable to get above the bed
level where the gas was thick.
      Since Harry had reasoned that fact out, he was sure The Shadow recognized
it, too. For The Shadow had remarked that Varney had overstepped himself.
However, Varney was now free to go on with his regular act, including the
byplay of the coffin sleep which he was using to worry Sabbatha. Today, Varney
was doing some snooping around the house, which Harry didn't like.
      Dr. Clabb was getting tightlipped, too, except when he talked with old
Sabbatha. This didn't quite fit with Clabb's policy, considering that he
wanted
to pronounce both Varney and Sabbatha as insane. He wasn't talking to Varney
at
all, and in Sabbatha's case there were never any witnesses to Clabb's
conferences with the old lady, so what Clabb was finding out could hardly help
his case.
      Unless he'd changed plans, which Harry believed he had. Clabb had taken a
special interest in the cellar crypt, and after his chats with Sabbatha, he
talked about the Haldrew estate, wondering just how much cash old Giles had
really been worth. He talked on this subject to the Armands, but they weren't
interested.
     For Cedric and Warren still regarded their sojourn in Haldrew Hall as a
lark. Their money would come from the Armand family, and they bragged about
it.
     As for Gail Merwin, she was sticking it out partly for the few thousand
she would gain, and partly to show that her nerve could last as long as
anybody
else's. Which left only Throck, the servant, as a factor - and his case was
the
simplest of all. He was continuing his patrol duty, every night, in his usual
systematic fashion.


     IT was largely on account of Varney and Clabb that Harry decided to send
the pigeon, to inform The Shadow that things were getting tense again. He
delayed the message only because he hoped he could overhear a chat between
Clabb and Sabbatha.
     The chance came late in the afternoon, when Harry was passing the
library.
He heard the voices of Clabb and Sabbatha, so he listened in the gloomy hall
outside the door.
     Clabb was questioning Sabbatha about the crypt. Harry heard Sabbatha say
that her uncle Giles had intended to pave it with flagstone, but had finally
decided on concrete. When Clabb asked why, Sabbatha said that maybe Throck
would know, because Giles had left the hiring of the workmen to him.
     In fact, Sabbatha was very vague about the whole thing - so vague, that
she switched the subject to the padlocked room on the second floor, a thing
which roused Clabb's interest. When he said he'd like to look into the room,
Sabbatha told him he'd have to first find the key, on top of which she added a
very cackly laugh.
     As he went upstairs, Harry glimpsed Varney. The gaunt man was coming from
the portrait room, which Warren still used as a bedroom. It struck Harry that
Varney could have been using the fireplace route; if so, he might have heard
what Clabb and Sabbatha had discussed.
     Harry was pondering over that as he continued to his own room, and in his
concentration didn't observe that Varney saw him going by. Otherwise, Harry
might have been prepared for the odd things that were to happen.
     Using pencil and thin paper, Harry inscribed a brief note. No need for
vanishing ink, since this message was going direct. Anyway, the paper was too
thin to take properly the special fluid that The Shadow and his agents
preferred in their correspondence.
     Harry simply stated things in brief: that Varney was back in form; Clabb
acting oddly; the locked room a factor that Harry would investigate
immediately.
     Attaching the note to the pigeon, Harry released the bird from his
window.
     The pigeon circled off into the haze of early dusk and Harry promptly
forgot it. He should have watched; in fact, would have, had the light been
better. Harry's negligence on that point prevented him from observing
something
rather phenomenal. After its circling tactics, the pigeon failed to take off
in
a straight line.
     Instead, it wound up on the roof of Haldrew Hall!
     A little bell donged from the pigeon cote as Harry's pigeon went through
a
wicket. Gray-gloved hands reached in from the other side and plucked up the
bird. A few moments later, Varney Haldrew was chuckling over Harry's note.
Varney's gloat increased as he eyed a special coop which contained an extra
bird.
      That extra pigeon was Harry's! Varney was a better snooper than Roderick,
the cat. Varney the Vampire could unbolt doors, and he had done just that with
the door of Harry's closet. Finding a carrier pigeon there, he had replaced it
with one of his own!
      Fortunately, Harry's note was too brief to give Varney any inkling about
The Shadow. Its reference to Varney meant very little; the mention of Clabb,
not much more. But it did tell that Harry was going to the padlocked room, and
Varney's lips spread to show their sharp teeth when the man who played the
vampire read that information.
      Stealing down from the pigeon cote, Varney took the passage to that very
room. He paused to avoid Throck when the servant patrolled past, for it was
dusk now, and the time when Throck took up his vigil. Then, hearing footsteps
coming cautiously, Varney moved ahead in silent style. He was gone when Harry
reached one set of steps that led up to the passage.
      Harry paused, sure that he had heard someone over beyond the other steps.
He moved slightly, thought he heard an opposite stir, so waited. This happened
twice; then Harry's attention was diverted by sounds from his own side of the
hump. Deciding that his nerves were tricking him, Harry gripped the banister
and sneaked up to the top.
      Here he came into a shaft of dimming light that was furnished by a
skylight in the ceiling. Harry had forgotten the skylight; otherwise, he'd
have
waited until a little later. Still, the glow was very vague; it barely showed
the newel posts on either side of the hall. Ahead, Harry could see dim
whiteness that marked the padlocked door, so he decided to get that far before
anyone could arrive to notice him.
      Odd, what thoughts one could have in stealing to so strange a goal! Step
by step, with sneaky stride, Harry could picture himself as a replica of
Varney, the very man whose methods he so disliked! If so, all the better, for
it was smart to offset a system by duplicating it. Since he wasn't wearing a
shroud, Harry simply tightened his coat collar and stalked ahead.
      As he neared the whitened door, he thought he saw it move. To make sure
it
wasn't an illusion, Harry stopped short and stared intently. Yes, the door was
moving, but at the wrong side!
      Approaching foot by foot, Harry was convinced of the strange, slow
motion.
He had one hand ready with a flashlight; in the other was his automatic,
equally
prepared for emergency.
      There was no illusion to the thing that happened next. As for an
emergency, it was the sort that a gun couldn't offset. A floor board creaked
under foot; Harry heard a peculiar click from a spot just short of the door.
      With that, the hallway floor dropped and Harry went scooting down an
angled sliding board into depths of blackness!


      HARRY gave an instinctive yell as he slid. He pawed wildly with his
hands,
and his eyes turned upward as he took the drop. In that last moment, Harry
could
have sworn that the door of the padlocked room was wide, with Varney standing
in
the doorway, attired in the same old shroud, leering downward with an
expression
much like that of a grinning skull!
      Then the floor closed upward above Harry's head, and his plunge came to
an
abrupt finish as he landed on a stony floor. It was a real drop, close to
twenty
feet, and it should have crumpled Harry completely; but it didn't. He'd
started
with a slide rather than a pitch, and he'd learned to brace himself for sudden
landings.
     Nevertheless, Harry took a very severe jolt. He was groggy as he
staggered
to his feet.
     So shaken was Harry that he forgot both his gun and his flashlight, which
had hit the floor beside him. Through his dazed mind was running the thought
that whoever had dropped him here might come to find him, so his major problem
was to escape the present trap.
     Staggering about, Harry found himself in what seemed to be an empty coal
bin, and he found the edge of a door, only to discover that it was bolted from
the other side. Floundering, Harry beat at the wooden surface, and suddenly it
gave. He reeled through, into the arms of a man who had drawn the bolt from
the
other side.
     Expecting just such an enemy, Harry hurled himself upon the man, who
twisted away in wiry style. Catching his adversary by an arm, Harry tried
another grapple in the cellar's gloom, thinking he could drive his foe against
a wall. But the wiry man was too quick for such tactics. He recoiled right to
the wall and let his fist jab straight, as he braced.
     The fist met Harry squarely in the jaw and the punch was just too much.
With a last stagger, Harry Vincent folded to the floor and sprawled, limp and
helpless, at the feet of his unknown captor!


    CHAPTER XIV

    MURDER IN THE MAKING

     THE thing that awakened Harry was a chill that ran along his entire
spine.
Eyes opening, Harry wondered why he felt that odd sensation; then he thought
he
had the answer. An answer so alarming that Harry came bounding to his feet,
more anxious to leave this place than anywhere else that he had ever been.
     He was in the Haldrew burial crypt, lying right in front of the coffin
reserved for Varney! Burning candles showed the entire scene, including the
shelves of urns that had so lately been augmented by the one containing
Frenton's ashes!
     Harry didn't stop to reason that it was the cold floor that had chilled
him. He couldn't have been scared earlier by his presence in the crypt,
because
he hadn't seen his surroundings until he opened his eyes.
     Madly, Harry made for the door, to find it bolted. He thought the bolt
was
on the other side, because the light was dim, here by the door. So Harry
dropped
back, intending to drive shoulder first at the door, when a wiry grip and a
familiar voice stopped him.
     Turning, Harry saw his fellow agent, Clyde Burke. The newspaper reporter
had a hat tilted down over one eye, and with his free hand he waved a
two-fingered greeting. Harry steadied and began to rub his head, whereupon
Clyde offered him a cigarette. As the two started their smoke, Clyde
explained.
     Clyde was a chap who dealt in deadlines. Today had been the deadline for
the carrier pigeon. Even though reporters weren't welcome at Haldrew Hall,
he'd
learned a lot around the town, and had played up the story of Frenton's death
purely from the heart-failure angle.
     Frenton's funeral, the fact he had been cremated, added some zest to the
story. To Clyde, it meant something very special: namely, the very things that
Harry had noted.
     Operations would be resumed at Haldrew Hall, now that there wasn't a
chance of an autopsy on Frenton's body. It was Clyde's business to contact
Harry if possible, and when the pigeon didn't show up at the place where Clyde
expected it, he'd stretched his reporter's privilege to the limit by making a
trip to Haldrew Hall.
     "The taxi jockey wouldn't bring me past the gate," explained Clyde, "and
it's just as well he didn't. I strolled up and found the door open, so I
walked
right in. I knew the layout of the place, because the chief gave me a plan of
it."
     Harry nodded, still rubbing his head; then he inquired:
     "How did you get down to the cellar?"
     "By accident," replied Clyde. "First, I looked into the living room and
saw the Merwin girl talking to one of the Armand cousins. Cedric, I guess -
kind of handsome, with dark hair."
     Harry nodded that the description fitted Cedric.
     "Well, Cedric was talking box-car figures," continued Clyde. "Telling
Gail
the Haldrew dough was small change compared to what's coming from the Armand
side. You know - the 'come flee with me, you beautiful creature, and we'll
live
happily afterward forever.' "
     "No wonder Cedric is handing out that line," remarked Harry, with an
attempt at a smile. "Warren stole a march on him by taking the portrait room
that Gail didn't like. But go on, Clyde."
     "I went on," said Clyde, "past the library, where I had to duck, because
old Sabbatha was coming, with that cat the chief mentioned, the feline with
the
magic eye. So I grabbed the first door handy and it took me to the cellar. I'd
hardly closed the door before I heard something crash, off in a coal bin."
     Harry's smile increased. He'd been the "something." So it was Clyde who
had come to find out what everything was all about! With Harry wanting to put
up a blind fight after Clyde released him, Clyde's only way to quiet him had
been with a timely punch.
     "But why did you bring me in here?" asked Harry.
     "I figured it would be cool," replied Clyde, "which it was. And secluded
-
it was that, too. What's more, it looked like a stronghold in case of a fight.
Which reminds me - here's your gun and your flashlight. Most of all, though, I
wanted to see if anybody snooped around."
     "Did anybody?"
     "Yes, but I don't know who he was - or rather who they were. The first
guy
came down like he expected to find you in the bin. When he didn't, he went
upstairs again. Then the other chap showed up and took a peek. But he may have
come down to the cellar because he spotted the first gent roving around."


     HARRY pondered as to whom the mysterious visitors might have been. Clyde
supplied a negative hint by remembering that he'd seen someone on the veranda,
when he arrived - a pacing man, noticeable chiefly by a glow of his cigar.
Harry decided that the man in question must have been Dr. Clabb, which left
Varney and Throck as the logical visitors to the cellar.
      Only one person was left, Warren Armand, and Harry excluded him on the
ground that Warren didn't know enough about the old house to go about
springing
traps.
      "I thought I saw Varney when I took the tumble," declared Harry. "He was
wearing his vampire getup. What's more, Clyde, I sent the pigeon, so it's
funny
it didn't reach you."
      "Maybe I started from town too soon -"
      "Possibly," interposed Harry. "But if you didn't, it looks as though
Varney's hand was behind it. Maybe he has power over pigeons. From the stuff
I've been reading lately, I'd say that Varney turned himself into a big bat
and
overtook the bird on the fly!"
      Harry spoke so seriously that he had to finish with a smile to assure
Clyde that he wasn't falling for the vampire legends. Looking at his watch,
Clyde decided he ought to be getting back to town, since he had bribed the
local taxi man to stick around outside the grounds at a distance of a fifth of
mile, as registered by the odometer. So Harry suggested that Clyde go up
first.
      Clyde did so, with Harry waiting at the foot of the stairs, ready to rush
to the reporter's aid. No help was needed, for Clyde managed to sneak
outdoors.
But Harry waited a few minutes longer before making his own trip up - and
those
few minutes brought on new happenings.
      The door at the top of the stairs opened suddenly and figures appeared
there. Dropping back, Harry sneaked to the crypt, thinking it was the one
place
where the visitors wouldn't come.
      Unfortunately, that was where they did come, holding candles ahead of
them: Harry couldn't see their faces or identify their conversation, but he
needed a hiding place.
      So he took one: Varney's coffin!
      He regretted it a soon as he was within, for the sensation was gruesome.
At least there was a way to keep the lid open by wedging the muzzle of the
automatic in its cracks, and that provided a second feature to Harry's
benefit:
his ability to use the weapon in a pinch. The cold steel of the gun actually
felt warm, when compared with the chill of the crypt!
      Entering, the arrivals lighted the candles that Harry had snuffed out
after he and Clyde left. The added light showed who they were and, to his
fresh
amazement, Harry discerned that they were a pair that he had considered quite
at
odds: Varney Haldrew and his aged niece, Sabbatha!
      It was soon evident that they still weren't any too friendly, this trip
to
the crypt being for the purpose of thrashing out some matters privately. As
they
moved about, Harry mistook one for the other, because Sabbatha was wearing an
old-fashioned cape that looked something like Varney's favorite shroud.
      Harry kept forgetting that Varney wasn't wearing the shroud at present,
hence the mistake about the cape, which Sabbatha kept tightening around her
neck. It soon developed that she'd brought the cape purely because she knew
the
crypt would prove cold.
      "Of course I come here," said Varney to Sabbatha, "but not to sleep in my
coffin! Why, you must be crazy to think that I would do that!"
      There was something baiting in Varney's tone. He knew that Sabbatha had
seen him in the coffin. The best way he could add to Sabbatha's surety on that
point, was to deny it. Sabbatha responded in her own cagy style.
     "Then why do you come here, Varney?"
     "To prepare my grave," replied Varney solemnly. "I do not intend to be
cremated. Giles thought he would force me to it, by making this concrete floor
so there would be no place for my coffin. But I shall thwart Giles -"
     "Why not do it as Roderick did?" interrupted Sabbath. "No one has ever
disturbed Roderick!"
     "You have talked too much about Roderick!" said Varney angrily. "You must
stop it, Sabbatha!"
     Coolly, Sabbatha stared at the concrete floor and Harry, looking from the
coffin, noted that she eyed a spot where the stonework had been chipped.
     "So!" exclaimed Sabbatha, "That is where your grave is to be!"
     With a nod, Varney produced a pickax from behind the door and delivered a
few strokes to the concrete, as though testing its thickness. Then, tossing
the
tool aside, he bowed Sabbatha through the door and followed her.
     "You should be fully satisfied now," Varney said, as he drew the door
shut. "So I expect you to say no more about this crypt, or the padlocked room
on the second floor."
     Carefully, Harry emerged from the coffin and went upstairs himself. He
reached his own room; then went on to the third floor and emerged on the roof.
He was looking in the pigeon cote, but the coo of birds didn't tell him much.
He produced his flashlight, but before he could use it, a hand stopped him.
     A hand with a grip that was truly startling, until Harry recognized it as
the grip of his chief, The Shadow!


     HAVING contacted Clyde at the car, The Shadow knew most of what had
happened. Harry reported how Varney and Sabbatha had made their own little
trip
to the crypt and, meanwhile, The Shadow probed into the pigeon pens.
     He suddenly opened a door; a pigeon whirred out and sped off into the
night: Harry's pigeon. The Shadow gave a whispered laugh. Then:
     "I shall go to the crypt," The Shadow informed. "Meanwhile, Vincent, keep
check on everyone and inform me of any developments."
     Harry's teeth began to chatter at mention of the crypt; not from the
memory of his stay in Varney's coffin, but because he was still cold from the
chilly cellar air. So The Shadow advised him to begin his observations in the
living room, where the big fire would warm him.
     When they went downstairs, The Shadow and his agent parted, one bound for
the crypt, the other for the living room.
     In parting, The Shadow summed up briefly his reason for visiting the
crypt. He was probing deep into the real riddle of Haldrew Hall. There could
be
a double reason for Varney's choice of the coffin as his favorite couch. His
long stays in the crypt did more than sell old Sabbatha on the vampire idea.
Those sojourns enabled Varney to watch and see who else entered!
     Between times, Varney could work with the pickax upon the concrete floor
-
as witness the tappings The Shadow had heard some nights ago - but Varney had
lessened that activity, because people were checking on it.
     Varney's talk to Sabbatha, overheard by Harry, was obviously meant to
throw people off the real scent. Just crazy enough, for instance, to impress
Dr. Clabb, should Sabbatha inform him that Varney had merely been picking a
spot for his own future grave.
     Yes, Varney was craftily playing on Clabb's belief that all true Haldrews
were insane. But The Shadow did not hold that view; he was looking for a
deeper
answer. And The Shadow confided a point to Harry: the question as to whether
Clabb still held to the insanity theory. But the vital point was to check on
Varney when he made his next trip to the crypt, and The Shadow intended to
handle that angle personally.
     Compared to which, Harry's part seemed small, even though it involved
several people. So when The Shadow faded with the darkness of the cellar
stairs, Harry strolled toward the living room, thinking that about all he'd
have to do would be to warm himself by the living room fire.
     Harry's job was to prove more important than even he or his chief
supposed. New murder was in the making, here in Haldrew Hall. Not to The
Shadow, lurking in the dank crypt, but to Harry Vincent, comfortably
established in the cheery living room, would the key to crime first became
apparent!


     CHAPTER XV

     THE KEY TO CRIME

      EVERYONE was in the living room when Harry arrived there. It was near
dinner time and the whole clan usually assembled at that hour. But Varney
never
dined with the rest. When they went to the big dining room, he continued
upstairs, where Throck took him a tray.
      Harry had mentioned this point to The Shadow, and it added to the fact
that Varney used his dinner hour for visits to the crypt. An hour,
incidentally, when he could best get in his work with the pickax, since sounds
from the crypt could not reach the remote dining room.
      This evening, Sabbatha was deliberately baiting Varney. She was talking
of
the stew the chef had prepared, a tasty dish flavored with garlic. At the
mention of the final word, Varney turned with an angry glare, whereat Sabbatha
furnished a deep alto laugh.
      "Don't worry, Varney," she said. "There will be no garlic in your
portion.
There never is" - she paused to stroke the black cat on the cushion beside her
-
"because Roderick detests garlic, too."
      Harry smiled. Varney and the cat had at least one thing in common: their
mutual detest for garlic. But Harry's smile ended when he saw the sharp look
that Dr. Clabb gave Varney and Sabbatha, with a side glance to include the
cat.
Suddenly, the depth of Sabbatha's remark shot home to Harry - as it had to
Clabb.
      Sabbatha was going beyond the inference that Varney, as a vampire, would
shy from garlic. She was intimating that he also shunned all human food.
Varney's tray went upstairs at dinner time and came down empty; but likewise -
as Harry now remembered - Roderick, the cat, also disappeared at dinner time!
Spry before dinner, the cat seemed drowsy afterward, which meant that Varney
might be feeding him meals that Varney personally didn't want!
      Gradually, Varney's glare disappeared and his lips moved in a smile.
Except that the smile was ugly, betraying a slight clamp of Varney's teeth.
Turning, Varney left the living room abruptly, while Sabbatha murmured
soothingly to the black cat, remarking how sleek and fat it had become. Then
Varney returned, bringing a meerschaum pipe and a shabby tobacco pouch.
      Shrewdly, Sabbatha watched the inexpert way in which Varney shook tobacco
into the pipe. Harry noticed that the tobacco flakes were very dry. Then
Sabbatha, remarked:
      "I didn't know you smoked, Varney."
      "I haven't for years," returned Varney crisply. "This pipe and pouch
belonged to my brother Giles. I remember" - Varney reflected as he clumsily
tamped the tobacco into the pipe - "that Giles always smoked before dinner
when
the odor of the cooking annoyed him."
     Sabbatha threw a triumphant look at Clabb, as though to say that Giles
had
detested garlic, too. Meeting Clabb's eye, Varney handed him the tobacco
pouch.
     "You smoke a pipe, doctor," reminded Varney. "Perhaps you would like to
try the tobacco which my brother Giles liked. I am no judge of brands, but
Giles always spoke of this tobacco very highly."
     Clabb started to put the tobacco pouch into his pocket. As he did, he
halted, and an odd gleam showed in his eye. Clabb covered it with a cough as
Varney blew tobacco smoke his way. The smoking mixture preferred by Giles had
become so dry it crinkled when aflame and its burning smell was very strong.
     In fact, several puffs at the pipe seemed to affect Varney. He laid the
pipe aside and said that he was going upstairs to await his dinner.
     As soon as Varney left, Sabbatha arose and started to the library. In the
hall, she tossed the cat ahead of her, telling it to run upstairs and await
its
dinner. Roderick scudded off as though he fully understood.


     THE Armand cousins had witnessed the scene, and now they began to chuckle
over it. Cedric and Warren were frequently together lately, though at times,
as
if by mutual consent, they strolled the house separately, always to meet again
in the living room. They were buoying themselves by the exchange of humorous
remarks, but their witticisms had begun to reach a rather grisly level.
     "Did old Sabbatha dish it!" laughed Cedric. "She's using the dinner-table
angle to prove that Varney is a ghoul!"
     "Not a ghoul," interjected Warren. "A ghoul is something else again.
Sabbatha thinks Varney is a vampire."
     Cedric shrugged, as though the difference didn't matter.
     "A ghoul is a living creature that feeds on the dead," defined Warren, in
a calloused tone, "whereas a vampire is a dead thing that preys upon the
living."
     The comparison gave Cedric a chance for a repellent jest. He sprang it as
though he'd made a wonderful discovery.
     "What if a ghoul met a vampire!" exclaimed Cedric. "Say, would that be
fun! They'd gobble each other right up!"
     "Like a couple of Kilkenny cats," agreed Warren. "But the cat fight would
be a better one to watch."
     "Maybe Roderick is a Kilkenny," suggested Cedric. "Let's see if we can
find another like him -"
     "And match them in the crypt," put in Warren, "with old Varney upright in
his coffin, acting as judge!"
     Gail Merwin rose from her corner, shuddered despite the room's warmth,
and
pressed her hand to her head. Harry caught her as she wabbled in a half faint
and guided her to the veranda. When the fresh breeze whipped her face, Gail
steadied, and sank gratefully to the porch chair that Harry drew toward her.
     "Thanks so much," toned Gail. "The room was so hot... and the tobacco
smoke -"
     "Don't dodge the question," interposed Harry. "What really sickened you
was that exchange of wisecracks between Cedric and Warren. Why not admit it?"
     "I admit it," nodded Gail. "They've talked that way so much, lately. It's
bad enough, having people like Varney and Sabbatha around. I don't see why
Cedric and Warren have to act so."
     "They're worried," declared Harry, "and they're trying to laugh it off."
     Gail's very lovely face twisted itself into a definite grimace, which
proved she didn't agree.
     "They're not worried," she argued. "They're calloused, both of them - the
most selfish pair of men I've ever met! Why, what do they talk about when they
aren't making their vicious jokes? Only about the Armand fortune that they're
going to divide when their uncle Somebody-or-other dies off!
     "We're just poor relations belonging to a family on the wrong side of the
tracks. Cheap people, willing to snatch a few pennies that old Giles Haldrew
left us. But Cedric and Warren would like to see us weaken, so they can take
the Haldrew money themselves and continue their lark, by squandering it!
     "I know, because they've each talked to me as if they'd like to spend the
money on me, according to their ideas - which are both the same!"
     To Harry, this was a new phase of the rivalry that Cedric and Warren had
shown over Gail. The girl's tone was so firm with indignation, that Harry knew
she must have learned the truth. He soothed Gail by inquiring, calmly:
     "How long have you known this?"
     "Ever since the day they let Frenton monopolize me," replied Gail. "I
didn't care much for Frenton, but he was better than Cedric and Warren
together. He did one thing which made me feel really grateful. You know the
room I originally had; the one with the portrait of Roderick Haldrew -"
     Harry gestured an interruption. Cedric and Warren had appeared at the
door
to make their apologies, which they did in a style that Harry now recognized
as
part of their individual sham. Gail smiled sweetly and said she'd forgive them
and would come indoors shortly.
     As the two went back into the house, Harry followed, at Gail's nod. She
wanted him to check further on the selfish ways of Cedric and Warren.
     What Harry checked on was something far more vital.
     As the Armands entered the living room, with Harry in the hallway behind
them, Dr. Clabb turned suddenly from a table. He'd been examining the old
tobacco pouch and was trying to stuff it back in his pocket, so the Armands
wouldn't see.
     He lost half of the tobacco, and in his haste dropped something else,
that
clattered. Sheepishly, he picked it up; then, with a shrug, he said:
     "It's only an old key that was in the tobacco pouch. Varney must have
overlooked it."
     From the steady stares that Cedric and Warren turned on Clabb, Harry knew
that they were thinking of the same thing he was - the padlocked room. Clabb
met their mutual gaze and said:
     "All right, this looks like a padlock key. I was going to go up and try
it. Who wants to come along?"
     "I might," returned Cedric, "if you'll let me take first look into the
room."
     "I was going to say the same," put in Warren, "but since Cedric called
first, he wins. Or maybe you don't, Cedric" - Warren grinned at his cousin -
"because while you're upstairs, I can resume negotiations with Gail."
     Cedric seemed satisfied. He turned to talk to Clabb, who suggested that
they postpone the trip until after dinner. Meanwhile, Warren started out
through the hall, so Harry slipped into the library and closed the door to let
him pass. As he turned about, a cracked voice startled him. It was Sabbatha's,
from a corner by a bookcase.
     "Well, Mr. Vincent?"
     "I just came in to find a book," returned Harry. "You know the one - the
novel about Varney the Vampire. I wanted to read more of it."
     "The book is gone," declared Sabbatha. "It disappeared most mysteriously.
Only half an hour ago, I saw it on the shelf... and now -"
     She pointed to the gap on the shelf, and Harry had the uneasy feeling
that
Varney might be watching from the fireplace. But that was unimportant for the
present; the thing now was to contact The Shadow and tell him that Clabb and
Cedric were going to the padlocked room.
     No longer uneasy about hidden eyes, Harry suddenly wondered if Varney,
too, had started for the second-floor room, which he seemed able to enter
despite the padlock!
     Opening the door of the library, Harry drew back momentarily when he
glimpsed Throck crossing a hall. Politely, he bowed to old Sabbatha as a way
to
stall for time. Then, with Throck gone, Harry went out into the hall and moved
to the living room to learn how Clabb and Cedric were making out.
     They'd already made out. They had left the living room, going past the
study while Harry and Sabbatha were discussing the missing book. Apparently
they'd decided not to wait until after dinner before visiting the padlocked
room. They'd gone to try the key.
     A key to crime!
     For Harry was seized by the recollection of his own experience outside
that locked room when the floor had dropped, plunging him to the cellar.
Luckily, he'd survived the fall, but others might not fare as he had. Sudden
death was again a menace in Haldrew Hall, with no time to inform The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XVI

     FOUND: A MURDERER

      TAKING two steps at a time, Harry was coming to the second floor,
shouting
a warning for men ahead to hear. He reached the steps that formed a stile
across
the hallway leading to the padlocked room, but this time, Harry was coming
from
the other side. It was pitch-dark on the little steps, but the skylight formed
a dim square, guiding Harry to his destination.
      A stumble, and Harry hit the floor with both elbows, which was all the
better, for he didn't intend to go along the hall himself. Twisting as he
fell,
he saw the men he wanted: Cedric and Clabb. They were at the padlocked door
and
the floor on which they stood was solid, so far.
      Clabb was holding a double candlestick, while Cedric was working at the
padlock. A click and the lock snapped open, just as Harry shouted:
      "Back here, Clabb! Get back here - and haul Cedric with you! You're right
over a trapdoor that may drop you!"
      Clabb started toward Harry. The way he thrust the candles ahead of him
caused them to throw a long, grotesque glare that included Harry's half-prone
figure. What helped the illusion was the fact that Clabb also raised the
candles, and in going higher they gave the effect that he was springing to
safety on his own account. In fact, Harry thought that Clabb was halfway along
the hall in what seemed a single bound.
      Harry was wrong. Clabb wasn't clear of the trap. He'd slowed himself by
making a grab for Cedric, in keeping with Harry's admonition. Enough of a
gesture so that Clabb could say later that he'd done his best in Cedric's
case.
      Such testimony was to remain unspoken.
      Another click, more muffled than the padlock, and Harry saw the hinged
floor drop. The edge that fell was the one at the door of the room, right
under
Cedric's feet. But Cedric didn't tumble the way that Harry had. Cedric wasn't
handicapped by a padlocked door ahead of him. The door was open; he'd unlocked
it!
     Cedric was shoving the door inward at the moment of Clabb's wide,
backhand
grab. He'd put one foot on the step into the mystery room; his other foot did
drop, but only as far as his knee. Then, with a wild, forward sprawl, Cedric
freed himself from the pitfall and stumbled into the safety of the room,
banging his knee on the step as he rolled through.
     Clabb's sprawl was wilder by far, and in a different direction. The
pasty-faced physician was taking the "medicine" that Harry had received that
afternoon. Unable to quite clear the trap, he grabbed at its hinged side and
missed. If he'd only thought to drop the candlestick, he might have caught
himself with the other hand. But Clabb lost the candlestick too late.
     The flaming tapers flew high across Clabb's shoulder as the hinged floor
sent him down the sliding board. Clabb wasn't sliding on his back; he was
turned around, clawing at the floor as he left it.
     In the last moment of light, Harry saw Clabb's disappearing face, so
skullish a countenance that it could have been a vampire's. But such creatures
didn't spring their own traps to plunge themselves into oblivion!
     A bad fall, Clabb's. Harry knew it from the way the face skewed from
sight, with Clabb's leering mouth voicing a scream as the floor came slapping
up. The trapdoor was in place, and like a horrendous echo came a muffled crash
from below, telling that Clabb had met the solid floor of the forgotten coal
bin.
     Cedric was gasping something from the door of the now-open room. What it
was, Harry couldn't make out. From somewhere on the little stairs - those
opposite the flight that Harry had used - came scuffles like footsteps, which
Harry thought denoted a departure in the darkness. For everything was inky
along this hall and the stepped passages that led to it. There was practically
no moon tonight and the skylight was just the dimmest sort of blob.
     Nevertheless, Harry forgot Cedric at thought of another person who might
know more about Clabb's unlucky plunge.


      SPRINGING across the hall, Harry went down the other side of the hump,
grabbing for whomever might be there. He missed his footing in the dark, and
landed grabbing nothing. But there was a scurry of footsteps somewhere, of
that
Harry was sure.
      So sure, that he piled to his feet and made another lunge that started
blind, only to end in sudden light. The light of candles that came waving into
view around a corner of the passage. Five flickering flames from a candelabrum
in the left hand of Throck, the patrolling servant!
      It was like a clever trick, the appearance of those lights from nowhere.
But candles weren't like flashlights that could be turned on and off in a
twinkling. Harry would have wondered if Throck had appeared so soon with one
candle suddenly lighted. Five of them merely multiplied the mystery that much
more.
      Recognizing Harry, Throck followed when The Shadow's agent beckoned. Up
the steps to the hump, there Throck stopped short, holding the lights ahead of
him. The servant's eyes followed along the floor, to the doorway where Cedric
stood, looking very small against the great mass of grotesque blackness that
his own body blocked from the candlelight.
      "Don't come this way!" warned Cedric. "You may go through the floor, the
way Clabb did! Thanks for that yell you gave us, Vincent. If I hadn't heard
it,
I'd have gone the same route as Clabb."
      Throck was negotiating the hall. At the halfway mark, he tested the floor
gingerly and found it solid. Cedric tried it with his own foot, gripping the
doorway as he did. Lifting up to the step, he motioned Throck back, telling
him
to stay with Harry. Cedric was sure he could clear the danger stretch.
     He did it. Cedric's system was a long, running spring, his hands going
ahead of him, so that, if the floor caved, his momentum would carry him past
the danger zone. He was ready to make the very sort of grab in which Clabb had
failed, but it wasn't necessary. The floor didn't yield under Cedric's weight.
Finishing his rush, he panted to Harry and Throck:
     "Let's get downstairs and see what happened to Clabb!"


      ALREADY, aid was on its way to Simon Clabb. The cellar had a watchful
occupant - The Shadow. He was in the crypt but he had the door ajar, because
he
was still awaiting Varney. Instead of hearing the footsteps he expected, The
Shadow caught the sounds of Clabb's crash in the coal bin, recognizing exactly
what it meant.
      It wasn't likely that the clatter represented Harry, for The Shadow's
agent seldom fell into the same trap twice. But whoever it was, he needed
help,
being another victim of some machination. So The Shadow started from the
crypt.
      On the way, the cloaked investigator heard footsteps from the stairs.
Stepping to side-darkness, he saw Varney coming with a brace of candles. He
was
in a hurry, Varney, or he wouldn't have made so much noise. The reason was
that
Varney, like The Shadow, was making for the fatal coal bin, as if he, too, had
heard the smash of someone landing there.
      The Shadow gave Varney precedence, but followed the gaunt man far enough
to gain a new vantage spot in a side niche near the bolted bin. By then, more
footfalls were clattering from the ground floor. The Shadow saw a larger flood
of candlelight and heard the accompanying voices of Harry and Throck. After
that came Cedric's, calling to someone else.
      By the time the three reached the bin, Varney had opened it. Shown by the
candles, Varney was quite his solemn self, wearing his usual sedate clothes.
Nothing of the vampire getup in his appearance; indeed, his face looked very
sad, in a human way, as he pointed to the crumpled form of Clabb.
      The doctor's fall had finished in an utter crackup. All the luck that
went
with Harry's plunge seemed reversed in Clabb's case. He must have twisted
backward during the drop, striking on head and shoulders with a somersault
that
had bent his legs beneath him. As Cedric remarked, in his hard-boiled style,
Clabb looked as though he'd invented a new form of pretzel and had decided to
model it.
      More voices sounded at that moment. Warren and Gail had arrived from the
veranda, where they had heard Cedric's call. Not to be outdone by Cedric,
Warren took a look at the body and declared that Clabb was dead all over. He
stepped aside so that Gail could see the smashed figure, but she preferred to
step back in response to a gesture from Harry.
      It was Varney's attitude that impressed Harry most forcibly. Varney
seemed
quite appalled by Clabb's sudden death. He turned a reproving gaze upon the
rest, and The Shadow, from his vantage point, could observe an air of
accusation on Varney's gaunt features. Lips parting, Varney suddenly hissed
suspicion:
      "Where is Sabbatha?"
      Gail stated that she had seen Sabbatha in the library while going past.
So
Varney turned his deep-set eyes on Throck, glared at the servant and queried:
      "How did this happen?"
      "I don't know, sir," replied Throck. "Apparently, Dr. Clabb was entering
the padlocked room."
      "I was entering it," put in Cedric, "with a key that Clabb found in the
tobacco pouch."
      "The pouch you gave him, Varney," reminded Warren. "I'd say there was
murder behind this ugly job!"
      Slowly, solemnly, Varney nodded. He turned and walked toward the stairs,
grimly inviting the others to follow. They moved in puzzled procession, while
The Shadow trailed behind them. Ascending the stairway, Varney spoke back:
      "I shall show you the murderer, the terrible creature responsible for
every evil that has befallen Haldrew Hall!"
      They thought he meant Sabbatha - all except The Shadow, who sensed a
deeper significance in Varney's words. The others were disillusioned when they
found Sabbatha in the hallway above. Instead of accusing her of Clabb's death,
Varney merely beckoned with a gray-gloved hand and said:
      "Come with us, Sabbatha!"
      Old Sabbatha's cackles were gleeful as she pressed along beside her
cryptic uncle. Her words weren't a query; they were an exclamation:
      "They are going to meet Roderick!"
      Varney's nod puzzled the procession all the more. What a portrait, or a
cat might have to do with Clabb's death, was a riddle. It wasn't to the
portrait room that Varney led them; instead, he went straight to the padlocked
door that Cedric had opened, crossing the deadly floor so boldly that the
group
couldn't refuse to follow.
      It couldn't be the portrait, so it would have to be the cat. Thus thought
Harry, though he still held doubt.
      Last to follow along the hall, The Shadow looked in from the step of the
open door and saw, not a storeroom but an ancient bedroom, furnished in
antique
style. Across the musty chamber, Varney stopped before a door; holding a
candlestick at arm's length, he turned the doorknob and pronounced:
      "Meet Roderick Haldrew!"


     WITH the words, Varney pulled the door wide. From the closet lunged a
creature that was a man-sized medley of black and white.
     A skull face, with dark, hollow eye sockets; the bony frame of a skeleton
draped in a tattered jet-black shroud.
     A rattle sounded as the horrible relic flung its bony hands ahead of it
like living claws, guided by eye sockets that could see. For those hands were
aiming straight for necks among the group that stampeded at the fearful sight.
     Such was Roderick Haldrew, an actual skeleton in the family closet - a
creature whose descendant, Varney, was accusing of murder! A thing fantastic,
yet horribly real to those who were in the path of Roderick's bony lunge!
     Momentarily, the sepulchral shape wavered; then, as the maddened group
parted, the skeleton clattered to the floor and heaped there, tangled in its
shroud, twisted more crazily than the body of Clabb, the man defined - by
Varney - as Roderick's latest victim.
     As the clash of bones faded into echoes, a low-toned laugh sounded from
the door. Grim, mirthless, it was heard only by its author, The Shadow, and
the
nearest member of the group, Harry Vincent. Strange affairs always produced
that
sibilant tone from The Shadow's lips.
     If ever an event deserved The Shadow's laugh, it was this - Varney's
disclosure of Roderick's skeleton, with the claim that the rattling bone pile
was the source of all evil in Haldrew Hall!


     CHAPTER XVII
     DEATH'S VERDICT

     FOUND, a murderer: Roderick Haldrew!
     The thing was crazy, fantastic and utterly preposterous. At the same
time,
it was the most amazing tale that had yet come out of Haldrew Hall. By
daylight,
it seemed as weird as under the gleams of wavering candles, and such a story,
once made public, could not pass unnoticed.
      When the coroner came to investigate Clabb's death, he brought reporters
with him, and all of Varney's protests were of no avail. The coroner's only
concession was to have the local sheriff place deputies around the grounds to
keep hordes of people from tramping everywhere.
      For the news that Haldrew Hall possessed an actual family skeleton
accused
of murder, brought hundreds of cars that parked in thick ranks, while their
occupants thronged along the old picket fence to peer through its iron bars at
the mansion.
      Among the privileged visitors admitted through the gate was a gentleman
named Lamont Cranston, who carried a letter of introduction from the police
commissioner of New York City. Always interested in the bizarre, Cranston had
prevailed upon his friend, the commissioner, to appoint him as a special
representative in studying the crime angle of this case.
      Certain types of crime produced epidemics, and if family skeletons were
to
pop out of closets killing people everywhere, it would be wise to know the
sidelights of the first case on record. Of course, Cranston - otherwise The
Shadow - already had the sidelights in this instance, but he didn't mention
that point to the commissioner.
      In the old front room that had once belonged to Roderick Haldrew, Varney
Haldrew told the ghastly history of the skeleton to an interested group of
reporters, who included Clyde Burke. Cranston was present in the background,
watching both Varney and Sabbatha, who were here to support Varney's story.
The
door of the closet was closed, the skeleton inside it.
      "He was a strange person, Roderick Haldrew," declared Varney solemnly.
"He
despised all others of our clan, for a very singular reason."
      "He knew them to be vampires!" inserted Sabbatha in a weird cackle.
"Undead creatures that stalked by night -"
      "Enough, Sabbatha!" interrupted Varney. "Roderick's reason was his own
viciousness. He had the evil eye, the symbol of his black heart! It was he who
started the vampire rumor!"
      "And hung his portrait in the great room," chortled Sabbatha, "so that
others would fear to haunt their own there. For they were vampires, all, and
Roderick knew it!"
      Varney tried a new tack.
      "You must not mind my niece," he said indulgently. "She suffers from
delusions, as Dr. Clabb commented more than once. He advised her removal to an
institution, but I objected. Of course, Clabb was sound in his opinions -"
      Halting for Sabbatha's benefit, Varney watched her subside. Crazy or not,
Sabbatha wasn't going to jeopardize her claim on the estate. Then Varney,
having practically defined Sabbatha as insane, proceeded to make statements
that should have reared the same doubts regarding himself - except that his
story was so straightforward and connected that it left listeners half
believing it.
      "Roderick was afflicted with the vampire notion," asserted Varney. "He
collected volumes on the subject and they became part of our family library.
Roderick was afraid to be buried in the crypt, terming it the 'Abode of the
Undead.' He said that the Haldrew family should have a skeleton in its closet
as a matter, not of shame, but pride.
     "So he provided in his will that his skeleton should always occupy the
closet of this room, attired in its ragged shroud. Also that his portrait
should always hang in the master bedroom above the old library. Those terms
were faithfully observed. The portrait is hanging in the master bedroom, and
Roderick's skeleton is - here!"


      WITH a long reach, Varney opened the door and Roderick's bones duplicated
their lunge of the night before, while reporters went helter-skelter to avoid
the clutch of long-boned hands that finally flattened beneath the sprawled
skeleton when it struck the floor.
      At Varney's invitation, they gingerly gathered Roderick up and placed him
in the closet again, where Varney extended a hand to prevent the skeleton from
toppling.
      Cranston saw the reporters grasp the secret of the skeleton's lifelike
lunge. The closet was narrow, hardly more than a cupboard, and the width of
the
skeleton's hips made it necessary to double the bony arms up to the shoulders.
The bones were wired together and the closet was so shallow that when the door
opened, Roderick toppled forward, his hands flying ahead of him.
      What was more, the bottom of the closet was above floor level, to make
the
thrust a long one. Clyde asked if Roderick had designed the closet to his
measure, and Varney nodded.
      "The records say that he did," declared Varney. "Undoubtedly, Roderick
hoped to frighten anyone who found him here. But I have wondered often" -
Varney's eyes took a distant, watery stare - "if this sham were not designed
to
cover the real truth: that there are times when Roderick's bones roam around
in
their shroud!"
      Before anyone could begin to laugh, Varney was pressing his argument
home.
He talked of a shrouded, bony creature that others - not Varney himself - had
seen on these premises: the thing that had frightened Frenton to death; that
must have lured Clabb to doom. Most ingeniously, Varney was turning the
skeleton story into his own alibi, and his side glances at Sabbatha left the
old lady speechless.
      To dispute Varney's argument, which he cunningly attributed to the
testimony of others, Sabbatha would have to present an equally exaggerated
claim: namely, that Varney was a vampire. To back her assertions, she would
have only her own evidence to present. Both theories were so weird that they
would reflect upon the sanity of the person who claimed to have seen a roving
creature - skeleton or vampire - at large in Haldrew Hall.
      Varney was safe. Not he, but others, had seen the thing which might be
the
shrouded bones of Roderick, imbued with life. But with Clabb dead, only
Sabbatha
could testify that she had seen the living Varney, shrouded as though dead,
within his coffin! So Varney's triumph stood complete, except for the
potential
testimony of a witness who was present, but did not speak - The Shadow!
      It wouldn't do for The Shadow, as Cranston, to mention what he knew about
Varney's actual eccentricities. He intended to disclose such facts when he
again became The Shadow. And then, not by mere testimony but through a
disclosure of Varney's very methods, when Varney again played the vampire to
shock Sabbatha!
      Varney closed the closet to keep Roderick where he belonged. The group
stopped by the door of the room to see if it connected with the trapdoor in
the
hallway, which it didn't. Cranston noted that the door hinges shifted
slightly,
indicating weak or shortened pins, but he did not comment on the fact.
      The trap in the floor was very old, so old that Varney attributed it to
Roderick, though it wasn't mentioned in the family records. Its loose end
rested on narrow projections of metal fastened to a wooden joist, just below
the door sill. The joist had wooden pins attaching its ends to narrow beams
that ran lengthwise on each side of the hall.
      Apparently, a shift of weight would release the trap, though tests failed
to produce the result. Nevertheless, the joist creaked under pressure, so the
theory stood that Clabb must have accidentally released the trap.
      A good theory, because there was no other. There wasn't any trick catch
at
the loose end of the trap. As for the other end, its hinges were
old-fashioned,
but solid, with no sign of any special attachment.
      Apparently, Roderick had simply fixed the hallway in this form, many
years
before, to await the time when some unfortunate Haldrew heir would knock it
loose and go to doom. He'd provided great springs, too, that brought the
trapped floor up to place, and they were still good, but equally free from any
trick contrivance.
      Last to come along the hall, Cranston paused at the hump between the
newel
posts and waited until the rest had gone. Descending by the other stairs, he
transferred some of his weight to the creaky banister so people wouldn't hear
his footsteps on the steps. Continuing in something of The Shadow's gliding
style, Cranston arrived on the side porch, where he met Clyde and Harry.


     A PERFECT spot for a meeting in broad daylight! No other occupants of
Haldrew Hall were there, because they didn't want to be seen by the curiosity
seekers who swarmed against the picket fence. But those same curious people
were too far away to hear anything that was said by the three persons who
strolled the veranda.
     In a calm tone, Cranston gave his present summary of the existing
situation, including the Roderick angle.
     That Varney played the vampire was still evident, with the added point
that he used the skeleton's shroud, getting it from Roderick's room without
benefit of key, because the door could be easily opened from the hinge side.
Varney's methods of scaring Gail and Frenton still stood, as The Shadow had
previously defined them.
     "Last night," came Cranston's steady tone, "Varney used a different tack
with Clabb. Knowing that Clabb had heard about the missing key from Sabbatha,
Varney planted it where Clabb would find it. He hoped that Clabb would go
berserk from an encounter with Roderick's skeleton. Even if Clabb hadn't,
Varney would still have won a point.
     "It was time to introduce the skeleton story, as Varney did today.
Something to take minds from the vampire role that Varney had been overplaying
in his effort to shake Sabbatha. Varney did not want Frenton to die" -
Cranston's tone, though even, was strongly positive - "nor did he wish to
dispose of Clabb. Both deaths hurt the game on which Varney has so strongly
banked."
     Cranston's verdict fitted the very one on which the coroner and sheriff
had agreed: death through misadventure, in the case of Clabb as well as that
of
Frenton. But there was something in Cranston's tone that told more. His
verdict,
though it agreed with the law's, applied only to Varney Haldrew - no one else.
     "Tonight the vampire may walk again" - Cranston's smile was slightly
speculative - "unless we prefer to think that the skeleton parades these
premises. Whichever the case, we shall learn the facts - of murder!"
     Strange how that final word kept ringing through Harry's brain after
Cranston and Clyde had gone! Whatever the facts, he knew that The Shadow alone
could reveal them!


    CHAPTER XVIII

    THE SHADOW'S TURN

    NIGHT again, but a different sort of night than any that Harry Vincent
had
previously experienced at Haldrew Hall. This night, the outlying grounds were
peopled, not by phantoms but by living persons. Little lights played along the
picket fence, but they were not the blue flames of the will-o'-the-wisp.
     They were flashlights handled by the deputies, who were still here to see
that curiosity snatchers didn't enter the grounds and take down Haldrew Hall
piece by piece.
     The evening was chill, and from his window Harry saw the deputies
starting
bonfires, not only to keep warm but to make their patrol easier. For a sullen
sky held over Haldrew Hall and the lights on the ground were the only ones to
work by. Nevertheless, there were black gaps between the bonfires, and Harry
knew that The Shadow could easily, pass through them to reach the house.
     Proof of such came in the form of The Shadow himself. Easing in through
Harry's window, he discarded the suction cups and suggested that they move
downstairs. Their course led to the cellar door, which The Shadow opened and
edged Harry through. Guiding his agent to the bottom, then over to the crypt,
The Shadow whispered one word: "Listen!"
     Tap-tap-tap - the sounds of Varney's pickax! Inching the crypt door open,
The Shadow revealed a candlelit scene with Varney feverishly hacking at the
concrete floor. Varney, without Roderick's shroud that he used for the vampire
act.
     Drawing Harry back to the stairs and up to the top, The Shadow inquired:
     "What would you make of it, Vincent?"
     "Varney is after something," began Harry. "He's in a hurry to get it. I
guess because he figures that he won't be able to scare us out, the way he
hoped."
     The Shadow's approving laugh told that Harry's guess was quite correct.
Something in the tone reminded Harry of the time when The Shadow had showed
him
those charred papers from the library fireplace. Harry remembered the word
"crypt," but it was obvious. The other word was the one that puzzled him. He
spoke it; half aloud:
     "Sure -"
     "Only the end of a word," undertoned The Shadow. "The full word was
'treasure.' That is why Varney burned the paper."
     To Harry, the whole mystery of Haldrew Hall seemed to crack wide open.
All
along, he'd been rejecting the obvious, though Harry wasn't alone in that. It
suddenly drove home to him that just one man had been on the right track: Dr.
Simon Clabb!
     Except, of course, The Shadow!
     In whispered tone, The Shadow was reminding Harry how Clabb had wondered
at the small amount of money left by old Giles Haldrew. Eccentric, like all
his
family, Giles had also been reputed to be much wealthier than statistics
showed.
Coupled with those points was the peculiar proviso in his will, dividing the
estate only among those who would stay a month in the mansion.
      "Perhaps Giles wished to remove the family curse," suggested The Shadow.
"Or he could have decided that only those with the temerity to face it would
deserve a share of great wealth. Whoever gains this house will also own
whatever is buried beneath the concrete floor of the crypt."
      How perfectly it fitted! Old Giles had removed the family coffins in
order
to plant his wealth. He'd left little clues on papers, tucked in odd books,
that
would eventually reveal the existence of the cash that he had buried. Papers
that he'd expected would remain unfound for months to come - only to have
Varney discover them too soon!
      Having destroyed the evidence, Varney naturally began his vampire
campaign
to win the mansion by default on the part of the others. Failing that, he'd
resumed a more direct system: that of going after the buried wealth - a thing
he'd started, only to postpone.


     IT wasn't often that Harry made suggestions to The Shadow. This time, he
couldn't resist one. Gesturing downward toward the crypt, Harry queried:
     "How about it, chief? Why not go down and have it out with Varney? Say,
you could chill him right to an icicle!"
     The Shadow's responding laugh came sinister, as though he were testing
out
the very plan that Harry supposed. But that weird touch of repressed mirth was
not a prelude meant for Varney. Ending the whispery laugh, The Shadow stated:
     "There is still the murderer."
     Harry stared into the trickle of light that came from the stairway door.
He didn't understand.
     "Let us assume that someone else knows of the buried wealth," suggested
The Shadow. "To go one better, he would have to dispose of Varney."
     Another simple analysis, but the sort that Harry never would have struck
upon. The mere idea of anyone menacing Varney was a blocker in itself. Once
considered, however, it fitted the puzzle perfectly. Right back to that first
night, on the landing, when the knife had whirred into the woodwork. A blade
meant for Varney, not for Harry!
     "The rest should be very simple," spoke The Shadow. "Unfortunately, there
are missing links. Perhaps, Vincent, they lie in your report."
     Maybe they did. Harry wondered about those reports himself. He felt that
they lacked a lot. If somebody had purposely slain Frenton and Clabb - well,
Harry simply couldn't understand who or how, with Varney out of the running.
     "Tonight, I shall play the vampire," declared The Shadow. "Whoever seeks
Varney's life will attempt to take mine by mistake. I am sure that there has
been more than one mistake in Haldrew Hall."
     Harry hoped that his chief didn't refer back to those same reports, nor
to
Harry's slip with the carrier pigeon. And that trip through the trapdoor
outside
Roderick's room still bothered Harry, particularly after he'd seen what the
same
kind of ride had done to Clabb.
     It seemed that The Shadow was quite immune to mistakes. At this very
moment, he avoided one. With quick, uncanny precision, he whisked Harry from
the cellar door, into the hallway of the ground floor, blotting the opening of
the door with his cloak. Then into a side passage.
     The Shadow was concealing Harry from the lights of candles that came
weirdly from the cellar stairs, carried by that man of velvety step, Varney
Haldrew.
     If anybody happened to be gunning for Varney, Harry was inclined to wish
them luck, along with a permanent open season on vampires, real or false. For
Varney's face behind the candlelight had all the death-white pallor that
belonged to Roderick's skull.
     If murder didn't belong in Varney's calendar, it wasn't because he was
disinclined. He'd kill to get the wealth he wanted, just as he'd avoided
murder, so far, because it wasn't good policy.
     Snuffing the candles, Varney continued to the library and looked in to
see
old Sabbatha. The Shadow drew Harry along, then conveniently blocked the
doorway
with blackness, giving his agent a view across his shoulder. Sabbatha was
seated
at a table, but she wasn't reading. She was preening herself in front of a
mirror that she'd brought from her boudoir.
     Varney gave an unpleasant snarl, at which Sabbatha turned. If her smile
was supposed to be sweet, she'd been deceiving herself in the mirror.
     "I have come to warn you, Sabbatha," sneered Varney. "You have played the
fool too long. Now that the vampire rumor is ended, confine your worries to
Roderick's skeleton, not to me!"
     "Look from this window, Varney!" Sabbatha pointed with a withered hand.
"See the blue lights that flicker! This is the eve when vampires roam!"
     "Those are flashlights," retorted Varney. "This happens to be the
twentieth century, Sabbatha!"
     Sabbatha's cackle rose as she pointed to the bonfires.
     "Those are the need-fires!" she announced. "Kindled by the peasantry to
ward off the vampire evil! Can you deny that those are flames, Varney?"
     Unable to dispute the bonfires, Varney lost his temper. As Sabbatha
turned
to her mirror, he clapped one of his gloved hands on her shoulder. She turned
with a sharp cry. To Harry, The Shadow whispered:
     "Watch!"


     PRESSING one hand against the other, Varney turned something beneath his
glove. Harry saw the bulge of a ring beneath the glove, and understood. A ring
with needle points - the thing Varney used, through the glove, to jab those
vampire marks that Harry had seen on the throats of Gail and Frenton!
     And then, as Sabbatha turned to the mirror, another strange thing
happened. Her eyes went wide as she stared into the glass. Anyone but Sabbatha
would have revealed horror in that gaze; her expression indicated pleasure.
Varney's face was just across her shoulder, but she couldn't see it in the
looking glass!
     "Your reflection, Varney!" cackled Sabbatha. "Where is it? Can you deny
that you are a vampire now?"
     Grabbing the mirror, Varney smashed it, then strode to the door, glaring
back at Sabbatha, across his shoulder.
     "Vampires give no reflections!" Sabbatha was in high glee. "Nor do they
cast shadows. Where is your shadow, Varney?"
     Varney had no shadow. It was absorbed by a living Shadow just outside the
door. Against that blackness, Varney's actual shadow could not be seen. Then
The Shadow was deep in the hall, hiding Harry beyond him, and Varney was
striding for a stairway with Sabbatha following, not just with cackles but
with
herself.
     "Varney the Vampire! You tell me to live in the present - you, who belong
to the past! I shall hound you, Varney, until I prove that Roderick was
right!"
     Then both were gone, Varney up the stairs and Sabbatha off into the
house.
The Shadow drew Harry into the library and picked up a piece of the smashed
mirror. Harry saw that its glass was slightly concave.
     "Another of Varney's tricks," explained The Shadow. "No reflection will
show in a concave mirror beyond several feet. He furnished this mirror to
Sabbatha just to convince her that he was a vampire. Now, when he is dropping
the game, he slipped back into it."
     They waited, with the library door almost shut. Finally, The Shadow
beckoned Harry. Through the crack, they saw Varney returning to the cellar,
equipped with the tattered shroud. He had borrowed it from the skeleton of
Roderick.
     "He is going to hack at the floor again," explained The Shadow, "but he
can't forget Sabbatha. That's why he went to get the shroud. If she visits the
crypt, he will have to play dead in his coffin."
     If ever a game had boomeranged, it was Varney's; that, at least, was
something of a satisfaction. However, he'd proven that his policy was anything
but murder; otherwise, he wouldn't have restrained himself in Sabbatha's case.
It was plain that Varney still intended to humor his niece, should she disturb
his digging in the crypt.
     And now, The Shadow was moving forth. With Varney accounted for, The
Shadow was free to play the vampire. A dangerous role, considering that a
murderer was awaiting a suitable opportunity to dispose legitimately of
Varney,
the man whose role The Shadow was to imitate. Only when Varney roved, would
the
killer attempt a stroke, and roving was to be The Shadow's business.
     Watching his black-cloaked chief fade into the darkened hallway, Harry
was
somewhat reassured by a whispered laugh. This wasn't the first weird excursion
that The Shadow had undertaken without having its results recoil. But this was
Haldrew Hall, where anything might happen.
     Something was to happen, quite within the scope of Harry's fears. For
once, The Shadow was to be on the receiving end of a thrust that he directed
toward an unknown monster of murder!
     It was The Shadow's turn - for trouble!


    CHAPTER XIX

    THE VAMPIRE'S FATE

     NEVER in all his career had The Shadow fared upon a mission so incredible
as this - yet, withal, so certain of result. He wanted a murderer and he was
to
find one, by a simple process of elimination. He was giving a killer the very
chance the latter wanted. The Shadow's only problem was to find the needed
setting.
     Moving about the ground floor, The Shadow peered into the living room and
saw Gail reading a book, alone. Returning to the library, he found the antique
dagger that had once skimmed over Harry's head. The Shadow laid the ancient
weapon on a reading table, then left the library.
     He saw Harry going to the living room, stopped him and spoke brief
instructions. While Harry nodded, The Shadow was gone.
     Entering the living room, Harry reproved Gail for reading by the
firelight, which was very fickle in its flickers. He suggested that she go to
the library and try one of the reading tables, where candles were fixed
exactly
as required.
     When Gail agreed, Harry conducted her to an ideal table, lighted the
candles for her, and then left. The ideal table was the one where the dirk
lay.
     Meanwhile, The Shadow had reached the second floor. He paused in darkness
to let Throck go by, the servant being on his usual rounds. Throck knocked
first at the portrait room, and received a response from Warren Armand.
Farther
down the hall, Throck checked with Cedric Armand in the latter's room. Throck
next went up to the servants' quarters, which suited The Shadow perfectly.
     Stopping at Sabbatha's door, The Shadow drew a black glove from his hand
and clicked his fingernails against the woodwork. As the door opened, he drew
back from the light; all that Sabbatha could see was the glow of burning eyes
amid blackness. She heard a hiss from that direction, and in his turn The
Shadow received a snarl from Roderick's namesake, for the black cat was with
Sabbatha.
     "Hello, Varney!" clucked Sabbatha. "I was sure you would call to see me -
as the vampire that you are! So - you have given up pretense at last."
     Sabbatha saw a vague beckon from the darkness. She tossed the cat to a
cushion, where it spat fiercely, and picked up a dark shawl that was lying on
a
chair. Wrapping the shawl about her shoulders, Sabbatha, announced:
     "Certainly, Varney. I shall be glad to go to the crypt. But it is chilly
there for humans like myself, though you may not have noticed it. Come! Lead
the way."
     The Shadow led the way, not to the crypt but to the library. There, Harry
was standing at a bookshelf, sidling glances toward the door. The game to come
was cruel, but it had to be. The Shadow gave a sudden hiss. Harry drew his
gun,
while Gail turned from the reading table.
     Two figures went rigid. Harry's act was a fake; Gail's seemed real. His
hand ending a flip, Harry's fingers lost the gun and it bounced across the
floor to the door, where Sabbatha was behind The Shadow. Then, as the cloaked
figure moved toward Gail, Harry gasped to Sabbatha:
     "The vampire... stop him... quickly!"
     The Shadow's hand swept across the row of candles, extinguishing them.
Gail's hand, sliding across the table, was on the handle of the knife. But it
wasn't Gail's turn yet - it was Sabbatha's.
     With a quick stoop, the old lady picked up Harry's gun. At that moment,
Gail gave a startled shriek and flung herself away from The Shadow's looming
hands.
     Harry's part was tough. He was urging Sabbatha to fire, at the same time
ready to stop her if she did. The chance for murder was perfect, should
Sabbatha be so inclined. Gail's fright, Harry's encouragement, marked both as
future witnesses to a plea of justifiable homicide. But Sabbatha passed up the
opportunity.
     She returned the gun to Harry with one hand; she used the other to tap
The
Shadow's shoulder. Sabbatha was becoming quite annoyed.
     "Enough, Varney!" she exclaimed. "Go! Rest in your tomb! Obey, or I shall
summon the peasants, with torches kindled from the need-fires, to drive you
from this house forever!"


      THE SHADOW lunged about, thrusting Sabbatha toward the door, much to her
surprise. Harry sprang in with the gun and was caught in a forearm lock that
reeled him toward Gail, whose convulsive hand had tightened on the dagger
handle. As The Shadow imitated Varney's cackled gloat, Harry panted to Gail:
      "Stab him... between the shoulders... he's getting my gun -"
      Gail's hand rose half a dozen inches, then flapped open, letting the
knife
clatter to the desk. Even to save a friend's life, she hadn't the nerve to
wield
the dagger. Like Sabbatha, Gail had proven that she wasn't murder-minded, even
when the stroke was justifiable. The knife's clatter was The Shadow's cue for
exit; wheeling away from Harry, he was gone by the fireplace route.
      The Shadow had made Gail's test a brief one, and she stood it well.
Though
intense, it wasn't nearly so great an ordeal as one forced upon her by Varney
that night when he'd entered the portrait room during the storm.
      Harry reached Gail, telling her that the menace was over. He drew her to
the door, where Sabbatha took her to the living room. Sabbatha was defining
Varney as a mere nuisance, and such calmness soothed Gail's fright.
      In the portrait room, Warren was opening the door when he heard a clatter
from the fireplace. Amid a movement of dead logs, a black figure issued forth.
Reflections of the bonfires, cleaving the tinted windowpanes, gave only a
vague
outline of the singular creature that voiced a challenge at Warren.
      Harry, coming up the stairs by the long route, arrived with a shout, to
find Warren with a half-drawn gun.
      "It's Varney!" exclaimed Harry, "He's gone berserk! He has a dagger!
Shoot
before he uses it!"
      The Shadow did have a dagger, the one that Gail had dropped. He flashed
it
toward Warren, knowing that Harry would jog the fellow's gun arm in case he
fired. But Warren didn't shoot; instead he let his gun drop into his pocket
and
pushed Harry from the room, preventing him from firing his own gun.
      Hauling the door shut, Warren laughed when the knife winged into the
woodwork. He saw the point that jutted through; tested it with his fingertip
and said that it reminded him of Varney's teeth.
      Cedric was hurrying up from another passage. As Harry shouted to him, The
Shadow yanked open the door, grabbed Warren and spun him in a rapid whirl.
Amazed by Varney's strength, Warren couldn't even flail his arms before he was
spinning headlong, clear to the bay window.
      Cedric saw Warren's sudden disappearance, witnessed another lunge of
blackness that overwhelmed Harry, whose gun went of behind his own ear. The
Shadow was present long enough for Cedric to draw and aim; but Cedric only
performed the first phase of the action.
      Instead of firing at The Shadow, who still represented Varney, Cedric
sprang to Harry and dragged him to his feet. Cedric was wagging his gun as
though loath to use it, even on the defensive.
      Amid Cedric's prolonged hesitation, The Shadow skirted off through a side
passage, thus removing the Varney menace from this sector. Individually,
Warren
and Cedric Armand had proven that they were not gunning for Varney Haldrew,
which left only one candidate for the office of would-be murderer: Throck.
      Having figured the servant all along. The Shadow had left him until last.
Elimination of the other possibilities gave The Shadow freedom to deal with
Throck without Harry's co-operation. He wanted to test Throck fairly, just to
clinch the case, but if the servant tried a quick kill, The Shadow would be
ready.
      Doubly prepared, The Shadow. Reaching the landing, he paused to peel the
glove from his left hand. From a small, rounded box with double lids, he
produced two dabs of different pastes: one for his thumb, the other for the
tip
of his second finger. These ointments were a special cure for overzeal on the
part of The Shadow's enemies.
      The Shadow knew that Throck must have heard Harry's shot. Moreover, Harry
was following it up with a dash toward the landing, shouting as though murder
had already taken place. Purposely, The Shadow clattered down the stairs;
hearing Throck coming his way, he wheeled to a side door, where a pair of
candles gave just enough light to show him as a shrouded form.
     Still the replica of Varney, The Shadow extended his hand, the left one,
as Throck rounded the corner, aiming the old revolver ahead of him.
     Harsh was the hiss The Shadow delivered. It was Varney's at his best - or
worst. It cued Harry to another desperate shout from the landing, a call which
Cedric and Warren echoed in their raised pitch of excitement. It brought a cry
from Gail, in the living room; but hers came quite late.
     Already, Throck's finger was acting on the gun trigger; but The Shadow
was
even quicker with his snap of thumb and forefinger. The sudden report that
people heard was not from Throck's gun. The chemical pastes provided it - a
burst of smoke and flame accompanying the roar that exploded only a few feet
from Throck's face! (Note: Because The Shadow's explosive powder used in this
instance is too dangerous for anyone but the most experienced to use, we do
not
reveal the nature of its formula, so that the inexperienced might not attempt
this experiment and thereby suffer harm. - Maxwell Grant.)
     Startled, dazzled, the servant reeled away, losing his grip on his
unfired
revolver, which spun by the trigger guard and lopped from his grasp. Then,
blindly, savagely, Throck hurled himself upon the fighter he mistook for
Varney. He came squarely against The Shadow's gun muzzle, but the cloaked
fighter didn't fire.
     He should have.


      WHEN Throck rushed The Shadow against the door, it gave. Somersaulting
backward down a short flight of outer steps, The Shadow managed to double
Throck over by driving his feet against the fellow. But Throck's yell, his
gesture as he tumbled, brought other men The Shadow's way.
      They were deputies, who saw the cloaked fighter by the light of a bonfire
and weren't slow about hauling out their guns.
      Finding his feet, The Shadow made a quick dive for darkness, reversed his
path across the glow and sped for farther cover. His tricky zigzag coaxed
shots
the wrong direction, but The Shadow's own route was a wrong one, too. He was
heading away from the house, off toward the fence. Searching flashlights
spoiled black stretches that he wanted, but he finally tricked the converging
deputies by an unexpected drive right through the heart of a bonfire!
      Flames scattered and the dazzle of flying sparks blinded pursuers better
than the darkness. Somewhere beyond that strewn blaze that he'd kicked away
from him, The Shadow was in gloom again, making a wide circuit that would
bring
him back to Haldrew Hall.
      But The Shadow had, meanwhile, lost his chance to trap the murderous
servant, Throck. Thus had The Shadow's plan recoiled.
      "Death to the vampire!" Such was the cry that shivered the chilly air,
and
The Shadow, anxious to preserve Varney from a vampire's fate, was finding the
hazard as his own!


     CHAPTER XX

     CRYPT OF DEATH

     IF Throck had stopped when and where he sprawled, Harry Vincent might
have
helped redeem the situation. He could have grabbed the servant and suppressed
him, letting explanation wait until later. But Throck didn't stop. It was he
who raised the yell of vampire, putting the pack on the trail he thought was
Varney's.
     Ignorant on the question of hunting vampires, the deputies took Throck's
instructions. He said to use firebrands and bullets; that if one failed, the
other wouldn't. So the men grabbed sticks of burning wood, which became huge
torches when whipped by the air as the hunters ran. As good as flashlights,
the
brands widened the chase, much to The Shadow's inconvenience.
     Goading on the pursuers, Throck was confident that they would settle his
problem for him - the problem of Varney. The deputies would try bullets first,
and they would prove effective with the false vampire. It hadn't occurred to
Throck that he was engineering a chase after someone other than Varney!
     Oddly, it happened that Varney's plight was far worse than if he had been
in The Shadow's place!
     Within the mansion, Harry was standing with Cedric and Warren Armand,
when
they heard a firm tone behind them, pronouncing one word:
     "Come!"
     It was Sabbatha, still wearing her black shawl. She gave a deprecating
smile when they said they were watching the chase after Varney. Sabbatha
declared that vampires knew no human limitations; that even now the pursuit
was
over. Black specks in the flicker of the torches - such was Varney, and in
that
form he was filtering through the walls of the mansion to reach his favorite
abode, the crypt.
     Confident that The Shadow had by this time slipped his pursuers, though
not by a process of dematerialization, Harry gave a nod to humor Sabbatha.
Cedric and Warren decided to go to the crypt, too, if only to prove that
Varney
hadn't arrived there. Gail would have followed, but Sabbatha sternly told her
to
remain where she was. Sabbatha led the others down to the cellar, and as they
neared the crypt, they heard the muffled tap-tap of Varney's pick.
     The Armands halted, staring at each other, but Harry followed Sabbatha.
When she reached the door, the tapping stopped abruptly and was followed by a
slight thud. Entering, Sabbatha lighted the candles and Harry observed that
their wicks were smoldering, proof that they had just been snuffed. When
Sabbatha ordered Harry to raise the coffin lid, he obeyed.
     Within lay Varney, stiffened in the tattered shroud. His gloved hands
were
folded; his emaciated face held all its skullish quality, except for the glaze
of his staring eyes. Slowly, Cedric and Warren stepped in from the doorway, to
stare in absolute bewilderment. Varney's return amazed them, until Cedric
suggested that the figure might be a dummy, with which Warren concurred.
     Sabbatha lifted her arms from beneath the black shawl. In one hand she
had
held a cleaver; in the other, a long, sharp-pointed wooden stake. A fanatical
gleam was in her eyes.
     "We must rid the world of this monster!" declared Sabbatha. "Strike off
his head and drive this stake through his heart! The order is mine; the duty,
yours!"
     She swung the cleaver into Cedric's hand, thrust the stake in Warren's.
Though they liked gruesome jests, the cousins hesitated. Turning to Harry,
Sabbatha told him to draw his gun and force them to the task. By then, the
Armands were back in form.
     "Certainly we'll do it, Sabbatha," assured Cedric, "Give Warren a mallet,
if you can find one."
     "Nothing to it," added Warren, "It's just like cracking up a dummy!"
     Sabbatha had found the mallet and was handing it to Warren, who, like
Cedric, still thought the shape of Varney was a waxlike imitation. But Harry
knew otherwise, though he couldn't state why. Suddenly following Sabbatha's
suggestion, he drew his automatic and wagged it from Cedric to Warren.
     "Hold it!" ordered Harry. "We can't go through with this, just yet. We
ought" - he groped for a reason, then added - "we ought to make it unanimous."
     With whippet speed, Sabbatha snatched the gun from Harry's hand and
covered him instead of the Armand cousins. In a hiss much like Varney's, she
declared that it was unanimous. And Harry, threatened by the muzzle of his own
gun, was watching Cedric and Warren turn to begin their ruthless task!


     CANDLE flame wavered, producing a flicker in Varney's eyes. Apparently
Varney was half in a trance; his effort to play the vampire role in this
emergency was so strong, that he failed to see the threat that loomed above
him. Or, equally logical, Varney might believe that the Armands would never
perform their hideous assignment.
     Varney didn't know that they supposed him, at this moment, to be at large
somewhere outside the mansion!
     Harry's forehead chilled from the sweaty beads that reached it. Still, he
persisted in his argument.
     "To be unanimous," he told Sabbatha, "we must have Gail's vote. She is
one
of us."
     Slowly, Sabbatha turned toward the door. Then, changing method, she
backed
in that direction, keeping Harry covered with the gun. She would get Gail -
yes,
on the promise that the others would not leave their posts. They gave her that
assurance; still, she was suspicious.
     The door groaned under Sabbatha's touch; it widened, showing the gaping
blackness of the cellar, but she kept the gun leveled. Then, with a hiss as
sharp as Varney's, she asserted:
     "I have awaited this chance for years! Why should I be cheated of it now?
Cheated by fools, who deserve nothing! I shall not summon Gail. Let her remain
in ignorance of the secret that this crypt contains!"
     With those words, Cedric and Warren grew strained. They swung to the
coffin with cleaver and stake. Still determined to balk Sabbatha without
revealing The Shadow's part, Harry made a wild but timely lunge toward the
door. Driving low, he was beneath the level of the gun when Sabbatha pulled
the
trigger.
     She'd thrust the muzzle upward for that first shot; now, before she could
lower it for another, an echo answered from the cellar.
     Sabbatha sprawled as Harry reached her. He grabbed the gun as it
clattered
from her hand. Coming up, he expected to see The Shadow, and for once the
thought was amplified by horror. For The Shadow would never have done this to
Sabbatha; he'd have trusted Harry to complete the drive. The Shadow must have
mistaken Sabbatha for Varney!
     Sabbatha's black shawl resembled a shroud against the candlelight. Her
hiss was identical with Varney's. And the words she uttered had been fraught
with double meaning. Sabbatha's long-awaited chance, her fear of being
cheated,
the secret of the crypt - all those applied to buried wealth as much as to the
figure of a vampire in its coffin!
     A smoking gun came into the light and with it, a familiar face. Not the
features of Cranston, beneath a slouch hat, but the haggard countenance of
Throck!
     He'd returned to the mansion first. Behind him was Gail; she'd told him
where the others had gone. Coming to the crypt, Throck had found his
opportunity - so he thought. Another chance to dispose of Varney while the
latter was playing the vampire; a chance like those that Throck had previously
missed!
     Sabbatha's dying face was gazing upward. Her dry lips gave a gloating
smile. It was her own tone, higher than Varney's, that cackled to Throck:
     "You wanted to kill Varney! I learned it tonight. I was cheating you,
too,
Throck. I have won" - she gave a gasp - "better than I hoped! You will pay...
for this crime... and Varney will join the dead... where he belongs -"
     As Sabbatha finished her last gasp, there was a clatter from the coffin.
Varney was flinging himself at Throck: he'd heard Sabbatha's accusation. The
servant aimed and Harry sprang to stop him, only to see Throck reel back into
solid blackness. The Shadow had returned; he was handling Throck again!


     THE cold revolver was spouting in air, its shots harmless. Cedric and
Warren were clutching Varney. It all would have ended there if those cousins
hadn't both decided at the same moment that a gun was needed. Each leaving
Varney to the other, they reached for their revolvers and Varney was away.
     Away with a tremendous lunge for Throck's writhing form, right into the
path of that last upward bullet the servant fired. A freakish, suicidal thing,
that act of Varney's that foiled The Shadow's work in his behalf. All for the
sake of clamping his hands on Throck's throat, a privilege that The Shadow let
Varney gain, for there was no clutch left in the hands of a man whose heart
had
received a bullet.
     No clutch was needed. Varney's hands just jabbed. A shriek came from
Throck as The Shadow whipped him away. Rolling into the light, Throck showed
the throat at which he clawed. Needle points had dug deep from Varney's glove,
tearing deep gashes that showed streaks of purple - the dye of a virulent
poison contained in the ring, that showed when the glove slipped from Varney's
scrawny, bony hand.
     Fear, perhaps, of Sabbatha's attempting the deed she had designed, was
Varney's reason for adding venom to those hollow needles. Another reason why
he
had lain complacently in his coffin: he'd been ready to deliver swifter doom
than others could with cleaver and stake!
     Already, Throck was growing purple. No one had to tell him that his
remaining moments were few. While The Shadow watched from darkness, Harry and
the others grouped about Throck. Seeing their faces in the light, he muttered:
     "The money... I took it. All packed in my room. I fixed this floor...
with
concrete. Varney... I had to kill him. Tried with the knife... on the landing.
The gun... in Frenton's room. Thought it was Varney that dropped... through
the
hall. The old post... on the left... look out -"
     And with that warning to the living, Throck, the unfaithful servant,
joined the dead who bore the name of Haldrew, the last of the long, strange
line that had dwelt in Haldrew Hall!


     CHAPTER XXI

     PIECED MURDER

      THE money that old Giles Haldrew had buried was found deep in Throck's
trunk and it totaled nearly eighty thousand dollars, which was about four
times
the amount of the known estate, including Haldrew Hall, which was hardly
salable
property. Thus, in all, it came to about one hundred thousand dollars, which
even the Armands wouldn't sneeze at.
      They talked cash, only. Twenty-five thousand each if they stayed out
their
month at Haldrew Hall; for the terms of the will still stood. Such talk rather
pained Gail Merwin, who was grieved by the tragedies she'd witnessed.
      It annoyed Harry Vincent for another reason. When the time came for him
to
repudiate his own claim, Cedric and Warren would be in for a split three ways,
instead of four.
      The Armand cousins had dropped their sham completely. They were going to
get what was coming to them, in full. Harry ruefully wished that it would be
something else than cash. And each passing hour annoyed him more and more.
      The Shadow had disappeared before the arrival of the sheriff, whose
investigation hadn't taken long. Four witnesses to Throck's verbal confession
were enough, and Varney's wearing of Roderick's shroud was fitting proof to
the
testimony that he had been lying in his coffin, playing vampire. The poison
ring
was another exhibit in this strange run of crime and countercrime.
      So, at midnight, only two visitors remained with the occupants of Haldrew
Hall. One was Lamont Cranston, who had still been at his hotel; the other,
Clyde Burke, the only reporter who hadn't chased back to New York with his
story. From their respective angles they were inquiring into various matters,
helping to piece the chain of murder.
      They talked of Varney; how heavily he'd played the vampire stunt to rid
the house of rival claimants. The tricks of the house had been uncovered: the
panel from the landing; the fireplace that opened into the portrait room; the
set-up with the vacuum cleaner that had piped artificial smoke into Frenton's
room, with some illuminating gas to sweeten it.
      So much for Varney's efforts, his switch of the carrier pigeons being a
mere side issue, like his trips to Roderick's room to get the shroud, though
that was to produce a later angle. A clever idea, using that shroud, so that
Varney could blame things on the skeleton! After all, a roving skeleton was no
more outlandish than a vampire!
      Then Throck.
      He'd switched the order for the flooring of the crypt from flagstone to
concrete, so as to give Varney - or anyone else - a hard time digging for the
treasure that wasn't there. In his last illness, old Giles had left many
things
to Throck, which was probably how the servant had learned about the buried
wealth.
      Naturally, Throck had thought to dispose of Varney, the man who had
guessed the treasure business and kept it for himself; but in so doing the
servant had needed to play a careful game. He wanted to spend the wealth that
he had taken, free from the threat of the electric chair.
      What better way than to kill Varney in the course of duty, which Varney
himself had assigned to Throck? So that had been Throck's way all through -
with one exception. He'd tried to drop Varney through the hallway floor during
one of Varney's trips to Roderick's room, but had dropped someone else
instead.
      Of course, the sheriff had taken that to mean Clabb. But he hadn't wasted
time looking for a mechanism in a trap that had been so thoroughly studied
earlier. Throck's mention of a post at the left didn't quite make sense to the
sheriff. He considered Throck's confession sufficient for the present.
      Obviously, Varney hadn't known that Throck was out to get him. He might
even have attributed the tossed knife to Sabbatha. Throck's gunwork looked
like
the simple pursuance of the servant's duties. Varney had expected it and,
accordingly, escaped it.
     And now, as Cranston, the criminologist, compared notes with Burke, the
reporter, a question came up. It was Cranston who asked it, as he flashed a
side glance at Harry.
     "How could Throck have mistaken Clabb for Varney outside of Roderick's
room, when there were two men at the padlocked door?"
     Cedric Armand gave a puzzled frown. He had been the other man. Then came
Harry's prompt explanation.
     "The mistake was earlier," said Harry. "Throck thought I was Varney and
sent me through the trap, but I landed uninjured. That's why I knew the hall
was dangerous."


      A GLANCE from Cranston and Clyde suggested they take another look at the
upstairs hall. They all went up, Warren and Gail included, and while the rest
were moving forward carefully, Cranston leaned idly against the newel post, at
the top end of the banister beside the left stairway to the hump.
      There was a click from near Roderick's door, and Harry, testing the trap
with one foot, found that it gave. Then all present were studying a mechanism
as ingenious as it was old-fashioned.
      The newel post was simply a huge lever. It connected with a lengthwise
beam that ran all the way along beside the hallway floor. The beam terminated
in the joist below Roderick's door. Pull the newel post and it pushed the
beam,
which in turn shoved the joists. Receding beneath the door, the joist let the
trap drop.
      No visible mechanism needed, not even at the middle of the hall, where
hinges and spring were attached to a solid cross beam. Merely a form of remote
control of a century ago, or whenever old Roderick had flourished. But the
secret of the trapdoor had been uncovered some time ago - perhaps by Varney,
certainly by Throck.
      "Well, that settles everything," declared Gail. "I only wish I still
didn't have to stay in this old house. But I suppose I'll have to keep up with
the Armands!"
      She glanced at Cedric, then Warren, giving each an equally bitter look;
then turned to Harry, expecting him to escort her downstairs. Cranston
suggested that they wait a little longer.
      "There's still a question in my mind," remarked Cranston. "It's about
Varney. I still can't understand why he piped that gas to Frenton when he
didn't want to kill him."
      "There's nothing to prove he did pipe the gas," put in Cedric. "All we
found was a gas pipe and a hose. Those may not have been used. I'd say that
Frenton did die of fright."
      "I'd say the same," added Warren. "I had quite a scare myself, the first
time Varney popped out of the fireplace in the portrait room. He scared me as
much as he did Gail."
      Noting that Gail still didn't like Warren's mere mention of her name, and
likewise classed him in Cedric's undesirable category, Cranston remarked:
      "It was nice of Warren to exchange rooms with you, Miss Merwin, before
that second night."
      "Warren didn't give me his room," snapped Gail. "It was Frenton who so
kindly took the portrait room."
      "Then why didn't he stay there?"
      "I suppose he weakened, too."
      Cranston turned to Warren, remarking that he and Frenton must have
switched rooms later. Warren said yes, and when Cranston asked why, Harry had
the reason in a trice.
      "On account of the book Sabbatha read!" he exclaimed. "Varney the Vampire
- it had Frenton woozy! Say, Warren" - Harry turned - "that room where you and
Clabb took Frenton must have been yours at the time."
      "Yes, it was," admitted Warren, "Frenton said he was too scared to stay
in
the portrait room. So I took it and let him have mine."
      Cranston left it to Clyde to snatch up that point. The reporter didn't
miss.
      "That means somebody tried to give you the gas," Clyde told Warren.
"Somebody who thought you were still in there. Not Varney, though. He was
trying to scare everybody without killing anybody."
      Cranston began checking details with Clyde. He came to one name, that of
Cedric Armand.
      "How was the game of solitaire going?" queried Cranston casually. "I mean
that time when the gas was flowing up to the room where Warren didn't happen
to
be!"
      Cedric's face went very white. He didn't reply, but a little gasp came
from Gail. If Haldrews had clashed among each other over the matter of their
pitiful thousands, how much more plausible it was that one Armand would try to
eliminate a rival claimant to that vast fortune that the cousins expected in
the future!
      Yes, Cranston's point had driven home to Gail, which was exactly what he
wanted. For his next question was one that Gail alone could answer; or, at
least, was the only person who would answer it truthfully.
      "You were on the veranda," Cranston reminded Gail, "at the time you heard
of Clabb's fall to the cellar. Warren was with you. How long had he been
there?"
      "Why, he'd just joined me -"


     GAIL stopped as she saw Cranston turn inquiringly to Warren, whose face
suddenly rivaled Cedric's pallor. As though discussing a matter of passing
interest, Cranston remarked:
     "You chaps were pretty capable snoopers, too. I take it, Cedric, that you
saw Varney rigging the smoke stunt up to Warren's room. And you, Warren, must
have been watching Throck when he dropped Vincent through the hallway trap."
     Turning to go down the stairs, Cranston left the rest to solve itself,
which it did. Cedric had seen his chance to add the gas hose to Varney's smoke
machine. He'd hoped to murder Warren, but had slain Frenton instead.
     And Warren had guessed the hand behind it. That was why he had used the
trick he learned from watching Throck. The trick of dropping someone through
the hallway trap. He'd been beside the newel post on the left when Harry came
up the steps on the right, yelling a warning. Warren had pulled the post,
hoping to drop Cedric, but Clabb had gone instead!
     A laugh whispered from darkness. Cranston had become The Shadow, ready
for
whatever was to happen next. As The Shadow, he could add another point,
proving
the murderous rivalry between the Armands. Only this evening, each had drawn
an
unnecessary gun while handling Varney Haldrew.
     Unnecessary for Varney, but needed for something else - a shot at each
other! Each wanted to kill his rival and blame it on Varney's struggle, but
both had the same idea at the same moment, and it hadn't worked for either.
They hadn't wanted to act like Kilkenny cats; not then.
     At present, they no longer cared. They whipped out guns and drove for
each
other. Each was intent upon making a break from the present scene, but each
thought that the other would try to stop him.
     Down the hall they reeled, slugging with their guns, until they were
banging against Roderick's door, as if to rouse him from his skeleton sleep.
     Others were peering from the steps on the right. Only The Shadow was on
the hump, ready with two leveled automatics in case the battling cousins
called
their rivalry quits and decided to murder persons who knew the truth about
them.
Looking up, Gail saw The Shadow - and wondered.
      Here was a being of blackness different from Varney, though she had
mistaken him for the man who played the vampire. He was on the side of right,
The Shadow. Calm, motionless as a statue, he was waiting to see that justice
took its course.
      It did when blackness suddenly lashed.
      For a moment, it looked as though The Shadow had thrust a gun hand
forward; then Gail saw that the blackness was beyond him. Glossy blackness
that
sprang with a frenzied snarl, as though angered by the battlers who were
disturbing its namesake's permanent slumber by battering against his door.
      Roderick, the cat!
      Sabbatha's overfed pet bounded from the steps on the left, up to a
vantage
spot, the newel post of the banister! The post swayed backward, but Roderick's
claws dug tight. Then, before The Shadow could flip the cat from its perch,
Roderick's weight had pulled the creaky lever.
      In the midst of their slugging struggle, the Armand cousins dropped from
sight, guns popping as they went, half-locked in a frantic embrace that was
twisting them in a fall as bad as Clabb's, down to the stone-floored cellar.
      Up came the muffled crash, pronouncing the double doom of the men who had
manipulated murder, the real killers of Haldrew Hall.
      Roderick didn't hear the finish of his timely work; frightened by the
clatter of the trap, the cat had bounded off through the house. But Gail still
saw The Shadow.
      His cloaked form faded into blackness as Gail watched. Back trailed a
departing laugh, solemn as a knell, pronouncing The Shadow's triumph over men
of murder whose designs he had uncovered beneath an outer shell of crime.
      Strange were the echoes of that mirth. Echoes that etched themselves on
Gail's memory, eradicating the horrors of the past. No longer would Gail
Merwin
meet with an ordeal in this mansion during the weeks that would make her sole
heir to Haldrew Hall.
      Such was the import of The Shadow's parting laugh, a token that told his
justice would prevail!


     THE END