Part 7 (1/2)

Turning out the light, The Shadow became invisible as he stepped to the rear window. For that matter, Clyde and Margo remained unseen, even after The Shadow raised the shade, for thickening clouds had completely blocked off the moon.

”Someone has just left the house,” declared The Shadow. ”That person is about to join the confederates who played the ghosts. Watch!”

As they watched across the flat porch behind Margo's room, a phantom figure suddenly appeared beyond the house. Of all the shapes seen at Stanbridge Manor, this was the most ghostly. It seemed to have a glowing face that squinted back through the darkness as it moved away. To Margo's strained eyes, the thing looked like a decapitated head, floating off through the night.

The weird thing reached a bulky block of whiteness which promptly swallowed it. The ghost, or whatever it was, had gone into the old mausoleum. It was as if some master of the dead had returned to his own stronghold.

Margo's gasp was heartfelt: ”What was it?”

”Whoever it was,” replied The Shadow, ”that person is wearing Jennifer's cape. Since Jennifer is the only member of the household who visits the cemetery, our ghost was wearing the cape purely to avoid suspicion.”

”But I didn't see the cape,” began Margo. ”How could I see it in the dark?

I saw a face -”

”A face that Dunninger mentioned in the note he sent me,” interposed The Shadow. ”He took Jennifer's cape upstairs a short while before he left. He outlined the face on the back of the cape, using luminous paint that shows only in the dark.”

Motioning his companions out to the pa.s.sage, The Shadow pointed to the little hallway. By the glow of the night lamp, Clyde and Margo saw that the cape was gone. Dunninger's ruse had worked; he had left a sure clue by which The Shadow could track down the real ghost of Stanbridge Manor.

The Shadow pointed to the doorway along the pa.s.sage. Clyde went to Gustave's door and listened. He eliminated Gustave by the latter's snores.

Meanwhile, Margo softly opened the opposite door and viewed old Jennifer sound asleep in bed.

Sneaking along the pa.s.sage, Clyde was bound for Hector's room, confident that the old servant must be the missing person. As a matter of mere routine, Clyde opened Roger's room and took a glance inside. Roger's bed was directly in the path of light that crossed Clyde's shoulder from the hallway.

The bed was empty!

Amazed, Clyde turned about. Margo saw his face and knew from its expression that Roger was gone.

Margo's own face reflected Clyde's amazement. Of all persons in the mansion, Roger was the one they had least suspected!

Along the pa.s.sage came a whispered laugh, weirdly expressive, as though The Shadow had foreseen this climax. The sibilant tone faded, leaving the pa.s.sage empty.

The Shadow, too, had gone, along the ghostly trail of Roger Stanbridge, thereal menace of the manor!

CHAPTER XII.

THE GHOST MAKERS.

UNDER the black sky, Stanbridge Manor showed a few flickers of light from its windows, rendering it visible in the night. The flickers, particularly those from the downstairs fire, could be mistaken for ghostly lights, but at least the manor could be seen.

In turn, that was probably the reason why the mansion held such a weird reputation, yet when considered logically, Stanbridge Manor was not the most sinister house in this neighborhood. That t.i.tle belonged to a little building so seldom noticed that it was invariably overlooked; namely, the cottage owned by Wiggam.

The Shadow was discovering this fact.

Finding no trace of Roger in the mausoleum, The Shadow had begun a zigzag rove toward Wiggam's. Nowhere did he find a path leading from the crypt, but that did not surprise him. Others than Roger had vanished after entering the mausoleum and The Shadow was convinced that their route was underground.

What The Shadow wanted were traces of that particular fact, and he found them.

There were deep ditches leading from the Stanbridge property, some of them much like gullies, worn by years of drainage. Though much neglected, these ditches showed some signs of repair. Always it was to one purpose, to veer them away from each other, leaving a path between. At no spot did a ditch cross the straight line that led from the mausoleum to Wiggam's house An old road did cross that imaginary line. It had a curious hump that showed in the roving glare of The Shadow's well guarded flashlight. Though years of disuse had smothered the fact, there were still a few indications that the hump was artificial. Digging into the dirt, The Shadow found chunks of gravel and pebbles that were common only to this brief section of the road.

As chance had it, The Shadow made another find. Something glistened silvery deep in the dried gra.s.s that nearly covered the old road. Something that someone had dropped, as The Shadow learned when he examined the article. Pocketing it, The Shadow continued on to Wiggam's, to discover more than he expected.

Despite its trifling size, Wiggam's cottage was more formidable than the manor. From a distance it looked flimsy, but at close range its strength was apparent. Enough light was filtering from the returning moon for The Shadow to observe patches of brick through the stucco facing of the cottage walls.

Closed shutters were backed with sheets of steel, that glistened through the slats when viewed from a close angle.

Even the chimney was topped by an ornamental grating and The Shadow could tell from the slight projection of the doors that they were but concealing surfaces for heavier barriers behind them. Yet even by daylight, no one had ever before suspected the truth about Wiggam's stronghold.

The caretaker was regarded simply as a recluse who had spent his life's earnings in buying and improving a cottage which he preferred to keep tightshut because he lived there alone. Indeed, people pitied Wiggam, never realizing that he was better deserving of their dread.

Noting the strength of the well-faked cottage, The Shadow glided off into the night, his whispered laugh a promise of future invasion by a route whereby Wiggam would never expect intruders.

WITHIN the cottage, Wiggam was seated at a table in a room with heavy curtains that blocked off any chance of escaping light. The curious thing was that even in his fortified home, Wiggam still looked the part of the faithful old retainer, a man to whom integrity was law. There was no brightness in his tired face; it still showed its full quota of droops.

Wiggam's honest manner was in no way lessened by the fact that he was harboring three men of crime. They were seated about the table, helping themselves to drinks while they bragged of their recent exploits. All that Wiggam drank was the chatter of his guests, accepting it without the slightest grimace.

Most talkative of the group was Carl Dorthan, the heavy-jawed embezzler who had reached Stanbridge Manor just ahead of The Shadow's first visit. To Dorthan's left sat Harvey Crispin, whose pointed face and quick eyes gave him a foxlike expression. On the right was Wallace Freer, a poker-faced man with a straight-chopped forehead that almost hid the eyes between his equally vertical nose.

Lifting a gla.s.s, Dorthan looked between the other embezzlers and gave Wiggam an approving stare.

”To Wiggam!” toasted Dorthan. ”A great fellow, Wiggam. We're for him, all of us, and soon there'll be more of us.”

Rising politely Wiggam bowed as the others drank. As the droop-faced man seated himself, Dorthan leaned forward and questioned sharply: ”How come you're in this racket, Wiggam?”

Crispin and Freer s.h.i.+fted uneasily as they glanced toward a door that led down into the cellar. They were afraid that Dorthan was bearing too heavily on Wiggam and they wondered what Roger would have to say about it. But Wiggam remained quite unruffled. When he spoke, his tone was matter of fact.

”I am a Wiggam, sir,” declared the old retainer. ”My family has always served the master of Stanbridge Manor. Whatever he may order, we obey.”

”The good old rule,” approved Dorthan. ”The king can do no wrong. Is that it, Wiggam?”

”Precisely, sir.”

There was a short silence, then Wiggam cleared his throat and proceeded with a further explanation: ”You see, gentlemen, the secrets of Stanbridge Manor belong only to the head of the family. But each master has always entrusted those secrets to a Wiggam. So whenever the head of the Stanbridge family dies, it is a Wiggam who tells those facts to the next master. Never has a Wiggam failed.”

Dorthan supplied a puzzled frown. He nudged his thumb in the general direction of the manor.

”But what about Gustave, who owns the place at present? He doesn't know anything, does he?”

As Wiggam hesitated in replying, the door from the cellar opened and Roger entered. He was just in time to catch Dorthan's question. With a bland smile, Roger answered it, saying: ”That's where I come in.” HELPING himself to a drink, Roger finished it and promptly poured a second.

Gesturing occasionally with his gla.s.s, he picked up from Wiggam's breaking point.

”Gustave is a stinker,” declared Roger. ”We all know it, including Wiggam.