Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 160 by Maxwel l Grant

Author:Maxwel,l Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

CHAPTER XI

THUMBS TURN DOWN

MARCUS BELD was uneasy. He didn't like his surroundings. He was seated in the middle of a wide-seated coupe, with a chunky man on each side of him. They had picked him up outside a night club when he was ready to go home, and here they were, whirling along a Long Island road, with the clock on the dashboard showing five minutes past two.

The car rattled over railway tracks. The jolting headlights showed a painted sign above a tiny station. The "WENWOLD" seemed to jump in front of Marcus's eyes. He turned a frantic face toward the driver beside him. Marcus was no longer sallow. He looked pale.

"We're near the old house!" he exclaimed. "Where Hugh Claymer lives! We can't go there -"

"That ain't where we're taking you," interrupted the driver, gruffly.

"Keep your shirt on! You'll find out where we're going when we get there."

"And gimme some room," snarled the man on the right. "This car ain't no limousine, where you can spread out!"

The fellow supplied an additional urge by poking a gun muzzle against Marcus's ribs. Marcus shifted over, to be shoved back by a jab from the driver's elbow.

At least, they weren't going to the mansion. That was proven when they passed the road that led to it. Marcus looked in that direction, thought he saw

a car parked near the roadside. He changed that opinion, when they veered. The headlights showed a little brook that burbled from the woods. The water had a glisten, very much like the glint of chromium-plated fittings.

Winding through a little valley, the car took a steep, rough slope. The driver shoved the gear into second, they jounced along a roadway that was not much more than a rocky ledge. Marcus could see the moonlit valley below, for trees were absent from the ledge brink.

Then the road twisted inward through a woods; they took a rough driveway that wasn't much more than a wide path. The car halted in a clearing beside a structure that looked like an overgrown shack. Marcus saw other cars parked there, before the headlights blinked off.

A lantern's glow came through knot-holes in the shack walls. The chunky men shoved Marcus along the rocky ground; one rapped a signal against the flimsy door. When the barrier opened, Marcus saw other figures grouped around a

tiny room.

In the center, puffing a cigarette, was Itch Fendel.

THE gambler gave Marcus a wave of greeting.

"Surprised, hey?" chuckled Itch. Then, to the tough who had driven the coupe: "How did he like the ride, Al?"

"He squawked too much," returned Al. "Dobey had to keep poking him with a heater every ten minutes."

Itch grinned; then his face stiffened. He looked around the group.

"Outside," he ordered. "Flop in the buggies until I want you. I'm having a

talk with this guy."

Al handed Itch a newspaper before departure. Itch was reading it when he and Marcus were alone. His nerve restored, Marcus began to bluster about Itch's

methods of transportation.

"Can it!" Itch told him. He passed the newspaper to Marcus.

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