Shadow 307 - Happy Death Day 09-01-46, The by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant [Grant, Maxwell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Street and Smith
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

IN Room 303, Harry Vincent was preparing for bed. He yawned, his eyes closing as he stretched his arms. When he opened his eyes, his mentor was there, standing in front of him.

He cut the yawn off midway and said, “Things are starting to pop, aren’t they?”

The Shadow nodded. “They’re going to pop even faster now! I want you to look up two things for me. I want the names of the architects who built the modern home that the family is living in now, and I would like to see a copy of the will that Mrs. Lively left.”

“Will do,” said Vincent. “Any rush on it?”

“Yes. For I may be able to forestall another death if I can get the information I need quickly enough. The killer has a long list… but that list is getting shorter and shorter.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Burbank said when I left New York that the sooner you finished up here the better. He’s got one of his hunches again. He’s smelled some deviltry afoot that he thinks you ought to investigate.”

The Shadow smiled, his saturnine face lighting up. His profile was hawklike in the strength of chiseled granite that it showed. “Crime takes no holiday, does it?”

A wave of a hand and The Shadow was gone. Vincent yawned again, this time finishing it in luxurious style. He got under the covers and as he fell off to sleep he worried about a few things that he could not make relevant. The Almanac, the weather reports, and now the name of the architects. He didn’t give a thought to the will… that was obvious… but the architects… that puzzled him.

Back in the Lively home, The Shadow had given way to Lamont Cranston. He was in his own pajamas tonight and he appreciated it. As he flicked off the light he felt a twinge of pain in his arm where he had been hit. It was easing up a little. It would probably be all stiff on the morrow. But the murderer, what of his bruises? How was he going to explain them?

A smile curved his lips as he dropped off to sleep. Tomorrow would wind up this case. It had to, for two reasons; one, to forestall any further murders, and two, because Burbank was having another hunch!

Sleep that night was a short-lived affair. About three o’clock in the morning the sound of some kind of rumpus woke Cranston. Every door in the house was opening.

The house was in forment!

Out in the hall, slipping a bathrobe about himself, Cranston paused. A light snapped on. It came from the kitchen. He ran to it. Danny Downs, his face purple, was feeling a bruise on his face. He reeled.

“Somebody came up to me in the dark. I came in here for a snack because I couldn’t get to sleep, and just as I reached for the refrigerator door, somebody clouted the tar out of me.”

Down the hall, the sound of more tumult broke out. Uncle Harry staggered from his room.

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