The Shadow 287 by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

HARRY VINCENT sat on the veranda of the Junction House chatting with Jeff Gerster. It was another afternoon and they were exchanging ideas just as if nothing had happened in the meanwhile, which rather limited their conversation. Neither Harry nor Jeff saw fit to discuss the twilight fray that had occurred in the woods, but in avoiding it, Harry held a distinct advantage.

There was no way in which Jeff could know that Harry had been mixed in that imbroglio, whereas Harry knew the entire part that Jeff had played. Though the hints that Jeff tossed were directed toward the subject of the gunfight, the fellow was covering other points as well.

“Funny the way everybody dropped out of sight yesterday,” observed Jeff. “First that fellow Cranston was gone; then I couldn’t find you. Next it was the sheriff and finally there weren’t any signs of Atmore and Huxford.”

Harry laughed idly. “And where were you all that time?”

“Looking around the place. Appraising the art stuff for one thing, to make sure it wasn’t over-insured.”

“Was it?”

“I don’t know. Old Hybart wouldn’t give me any figures. Acted kind of sore over the way I’d been browsing around.”

“I’m glad I didn’t run into him then,” remarked Harry. “I was browsing around too.”

“Whereabouts?”

“In and out. I finally took a walk down to the big gate and while I was there a truck came along and offered me a hitch into town.”

Jeff eyed Harry in steady, calculating style. Then:

“You didn’t happen to meet up with anybody who had red hair, did you?”

“If you mean Linda Graydon, yes. I’d gone up to a balcony to have a close look at a tapestry when I ran into her.”

“What did she say?”

“Mostly double-talk about Hybart keeping her a prisoner in what ought to be her own home. I let it pass.”

“And why?”

“Because anybody could walk out of that place if they wanted. If she was really in a jam, she could have told the sheriff.”

Jeff gave his head a slow shake.

“Maybe she can’t walk out, Vincent.”

“Why not?”

“Look at it this way. A lot depends on those Graydon Archives. I saw the few volumes that were in the library and from what Hybart says, there’s a whole coffer of them in the crypt.”

“And what does Linda care about them?”

“They’re practically priceless, aren’t they?” inquired Gerster. “The sort of thing for which a bidder would pay plenty.”

“By a bidder,” returned Harry, “I suppose you mean Hugo Atmore.”

There was a slight wince from Gerster at mention of the art dealer. Jeff gave a quick glance toward Harry, then covered it with a hard, steady stare.

“Unless Elliot Huxford goes higher.”

“Why should he?” queried Harry. “Huxford hasn’t been selling phoney art stuff.”

“But Atmore has,” argued Gerster, “and that’s enough for Huxford. He’s branded Atmore for the fraud he is and would probably like to see the proof.”

It sounded fair enough, even from Jeff Gerster. Of course it was part of Jeff’s act to discuss matters openly and logically as a means of covering what he didn’t want to talk about.

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