Maxwell Grant
The Crime Cult
CHAPTER I
SEALED LIPS
A SUDDEN chill swept over Don Hasbrouck as he reached forward to place his hand upon the bell. He hesitated. He looked upward to the black windows and strange turrets of the old stone house. The cold, driving rain pelted into his face. The night — or the dismal, sinister mansion itself — brought instinctive fear deep into the man on the steps.
Hasbrouck straightened his shoulders. He couldn’t tell, for the life of him, why he hesitated, or from whence came that eerie feeling.
He was at the end of a trail, ready to enter a place that he knew well. There was no one in the gloomy house who could harm him. Reason told him that. But instinct, some age-old secret dread, fought against reason.
A shrill night wind whistled through the narrow uptown street, as if to shriek a warning. And, suddenly, Hasbrouck, in the midst of Manhattan, felt isolated and insecure.
Hasbrouck’s finger crept forward. Deliberately, he pressed the bell. The wind had died down. Now, from the depths of the house, he heard a single, muffled note, like that of a ghostly gong struck in somber silence.
The sound quickened Hasbrouck’s qualms. As he waited, he felt a sudden desire to turn and dash down the stone steps behind him. The darkness of the night seemed safer than the gloom that lay ahead.
He waited. The door creaked slowly open. With a quick effort, Hasbrouck stepped into the dimly lit vestibule.
Before him, a quiet, pale-faced young man — a servant, to judge from his black garb — moved noiselessly aside to let him enter.
“Good evening, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the young man, in a monotone. “Mr. Glendenning is expecting you. He has stayed up to see you. I shall tell him that you are here.”
Standing in the gloomy hallway, Hasbrouck watched the young man ascend the stairs. The regularity of the man’s step made him appear like a mechanical figure.
Now, within the portals of the old house, Hasbrouck strove to fight off that fearful impression which had gripped him so surprisingly. But it remained.
Hasbrouck turned quickly, in response to an unknown impulse. He stared at the dark velvet curtains that hung in front of the entrance to a side room. He reached forward and pressed his hand against one curtain. The heavy cloth wavered beneath his touch.
What lay in the darkness beyond?
A shudder shook Hasbrouck’s shoulders. His hand dropped quickly to his side. From the direction of the stairway came the sound of footsteps. The young man was returning. Hasbrouck assumed an attitude of composure.
“Come right up, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the calm voice.
Hasbrouck felt less uneasy as he ascended the stairs and reached the second-story hall. A door was open at the front of the building. Passing the young man, Hasbrouck entered the front room alone.
An old man reclined in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows. He was attired in a dressing gown. His thin, gray hair heightened his aged appearance. A crop of white stubble covered his face. This was the recluse, Clinton Glendenning. His face was lined with marks of gloom and discontent.
The sight of this individual was momentarily reassuring to Don Hasbrouck. Clinton Glendenning was a man whom one might pity, but certainly not fear.
Hasbrouck, tall and hawklike, loomed like a human scarecrow in the center of the room. He felt a certain superiority over his host, as he went to the chair toward which old Glendenning motioned.
“Come in, Larkin!” rasped Glendenning.
The quiet-faced man at the door obeyed. He closed the door behind him, and stood within, in the attitude of a servant awaiting his master’s next order.
AN oddly assorted trio! Larkin was the only one who presented a neat appearance. He was virtually self-effacing as he stood beside the door. His pale face formed a marked contrast to the dark, well-pressed suit he wore.
“Well?” questioned old Glendenning shrilly. “What do you want, Hasbrouck? Why have you come here?”
“The usual matter, Mr. Glendenning,” replied Hasbrouck, in a deliberate tone. “I am still searching for Robert Buchanan.”
“Why annoy me, then?” responded the old man testily. “I have told you several times that I have no idea where he may be.”
“I thought perhaps that you might have received some news. It has been two weeks since I last called to see you.”
Glendenning’s eyes flashed suddenly. The steely glint surprised Hasbrouck. His gaze dropped to the arms of Glendenning’s chair, and he observed the old man’s clawlike hands as they gripped the arms.
There was strength in Glendenning’s thin, curved fingers — remarkable strength. It was something that Hasbrouck had not noticed before.
He began to feel uneasy again. Sensing hostility on the part of his unwilling host, Hasbrouck sought to give an explanation of his visit. He glanced toward Larkin, at the door. The pale-faced man had not changed his position.
“I do not wish to annoy you, Mr. Glendenning,” said Hasbrouck. “At the same time, you must understand that it is my business to trace young Buchanan.
“So far, I have uncovered only one important fact. Robert Buchanan was engaged to your niece, Margaret Glendenning. The girl favored an early marriage. You opposed it. The last night that Buchanan was seen was the night he came here to discuss the marriage with you—”
“Why go into that?” demanded the old man angrily. “We talked about that the last time you were here. That’s true, isn’t it, Larkin?”
The quiet-faced man nodded.
“Why annoy me, then?” repeated Glendenning, turning to Don Hasbrouck. “Larkin is my secretary. He attends to such minor matters as this. Should we hear anything from Robert Buchanan” — there was biting sarcasm in the old man’s tone — “Larkin will inform you. I have your card, here.”
Glendenning reached in the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a card, which he held so Hasbrouck could see it. On the card was inscribed:
DON HASBROUCK
Hasbrouck Detective Agency
Hasbrouck watched while old Glendenning fumbled with the card. A sinister expression played upon the gray-haired man’s lips. Seeing it, Hasbrouck felt a return of that dread which had almost overpowered him before.
What were the thoughts in the old man’s mind? What did he know that he had not told? Hasbrouck was determined to learn. Trying to catch Glendenning unaware, he sprang a sudden question.
“Did you ever hear of a man named Jerry Middleton?”
Glendenning looked up.
“No,” he replied. “I do not recall any person by that name.”
“A friend of Buchanan’s?” prompted Hasbrouck.
“I never heard of him.”
“The reason I asked,” explained Hasbrouck, “is because Buchanan and Middleton were close friends. Before Buchanan came to this house — on that last night — he spent a few hours with Middleton.”
“I suppose Middleton is missing, also,” said Glendenning, dryly.
“He is,” admitted Hasbrouck, “but there is no mystery about that. He is always a difficult man to find. Middleton is a young man, of considerable wealth. He goes in for the unusual. Always seeks new thrills. He becomes bored in New York, and travels about the country.
“The last I knew about him, was the same night that Buchanan vanished. Middleton left for Florida that very night.”
“Perhaps Buchanan went with him.”
There was a subtle tone in the old man’s remark.
“Perhaps,” agreed Hasbrouck. “But there is no proof of it; and Buchanan does not have Middleton’s habit of dropping out of sight. However” — he paused, then decided to continue — “that matter will be settled tonight.
“Middleton is coming to New York. He has an appointment with a friend. I expect to meet him at the friend’s home and learn what he knows.”