Maxwell Grant
The Shadow Laughs
CHAPTER I
DEATH INTERRUPTS
A taxicab skirted around the corner. Violently, brakes clamped on before the third house in the row. An odd, elongated figure stepped briskly to the sidewalk, hurriedly thrust a bill into the driver’s hand, and then, looking neither to right nor left, hurried up the steps to the house.
Within the hallway, the man stood for a moment, as though enjoying a sense of security for that brief interval.
The dim light revealed his thin, pale face, and his slightly stooped figure, clad in a poorly fitted gray suit. He was about thirty-five years of age, but the worried expression of his features made him look older.
A middle-aged woman came down the stairs and smiled as she greeted the new arrival.
“I hadn’t expected you for another week, Mr. Jarnow,” she said, “but your room is ready.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” returned the man at the door. “You’re always ready here. This is one rooming house that seems like home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jarnow. But I am sorry that you had to come back to Philadelphia during this hot spell. The last few days have been scorchers. You must have found it cooler, away from town—”
“I had to hurry back, because I’m expecting a visitor — a Mr. Windsor. Has he come?”
“No one has called to see you.”
“If he comes, send him up, please. But make sure it is Mr. Windsor.”
Jarnow hurried up the stairs and entered a room at the back of the house. He went to the window, opened it, and peered down into the narrow alley below. Then he closed the window, and drew the shade to its full extent.
Having concluded these precautions, he turned on a study lamp that hung above a small table, and locked the door of the room.
A glance at his watch showed eight o’clock.
“He should be here now,” muttered Jarnow. “He said he would come, and he should be here by now.”
A minute ticked by, and the man in the room became restless. He paced the floor back and forth, his hands closing and opening nervously. He stopped by the door to listen. While he stood there, intent, he heard voices in the hallway.
There was a tap at the door, and the man drew back as though afraid. Then came the voice of the landlady.
“Mr. Windsor is here.”
Jarnow unlocked the door, and admitted the visitor.
The newcomer was faultlessly attired in a tuxedo, and his rather jolly expression contrasted noticeably with Jarnow’s serious face.
“Hello, Frank,” said the visitor. “Here I am; just about on the dot. Glad to see you. What’s all the excitement about?”
Jarnow closed the door, withdrawing the key as the lock clicked, and motioned his visitor to a chair beside the table. Windsor had been drinking; his unsteadiness betrayed him even more than his speech.
“You seem rather mysterious, Frank,” said Windsor, in an indulgent tone, as the tall man took the chair on the opposite side of the table. “What’s it all about?”
“It’s a serious matter, Henry,” replied Jarnow, dropping the key into his coat pocket. “I’ve just come from Brookdale.”
“Is — is — anything wrong with Blair?” questioned Windsor, assuming an air of drunken seriousness. “Is anything wrong? Couldn’t be anything wrong with good old Blair?”
“Your brother is all right,” said Jarnow, grimly. “All right, so far as health is concerned. But there is danger there, Henry. Serious danger.
“You’ve got to sober up, Henry. I have important facts to tell you. You must believe what I say.”
Henry Windsor tilted his head to one side. He was a man past forty, and his pudgy face seemed both solemn and ridiculous. He appeared to be listening seriously, but Jarnow groaned as he realized that it would be difficult to gain the man’s attention. Henry Windsor had unquestionably reached a state of almost hopeless intoxication.
“I wish you were sober,” said Jarnow. “I’ve got to talk to you now, Henry. I can’t wait until tomorrow. It is a matter on which life depends.”
“Blair is in danger?” asked Henry Windsor. “Tell me about it, Frank. I’ll do anything to help Blair. He’s my only brother, Frank. My kid brother. Ten years younger than I am. Means a lot to me, Frank. Don’t say anything’s wrong with Blair.”
“Listen, Henry,” exclaimed Jarnow. “Forget your brother for a minute. I want to talk to you — about yourself. You are in danger. Real danger—”
“I can’t forget Blair,” interrupted Henry Windsor, in pathetic tones. “He’s all I’ve got in the world, Frank. He’s made good, that boy.
“You know, Frank, when our grandfather died, he left me nearly half a million, and he gave Blair only fifty thousand. Look at me now — I’ve got all my money yet, but no more. Live off the interest — that’s what I do.
“Blair didn’t have enough to live off the interest. He left Philadelphia. He went away — up to Boston, you know. Made money there. Maybe he’s worth as much as I am, now. He deserves it, Frank. He’s going to get my pile of dough when I die. He’s younger than I am, Frank. He’ll live longer—”
“Steady up, Henry!” interrupted Frank Jarnow. “Keep quiet, and listen to me. I know all about your money, and that’s where the danger lies.
“Something has happened, Henry; it affects both you and Blair. I want you to know all about it before it is too late.”
Henry Windsor lurched forward slightly in his chair, then steadied himself against the table. He propped his chin on one hand, and seemed to make an effort to listen intelligently. He had gained a temporary soberness that gave reassurance to Frank Jarnow.
The tall man looked nervously about the room; then leaned forward and spoke in a low, firm voice.
“I arrived at Brookdale two days ago,” he said. “I was to stay two weeks. Blair told me to stay as long as I wished. There are several people staying there. I thought they were friends of Blair’s; but I found out—”
He paused. Henry Windsor’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be half asleep. Jarnow reached across the table, and shook the man impatiently.
“Stop it!” exclaimed Windsor, starting to rise from the table in sudden anger. Jarnow pushed him back into the chair.
“You’ll be sorry for this!” cried Henry Windsor, indignantly. “Don’t try that again. You’ll be mighty sorry for it.”
“Listen to me,” said Jarnow. His voice carried a command. “I suspected something the first day that I was at Brookdale. I investigated on the second day. This morning I discovered the truth. I found this here—”
He drew a small sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it before Henry Windsor’s eyes.
“Can’t read it without my glasses,” said the other man. “Read it to me, Frank. What does it say?”
“It says,” replied Jarnow, “that Blair Windsor—”
His lips became rigid. He was staring over Henry Windsor’s head, toward the door beyond.
“What does it say?” questioned Henry Windsor.
Two shots reverberated through the little room. Frank Jarnow sprawled across the table, one hand firmly clutching the sheet of paper, the other extended against Henry Windsor’s shoulder. Windsor, half rising, nearly toppled to the table.
The light clicked out.
“Frank,” mumbled Henry Windsor. “Speak to me, Frank!”
Befuddled though he was, he fancied he heard Frank Jarnow moving by the table. He reached out to steady himself and his hand rested on Jarnow’s neck.
Groping along the table, Henry Windsor touched metal, and his fingers clutched the handle of a revolver.
There was a crash at the door. The wooden barrier gave slightly; excited voices were shouting outside. Henry Windsor became suddenly aroused.