Dead Men Live

by Grant Maxwell

Yet he also possessed a reasoning mind. He knew from what both Biff Towley and Ivan Orlinov had told him that the previous secretary here had proven false.

Cliff pictured a situation very much like this one — a man, left alone in the living room, while the others, probably the very two who had just departed, went away to discuss matters of importance. Cliff's predecessor had evidently pried, and had doubtless paid for his temerity with his life. That, instead of being a restraint to Cliff Marsland, was an incentive. So far, Orlinov had trusted him. Cliff was armed, and capable of taking care of himself. There was only one reason for caution. He must not reveal his game because of The Shadow. Nevertheless, Cliff was determined to make use of the present opportunity.

This living room was in the center portion of the house. It led directly to the hall. There was no reason why Cliff should not go into the hall. So he arose and strolled in that direction. In the hall, he observed the door that led to the mystery wing. The door was a sliding one, and it was partly opened.

Cliff laughed softly. He saw it as a trap. Idly, he lighted a cigarette and sauntered to the front door, where he made his exit to the porch.

Two courses seemed apparent. One was to go back and enter that open door. That, to Cliff meant certain trouble. It was too obviously a test to sound him out. The other course was to do nothing; to be content with knowing that Glade Tremont had come to Glendale.

Neither of these plans appealed. Cliff sought a scheme that would have the advantage of both and the disadvantage of neither. He stared toward the silent wing of the house. Somewhere, there, Tremont and Orlinov were in conference. Cliff wondered what The Shadow would do if he were here. Perhaps The Shadow might be here. That was pure speculation. However, the thought brought inspiration. Cliff's problem was to enter the mysterious section of the house without going through the open door. Scaling the wall would be a dangerous task. The windows of the ground floor were barred; those above were likewise protected. Furthermore, Cliff knew that watchful men were likely to be prowling the grounds about the house.

Then he thought of the turrets. Two of them, large and imposing, towered above the front of the house. There were others at the joint of each wing.

Between them were battlements — high walls of stone that copied the pattern of grim, old-time fortresses. Nonchalantly, Cliff sauntered back into the house and hummed softly as he strolled into the living room. There his manner changed. He peered into the deserted hall, to make sure that no one was watching from that partly opened door. The inspection convinced him that whoever might be lying in wait was well past the inviting barrier.

Softly, Cliff stole to the rear of the hall, and ascended the steps that led to the second floor. This was a little-used portion of the house. It had no connection with any portion other than the central hallway.

At the front of the second story were two doors, one for each of the disused turrets. Cliff tried the door on the side toward the mystery wing. He found it locked, but not formidably. He opened it with a skeleton key, and ascended a winding stairway, which terminated in a small room within the expanding turret.