The Shadow - Serpents Of Siva Part 1

SERPENTS OF SIVA.

by Maxwell Grant.

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 15, 1938.

The Shadow is ensnared by the mystic power of the East, when Serpents of Siva entangle him in their deadly coils!

CHAPTER I.

WALLS OF DEATH.

THE taxicab swung from the avenue, rolled past the lighted front of a big apartment house. With that, the bleak darkness of the side street engulfed it, save for the twinkle of the cab's tail-light that formed a feeble, fading dot.

A chill wind swept that forgotten street, like the icy fingers of a death-devil clutching for human prey. The gust whistled, whimpered through the open windows of the cab, but the lone pa.s.senger did not notice it.

He was too busy, craning toward the blackish tomblike fronts of brownstone houses. His squinty eyes were looking for a number, while his pudgy lips muttered oaths because he could not see it.

They were all alike, these houses - old, dingy, almost-forgotten, in a portion of Manhattan so neglected that even the street lamps were inadequate.

Then, like a rift in that monotonous wall line, came the spot that the pa.s.senger wanted. He snarled for the driver to stop the cab. It halted in front of a door that had a light above it. That glow came through a gla.s.s transom that bore the house number.

The pa.s.senger alighted. He paid the driver and ascended the high steps.

Fumbling in the darkness, he found a bell b.u.t.ton. When he pressed it, his ears caught a melancholy response from a distant bell. There was something ghostly in its tone; it seemed as rusted as the clank of ancient chains.

A chill caught the visitor. He glanced along the street; the lights from that back corner looked far away. He was impressed by the grim solitude of these steps; for only that light above the door showed life. The houses on each side were stark and vacant; ghoulish vaults that squeezed this ancient mansion between their barren walls.

There was the grate of a bolt, the screech of hinges. The door swung inward; though the way was partly blocked, the visitor shouldered through.

Anything was better than that chilly outside darkness, where the wind warned with its whispers.

Reaching the hallway, the visitor stood in the light. His peaked face showed sallow, with its squinty eyes and twitchy lips. Those marks, however, were due to dissipation; for the visitor was youthful. In that last quality, he differed from the man who had admitted him.

Turning toward the vestibule through which he had shoved his way, the visitor saw a white-haired man with wrinkled face, whose eyes made little beads. Lips were withery beneath a high-bridged nose. The old man's attire was of simple black, including the thin bow tie that showed against his pointed collar.

The sallow visitor managed a smile.

"h.e.l.lo," he greeted, in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "My name is Jack Sarmon. I've come to see Morton Mayland." The old man gave a dry smile. It didn't please Sarmon. He had no liking for flunkies who thought themselves important. He squinted shrewdly, waiting his chance to show this fellow his place.

"May I inquire," clucked the old man, "just why you wish to see Mr.

Mayland?"

"Sure," returned Sarmon. "I want to talk to his granddaughter, Lucille.

I've heard the old man raises a squawk about people coming to see her. But he won't, in my case. Not when he knows why I'm here."

The white-haired man made no reply. He reached for the visitor's hat and coat, hung them on a hook beside the stairway. Beckoning, he conducted Sarmon up the stairs. Steps creaked as they ascended; along the way, Sarmon saw cl.u.s.ters of cobwebs. Then came a long hall; finally, a door.

The old man knocked; held his head tilted, until he received a reply.

Opening the door, he motioned the visitor through.

JACK SARMON stepped into a well-lighted, comfortably furnished living room, to face a girl who had risen to receive him. She was alone in the room - a fact that puzzled Sarmon, particularly when he recognized her.

The girl was Lucille Mayland. She looked beautiful when Sarmon faced her; in fact, her appearance was more striking than he had remembered. That, perhaps, was due to her well-chosen costume.

Lucille Mayland was a p.r.o.nounced brunette; her black hair had a ravenish glisten, against which her skin showed very white and clear. Her costume, tonight, consisted of black lounging pajamas with sandal slippers to match.

That get-up was admirably suited to her.

Sarmon saw darkish eyes beneath thin-penciled brows; a nose that was thin but well-formed; lips that had just the right ruddiness, above an oval chin.

There was calmness in Lucille's manner; she evidenced it in her low-modulated voice.

"h.e.l.lo, Jack!" Lucille placed a long, black cigarette holder to her lips, puffed a slow curl of smoke. "You have come to tell me something about Courtney Rensh.e.l.l?"

Sarmon nodded. He couldn't find his voice right then.

"Whatever it is" - Lucille was frigid - "I do not care to hear it. I am no longer interested in anything that concerns Mr. Rensh.e.l.l!"

"I am, though!" blurted Sarmon. "I've got a lot of things I want to talk to Court about. He's a good friend of mine -"

"Then why not see him yourself?"

"Because he's disappeared! I just found it out, yesterday, when I came in unexpectedly from Chicago."

Lucille shrugged. She turned away, to extinguish her cigarette in an ash tray. Sarmon followed her, speaking in persistent tone.

"You've got to listen, Lucille!" he insisted. "You were engaged to Court.

What's broken it up, I don't know - but, certainly, you ought to have some regard for him. Matters aren't right, I tell you!"

The statement did not change Lucille's att.i.tude. Sarmon became excited.

"Something's happened to Court!" he added. "His apartment is cleaned out -.

empty - and something more." The young man lowered his tone. "There was a big box shipped out of there. The janitor said it looked like a coffin -"

A sound interrupted. It was the click of the door. Sarmon turned about, to view the white-haired man who had admitted him. The fellow approached, chuckling to himself. Sarmon protested to Lucille.

"What's the idea of this?" he demanded. "Does this flunky have to b.u.t.t into our conversation?" There was a flash of Lucille's eyes as she turned.

"This gentleman," she told Sarmon, "happens to be my grandfather. We have no servant in this house."

Sarmon gaped. He tried to mumble an apology. Old Morton Mayland did not seem to want one. He chuckled, as though he regarded the mistake as a joke.

With clawlike hand, he clapped Sarmon on the back.

"Come along, young man," said Mayland, dryly. "I can explain this problem for you."

THEY went out, closing the door to leave Lucille alone. On the stairway, Mayland produced a folded paper. He opened it, with the comment: "A letter that Courtney Rensh.e.l.l wrote to me."

Sarmon read the letter. It was dated a week ago, from Havana. It stated bluntly that Rensh.e.l.l had not visited Lucille before his departure, because he felt that she did not care to see him.

"Just another tiff," cackled Mayland. "They have had them frequently, you know."

Sarmon nodded. He spoke reflectively, as they descended the stairs.

"Havana," recalled Sarmon. "Court was there six months ago. I wonder why he went back?"

"The climate," suggested Mayland. "Or perhaps -"

Sarmon caught the wise chuckle in the old man's tone.

"A girl down there?" Sarmon shook him head. "No, I don't think Court would go for a Cuban senorita. Listen, Mr. Mayland; you heard what I said upstairs.

I.

still think that something is wrong. I'm going to find out more about that box that was shipped from Court's apartment."

They were at the foot of the stairs. Mayland smiled and bowed good-night.

Sarmon went to the rear of the hallway, to get his hat and coat. He heard the old man's footsteps shuffling upward.

Evidently, Mayland wanted him to show himself out. That didn't bother Sarmon; what did trouble him was the fact that he couldn't find his hat and coat. He thought that he had seen Mayland put them on a hook; but they were no longer there.

Groping in the darkness at the rear wall, Sarmon found nothing but the smoothness of the woodwork. He turned about, intending to go to the stairs and call up for Mayland. He changed that intention before he had moved three steps.

A sound caused Sarmon's shift of policy. It was much like the sound that he had heard upstairs: the click of a door. But there was no door in this rear hallway; none that the visitor could see. The fact puzzled him, and his bewilderment was the beginning of a final confusion.

Something slicked from the darkness behind him. A lash, thinner than the slenderest of whips, slithered about the young man's neck. He sped his hands to his throat, but Sarmon's sallow lips could not give the cry that his vocal cords sought to produce.

The thin cord tightened. Sarmon's eyes bulged. His gargle was almost soundless, for it was deep in his tortured throat. His knees caved; his body sagged to the floor, slumping softly.

With one last upward look, Jack Sarmon saw a darkish face, barely distinguishable in the hallway gloom. He heard a hiss, low, snakish, fearsome.

An instant later, all went black; the victim's ears were tormented with a roar that split his head. Those were his last living sensations.

The snakish hiss was repeated.

Hands came from an opened panel at the rear of the hall. The dead form of Jack Sarmon was eased through. With padded tread, the murderer followed, hisbody contorted in reptilian fashion.

THERE was a brief interval. A man stepped from the panel, m.u.f.fled in Sarmon's coat, the victim's hat upon his head. With direct stride, the man went out through the hall and opened the front door. He slammed it, as he stepped out into the night.

Timed to that slam came the click of the closing panel, as unseen hands drew it shut.

The door slam must have been heard upstairs. Old Morton Mayland came down with brisk steps. He reached the front door, opened it an inch. Outside, he discerned the man in hat and overcoat, under the dim glow of a street light, beckoning for a cab at the corner.

Mayland closed the front door and bolted it. His smile was cryptic as he returned upstairs.

Walls of doom had taken their toll. In this sinister mansion, isolated by the companion houses that sided it, Jack Sarmon, the unwanted visitor, had found swift death.

Whatever the circ.u.mstances surrounding the disappearance of Courtney Rensh.e.l.l, the missing man's friend would not investigate them!

CHAPTER II.

ACROSS THE SOUND.

THE reserved manner that Lucille Mayland displayed was not caused by the somber setting of her grandfather's home. She showed the same pose elsewhere; even when a member of a gay group.

That was evident the next afternoon, when Lucille sat by the rail of a trim yacht that was slicing through the waters of Long Island Sound.

There were a dozen in the party; and their chat was trivial. The talk concerned the dory races that they had watched from the Regatta Club, on the north sh.o.r.e. Most of the other spectators had gone back to New York by car or train; but this crowd had accepted the yacht owner's invitation to return by way of Long Island Sound.

Seated almost alone, Lucille seemed ignorant of the fact that she made a most attractive picture. Though her manner was the same, her appearance was quite different from the night before. She was wearing a white yachting costume, instead of the black attire. She seemed out of place amid this talkative group.

There was a young man who observed that fact.

He, too, was silent and restrained; and with good reason. He had not taken this trip for fun. Serious matters lay at stake; he was hoping for a glimpse of them.

The young man's name was Harry Vincent. He was the trusted agent of a personage called The Shadow, mysterious crime-fighter whose very name struck terror to the underworld.

Conversation was not turning the way that Harry wanted. That was why he had taken a gradual interest in Lucille. She seemed the sort who would respond if serious subjects came under discussion. Those subjects, however, were the very ones that remained taboo on this occasion.

The yacht veered; spray splashed across the rail. Someone pointed toward a smaller craft that was plowing some distance ahead, almost lost in the hazy duskthat was settling over the Long Island sh.o.r.e.

"There's Rodney Welk," remarked the pointer. "He's been pacing us all the way across."

"He's showing good speed in that little cabin ship of his," came another person's comment. "No wonder! He's traveling alone."

There was a bitterness to the comment that did not pa.s.s unnoticed. It opened a brisk discussion concerning Rodney Welk; brought out facts that Harry Vincent already knew.

Welk was a wealthy young man who had a distinct aversion to companionship; probably because he had been bothered by money-seekers who claimed to be his friends. He had been at the boat races during the afternoon; as usual, he had embarked alone in his little cabin cruiser.