THE GROVE OF DOOM
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” September 1, 1933.
Death lurked in this grove of beautiful trees - death that stalked an estranged family. How did The Shadow learn the answer?
CHAPTER I
THE ARRIVAL
LONG ISLAND SOUND lay blanketed with a dense, sullen mist. From the shore, the heavy fog appeared as a grimy mass of solid blackness. The scene was one of swirling, impenetrable night, for not a gleam of light disturbed that omnipresent darkness.
No eye could have discerned the spot where shore ceased and water began. The rocks beside the beach were invisible, and so was the man who stood near them. The only token of his presence was the sound of his slow, steady breathing, broken by the low, impatient growls that came muffled from his throat.
Beneath his feet, this man could feel the crunch of sand. Listening intently, he could catch the faint lapping of the water as it gnawed the fringe of the sloping beach. Every noise that came from the fog-covered reaches of the Sound caused this man to stop his slow pacing.
The faint chugging of a motorboat; the distant deep-blasted whistle of a passing steamship - these evidences of human beings far out upon the water were not what the man awaited. He was watching uselessly, listening vainly, hoping for a more subtle signal.
A dimly luminous circle showed upon the man’s wrist. It was the dial of a watch. It registered three o’clock. The man growled angrily. This vigil had persisted for three hours, but no result had been obtained.
The fog that had imperiled navigation upon Long Island Sound was evidently playing hob with well-calculated plans. No ray of light could reach this shore. Even sounds were muffled by the shroud of never-ceasing mist.
The waiting man did not end his watchfulness. His slow, incessant paces dug deep into the dampness of the sand. He scruffed the granular material with his toes, as though to obliterate the marks that he had made. Suddenly, he came to a standstill, listening once more.
Through the fog came a strange, awesome sound. It was a low, penetrating whistle that carried a peculiar note. In this environment, that floating noise was frightening as it came from the seemingly solid sand bank. But fear was not the emotion that possessed the man who heard the whistle. That was the signal he had expected. With fingers to his mouth, the waiting man emitted a similar sound.
A LONG pause followed. A chance drifting of the fog opened a momentary space out beyond the shore. Glimmering lights, high up, cast a dull glare that showed the forms of bare square-rigged masts.
Lower lights flickered, displaying a glimpse of a phantom ship. Then the fog rolled downward like a final curtain, and blotted out the grotesque vision.
The man on the shore entertained no doubts as to the reality of the ghostly ship. A superstitious sailor might have classed it as an appearance of the Flying Dutchman, reputed haunter of the high seas. But to the landsman, this passing glimpse was the very sight that he had hoped to see.
His guarded whistle was repeated. An electric torch clicked in his hand. He turned the brilliant spot of light toward the unseen boat, and swung his arm in a repeated signal.
Creaking sounds came across the water. A boat was being lowered from the sailing ship. The diminishing of the noise indicated that the square-rigger was drifting away from the danger of shoal water.
The waiting man turned out his light and made another short whistle. He repeated this at intervals, to guide those who might be approaching.
The clicking of oarlocks was his reward. With oars muffled, the small boat was heading toward the beach. The light was on again now, whirling in wide sweeps, as the anxious man sought to give his exact position. The sullen fog threw back the shaft of light, but rays were filtering through the gloom sufficiently to guide those who were arriving.
A small boat landed with surprising suddenness, its prow grinding in the sand. Less than twenty feet away from the man on the shore, the occupants of the little boat were clearly outlined by the light.
Four men leaped over the side. Knee-deep in the water, they lifted a heavy, cubical object from the center of the boat, and came staggering to the shore. Dark-skinned, bare-legged Malays, these men were silent as they placed the box directly in front of the glaring light.
With apparent unconcern, they waded back to the boat, and brought out a second box - the replica of the first. A few minutes later, the two boxes were side by side upon the beach.
During all this operation, the Malays had not glimpsed the man who stood behind the light. They were working in accord with some prescribed arrangement. Their task now finished, they splashed back to the little boat and climbed aboard. The oarlocks creaked as the boat disappeared into the misty fog.
The man on shore listened, apparently anxious to be sure that the mysterious visitors were gone. A faint whistle signal served to guide the Malays back to their ship. Then came almost inaudible creaking as the little boat was raised to the deck of the invisible square-rigger. After that, long silence.
HIS torch no longer lighted, the man on the shore stood motionless. The whole strange affair might have been nothing more than a fantasy - a strange dream possessing no more solid substance than the hovering fog.
But now the torch came on again, its glare turned downward. Beneath its light was the concrete evidence of what had occurred upon this lonely beach. There rested the two square boxes - bulky containers composed of foam-sprayed wood.
The man examined each of the boxes in turn. The heavy objects were constructed to withstand rough shipment. The tops were indicated by lids that were firmly nailed in place. The sides were studded with small holes that formed black spots when the lights fell upon them.
Cryptic markings had been painted on the covers of the boxes. The inspecting man studied these with care. He laughed gruffly as he laid the torch upon one box so that it threw its light upon the other, over which he now leaned.
Focused within the rays of the light, his head and shoulders alone were visible; but the man’s face was turned downward toward the box. From beneath the visor of a rough cloth cap, the man examined the marking on the box lid to make sure he had chosen the one he desired.
Satisfied, he walked away; when he returned, he was carrying a hammer and a short crowbar. Leaning over the lighted box, he tapped twice upon the lid. He placed his ear against the wood and listened for an echoed response.
There was no deliberation in the man’s next action. He set to work with the tools, prying the lid from the box. His shoulders heaved like pistons in the light, but despite the effectiveness of the effort, the job was virtually soundless.
The dampened wood responded silently. A portion of the cover broke loose at one end; then another chunk; finally, the whole lid was loose. Swinging between the light and the box, the man reached the other side of the container, and raised the whole lid en masse. He stepped back, and his clenched hands showed the hammer in one, the crowbar in the other. The man was watching the opened box intently.
Two hands appeared. They gripped the sides at the top. The hands were gnarled and yellowish in the gleam of the electric torch.
Then a form arose from within the box. Head, shoulders, then a body appeared. A short, wiry Chinaman stood within the range of light.
THE man’s face was as yellow as his hands. It was a placid, solemn face, but it wore a malignant expression that would have befitted an evil idol. That pockmarked countenance, with its slowly blinking eyelids, seemed scarcely human. With the swirling fog as a background, the yellow visage might have been one of those clouded
