“Have you learned any facts?”
“Not many, but I’m working on a clue. I suppose you’ve read about the Pearson case. Well, here’s the way I’ve doped it. Pearson was playing golf the afternoon before he disappeared. We got reports on his actions here. It seems he was out with some other players, and he quit the game on the thirteenth hole. Took a shortcut to the clubhouse, and was gone when his friends came in.
“Well, it may sound like blind-man’s buff, but I’m going to try to put myself in Pearson’s place. I’m going to look around there by the thirteenth hole. Maybe I’ll get a start; if I do, I’ll vanish like Pearson did - and when I come back to town, I may be able to report where he is.”
Cranston chuckled slightly. Jessup, by the window, heard him speak to Merrick before departing.
“Good luck to you, Merrick,” were Cranston’s words. “I’ll have to leave you; I’m going out with a foursome.”
As the two men left the veranda, Jessup’s long, thin face peeked into view. He saw Merrick, the detective, strolling down a flight of steps. Cranston was going in the opposite direction.
Jessup waited.
FOR some unknown reason, this lanky, furtive man was keenly interested in the conversation that he had overheard. There was no doubt about his purpose here; he had come to learn if anyone at the club was perturbed about the disappearance of Walter Pearson. Through coincidence and quick action, Jessup had gained certain knowledge.
Now, as he stalked toward the veranda, Jessup was particularly concerned with the actions of one man - Calvin Merrick, the detective. Coming through the door, Jessup watched the sleuth idling across the space between the clubhouse and the links. It was obvious that Merrick intended to go down to the thirteenth green in the near future.
Reentering the clubhouse, Jessup found an obscure telephone in the corner. He dropped a nickel in the slot, and called a number. When a voice responded, he spoke a few cryptic words into the mouthpiece. Evidently the person at the other end understood his brief jargon. Jessup hung up the phone.
Going back to the veranda, Jessup again sighted Calvin Merrick. The detective was smoking a cigarette, staring across the links toward the shore of the Sound. Jessup strolled away, heading for his parked car.
In his study of Merrick, Jessup had completely eliminated all thought of the other man - Lamont Cranston. Only the detective concerned Jessup; for Jessup had classed Cranston as one of the wealthy idlers who formed the principal members of the wealthy Beechview Club.
Cranston had expressed but a passing interest in Merrick’s statements. Evidently Cranston had met the detective some time in the past, and the two were no more than mere acquaintances. They had separated now; Merrick to investigate, Cranston to play golf. They had nothing in common. Jessup smiled dryly as he glanced over his shoulder for a final glimpse of Calvin Merrick’s stocky form.
FOUR men were standing on the first tee as Jessup’s car drove by. One of them, peering sharply from the corner of his eyes, watched the departing automobile. That man was Lamont Cranston.
As the member of a foursome, he had silently observed Jessup when the man had appeared upon the veranda. He had seen Jessup watching Calvin Merrick.
Three of the golfers had driven from the tee. Lamont Cranston set up his ball, and sent a long shot straight down the fairway. As the players and caddies started off toward the hole, Cranston remained alone.
Watching, he saw the automobile speeding along the curving road, far away, following the winding course that led down to the cove by Lower Beechview. Lamont Cranston’s eyes were keen, his firm, stern-chiseled face was emotionless.
From thin, straight lips came a low, sinister laugh. It was a tone of knowing mirth - a foreboding mockery that carried an uncanny spell. None heard it, for Lamont Cranston was alone. That laugh, far from all listeners, announced an identity that none would have expected to find in this particular place.
It was a laugh that had brought terror to the underworld; a laugh that had taunted fiends of crime; a laugh that had marked the ending of insidious schemes, and had sounded as the death knell to doomed evil-doers.
The author of that laugh was a mysterious being who remained invisible at night, and who disguised himself by day. He was a personage who could seemingly be everywhere, the possessor of a master mind that could frustrate the deepest schemes of crime.
Only one pair of lips could utter that weird mockery that left no doubt of identity. The laugh of Lamont Cranston was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER V
THE CLUTCH OF DEATH
A GOLF ball dropped from space, and thudded on the close-clipped green of the thirteenth hole. A few moments later, two other spheroids made a similar arrival. Then players and caddies approached and walked upon the green toward the balls.
One of the men was Lamont Cranston.
While the others were studying the positions of the golf balls, Cranston strolled toward the bunkers beyond the green. From this position, he could watch the actions of a man who stood upon the sandy shore.
None of Cranston’s companions were similarly observant. They were looking back toward the fourth member of the foursome who had just found his ball, and was playing it from the rough.
The man whose activities commanded Lamont Cranston’s attention was Calvin Merrick. Until a few minutes before, Merrick had been walking about the green. Now he was examining a scruffed section of the sand beside the water.
Cranston watched while the detective walked along the shore, noting a succession of marks that led past the bunkers to skirt the woods. These were Mildred Chittenden’s footprints. Cranston turned back to the game long enough to sink a perfect putt. Then, as he followed his companions to the fourteenth tee, he watched Merrick returning to the green which the players had just left.
So engrossed was the detective that he did not notice the men upon the tee. Only Cranston was watching him.
Merrick was trying to visualize the situation that had existed here the day when Walter Pearson had last been seen. Finally, with an unconscious shrug of his shoulders, the baffled sleuth walked slowly toward the fairway along which he had come.
The fourteenth tee was more distant from the grove of beeches than was the thirteenth hole. Lamont Cranston and his companions played off, then started up the fourteenth fairway, away from the Sound. Simultaneously, Calvin Merrick, still in deep thought, stopped his advance and moved over to the edge of the trees.
Cranston, well up the fourteenth fairway, turned and saw the detective. Merrick had stopped just on the fringe of the woods. Cranston watched him intently, expecting that Merrick would come back to the thirteenth fairway.
It was then that the detective performed the unexpected. Acting upon a sudden impulse, he walked directly into the grove.
Merrick was gone in an instant, his dark-checkered suit merging with the gloom beneath the beeches. Cranston, still intent, divined the detective’s purpose. It must have occurred to Merrick that the route straight through the woods would be the course that Walter Pearson must have followed. The detective was going over the exact ground, taking advantage of the one clue that he possessed.
Unlike Mildred Chittenden, Lamont Cranston had not sensed the peculiar lure of those copper beeches. Even to his eagle eye, they were nothing more than a thick woods of uniform appearance. Yet an unusual expression appeared upon Cranston’s inflexible face. It was seldom that Cranston’s countenance displayed any noticeable sign. The passing expression faded. Cranston went on with his game.
Cranston’s surmise was a correct one. Calvin Merrick, after his examination of both beach and green, had decided that no marks were of importance. He had started back toward the clubhouse, when the thought of the shortcut had attracted him.
His first motion toward the beeches had been one of momentary curiosity. Once beneath the fringe of the
