And now, part two of a “lost” Shadow radio mystery.
Murder Marked Merry Christmas
(Broadcast Dec. 26, 1948)
What has gone before:
Snow Cap Lodge, an idyllic winter resort has suddenly become the scene of murder. Ski instructor Alex Trenton has been killed. The wind-up music box he received as an anonymous Christmas gift had been filled with explosive.
Black smoke still billows from the room as the proprietor of the resort, a crusty old codger named Diggs, pulls up outside in his horse-drawn sleigh. He has brought two new guests from the railway station, Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane. The three run inside to find the dead body of Alex Trenton.
Also present are the portly Mr. Louis Grinnell and his wife Eliza. What the man doesn’t realize is that his wife Eliza was having a secret fling with the recently-deceased Alex Trenton. Or is he as ignorant as he seems?
There is no way for the police to get through the roads packed with ever-deepening snow until morning, but Lamont Cranston steps in to investigate.
Chapter 4
While snowflakes continued to fall outside, filling the chill air with fleecy white, inside the lodge was cozy warm. Subdued illumination of the large front room came from the cheery flames in the fireplace. A grandfather clock against the far wall began striking ten. Two figures sat upon a small sofa before the snapping fire, enjoying its snug warmth.
Eliza Grinnell and her husband sat close together looking into the dancing flames. Neither spoke. Her eyes were slightly swollen from weeping; his were hard, unforgiving. Their awkward silence was interrupted by the approach of two new arrivals.
Lamont Cranston moved into the fluttering firelight, Margo Lane at his side.
“Fire’s mighty nice on a night like this, eh, Grinnell?”
The stern-looking businessman looked up, recognizing the two guests.
“Uh… why, yes.”
“Mind if we join you,” Cranston asked.
Eliza looked up with pleading eyes, silently beseeching for some company to join them; someone to break the uneasy tension between she and her husband.
“Please do, Mr. Cranston,” she invited.
“We were just going upstairs, Cranston.”
Louis Grinnell abruptly stood, his face strained. He beckoned to his wife.
“But Louis…” she protested, mildly.
“You’re very tired, my dear.”
Margo moved forward, seeking to stall their departure.
“It must have been a terrible shock, Mrs. Grinnell. Particularly since you knew the man.”
“If you don’t mind, Miss Lane,” Grinnell was adamant, “we’d rather not discuss it.”
Cranston made a casual, but pointed comment: “I’m afraid we’ll all have to discuss it with the police, Grinnell — when they can get here.”
“We’re leaving as soon as possible after they arrive.”
“I see.”
Cranston was beginning to see. At least, a theory was beginning to form in his perceptive mind. Grinnell’s reluctance to discuss the unfortunate death of the ski master indicated he had some knowledge of the event — some information that he wanted kept under wraps. He validated that thesis with an abrupt departure.
“Good night, Mr. Cranston. Miss Lane. Come along, Eliza.”
“I…” the woman paused, seemingly wanting to say more. “Good night.”
Grinnell took his wife by the arm and the two walked from the room. Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane were left alone in the large hall. Margo stifled a yawn.
“Not exactly sociable,” she observed. “But he has something about getting some rest. I’m dead.”
“That’s too bad.”
“What?”
Margo had seen that look in his eyes before. Her friend had some plan definitely in mind. Drowsiness dropped from her eyelids. Now wide awake, she could anticipate what was coming.
“I mean,” he replied, “we’re not likely to get much sleep tonight.”
“Why not,” she asked, knowing the answer in advance.
“Because one of the three people in this lodge right now committed a murder. And you and I are going to find out who it is — tonight!”
Cranston’s hawkish, masklike countenance was one of absolute calm that hid an adventurous personality. Like a dog with a bone, the tenacious Cranston wasn’t about to let go of this mystery until he had finished with it — until the killer was revealed and the case solved.
Now was the perfect time to investigate.
Margo felt herself being drawn into yet another mystery. Not that she disapproved. She loved adventure and was just as eager for excitement as her companion.
Before this night was over, an unknown killer would be unmasked.
MINUTES LATER, two vague figures were creeping along the upper-floor hallway in near total darkness. Gas lights on the hall walls had been turned down for the night, and gave off only enough light to hint at the identity of Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane.
Guest room doors appeared as darker blotches regularly spaced down the murky passage. Margo widened her eyes in a vain effort to enhance her vision. She failed miserably, jostling into a small side table.
“Shh, Margo.”
“It’s dark out here,” she whispered. “Can’t we have some light?”
“I don’t want anybody to know we’re watching the rooms.”
Cranston found a little alcove at the back end of the hall near the top of the stair. Here they could watch out of sight. He pulled her into it. The two stood silent, motionless, looking down the gloomy expanse of the upstairs corridor.
“Now what?” Margo softly breathed.
“We wait for the killer to make the next move.”
“You mean we may have to stay here all night and…”
“Shh,” Cranston silenced her as one of the hallway doors edged open.
An ill-defined figure, difficult to identify in the poor light, closed the door and walked farther down the hall to the next room on the same side. The indistinct form went inside; the door closed quietly behind.
“Who was it?” Margo lowtoned.
“Mrs. Grinnell just left her husband. She went down the hall to her own room. Come on, maybe we can find out something.”
The two night time visitors crept from their place of concealment and slowly tiptoed their stealthy way down the hall.
“Lamont, I don’t like this. Why don’t we…”
“Stay close to me, Margo, and quiet.”
Without warning, Cranston stopped. He felt the unexpected pressure of a gun barrel jabbed stiffly in his side. A low, hard-bitten voice accompanied that sudden thrust.
“That’s a gun in your ribs, mister. Don’t move.”
Margo let out a faint scream of startlement. Cranston froze as the new figure moved from the vague doorway behind and sidled around in front.
“Who are you,” he hissed.
“The gun in my hand says I ask the questions. Who are you?”
“Lamont Cranston. This is Margo Lane. We’re guests here.”
“What are you doing, playing hide and seek in the dark?”
Cranston turned slightly, so that he was able to see the dim outline of the man who had accosted them. He looked to be of medium height, sturdy with a firm face. His steady automatic never wavered from Cranston’s side.
“We have our reasons. Incidentally, we haven’t heard who you were.”
“Nat Welsh,” the man introduced himself. “I’m a guest here, too. Stopped in the village on the way and heard about the murder. Decided not to advertise I was here.”
Now that her initial scare had passed, Margo’s fear turned to indignation.
“Do you always stop other guests with a gun in their ribs,” she demanded.
The man gave a short, harsh laugh. “I got a license for it, lady. I’m a private investigator. Thought I’d take a crack at breaking this job.”
With that, he lowered his automatic and slid it into a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. That movement allowed Cranston to relax his muscles which had been tensed, preparing to pounce.
“Oh, busman’s holiday, is that it?” the millionaire asked, keeping his voice low.
“Holiday nothing. I was working on a case. Grinnell’s had me tailing his wife and Trenton for the past month or so.”
Cranston didn’t seem surprised. “His wife and Trenton?”
“Then,” Margo surmised, “Grinnell knew his wife was a friend of Trenton’s.”
“Too bad you didn’t get here a couple of hours earlier, Welsh. You might have…”
From down the hall, a guest room door was flung open. It was the room belonging to Eliza Grinnell.
Welsh prodded, “Back in the shadow.”
From out of the open doorway staggered a woman. A spasm of coughing wracked her dim form. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
“Help,” her voice choked. “Oh, help!”
“It’s Mrs. Grinnell,” Welsh burst.
Cranston whipped from the doorway where the three had stood unobserved. He barked to his companions, “Something’s happened. Come on!”
All three dashed the length of the hall to aid the stricken woman.
“Mrs. Grinnell, what is it?” Cranston called.
The hapless woman wasn’t able to answer. Hands clawed at her throat. She couldn’t stop her attack of coughing. Weakened, she slumped to the floor.
Cranston snapped swift instructions.
“Margo, you stay out here with Mrs. Grinnell. Come on, Welsh. Let’s see what’s in her room.”
The two men surged forward. Inside they found the light on. The room was small but nicely decorated in a fashion typical for a ski lodge.
Welsh sniffed the air suspiciously. “That smell. What is it?”
“Gas!” Cranston coughed. “Poison gas. We better let some air in here.”
He grabbed the window sash and heaved upward. The stubborn window didn’t budge. Not waiting, he snatched a vase from a nearby table and hurled it at the window pane. The glass shattered outward into a thousand tiny shards, allowing a puff of fresh air to enter.
“That’s better,” he gulped.
Outside the doorway, Eliza Grinnell lay motionless on the floor with Margo huddled over her. The poor woman’s gray face was stilled. It was too late for her.
Louis Grinnell, alerted by the ruckus, bolted barefoot down the hall from his room, garbed in a dressing gown. He saw his wife laying in the corridor.
“Eliza,” he cried. “Eliza! What happened here, Miss Lane?”
Cranston moved to the doorway.
“How is she, Margo,” he wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” Margo answered reluctantly.
“Let’s see.” Cranston knelt down to check the woman’s pulse. After a moment without any response, he looked up grimly. “I’m sorry, Grinnell. I’m afraid your wife is dead.”
“Dead?” The man was stunned. “But she was in my room just a minute ago.”
Only moments earlier she had been a living, vibrant woman. Now, his wife had been cruelly taken from him. Louis Grinnell stood dazed in the badly lit hallway, shocked by the swift events.
“Wait a minute.” Cranston turned back into the room and picked up a small package that lay upon the floor. “Take a look at this.”
“A gift wrapped package. So what?” Welsh noted the brightly decorated paper. “Yesterday was Christmas. Maybe she just got around to opening it.”
The firm-faced private eye took the package from Cranston. It had been opened. He reached in among the tissue paper and removed a small perfume bottle in the shape of a mermaid.
“Don’t inhale that stuff, Welsh,” Cranston cautioned.
The warning came too late, The detective had sniffed at the contents. That one brief whiff was all that was necessary.
“It… it ain’t perfume,” he choked. “It’s the gas. Poison gas!”
Hurriedly he placed the ceramic stopper in the bottle, cutting off the toxic fumes. This, then, was the source of the gas which had killed Mrs. Grinnell.
“Eliza,” her husband sobbed.
Margo looked at the shiny wrappings on the perfume box.
“Another deadly Christmas package,” she mused, significance in her tone. “Just like Trenton.”
“What’s going on here, anyway?” queried the investigator. He knew of the murder of Alex Trenton, but wasn’t aware of the details. This was the first he had heard that Trenton had also been killed by a wrapped Christmas present.
Lamont Cranston answered thoughtfully.
“I don’t know, Mr. Welsh, but it seems that our killer has a macabre sense of humor.”
“What do you mean, Lamont?”
Cranston held the mermaid shaped bottle out for Margo’s inspection. He indicated the bottom of the ceramic container.
“Look at the label. The perfume is called ‘Fatal Fascination’.”
The name was grimly appropriate. Eliza Grinnell’s fascination with Alex Trenton had proved fatal, first for him — then for her. Both parties were now dead, each victims of diabolical murder.
It was time for The Shadow to step in. The Shadow, the mysterious crime fighter whose strange ability to hypnotically veil his physical presence made him feared throughout the criminal underworld, was here at the ski lodge, in the person of Lamont Cranston.
Evil had been done in this old lodge. Death had struck, not once, but twice at the snowbound inn. Whether there was only one killer or two was something to be determined. But The Shadow vowed to discover the identity, or identities, of whomever was behind the ruthless murders.
The Shadow was resolved that the killings ended here. There would be no more deaths at Snow Cap Lodge.
Chapter 5
The great room, the main lounge of the lodge, was deserted except for two figures conversing privately in the dim, flickering light of the fireplace. The log fire was burning low, thick logs had become mostly blackened coals. An occasional snap sent a small geyser of sparks harmlessly out onto the hearth.
Margo Lane spoke quietly to her companion, Lamont Cranston.
“But, who could have done it, Lamont?”
“Any of us here at the lodge. Diggs could have planted the packages. So could Grinnell. Or even Welsh.”
“Welsh? But he’s a detective. With either Trenton or Mrs. Grinnell dead, he’s out of a job.”
“Right now, we’ll all be suspects.”
Margo had a specific suspect in mind.
“But Grinnell, Lamont! He knew his wife and the ski master had been seeing each other in town. That’s motive enough.”
“Yes,” conceded the millionaire, “if he could have gotten the pass key from Diggs.”
“But, if he is guilty, why does he stay?”
“Whoever it is doesn’t want to look guilty by running away now, Margo.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
“No,” he replied thoughtfully, “but I think The Shadow could pay a visit and get some truth.”
“From Grinnell?”
“No. From the one person who made it a point not to be at the scene of the murder. Diggs!”
Margo wondered about that. Diggs had not been upstairs when Eliza Grinnell had been killed. Was that by chance, or by design? It was a question she could not answer. But one man could. Her faith lay in The Shadow.
HIRAM DIGGS, proprietor of the snow inn, had a small room behind the office. His quarters were cramped; he didn’t need much other than a bed. But at present, late though it was, he wasn’t using that bed.
Still dressed, he was pacing the narrow floor nervously. In the poorly lit room, he was pondering how to deal with the unexpected and deadly situation with which he was now confronted. The police probably wouldn’t arrive until the morning; in the meantime, as owner of the lodge he was technically in charge.
He stopped his back and forth stride at the sound of low quivery laughter. Amid the somber darkness, hushed mirth rose from whispered tone to bone-chilling crescendo. Eerily it filled the confined space. Shuddering taunts thrummed through the startled man’s brain.
“Who’s that,” he cried out fearfully.
“The Shadow, Diggs. Don’t try to find me.” — this as the harried proprietor peered frantically about the room — “No one sees The Shadow!”
The Shadow — the mystery man who had the inexplicable power to render himself invisible — the dreaded crimefighter who aided the forces of the law against those who would undertake evil. Where death lurked, there did the hand of The Shadow appear to thwart and reveal the schemes of insidious monsters.
“Shadow?” The man was dumbfounded at his presence within this room. “What do you want here?”
The voice came as a grim hiss in the night. “Going somewhere at this hour, Diggs?”
“I been in bed.”
“All dressed?”
The innkeeper shifted uncomfortably.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he defended himself. “There’s been a murder here tonight.”
“Two murders, Diggs” — then The Shadow meaningfully added — “as if you didn’t know!”
A look of confused innocence crossed Diggs’ visage.
“Two murders?”
It was difficult to tell if he was dissembling or not. The Shadow’s low voice pressed on.
“Now there are only four guests left. And they’ll be leaving soon. You’ll like that, won’t you, Diggs?”
“What do you mean?” Suspicion was in his tone.
“You don’t like people. With two murders, they’ll be leaving you alone. No one will ever come back to this lodge.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” he blurted defensively. “I swear it!”
“Maybe you know who did, Diggs?”
There was something about the sibilant voice that impelled an answer — something insistent, demanding. Something that brooked no resistance.
“No,” Diggs paused. “But Grinnell, he hated both of them.”
There it was. He had tacitly admitted knowledge of the second murder. He knew the identity of the second victim without The Shadow having revealed it. The Shadow ignored the slip. He was more interested in the hate that Diggs described.
“Enough to kill with two ingenious lethal toys?” He waited for an answer, then prompted the man with, “Well, Diggs?”
A shrewd look crossed the landlord’s face. “You know what business Grinnell is in? Eh?”
“You tell me, Diggs.”
“He’s in the novelty business, that’s what. Fancy boxes, novelties of all kinds. The biggest in the country.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, but I found it out,” he gloated. “I found it out.”
“The Shadow will find out more, Diggs. Lots more. And if I find that you have had a hand in these murders, you will answer to The Shadow.”
Through the darkness of that murky room came the sound of a hollow, whispered laugh. It was an uncanny noise — a mirthless murmur both forbidding and foreboding. Its echoes rose to a strident burst of mirth that ended in a host of echoes that shouted grotesquely from the walls. The weird reverberations dwindled to ghostly sobs that persisted as though uttered by a host of ghoulish throats.
Something swished in the darkness. Then came silence, with sinking echoes of the taunting laugh. The Shadow had departed.
IN THE GLOOMY upstairs hallway, the stocky figure of a man moved furtively. It approached the door of Louis Grinnell’s room and knocked.
“Who is it?” the distant voice of the occupant demanded.
“Welsh. Let me in, Grinnell.”
After a moment, the door opened. Louis Grinnell stood in the open doorway, still garbed in his dressing gown. His gaunt features carried a frown as he faced the private detective — the man that he had hired several weeks earlier.
“What do you want?”
“In.”
The shamus pushed his way forward into the room, and closed the door behind him.
“Well?” the businessman demanded impatiently.
The operative’s firm face carried a smug look. “Not smart, Grinnell. Not smart, at all.”
“Get to the point,” Grinnell barked. “What do you want, Welsh?”
Welsh stood with a self-satisfied smile upon his face. He moved casually into the room.
“I’m not saying the gimmicks were bad, mind you. But you’re a novelty manufacturer. It was like signing your name to the job.”
“Are you implying I killed my wife and Trenton?” stormed Grinnell.
The gumshoe shrugged, indifferently. “They were going to die anyway. Let’s say you just speeded up nature. By maybe thirty or forty years.”
“Get out!” There was contempt in Grinnell’s hard eyes.
Welsh stood where he was. “Be smart, Grinnell. You oughta talk this over with someone who knows his way around. Me, for instance.”
“Talk what over? I didn’t even have a key to the man’s room.”
“You had something better. Pocket lettuce.” He rubbed two fingers with his thumb, suggesting the universal gesture for cash. “That opens any door.”
“Meaning?”
Welsh cast the newly-made widower a knowing look.
“You got the goofy little guy, Diggs, to deliver the packages for you.”
“You’re crazy — crazy! I wouldn’t put myself at the mercy of such a man.”
“Let’s not get excited. This is just a friendly conversation. So far.”
“What are you driving at, Welsh?”
“With your wife dead, I can’t tail her. That sort of makes me unemployed, doesn’t it?”
“You’ll get well paid for what you’ve done.”
“I was thinking of unemployment insurance. To kind of take care of me in my old age.”
“So that’s it.” It dawned upon Grinnell what the private dick was getting at. “Blackmail.”
“Let’s say you’re compensating me for my lost memory.”
“Get out.”
“Don’t do anything we’ll both be sorry for, Grinnell.”
“Get out!”
“Okay. But think about it, friend.” There was low anger in his voice. “The story I got to tell the cops ain’t got a very happy ending — for you.”
He swung to the door, opened it and strode into the hall. Grinnell slammed it forcefully shut behind him.
Two men with conflicting goals had met. Each had warily danced around the other. Since the plans of one seemed at odds with the other, they had not been able to come to any satisfactory agreement.
That promised hostile dissension in the coming near future.
MARGO LANE and Lamont Cranston ascended the front staircase. It was time for them to get some rest. The coming morning promised to be a hectic one.
As the two traveled the ill-lit hallway, Cranston spoke to his companion. “It’ll be getting daylight soon, Margo, and the police will be able to get through.”
One of the hallway doors opened — the room belonging to Nat Welsh. Welsh had heard the low murmurs coming from the hall and recognized the two subdued voices. He wanted to speak to them.
In a stifled, excited voice, he called out, “Cranston!”
“Lamont,” Margo indicated the figure at the partly opened door. “It’s the private detective.”
She and Cranston stepped toward the door. Cranston greeted the man.
“Hello, Welsh.”
“Cranston, I think you and I ought to have a little talk. There are some things you ought to know.”
“Something’s happened?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been holding out a little. I’ve decided to give you the whole story. Let’s go into my room.”
Margo and her companion accompanied the operative inside and closed the door. Cranston got right to the point, with no stalling.
“All right, Welsh. Let’s have it.”
“I just came to the conclusion it’s a sucker play for me to be covering up for a killer.”
“Did you have any doubt of that?”
“Maybe. Anyway, I’m playing it with the cards up from here in. I just saw Grinnell, and…” He suddenly did a double take. Sitting on the floor, just inside the door, was a small package. “Where’d that come from?” he cried.
“What?”
“Lamont!” Margo was pointing. “It’s another one of those wrapped gifts. The same as the perfume bottle and the carved figure!”
Welsh was backing away from the brightly wrapped bundle. “Why, the dirty double-crossing…”
“You know where this came from, Welsh?”
The detective scoffed. “I can guess. It wasn’t here earlier this evening.”
“When could it have been slipped in?”
“Almost any time,” he admitted. “I’ve been in Grinnell’s room. Then I went looking for you.”
Cranston exhibited no indication of fear. He bent down and slowly picked up the package. It was Margo who showed concern.
“Don’t open it, Lamont.”
“She’s right,” Welsh agreed. “Maybe we better leave it for the cops.”
Cranston had no intention of waiting for the arrival of the police. Here was a prime clue, one which he intended to investigate without delay.
“I know of a way.” He moved cautiously toward the fireplace. He gently placed the oddly-shaped package on the cold iron grate, then picked up a pair of blackened fire tongs from their hook.
With infinite care, he he used the implement to strip the paper from the mystery present. The process was done slowly, taking care not to jar the object. Gradually the contents were revealed.
He exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath.
“There’s your gift.”
It was a miniature candle. Not a wax candle, but the figure of a candle made from glass with a metallic base. Cranston recognized it.
“I’ve seen them in town,” he acknowledged. “It’s a novelty cigarette lighter. You lift off the top triangular piece and it flames. Like this…”
He reached out with the tongs and nudged the top section of the novelty. There was a brief flash of flame, accompanied by the sharp crack of a gunshot. The momentary flame was the muzzle flash of a small pistol hidden within the innocent glass figure.
Margo let out an instinctive yelp and jumped backwards at the unexpected detonation.
“It’s all right, Margo,” Cranston calmly reassured. “The shot went up the chimney. Apparently, it was set to fire the minute that cap was removed.”
The booby-trapped lighter lay on its side on the fireplace grate, knocked over by the recoil. Detective Welsh eyed it from a distance.
“So, now he’s trying to kill me to keep me quiet, eh? A .45 at that range couldn’t miss being fatal!”
Cranston gave the man a penetrating look. “He? Who’s he?”
“Grinnell, the dirty rat! And that stooge of his, Diggs. When I’m done with them…”
He left his threat unspoken as Cranston inserted, “Now, just a second, Welsh.”
The shamus wasn’t about to be calmed down. His face reddened; his voice rose. He was thirsting for retribution.
“It’s bad enough he kills my client and makes me look bad,” he stormed. “But now, he’s trying to kill me. I’ll fix him so’s he’ll stay fixed.”
“I think you’ve got something there, Welsh. Hold Grinnell and Diggs downstairs till I get there. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Events were reaching a critical point. Cranston called for an assemblage in the great room below. It would be a meeting in which three suspects would confront each other. A meeting that would be joined by a fourth — an unseen — party.
Cranston intended that whoever was guilty for the murders in this old lodge would be revealed at last. Justice would finally be dealt… by The Shadow.
(To be concluded next week)
