And for this week, the final part of a “lost” Shadow mystery. Happy Holidays!
Murder Marked Merry Christmas
(Broadcast Dec. 26, 1948)
What has gone before:
Ski instructor Alex Trenton was the first to perish when his anonymous Christmas gift exploded. Lamont Cranston, a guest at the Snow Cap Lodge, vowed to investigate the murder in the absence of the police.
Eliza Grinnell and her husband Louis are also guests. She was having a secret affair with the dead man. Her husband, Louis, is ignorant of the affair… she believes. Nat Welsh, a private detective, has arrived and is also looking into the death. Welsh had been hired by Grinnell to follow his wife.
Lamont Cranston, Margo Lane and Nat Welsh are in the upper hallway, outside Eliza Grinnell’s room, when she is killed by a second mysterious Christmas gift. This time, it contained poison gas. Grinnell is confronted, but protests his innocence in the death of his wife.
Later, Hiram Diggs, the lodge proprietor, is visited by the invisible Shadow, who learns vital clues to the murder. Investigator Welsh tries to make a secret deal with Grinnell, but fails.
Cranston, Margo and Welsh return to his room to discover a new Christmas gift waiting for him — Welsh. And inside, a glass figure of a candle… with a pistol hidden inside, ready to go off! Welsh is furious.
Chapter 6
Welsh slammed the door behind him. The noise startled the two men huddled in low consultation. Louis Grinnell and Hiram Diggs had been earnestly talking in the lodge office when Welsh barged in. Looks of surprise and guilt were mirrored on both faces.
“So, the two of you have your heads together, eh, Grinnell? Cozy, eh? Well, you and Diggs have pulled your last caper.”
Venom was in Grinnell’s eyes.
“I told you to stay away from me, Welsh.”
“Yeah. You even tried to make it permanent, didn’t you, Grinnell? Well, your booby trap misfired. I’m still here.”
Diggs looked blankly at the businessman.
“What’s he talking about, Grinnell?”
Sarcasm was in Welsh’s reply. “You didn’t know that package you planted in my room was supposed to take care of me? What kind of a sucker do you take me for, Diggs?”
“Look, Welsh,” Grinnell took on a mollifying tone. “There’s no sense in our being at each other’s throats. I’ve thought it over. If you need money…”
“You’re too late, Grinnell. You had your chance. The police are going to get the story, now, and if you make a break” — he pulled an automatic from a pocket, menacingly — “they’ll find you looking up at them.”
It was Diggs who reacted to the handgun. The wizened old man straightened; he snapped, “Put the gun away, you fool.”
Welsh wasn’t moved. He stood with his feet wide, firmly planted. The shiny automatic had a bead on Grinnell’s heart, and didn’t waver.
“The police would thank me for handing them a killer. Dead or alive.”
Grinnell, ever the businessman, saw an opportunity for negotiation. There was a touch of perspiration on his brow, but his steady gaze was unwavering.
“It’d be better for you to be with me, than against me, Welsh. I’m willing to pay.”
“You’ll pay, all right. Wait until I tell them how you had me trailing your wife and the ski master for weeks — with her every minute; never letting her out of my sight.”
“I wouldn’t kill her,” Grinnell protested. “I loved her.”
“Sometimes you can love something so much you’ve got to kill.”
“It wasn’t like that. It…” Grinnell halted himself with a jolt, as he suddenly took notice of something sitting on the desk. “Good Lord, look!”
There in front of the trio was another package. A small Christmas package in the same wrapping paper as the others. For a moment all three men gaped at the sight, unable to believe their eyes.
Welsh stammered, “It — it wasn’t there a minute ago. Where did it come from? If this is another one of your tricks, Grinnell…”
The voice of The Shadow intruded upon the gumshoe’s ultimatum.
“Season’s greetings, gentlemen.”
From somewhere inside the office had come a strange whisper, a mocking tone that filled the room with an eerie chill. Following that hissed salutation was a laugh, loud and challenging. The outlandish, shivering mirth rose to a fierce climax.
Grinnell was stunned by the sudden manifestation of the unknown voice.
“Wh-what was that?” he faltered.
“The Shadow!” gulped Diggs. He recognized that ethereal tone. It was the same laugh that he had heard earlier that night in his own room — a spectral mirth that he could never forget.
The voice of crimedom’s unseen nemesis addressed the old man.
“I’ve brought you a present, Diggs. Open it.”
“No. No. Don’t make me. Please don’t make me.”
He was backing away from the gaily wrapped package. To him, it signified only doom. The Shadow’s tone was insistent.
“Don’t you like surprises, Diggs? The ski master did. Mrs. Grinnell did.”
“I didn’t do it, I tell you!”
“Maybe Mr. Grinnell would like it.”
“I — I don’t know what this is all about,” the stolid businessman protested as he kept scanning the room for any sign of the invisible visitor.
“Not afraid, Mr. Grinnell?”
“I won’t touch it, I tell you.” His voice rose shrilly. “You can’t make me.”
Came The Shadow’s laugh. It was a mirthless laugh that crept through the office — a mocking taunt.
“Afraid? All of you? Afraid? How about Mr. Welsh?”
The operative maintained his composure; the man had nerve. His straight lips gritted, “I’m not afraid of you or anything, Shadow.”
“Big words for a man afraid of a little package.”
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Welsh blustered. “Invisible men and appearing and disappearing packages.”
“Open it, Mr. Welsh. It’s a surprise.”
“Don’t do it,” cried Diggs urgently. “Don’t do it!”
Welsh demonstrated his courage. He defiantly advanced to the desk and picked up the brightly wrapped present.
“I’ll open it.” A desperate tone in his voice. “I’ll open it.”
Grinnell reached out wildly to stop him.
“For heaven’s sakes, Welsh, don’t! It’s another trap.”
Welsh turned toward the fireplace, blocking Grinnell’s attempt to balk him.
“I’ll open it” — he raised his arm and hurled the package — “right in the fireplace!”
The mysterious Christmas present flew through the air and struck the rear stone wall of the firebox. It crumpled with a clatter of metal and glass.
The three men waited with bated breath. Would it explode? Perhaps it would discharge a lethal bullet? Would it release a cloud of toxic gas? None of these happened. Instead, the men were rewarded by the sound of an alarm clock ringing.
The detective, nerves clearly on edge, gave out a short yelp, then clamped his lips shut as he realized the contents of the mystery package were benign.
Soft, creepy laughter came from the invisible lips of The Shadow.
“Not afraid of a little alarm clock, Welsh?”
The shaken man composed himself. “A — a gag, huh? So that’s it? A gag? What do you think it proves?”
“Not much, Welsh.” The Shadow’s whisper took on a hard, accusatory edge. “Merely that you’re the murderer!”
“You’re crazy!”
“No, Welsh. You’re the one that’s crazy. Crazy with hate and jealousy.”
The Shadow had struck a nerve, as evidenced by the hunted look that flitted across the hard face of the private dick. It was brief before the bluff posture returned.
“What are you talking about?”
“Only the man who was making the booby traps could know that there were only three — that this was a harmless package.”
Welsh realized that he had given himself away by his disdain for the newest package. Desperately, he hoped he might still talk his way out of it. After all, he still had his alibi.
“I wasn’t here when the ski master was killed.”
That alibi was no good to The Shadow. He proceeded to refute it.
“Oh, yes you were, Welsh — you had to be. If you’d had waited any longer, you couldn’t have gotten here. When the police were notified, they couldn’t get through until morning.”
The snowstorm. Welsh realized that he had overlooked the wild weather. It had spiked his perfect alibi — his claim to have arrived when no arrival was possible. Panic flooded him, as he realized the jig was up.
Grinnell spoke out, “He made those booby traps?”
“He brought them with him, Grinnell. He’s been planning this for weeks. Welsh fell in love with your wife, Grinnell, watching her, being close to her. He hoped to kill Alex and pin the murders on you so he could have her to himself. Isn’t that right, Welsh?”
There was no use in denying it further. Welsh could see that, now. His eyes took on a glitter of evil; a leer grew upon his lips. Yes, he had done it. And he was proud of it. He wanted them to know why. Words burst from his thin lips.
“All right,” he cried. “I killed her. She belonged to me. Don’t you understand? She belonged to me!”
Enraged, Louis Grinnell lunged forward, clawing for the self-confessed killer.
“You killed Eliza. You crazy, rotten…”
Diggs hastily inserted himself between the two men, holding the maddened businessman at bay. Grinnell couldn’t be allowed to exact his vengeance on his wife’s ruthless killer. Much as he would have liked to, Diggs couldn’t allow the law to be taken into the hands of a private citizen.
The detective, oblivious to Grinnell’s rage, continued to vent, a sneer on his evil lips.
“She was too good for you,” he spat. “Too good for Trenton. But when I told her that, tonight, she laughed. She laughed at me! Nobody can get away with that. Nobody can get away with that, with me. Nobody.”
The Shadow’s unseen lips issued a chilly, whispered laugh that seemed to speak a final indictment for Welsh.
“And nobody can get away with murder, Welsh. Nobody. You’ll find that out the minute the police pull up in front of that door.”
The eerie laughter returned, this time with a significant throb, the sort that was unique to only The Shadow. Eerily it filled the room. Its dying, mocking echoes crept to Nat Welsh’s ears. Eerie, shuddering taunts thrummed through the man’s hectic, maddened brain. Fierce, challenging, it rose to a pitch of mockery that denoted justice triumphant.
The mystery of the deadly Christmas packages was ended. Nat Welsh had killed, first from jealousy, then again when spurned by the object of his obsession.
He had tried to alibi himself by planting a third booby trap for himself. But, his knowledge that there was no fourth deadly package was what had given himself away. Only the guilty would have had that knowledge. The Shadow’s own booby trap had clinched it.
Nat Welsh had revealed himself as the fiendish designer of death. For that, he would pay the ultimate price.
Chapter 7
The horse-drawn sleigh moved swiftly over the snow-covered valley road that skirted the mountain slopes. White encrusted pines and balsams flew by as the two passengers sat in the back enjoying the crisp morning air. Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane were heading back to the small town twenty miles from the ski lodge. Conversation lagged as they passed through the wintry wonderland.
Margo was watching Diggs, their gnarled driver, with casual interest. The strange little man with the large mustache was a puzzle to her. He claimed to prefer a life of solitude, yet he had converted his large farmhouse into a ski lodge — one which would naturally draw the same crowds which he claimed to dislike. He was, if nothing else, a contradiction.
She spoke confidentially to her companion, knowing that the sound of the sleigh bells would keep her words from reaching the ears of the driver.
“Mr. Diggs hates people, but this case doesn’t seem to have made him any happier.”
The semblance of a smile appeared on the fixed lips of Lamont Cranston.
“At least, with the police at the lodge, he won’t be bothered with any guests.”
The local constabulary had arrived shortly after daybreak to take Nat Welsh, twice a murderer, into custody. Grinnell, the sole remaining guest, was preparing to leave later in the day. That would leave the ski lodge empty, just as Diggs claimed to prefer it.
Margo was thinking about the strange case that had unfolded the previous night. It seemed to her that Welsh had carefully built up a perfect alibi. Only his carelessness had revealed his guilt in the crimes.
“Lamont,” she asked, “how did you know Welsh had been hiding in the lodge all evening?”
“Because, if he had heard of the murder in the village, he couldn’t have gotten there, that night. Even the police couldn’t get through.”
“Then you suspected him, all along?”
Cranston nodded.
“I considered him a possibility. But he really gave himself away in his room.”
“How?”
“When the fake cigarette lighter fired that bullet, he commented on its being a .45. No one but the man who made that booby trap could have been sure of that.”
Margo snuggled down beneath the thick blanket that covered the two of them. She gave a shudder, one not entirely due to the brisk cold.
“What a horribly twisted mind he had.”
Clear and harsh, the morning sunlight glinted off the icicles hanging along the sides of the old sleigh. The reflected light made a curious mask across Cranston’s face.
“He was a real psycho neurotic, Margo. Apparently, he dealt in crime so much, he thought he could take the law into his own hands. His abnormal love for Eliza developed into a destructive complex. He not only…”
Above the noise of the sleigh, Diggs called back, “Cranston.”
“Yes, Diggs?”
The mustached little man turned to his passengers.
“Think advertising would help me get some business?”
“What?”
“We ought to be able to rent the whole lodge out with this publicity.”
Margo, somewhat perplexed, called back, “I thought you hated people, Diggs.”
“Ay-ah, I did.” A slight twinkle was in his eyes. “Man’s got a right to change his mind. Could get awful lonesome with just a horse around, come ’think of it.”
Margo exchanged bemused glances with Lamont, then burst into laughter, to be joined by her companion. Perhaps Diggs wasn’t such a hermit, after all.
It was good to laugh. The troubles of last night were behind them, now. A vast weight had been lifted from their shoulders. The killer in two dastardly murders had been brought to justice. And the two of them would soon be on the train taking them back to the city.
Christmas had passed. New Years was quickly approaching. The new year held great promise. But, if crime should rear its ugly head, The Shadow, who had pledged his life to the pursuit of justice, would be there to promptly stomp it out.
The End
Background notes
The Lamont Cranston described in this story is very much the man as described in the pulp magazine stories. When listeners tuned into the Sunday afternoon radio show, they created their own mental picture of Cranston. Little was said to describe the man; it was up to listeners to imagine him as they wished. In this novelization, he is given the characteristics often described in the magazine series. He is given the tall stature, the hawkish profile, the masklike face and the slight smile that is mentioned in the pulps.
In the scene where The Shadow confronts the innkeeper, Hiram Diggs alone in his office, a subtle pulp reference was made when The Shadow exits. There is a swish in the darkness, and as The Shadow’s laugh trails to nothing, he has left the room. The “swish” mentioned is a wink and nod to the cloak that The Shadow wears in the magazine stories. In the radio series, of course, The Shadow never wore a cloak. He never needed one; he simply rendered himself unseen to his victims. The swish of an unseen cloak was unnecessary to this story; it was added simply as a salute to fans of the pulp magazine stories.
Adolphus Q. Poindexter is given passing mention in this story. That was a character strictly from the radio series, and had no roots in the pulp series. Poindexter was a recurring radio character in the late 1940s. He was someone familiar with the criminal underworld, who Lamont Cranston could contact when he needed specialized information. He was patterned after the two pulp characters Hawkeye and Cliff Marsland, with a little Damon Runyon characterization thrown in. While he never actually appeared in the pulps, he was inspired by them.
About the scriptwriter
“Murder Marked Merry Christmas” was one of the many scripts written by Frank Kane. Kane was a prolific script writer for The Shadow; he penned some 45 radio plays between 1945 and 1950. Some of his best-known episodes include “The Unburied Dead” and “The Shadow’s Revenge.”
Kane was a native New Yorker, born in 1912, and began writing for radio in the mid-1930s. In addition to writing for The Shadow, he also did scriptwriting chores for Gangbusters, Counterspy, The Fat Man, Casey, Crime Photographer and Nick Carter. In the 1950s he moved to writing for television with shows such as Mike Hammer. He also wrote a popular series of detective novels featuring Johnny Liddell, completing 30 novels and 400 short stories. He passed away in 1968.
