Cliff Marsland was seated on a broad veranda, smoking a cigarette. Before him was a wide lawn that ended in a thick clump of trees, cleaved by a narrow road. Beyond that were the rolling mountainsides of the Catskills.
Cliff leaned his head back in his chair and let his eyes rove straight upward. There he saw a wall of gray stone, topped by a thick, projecting turret. This huge building was a replica of a medieval castle. A remarkable place, this large estate situated three miles from the town of Glendale. Cliff had first spied it from the hillside road, the day that he had arrived in Glendale.
It had amazed him then, the gray-walled building with its squat wings and uneven battlements. It looked like the fortress of a baron of the Middle Ages — a sight that would have been commonplace in Europe, yet which was astonishing in New York State.
It had not taken Cliff long to learn the history of the place. It had been built by a wealthy railroad magnate, some forty years before, and had been disposed of by his heirs. The name "Glamartin" was still inscribed over the old stone entrance gate — for that had been the name of the estate. Now it was the residence of Ivan Orlinov, wealthy Russian of the czarist realm, who had become a naturalized American citizen.
To the casual observer, Orlinov's castle was a secluded and placid place. The estate comprised some thirty acres, fenced with a high-spiked iron fence, well posted with signs that forbade trespassing. Besides this barrier, Orlinov employed the services of more than a dozen men, who served in various capacities.
Gardeners, chauffeurs, cooks, and butlers — these were the positions that they occupied.
But Cliff, even if he had not been informed beforehand, would have immediately recognized their true caliber. He knew graduates of the underworld when he saw them. Every man in Orlinov's retinue was a close-mouthed mobster who had come here from New York.
There was a gun on every hip. The gardeners carried weapons; so did the cook. As Cliff shifted his position, he felt his own revolver bulge against his side. For although he was technically Orlinov's secretary, he was also an appointed member of the crew of armed henchmen whose vigilance was never ending.
It had been Biff Towley's task to supply Orlinov with retainers, and the New York gang leader had done his work well. Every one of these underlings took orders direct from the Russian. Each man had his own duties, and kept his own counsel. Arguments and disagreements were taboo. Every man had a good reason for being satisfied here, living easy and away from the besetting difficulties of Manhattan. Had anyone attempted mutiny, the others would have swarmed upon him in an instant. In this transplanted realm of gangdom, Cliff Marsland was biding his time. He had duties here, other than those which Biff Towley had planned for him.
While he appeared to be answerable to Biff alone, he was actually in the service of The Shadow.
But he knew that his usefulness would cease the moment that he betrayed his hand. For that reason, Cliff Marsland was playing a waiting game. Already he had learned a few facts of interest. He was holding them for the present. It was not yet time to communicate with The Shadow. There was mystery here in Orlinov's castle; and so far, Cliff had not been able to penetrate it. The huge building was divided into three sections, the narrow central portion and the two side wings. The left portion of the house was where the majority of the men resided, Cliff among them. Ivan Orlinov and two of his oldest henchmen lived in the right wing of the building.
There, Cliff knew, Orlinov had a laboratory and a workshop, His only assistant — outside of the mobsters — was a taciturn Russian called Petri, who never left that portion of the house.
The wing could be entered only from the central section, and the way was closed by an iron door.
On the surface, it seemed likely that Orlinov was merely a suspicious inventor who feared that someone might steal the fruits of his creative mind; but Cliff thought differently. Unless Orlinov feared the law itself, he would not require the services of such a large crew of mobsters.
How did affairs at this place concern The Shadow? That was a question Cliff Marsland could not answer.
When he had arrived here, he had wondered why there had been no action. The presence of the armed force was not sufficient to restrain The Shadow. Cliff had known that remarkable man to fight his way through twenty hoodlums.
But as time progressed, Cliff, although he had found no solution to the mysteries here, had gained an inkling of The Shadow's purpose.
Somehow, Orlinov must possess the key to an amazing scheme of crime. One false step by The Shadow might mean disaster to any attempt to frustrate the evil. Furthermore, Cliff's own experience with Biff Towley indicated that matters here were linked with events in New York.
Well did Cliff know that The Shadow was vigilant in Manhattan.
The one point that Cliff had particularly observed was that of Orlinov's correspondence.
Most of it had been addressed to Glade Tremont, a New York attorney, who represented the Russian in all his legal affairs.
This appeared to be a bona fide arrangement that might have no connection with crime, yet the connection had aroused Cliff's suspicions.
While thus engaged in summarizing his experiences and findings in one week, Cliff Marsland heard a footfall on the porch and turned his head to see Ivan Orlinov approaching. The Russian seated himself and looked in Cliff's direction. Cliff became alert.
Ivan Orlinov possessed an appearance that was both brutal and imposing. He was a big bulk of a man, with a countenance that was cold and stolid. He wore a close-cropped reddish beard, which Petri trimmed for him every few days.
His eyes, deep set between half-closed lids, had a habit of opening at unexpected moments. When they did, they glowed like spots of flame, livid and threatening.
This afternoon, Orlinov was mild and deliberate. He seemed in a thoughtful mood as he puffed a huge black cigar. His auburn beard glistened in the light. The man spoke pleasantly as he turned to Cliff.
"Well, Marslandt" — the voice was deep and marked with a distinctly foreign accent — "you haff been here one week now."
"One week today," replied Cliff.
"That is goot," declared Orlinov. "I hope you haff liked it. You are to stay a long while, you know."
"It's all the same to me."
Orlinov's eyes opened momentarily; then closed as the Russian continued in a reflective tone.
"I may haff a visitor tonight," he said. "It iss very important that we should not be disturbed. You understandt?"
"Yes, sir."
"I think I haff toldt you about the man that wass here before you, nein?"
"You mean your last secretary?"
"Yess. He wass a man who spoke Russian, which was goot. But he wass a man who made mistakes. Not like these others who are here. He was not like you."
"One mistake is too many for a man to make," observed Cliff, as he extracted a fresh cigarette from a pack.
"I am glad you tink like that," declared Orlinov. "That iss because you haff come from the right man. I do not like mistakes. They bring trouble — and that trouble comes to those who haff made the mistakes. You understandt?"
"Exactly," said Cliff, with emphasis.
Ivan Orlinov laughed gruffly. He seemed pleased with Cliff's statement. He arose and gave parting instructions.
"This man will come here for dinner," he explained. "He iss Mr. Tremont, my lawyer from New York. You shall meet him, Marslandt. But when I wish to speak to him in private, you shall go. You understandt?"
"Certainly," responded Cliff.
"There iss much for me that you can do," added Orlinov. "But it iss wise that you should be here a long time first. I haff been very careful in the past. When one man tries to know those things which he should not know, it iss bad. That wass why the one before you hass gone away. You understandt?" Cliff nodded shortly and watched while Orlinov walked back toward the door of the big house. The intended visit of Glade Tremont interested him deeply. Orlinov had received a letter from the lawyer that morning. Evidently it had announced his contemplated trip.
Afternoon was waning. A car swung around the corner of the house and ran along the narrow roadway toward the clump of trees. It was bound for the station, in all probability, to meet Glade Tremont when he arrived.
Whatever the lawyer's business might be with Orlinov, Cliff Marsland was determined to learn it tonight. Something important must be in the air; otherwise Tremont would not find it necessary to come up from New York.
Perhaps the lawyer represented the Russian in legitimate enterprises. Nevertheless, anything that might be discussed would at least give a clew to what was happening in this castle-like mansion. Cliff Marsland arose from his reclining chair. He had nothing to do until the evening. So far as Orlinov was concerned, his work was ended for the day — unless there might be some details to prepare for Glade Tremont. But tonight loomed very important in Cliff Marsland's mind. He sensed that this would be his first opportunity to gain results for The Shadow.
Stepping to the front of the porch, Cliff flung his cigarette on the lawn. He turned toward the big building, and his sidelong gaze wandered to the wing at the right. Therein lay the secret of this place. Before his work was ended here, Cliff would know all about it.
The sun was setting over a mountain, and the cold gloom of night was spreading its haze about these gray walls. The sullen turrets spoke of crime and mystery. Soon they would be dark and shadowy. There was a prophetic touch to the scene. To Cliff, the growing dusk bespoke the presence of a living shadow — a man who lived within the night. Cliff was here because The Shadow knew that all was not well within these walls.
Crime, but suspected only by The Shadow! Was it crime of the past or crime of the future? Cliff smiled grimly as he entered the high front door and strode across the darkening hallway. Tonight, if all went well, The Shadow would learn of plots that were transpiring here.
He would learn of them through Clifford Marsland's watchfulness.