Maxwell Grant - The Shadow 174 - The Three Brothers.pdf

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THE THREE BROTHERS
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 15, 1939.
Which of them was the evil one? Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER I
MILLIONS TO GAIN
DUSK was settling upon the New Jersey meadows. North of the Skyway, where
glittering lights of automobiles formed a continuous two-way parade, lay
spreading tracts of low wasteland, between two narrow rivers that seemed to
have widened apart to shun that miserable terrain.
Man had conquered those meadows with crisscrossed railroad lines, where
mammoth freight locomotives were chugging stolidly through the gloom, their
whistles adding a mournful wail to the ghostly pall of dusk.
Rising like specters to greet the approaching night were huge buildings
that bordered the railroad tracks. These were industrial plants, erected upon
the barren meadows because such sites brought them close to transportation
routes.
Largest of all such structures was the Jersey works of the Caxter
Chemical
Corporation. It stood, a miniature city in itself, between the elbow of a
river
and the junction of two rail lines. About it were yards filled with freight
cars; on the river's fringe, a line of barges accounted for the raw materials
that would later be shipped, as finished products, to many Eastern cities.
Once white, the Caxter buildings had become a grimy gray. Blocky, they
formed a pyramid to the central structure in their midst. The only relief in
their drab appearance was formed by a yellow mountain of sulphur piled against
a building wall, plus a few sparkles of light that came from the windows of
the
central tower.
Those tiny lights, however, were important. The room that they
illuminated
was a remarkable contrast to the dingy outside scene. Under the soft glow of
an
ornate ceiling lamp, men were seated about a mahogany table in an office as
elaborate as any that Wall Street could boast.
This was the private office of Gregg Caxter, president of the
corporation;
a man whose wealth was conservatively estimated at fifty million dollars.
Gregg
Caxter, himself, was presiding over the meeting; the men seated with him were
directors of the chemical corporation.
Short of build, Gregg Caxter seemed most impressive when seated. He was a
man of thirty-five; but his sallow, deep-lined face and thin, black hair gave
him an older look. So did his eyes, for their coal-black glint carried an
ambitious desire that indicated long and purposeful effort over a period of
many years.
Gregg Caxter!
The very name meant power to the assembled directors. It meant more than
that - tyranny almost, to two others who stood in the background; for they
were
merely employees, and they knew the driving force of Caxter's rule.
One man, pasty-faced and nervous, stood beside a table in the corner. On
 
that table was a variety of articles: solid blocks of sulphur, the size of
bricks; bottles of liquids, varying in color; a tiny metal tank, with a valve
attachment at the top; finally, most curious of all, a small crate that
contained a dozen guinea pigs, as stupid-looking as the crowd of directors.
The man who guarded these exhibits was Walters, one of the many
secretaries who worked for Gregg Caxter. If he had a first name, he had
probably forgotten it; for, like others close to Gregg Caxter, Walters was
constantly addressed by his last name only.
Across the room, silent in his corner, was a tall, droopy-faced man who
could actually boast a full name. He was Kirk Wydell, a consulting chemist.
Though merely Wydell to Gregg Caxter, the chemist was important enough to be
called Kirk by some of the lesser officials.
THE silence that gripped the sumptuous office was broken suddenly by the
sharp tone of Gregg Caxter. His voice usually held a harsh tone; but on this
occasion, it was tinged with a note of extreme annoyance. The listeners knew
that G. C., as they termed him, was about to review a subject that he did not
like.
"When family matters enter into business," announced Gregg, "there is
always trouble. That is why we are balked in our plans to build an Illinois
plant duplicating this one. As you gentlemen know, I have two brothers" -
there
was a touch of contempt in Gregg's tone - "who hold the rights to certain
basic
patents used in our chemical processes.
"Even though I control this corporation, I cannot proceed to spend five
million dollars without their permission. That was one of the wise provisions"
- Gregg's voice showed sarcasm - "made by my father! He knew that Howard, my
older brother, was a dreamer; that Philip, my younger brother, was a
spendthrift. So he gave me this business, when he divided the estate among us.
"And yet" - Gregg shook his head - "my father was unwise enough to let
them have a strangle hold on me. He thought that this business had reached its
greatest growth. To curb my efforts to enlarge it, he specially provided that
if I increased the capital stock of the Caxter Chemical Corporation, all
rights
to those patents would be lost."
Gregg concluded his statement with a hard pound of his fist; a stroke
that
made the mahogany table quiver. One of the directors finally gathered nerve
enough to make a mild objection.
"You've told us this before, G. C.; but you also said that if your
brothers grant permission, we can expand -"
"My brothers!" Gregg snarled the interruption. "How can we get anywhere
with them? We sent Payson and Lloyd to see them. What happened? They talked to
my brother Philip first, and that was the last we ever heard of them.
"I'll tell you what I think happened." Gregg wagged his forefinger.
"Philip bribed them. He paid them large sums, just to spite me; told them to
go
their way and get some fun out of life, instead of sticking in a stinky
chemical
plant. That's the way that fool Philip talks!"
Gregg sat back, his eyebrows pursed in a glower. The directors showed
serious expressions. The odor of the room, pungent with chemical smells,
proved
that there might be some logic in the remarks that Gregg had attributed to
Philip. But the directors, loyal to G. C. because they hoped for larger
salaries, were very careful to show no sympathy toward Gregg's younger
brother.
"Then we sent Tyburn," recalled Gregg, harshly. "We told him to go to see
 
Howard first. Tyburn ran into a different matter. Howard told him that things
weren't right here; that the plant didn't have enough safety measures. He said
that when such improvements were made, he would give his permission to
anything.
"Tyburn left Howard and called on Philip, who said that it sounded all
right to him. Philip had to agree, after what Howard had said. It's that
ridiculous family situation again: Philip, the youngest brother, sides with
Howard, the oldest. So we had to mark time and install new safety measures,
just to please my precious brothers!"
The directors looked relieved. After a few moments, the one who had
spoken
previously remarked:
"That ought to settle it, G. C.; if you send Tyburn back to your brother
Howard, to tell him that the safety measures have been adopted -"
"Tyburn can't go back," snapped Gregg, sharply. "The first thing the fool
did when he got here, was start an inspection tour of the plant. He walked
right into a leak of hydrogen sulphide; not enough to bother anyone else, but
it got him."
"You mean, G. C., that Tyburn is... is dead?"
"Yes!" Gregg came to his feet, leaning his squatty form forward. "What's
more, the news is out. Some reporter heard about it, and tomorrow everyone
will
know it! What's worse, they have taken a look at our pay rolls.
"They want to know about Payson and Lloyd, two men who are no longer
working for us. What became of them? That is what the newspapers have asked
us;
and what could we answer? Only that we don't know where they are. You know
what
that means. The headlines will say that three men died here; not just one."
DIRECTORS were exchanging furtive looks as Gregg settled back in his
chair. Perhaps they were thinking that the newspaper theory actually accounted
for the disappearances of Payson and Lloyd. Gregg's sharp eyes raked the group
in challenging fashion. The directors stiffened.
"We must send another man to see my brothers," announced Gregg, tersely.
"He must talk to them - Howard in particular - before this scandal breaks. He
must explain that Payson and Lloyd simply left us; that Tyburn's death was an
accident, due to conditions that have been rectified.
"I have chosen Wydell for this mission" - Gregg turned and beckoned to
the
tall man in the corner - "because he is a man who knows the situation
thoroughly. I have talked to him and he is willing to go through with it. Am I
right, Wydell?"
Wydell had stepped toward the table. He cleared his throat with an
apologetic cough, then said:
"Quite right, Mr. Caxter."
"And the matters which I have mentioned," prompted Gregg. "The fact that
Payson and Lloyd left us; that Tyburn's death was accidental - do you agree
with those statements?"
"Absolutely, sir!"
There was a buzz among the directors, with approving mention of "Good old
G. C.," which brought a smile to Gregg's sallow lips. In his plans for
increasing his huge wealth, Gregg did not care if the directors had doubted
his
word until Wydell substantiated it. They were at last convinced; that fact
satisfied him.
"You have your car here, Wydell?"
The chemist nodded, in response to Gregg's question.
"Then start at once," Gregg ordered. "Drive to Pennbury and call Howard's
 
house from there. He lives only a few miles from town; he might see you
tonight. If not, stay at the Pennbury Inn and make an appointment as early as
possible tomorrow."
Wydell looked toward the table where Walters stood.
"Never mind the exhibits," said Gregg. "It won't do to waste time showing
Howard any products from the plant. He'll only want to see more, and I haven't
assembled all that I wanted. It is better to take none than only half."
Wydell nodded. He took his hat and coat, which were on a chair in the
corner. Gregg waved him toward the door, voicing a harsh farewell:
"Good luck, Wydell!"
Gregg Caxter had risen, so the directors also stood. They saw the chunky
corporation president look around; then heard him demand:
"Where's Walters?"
One of the directors had seen the secretary go into another office. Gregg
gave a shrug, decided he didn't need Walters after all. The group left by the
same doorway that Wydell had taken.
Hardly had Gregg Caxter, last to leave, closed the outer door behind him,
when Walters peered in from the other office.
No longer was the pallid secretary nervous. His face was eager; its
twitches were a gloat. He was holding a telephone, the receiver to his ear,
waiting for a reply from a number that he had already called. As Walters
listened, a voice came across the wire - a voice that he recognized.
Quickly, the secretary gave the details of all that had happened at the
conference, concluding with the fact that Kirk Wydell had been sent to see
Howard Caxter. When asked if Wydell was to visit Philip Caxter later, Walters
answered in the affirmative.
Wydell, as Walters understood it, was to do exactly the same as Tyburn,
the previous emissary who had called on the two brothers. After that, Wydell
would return to the plant and report to Gregg Caxter. Finished with that
explanation, Walters asked if there were any instructions.
Orders came across the wire; as he received them, Walters indulged in an
evil grin. Any instructions pleased him, for he regarded all commands as moves
against Gregg Caxter, the employer whose tyranny he hated.
Evil was afoot tonight, and Walters, the traitorous secretary, was
pleased
because he had been ordered to play a hand in it!
CHAPTER II
DEATH FROM THE CLIFF
BELOW the central building that housed Gregg Caxter's palatial offices,
the ground was black, almost cavernous. Sheltering walls of the surrounding
buildings produced narrow confines that seemed remote from the wide expanses
of
the outlying meadows.
Darkness had become complete in those lower crannies. Even the building
walls could not be seen in the gloom. The ground, strewn with odd pieces of
junk, was the sort where prowlers could easily stumble, unless they used a
light; which, in turn, would normally reveal them quite as noticeably as any
blunders in the dark.
There was a figure, however, that moved through those lower stretches
with
untraceable silence. The light that this observer used was a tiny torch; its
thin, silvery beam was muffled, in part, by the folds of a black cloak.
Even against the gray of a building wall, his cloaked shoulders were
obscure, as was his head, which was topped by a slouch hat. This unseen
visitor
to the Caxter Chemical domain was The Shadow.
 
Where crime threatened, The Shadow followed. A deadly foe to crooks, The
Shadow possessed the uncanny faculty of ferreting out men who dealt in evil.
His visit here told that he had come upon one of his accustomed missions.
The Shadow was not the only lurker in the darkness. There were others -
mobbies from Manhattan, who had sneaked into the shelter of these grimy walls.
Whatever their purpose, The Shadow intended to learn it and frustrate their
plans. At this moment, as he moved about through obscure channels, he could
have picked out the exact position of four men, thugs who had no knowledge of
The Shadow's presence.
A shaft of light broke from a lower doorway in the central building.
Gregg
Caxter stepped into sight, accompanied by the departing directors. Shrouded in
a
sheltering corner, some fifty feet away, The Shadow was ready with muffled
flashlight and drawn automatic to pick out any crooks who offered trouble.
No trouble came. Skulkers kept to their posts, while Gregg Caxter and his
companions went to their parked cars. Soon, limousines were in motion, to take
their passengers across the meadows in the direction of the Skyway, which
offered the short route to Manhattan, by way of the Holland Tunnel.
A flashlight was moving, off past a building. One man who had come from
the tower offices was not leaving in a limousine. Perhaps he was the quarry
sought by crooks. Gauging his own course by the flashlight's glow, The Shadow
moved through darkness, following the lone man.
The fellow was Kirk Wydell. The Shadow saw the chemist's droopy face,
when
Wydell stepped into a shabby sedan and turned on the dome light. Wydell's car
was parked in a space used by employees; a few other automobiles were nearby.
Wydell didn't notice those other cars. He was busy consulting a road map.
The dome light went off before The Shadow could approach close enough to
observe Wydell's road map. Headlamps and taillights glittered suddenly; by the
glow of the latter, The Shadow saw that Wydell's car had New Jersey license
plates. Moving away, to be out of sight when Wydell turned the car, The Shadow
glanced upward to the tower.
Whether or not chance had inspired The Shadow's gaze, the result that he
gained was important. The lights of the upper offices switched off.
Immediately
afterward, a flashlight began to blink. Its signals were all dots, indicating
that the man above was flashing a number, not a name. By the time the second
figure had been blinked, The Shadow knew what the signal indicated.
Someone in the suite of offices was giving the very number that The
Shadow
had seen upon Wydell's license plate!
THERE was a stir in the darkness, as soon as Wydell's car had swung
about.
Men were moving, none too guardedly, toward a long, low-built touring car
parked
in an obscure corner of the lot.
Wydell didn't notice them, for his car had swung away. But The Shadow
knew
their purpose. They were the hoodlums that he had watched; they had just
received a tip-off to follow Wydell's car.
Rolling out through an open gateway, Wydell's sedan took a different
direction than the limousines which had left a few minutes before. He was
choosing a road that led northward to some through highway. Probably his
destination was somewhere in New Jersey, not New York.
Hardly had Wydell's taillight bobbed from view beyond a railroad
crossing,
before the rakish touring car poked through the same gateway, to take up
 

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